Tomahawk Revenge/ Black Powder Justice (A Wilderness Double Western Book 3)

by Robbins, David

  “The whites will never go away,” Winona said. “From what my husband tells me, there are more whites than there are rocks in these mountains, more even than all the blades of grass on the plains.”

  He Wolf laughed. “Do you believe everything your husband tells you?”

  “He does not lie.”

  “Bah! All whites speak with two tongues. None of them would know the truth if it bit them on the nose.”

  They rode in silence for a quarter of a mile.

  “I would like to know something,” He Wolf said. “You make me curious.”

  “About what?”

  “You,” He Wolf said. “You seem to be a proud Shoshone woman, yet you have taken a white man for a husband. Why? What do you see in him that you could not find in any Shoshone man?”

  Winona glanced at the Arapaho, wondering if he was taunting her again. His expression convinced her of his sincerity. He truly wanted to know. “Men are men and women are women no matter the color of their skin and the ways of life they have known. Oh, there are differences, but deep down we are all people. The reason I took Grizzly Killer for my life partner is very simple. He makes my heart sing.”

  For a while He Wolf didn’t speak, then he responded softly. “I envy you, Winona. My heart never sang for any woman, although my loins have hungered after several. One day, perhaps, I will know the joy of love.”

  “Not if you don’t release me so I can return to my husband. He will kill every one of you if you do not.”

  “Your foolishness grates on my nerves,” He Wolf remarked. “Do not expect any pity from me when your husband’s scalp is hanging in one of our lodges and you are wailing your grief to the sky.”

  At that instant, from the direction of the gap, there arose loud yells. War whoops.

  Winona reined up in alarm.

  Grinning, He Wolf paused to look back. “Now we will have the test of your words. And soon I will hold Grizzly Killer’s hair in my hands.”

  ~*~

  Nate stopped, released the lead, and whipped the Hawken to his right shoulder. Both warriors already had shafts nocked to their bow strings and were drawing those strings back, trying to hold the bows steady as they attacked, not an easy feat when galloping through heavy snow. He cocked the hammer, took a bead on the man on the right, held it several seconds to be sure, then squeezed the trigger.

  The Hawken boomed at the selfsame moment the two warriors let their arrows fly.

  Nate saw the man on the right throw his arms into the air and hurtle off the rear of his onrushing mount. Just then a pair of streaking shafts cleaved the air within inches of his head, one on either side. He lowered the Hawken to the saddle and tugged on the Kentucky, sliding the rifle from its scabbard. A glance showed him the second warrior coming on strong, another arrow nocked and ready.

  The Indian loosed the shaft.

  This time Nate wrenched his horse to the right, and it was well he did so for the arrow whizzed through the very space his head had occupied. He urged the animal forward, elevating the Kentucky as he did, electing to meet his foe head-on.

  Exhibiting astonishing ability, the warrior had a third shaft nocked and was taking certain aim.

  Nate did likewise, struggling to keep the barrel from bobbing up and down with the rhythm of his horse. He rushed his shot to prevent the warrior from getting too close, the Kentucky cracking loudly as he stroked the trigger.

  The ball took the man high in the left shoulder and flipped him off his steed. He fell onto his right side in the snow, the bow and arrow flying from his fingers. But he was far from finished. Rolling to his feet, he ignored the bleeding hole in his shoulder and produced a war club that he waved overhead as he ran forward.

  While admiring the man’s courage, Nate knew he couldn’t allow the warrior to get within striking range. Holding both rifles in the same hand he held the reins, he yanked the flintlock from under his belt and cocked the pistol while bearing down on his adversary.

  The warrior, now twenty yards off, whooped his defiance.

  Nate waited until only half that distance separated them before firing. The heavy pistol blasted and bucked his arm upward.

  A hole blossomed in the Indian’s forehead. He seemed to slam into an invisible wall, his charge checked in midstride. Slowly crumbling, he stumbled a few feet, his mouth moving soundlessly. Then he pitched onto his face with his arms out flung.

  Reining up, Nate replaced the flintlock, drew his tomahawk, and slid to the ground. He stepped to the man’s side and flipped him over to verify the warrior had been slain. Not that there could be much doubt. One look was all it took to confirm the Indian would never ambush another mountaineer.

  Nate glanced at the first warrior he’d slain, who was prone and motionless, then devoted his energies to reloading all of his guns. As he worked, he replayed the attack in his mind. Why had the warriors confronted him head-on when they could easily have shot him from concealment? If they had waited until he was close to the trees, he would have fallen without getting off a shot. Surely they’d realized as much.

  So why had they brazenly charged him in the open?

  He recollected the stories his Uncle Zeke and Shakespeare had told him about Indian conflicts and recalled his own experiences. Many Indian tribes, he knew, relished warfare; the Blackfeet and the Comanches were just two examples of tribes existing in a perpetual state of war. But it was not the actual bloody fighting they relished so much as it was the chance to gain personal glory.

  As a consequence of this urge, most tribes adhered to rules of conduct in warfare, rules designed to garner individual warriors the greatest possible honor. And while the rules varied slightly from tribe to tribe, they all revolved around the counting of coup.

  The word came from a French term having to do with striking or hitting another. Warriors took great pride in engaging enemies face to face. Those who exposed themselves during a battle ranked higher than those who killed while hidden. Also, those who slew a foe using their hands, a tomahawk, a stick or a lance, were rated above those who killed from a distance using a bow or a gun.

  Did that have something to do with the reason the two warriors charged him outright? Sure, they’d used bows, but probably only because they felt they had to in order to stand a fair chance against his rifles.

  He gazed at the dead man near his moccasins, trying to identify the warrior’s tribe of origin. The style of buckskins and the Indian’s braided hair were indicative of the Cheyennes, but not quite the same. Zeke had once told him that the Arapahos and the Cheyennes were the closest of allies, and that Arapaho customs and attire strongly mimicked those of the Cheyennes. Was it possible, then, that he was up against a war party of Arapahos?

  At length Nate finished reloading and remounted. He rode back to retrieve Barking Dog’s stallion, which had halted the moment he released it, then headed for the forest with the Hawken clutched in his right hand. A brief pause beside the first warrior confirmed the man was dead.

  Exercising supreme caution, Nate continued to the tree line. He saw no sign of more Arapahos. The rest must be farther ahead with Winona and the pack animals.

  Advancing into the woods, he stopped long enough to loop the stallion’s lead around a branch. He wanted his hands free when he caught up with the war party. As an added preparation, he rested the Kentucky across his thighs.

  Believing himself as prepared as possible, Nate brought his horse to a steady trot. The tracks were as easy to follow as ever, and half a mile into the trees he spied fresh horse droppings in the snow, so fresh that the droppings had not yet had time to harden and freeze or be covered sinking in the snow. He realized he would overtake them soon. Girding himself, he kept on going, and as he did he thought of a psalm his mother had often read to him when he was a small child. How did it go again? Oh, yeah. He commenced quietly mouthing the words: “The Lord is my shepherd. ...”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Unbridled terror overflowed Winona’s heart at the s
ound of the first shot. Her mind filled with horrid images of Nate being transfixed by arrows. She couldn’t have moved if her life depended on it, but fortunately none of the Arapahos were moving, either. They were as intently interested in the outcome of the battle as she was, each man sitting with his head cocked to listen better. He Wolf had swung his mount completely around and sat with a stern expression.

  A second shot cracked, then there were more whoops, and finally a third gun discharged.

  Silence ensued.

  All of the Arapahos began talking at once and gesturing excitedly along their back trail.

  A twinge of relief contended with Winona’s fear for her husband’s life. Nate had fired three times, indicating the two warriors hadn’t taken him by surprise. And knowing how well he could shoot, she surmised there were now two less members of the war party.

  He Wolf glanced at her, his countenance somber. “It seems your husband is worthy of his name.”

  “I told you,” Winona gloated.

  “He will catch us soon if he has not been wounded,” He Wolf remarked, surveying the landscape ahead. “We must prepare.”

  “What will you do?”

  “You know what we must do,” He Wolf said. He shifted and barked instructions to the other warriors. Immediately they all moved on, riding swiftly, pulling the reluctant pack animals along, making for a meadow visible through the trees to the northeast.

  Winona deliberately stayed alongside He Wolf. “You can let me go. I will persuade my husband to let you leave this territory in peace.”

  “The Arapahos are not cowards. We do not run from battle.”

  “All my husband wants is me,” Winona said, then quickly corrected herself, “and our horses. You can take the guns back to your people. Think of what so many rifles would mean to your tribe.”

  “I do not need a woman to instruct me in matters that rightfully concern only warriors,” He Wolf said indignantly. He looked at her sternly. “You are wasting your breath if you think you can talk us out of killing your husband. He has counted coup on us. Now we will count coup on him.”

  “You are a fool.”

  The Arapaho glared at her. “Am I? Stare into my eyes and tell me that a Shoshone warrior would do any differently than I am doing.”

  Winona frowned. “I cannot.”

  “No,” He Wolf said. “I knew you could not deny the truth. No warrior would simply ride off now. We must make a stand or we will not be able to hold our heads up again.”

  “Then I have a request to make.”

  “You are in no position to be making requests.”

  “Give me a weapon so I can fight by my husband’s side.”

  The Arapaho looked at her. “You would do such a thing?”

  “A wife must share her husband’s fate.”

  The corner of He Wolf’s mouth curled in a lopsided grin and his eyes radiated appreciation. “You are an extraordinary woman, Winona. After I have slain Grizzly Killer, I will give much thought to taking you for my wife.”

  Bestowing a sweet smile on him, Winona said, “I would rather be thrown off a cliff or fed to wolves.”

  A hearty laugh burst from He Wolf. “I would say this Grizzly Killer has met his match in you. Are all Shoshone women so filled with spirit?”

  “I cannot speak for all women. I am as I am.”

  The war party came to the edge of the snow-covered meadow, which encompassed a tract of some four acres. They headed toward the center, several warriors bringing up the rear with their eyes on the forest.

  Barely able to contain her anxiety, Winona tried one last appeal. “Would you ride on as fast as you can and forget about fighting my husband if I agree to become your wife?”

  He Wolf’s astonishment showed as he gazed at her. “You love him that much?”

  “Yes.”

  “No wonder he will stop at nothing to get you back,” He Wolf said. “But you can save your words. We will not tuck our tails between our legs and slink away like scared dogs. We will meet him here and be done with it.”

  Winona fell silent. She had used every argument she could think of, to no avail. The battle was inevitable. Now she must think of a means to help Nate without getting herself killed, if possible. If not, then she would die as a Shoshone woman should die, giving her life so her husband might live.

  The war party reached the middle of the meadow and halted. After a brief discussion the five Arapahos aligned themselves in a row, positioning themselves about ten yards apart, their mounts facing the forest where Nate would soon appear. He Wolf occupied the center post, directly in front of Winona and the pack animals.

  She stared at the warrior’s back, her mind in turmoil. Perhaps, if she darted in front of the Arapahos when Nate appeared, it would so distract them that Nate would be able to shoot a couple of them before they could charge. Even so, there would be enough left to easily overpower him.

  None of the Arapahos spoke, none displayed the slightest fear. They sat proudly, their spines rigid, ready to acquit themselves honorably. They each held a bow, an arrow nocked to the string.

  Winona had never been so nervous. She scanned the tree line, eager to see Nate but dreading what would ensue. If anything happened to him, if he was killed, she wouldn’t want to go on. In the time they had been together, sharing every aspect of their lives and an intimacy that touched the depths of her inner spirit, she had grown to care for him with an affection that eclipsed all else. It was an affection that surprised her in its intensity and depth of passion. She had never known love could be so profound, so exalting.

  As a small girl playing in the Shoshone village she had often imagined what marriage would be like and pictured in her mind the man most likely to win her heart. Always had that fantasy figure been a handsome Shoshone warrior, a man who had counted more coup than all the rest of the tribe combined. Had anyone told her she would one day marry a white man, she would have laughed at their insanity.

  Over the years many warriors had shown an interest in her. Quite a few had approached her father about taking her into their lodge, offering horses and robes and weapons, enough to make her father wealthy. Yet her wise father had never accepted any offer without first consulting her, and she’d always declined. Her mother had urged her to accept before she acquired a reputation as too hard to get, rightfully pointing out that some of her suitors were prominent men in the Shoshone nation and that any woman in her right mind would leap at the chance to marry them.

  But Winona had remained aloof. Even she had been hard pressed to explain her behavior. She found many of the men attractive, but they failed to stir her heart. Why, she didn’t know, until she saw Nathaniel King for the first time. It was as if a tiny barb had punctured her heart and let out all the love stored inside for years.

  Somehow, in a mysterious manner she could not comprehend nor resist, she knew from the start that Nate would be the man she married. The knowledge came as automatically as the certainty that the sun would rise each morning and dark clouds from the west brought heavy rain.

  Now she fidgeted and strained her eyes to pierce the shadows under the trees.

  The time seemed to drag by.

  Nothing moved in the woods.

  Off to the east a lone hawk soared, seeking prey.

  She began to wonder if Nate had been wounded by the other two warriors. Why else was he taking so long? Then she heard a sound that made her heart leap into her throat and she spun her horse around in amazement.

  ~*~

  Nate was pushing ahead recklessly, anxious to catch the Arapahos, when he realized his mistake and abruptly reined up. It wouldn’t do to blunder in among the war party like a greenhorn. As Shakespeare had often admonished him, those who survived the longest in the savage wilderness were those who used their heads in a crisis. Craftiness counted more in the issue of life and death than mere brawn. So to rescue Winona and come out alive he must become as crafty as an old fox.

  He moved out again, only slower this
time, peering intently at the forest before him. From the gait indicated by the tracks, he realized the war party had picked up the pace. He tried to outthink them, to anticipate their next move. What would he do if he were in their place? Set up another ambush, only this time do it right? Or find a spot to make a stand and finish the affray for good?

  What was that?

  Nate stopped again at spying a stretch of white ahead. He glimpsed movement. Holding a rifle in each hand, he slid to the ground and crouched behind a nearby tree. The distance was too great for him to distinguish details, but there appeared to be a number of riders in a field or a meadow beyond the trees. It took no genius to figure out who they were.

  He bent at the waist and advanced until he could see clearly. At the sight of Winona he almost cried out her name in relief. He let his gaze linger on her for a minute before paying any attention to the members of the war party. There were five warriors all told, each one carrying bows.

  A frown creased his mouth. Five to one were pathetic odds, all the more so since he couldn’t hope to shoot all the Arapahos before one of them nailed him. Two, yes. Maybe three. Four if he was incredibly lucky. But never five.

  He tried to come up with a plan, some way of defeating the warriors without endangering himself, but there simply wasn’t a means of doing so. Oh, he could hide at the edge of the trees and shoot the warriors from concealment, in which case he stood a fair chance of slaying all five. But even then, they would see the smoke from his rifles and know exactly where to send their shafts. He discarded the idea, not because the gun smoke would give him away, but because he wouldn’t stoop so low as to shoot men from ambush. Only a coward would perform such a dastardly deed.

  He returned to his horse, pondering furiously. Since he couldn’t honorably shoot them from the relative safety of the forest, and since a frontal attack would leave him riddled with arrows, he came up with another way to go about tackling them. Swinging into the saddle, he placed the Kentucky in his lap and rode to the right. Staying far enough back from the meadow that the Indians couldn’t possibly see him, he made a wide loop around them.