His plan was simple. He’d come up on the warriors from the rear. By the time they awoke to his presence, he might kill two or three. Then it would be a matter of overcoming the remainder with his knife and tomahawk.
He considered that he might well die but felt no fear. If Winona lived, the sacrifice was worth it. She had brought him the greatest happiness any man could ever know; his gratitude was boundless, his very existence in the palms of her hands. Now he could demonstrate the depth of his love, could repay her for her kindness and compassion. He regretted, though, that he might not live to see his son or daughter grow to adulthood. The notion of being a father greatly appealed to him.
His horse plodded along wearily, the thud of its hooves muffled by the snow. He checked his knife and tomahawk, making sure both weren’t wedged too tightly under his belt. Then he rechecked the flintlock, verifying the pistol was loaded.
By the time he arrived on the north side of the meadow he was beginning to feel edgy. He licked his lips and halted at the tree line. Neither the Arapahos nor Winona had moved.
Nate raised the Hawken, about to charge, then paused. If he shot those warriors in the back, it would be the same as shooting them from ambush. He might as well paint a yellow stripe down his back. No man worthy of his name would do such a thing.
He grinned at his foolishness, lowered the rifle, and rode from the forest, going slowly, amazed none of the Arapahos had awakened to his presence yet. Not even Winona, whose intuition was superb, had realized he was there. When only ten feet from the pack animals, he stopped, took a deep breath, and asked in a loud, clear voice: “Are you looking for someone?”
Chapter Nineteen
The startled expressions on the Arapahos as they wheeled their mounts struck Nate as so comical that he almost laughed. He had time for just a quick glance at Winona, whose face lit up with affection and hope, and then he concentrated on his five adversaries, all of whom were regarding him in commingled disbelief and fascination.
“You are Grizzly Killer,” stated the warrior in the middle of the line, speaking in perfect Shoshone. “We have heard much about you.”
“I have come for my wife and our horses,” Nate said. “I have no wish to fight you unless you force it on me.”
The warrior translated for the benefit of his companions. None of the others spoke. They were staring at Nate, at his guns.
Winona moved her horse over next to her husband’s. The Arapahos made no move to interfere. She leaned toward him and said softly, “My heart is happy at seeing you again.”
“As is mine,” Nate replied.
She pointed at the crates. “They contain dozens of rifles and ammunition. Kennedy and the trappers planned to trade them to Two Owls for beaver furs.”
Nate felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. Now there was no way he could simply ride off with Winona and let the matter drop. Those guns could be used to kill mountaineers. At the very least they would make the Arapahos the most powerful nation west of the Mississippi River, enabling them to conquer all the other tribes.
“I am He Wolf,” the warrior who knew the Shoshone tongue declared. “We have heard that you are very brave.”
“A man does what he must.”
“True. And we must kill you,” He Wolf said matter-of-factly. He extended his bow and smiled. “I see you have three guns. You might be able to shoot three of us before we slay you, but we will slay you in the end.”
Nate didn’t doubt it. He wondered where his own flintlocks were, the pair Newton and Lambert had taken from the cabin. Perhaps they were packed with the supplies or the rifles. If he had five guns, he just might prevail. But he didn’t, and all the wishing in the world wouldn’t help him one bit.
“It would be too easy for us to kill you with arrows,” He Wolf was saying. “There is no honor in that, no challenge. I propose to fight you man on man, one at a time, so that the warrior who finally takes your hair can claim the highest coup. What do you say, Grizzly Killer?”
“None of you will use your bows and I’m not supposed to use my guns?”
“Those are the terms.”
“I mean no insult, but how do I know I can trust you?” Nate responded.
He Wolf addressed his fellows and all five of them tossed their bows to the ground. The warrior pointed at the Hawken with one hand while drawing a knife with the other. “What about you, Grizzly Killer? Are you truly as brave as they say, or are the words told about you around campfires nothing but lies?”
For an answer Nate gave his rifles to Winona. She frowned as she took them. “If anything happens to me, ride off,” he advised.
“If anything happens to you, I do not care if I live or die.”
Nate slid the flintlock from under his belt and motioned for her to take the pistol. “You owe it to our unborn child to live. Promise me you will try if I die.”
With evident reluctance Winona answered, “I will do as you want, husband. But the rest of my days will be spent in misery.” She placed the flintlock in her lap, her shoulders slumping.
Suppressing an urge to take her into his arms, Nate drew his tomahawk and rode a dozen feet to the left. He eyed the Arapahos and hefted the weapon. “I am ready when you are, He Wolf. Prove to me that Arapaho warriors deserve to be called men.”
“Even the Blackfeet fear us,” He Wolf bragged, and spoke to his fellow tribesmen in his own tongue.
Suddenly the warrior on the far left of the line, the youngest of the bunch, vented a piercing whoop and charged, waving a war club overhead.
Nate wasn’t about to sit there and let them bring the fight to him. To win he must take the offensive, must keep them off their guard. Consequently he goaded his horse into motion, galloping to meet his first adversary head-on, the tomahawk firmly clasped in his right hand. He bent low over the saddle, his gaze glued to the oncoming warrior’s club.
The young Arapaho was too eager for his own good. He leaned out to the side, trying to increase his reach but exposing his torso in the process.
Hoping that Lambert’s horse was well trained, Nate waited until he was only eight feet from the warrior before wrenching on the reins and cutting the animal sharply to the right. Almost simultaneously he reined up, stopping on the head of a pin, as it were. Unable to compensate, the young Arapaho lunged outward even further and swung his club. Nate knew the swing would miss even before the warrior executed it. He whipped his body to the right, turning almost completely around in the saddle, using a backhand strike, and sank the gleaming edge of his tomahawk into the hapless Arapaho’s neck as the man went racing past. The edge bit deep, severing veins and arteries, causing blood to spray like a fountain.
Swaying wildly, the warrior rode another ten yards before he pitched from his mount and landed face down in the snow. He tried to rise, his arms quivering, but collapsed in shock with his lifeblood spurting over the white blanket embracing his form.
Nate faced the rest of the band. They were staring grimly at their fallen companion. Spurned into action, the next warrior on the left shrieked and galloped to the attack, a tomahawk in his right hand, his features contorted in rage. Nate rode forward, keeping his own dripping tomahawk close to his side. This next warrior was older, more battle seasoned, and would be harder to dispatch. He girded his body for his next tactic, and when the two horses were almost abreast he swung to the off side, clinging to his animal with just his left leg and left arm.
The warrior cleaved the air as he went past, narrowly missing the exposed leg.
Drawing back on the reins as he straightened, Nate turned his horse around and closed. The Arapaho was turning his stallion, or trying to, because his animal shied at the sight of Nate’s horse bearing rapidly down. Struggling to get the stallion to obey, the warrior lifted his tomahawk in a defensive gesture.
Nate aimed a terrific swipe at the Arapaho’s head, knowing full well the man would deflect it. Their weapons clashed and his slid off to the right. Almost in the same motion he r
eversed direction, lancing his tomahawk into the warrior’s side a few inches below the ribs.
The Arapaho stiffened and gasped, then goaded the stallion to the right, losing all interest in the conflict. He clutched at the wound, his fingers becoming slick with blood.
Nate didn’t bother to go after him. Instead he urged his horse straight toward He Wolf, his mouth set in a grim line. He couldn’t afford to slack off a bit; he must keep attacking until he triumphed or died.
He Wolf was staring at the injured warrior. His gaze shifted to Nate and he smiled enigmatically. Then he lifted his knife and brought his own horse up to top speed, snow showering in all directions from its driving legs.
Nate had about used up his bag of tricks. If he was any judge of character, then He Wolf was a veteran of many encounters who wouldn’t be fooled by clever horsemanship. He must do something totally unexpected, something that would take He Wolf completely unawares. Only one idea occurred to him and he mentally balked at trying it. Such madness could well result in his own death.
But what choice did he have?
He made as if to pass He Wolf on the right, waving his tomahawk all the while to convince the warrior he fully intended to use it. Then, when their horses were almost a yard apart, he turned his animal to the left, into He Wolf’s path, deliberately plowing his horse into the Arapaho’s.
The animals collided with shattering impact. Nate had angled his horse just right, catching the warrior’s mount on the point of its left shoulder. He Wolf’s animal went down, but the warrior sprang clear before he could be pinned underneath.
Still astride his horse, Nate launched himself into the air, diving onto He Wolf as the man straightened and they both went down in a swirl of limbs. They separated and rose to their feet with their weapons at the ready.
There was a fierce gleam in He Wolf’s eyes. “You are all they say you are,” he said, and speared his knife at Grizzly Killer’s throat.
Nate backpedaled, his movements slightly restricted by the snow. The blade nicked his right wrist, drawing blood. He slashed with the tomahawk but He Wolf nimbly evaded the blow.
The Arapaho unleashed a flurry of stabbing and cutting strokes, pressing relentlessly, seemingly determined to end their fight quickly.
It took every vestige of energy Nate possessed to save himself from being ripped open. He blocked, countered, and thrust, his limbs a blur, sweat caking his skin, but he could do little better than hold his own. The sustained combat began to take its toll. On top of all he had previously been through, the injuries sustained, the long pursuit, and the series of fights, this final battle was proving almost too much for his battered, aching body to endure.
He was weakening fast, and from the smug smirk that creased He Wolf’s lips, he suspected the warrior guessed it. In desperation he summoned his remaining strength and flailed away, seeking to batter the knife from the Arapaho’s grip. But He Wolf danced rearward, staying just out of range.
Nate tripped. One moment he was swinging the tomahawk for all he was worth, the next his left moccasin gave way on the slick snow and he fell to his knee.
Instantly He Wolf pounced, sweeping his knife down at the white man’s upturned face.
Frantically Nate brought the tomahawk up and managed to deflect the blade. In a burst of inspiration he perceived that he was employing the wrong strategy. Instead of concentrating on warding off the knife, he should be trying to get the man wielding the knife. So as the Arapaho elevated the blade for yet another stab, Nate sank the tomahawk into the man’s left leg.
He Wolf arched his spine and involuntarily cried out, then staggered backwards.
Nate yanked the tomahawk out and rose. He had the upper hand and wasn’t about to relinquish it. His arm whipping right and left, he drove the warrior farther and farther backwards. So engrossed was he in trying to defeat He Wolf that he failed to register the drumming sound of hooves until the horse making the noise was almost upon him. Then he glanced around in alarm to find the warrior he had cut below the ribs bearing down on him.
He Wolf shouted something in Arapaho.
Throwing himself to the right, Nate escaped being crushed beneath the animal’s powerful legs. He landed on his side, then swept erect, his left hand closing around his knife. If they were going to come at him two at a time in violation of their agreement, then he would face them with every weapon at his disposal.
The mounted warrior checked his charge and turned his horse. His hand was pressed over his wound. Blood coated his skin all the way down to his toes.
Waving his arms, He Wolf yelled at the warrior, apparently trying to stop the man from attacking, but his words were wasted.
Leaning to the right, then the left, barely able to grip the reins, the wounded Arapaho goaded his horse forward once again.
Nate tensed and crouched, prepared to leap either way to evade those pounding hooves. To his astonishment, He Wolf suddenly stepped between the onrushing warrior and himself and faced the animal.
The other Arapahos were shouting and converging at a gallop.
Confused, Nate saw He Wolf raise an arm in an effort to signal the young brave to stop. But the gesture was futile. The galloping horse bore down on He Wolf, who attempted to dodge to the left; his injured thigh caused him to stumble instead, and a heartbeat later the horse slammed into He Wolf and flattened him under its driving hooves. Nate heard a crackling and a crunching sound and blood spurted from He Wolf’s mouth.
“Nate! Behind you!” Winona cried.
He whirled, and there were the two remaining warriors bearing down on him, one with a tomahawk, another with a war club. There was fury in their eyes and neither gave any indication of stopping.
A rifle boomed. The Arapaho holding the tomahawk stiffened and fell.
Nate knew Winona had fired. He drew back his knife arm, and when the last warrior came close enough he hurled the weapon with all the strength left in his body. He didn’t expect to score, merely to force the warrior to turn aside, but to his astonishment the blade sped true and buried itself to the hilt in the Arapaho’s chest. The warrior let go of his reins, clutched at the hilt, and toppled soundlessly.
Inhaling raggedly, Nate surveyed the battlefield.
The badly wounded warrior had stopped fifteen feet away. He sagged, his eyelids fluttering, then vented a groan and fell. After twitching for a moment, he was still.
None of the other Arapahos moved.
Suddenly he heard footsteps behind him and spun, thinking one of the warriors had somehow revived and was attacking him. Instead, Winona was a yard away, the smoking Hawken in her right hand. She threw herself into his arms and they embraced, her robe parting as they pressed together, enabling him to feel her heart beating wildly. “Husband,” she said tenderly. “Husband.”
Nate simply held her, his face nestled in her flowing hair, and fought to prevent a flood of tears from overflowing his eyes. A lump formed in his throat. He tried to speak but couldn’t. She was safe and in his arms and nothing else mattered.
For the longest time they stood there, immobile, glued to one another, as one in the midst of the vast wilderness, their bodies bathed in the golden sunshine.
Epilogue
Nate and Winona rode side by side on their own horses, winding down into their valley, their cabin beckoning to the east. He held the lead to the pack animals in his left hand. Cradled in his right arm was the Hawken.
Winona held a Kentucky rifle in her arms. She frequently glanced at her mate when he wasn’t looking and grinned. “What will you do with all the guns?” she asked at one point.
“I don’t rightly know,” Nate replied thoughtfully. “We’ll bury the crates near the cabin for the time being. They should keep for a while. I’ll ask Shakespeare’s advice the next time we see him.”
“Just so we get rid of them. They are bad medicine.”
They came to a clear stretch and a doe bounded from their path.
“Our baby is well despite all we
have been through,” Winona commented. “In three moons we will have a new addition to our family.”
“I can hardly wait.”
Winona gazed toward the cabin and glimpsed the horse pen. The sight made her chuckle.
“What’s so funny?” Nate asked.
“I was thinking of the four hundred and twenty-two beaver pelts you have buried under the ground in the pen.”
“What about them?” Nate inquired. With all that had been going on, he’d forgotten about the furs he’d collected during the last trapping season. As did most trappers, he’d cached his catch until the next rendezvous at which time he would pack them to the annual get-together and sell them for a hefty profit.
“Isaac Kennedy would have given anything to know about them.”
“Kennedy was a fool. He never should have ventured out here. Some people have no business being in the wild,” Nate said. After a bit he added, “I guess that old saying is true.”
“What saying?”
He grinned. “A man should always know his limitations.”
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