Wilderness: Vengeance Trail/ Death Hunt (A Wilderness Western Book 4)

by Robbins, David

  WILDERNESS 8: DEATH HUNT

  Dedicated to Judy, Joshua, and Shane. And to Scott Kendall, a great guy.

  Chapter One

  “Do you reckon we have everything we’ll need?” asked the muscular young man in buckskins.

  The lovely Indian woman to whom the question had been addressed looked at their packhorse, her features barely concealing her keen amusement. “We have enough supplies to last a year, husband,” she said and grinned. “Any more and that horse will keel over.” She glanced at him. “That is the right expression, yes? Keel over?”

  “It’s the right one, Winona,” the man responded a bit testily.

  Ever sensitive to his moods, Winona moved closer and affectionately reached up to caress his cheek. “I am sorry if I hurt your feelings, Nate.”

  Nineteen-year-old Nathaniel King softened under the loving gaze of her dark eyes. He shrugged his broad shoulders and gestured at the assortment of parfleches, saddlebags, and other supplies piled high on the pack animal. “I’m taking so much because of the condition you’re in. Who knows what we’ll need along the way? It will take seven or eight days to reach the village, maybe longer.”

  Winona glanced down at the highly prominent bulge in her beaded buckskin dress, then pressed both palms to her swollen belly. “There is no need to worry. Our son will not be ready to enter this world for fifteen or twenty sleeps yet.”

  Nate put his hands on his hips and regarded her critically, extreme anxiety mirrored in his penetrating green eyes. In addition to his buckskins, he also wore moccasins and a brown leather belt. Wedged under the belt, one on either side of the large buckle, were two flintlock pistols, and suspended in a sheath on his left hip was a big butcher knife. Angled across his chest were a powder horn and a bullet pouch. “You can’t say for certain when the baby will come, and I’d rather not take any chances. What if you go into childbirth before we find the village? We’ll wind up stranded in the middle of nowhere until you’re back on your feet. That could take days.”

  “What nonsense,” Winona said lightheartedly, as she smoothed the flowing raven tresses that fell to her hips. “I will be able to ride the day after our son is born. There will be little delay.”

  A sigh of exasperation hissed from between Nate’s lips. He simply couldn’t understand his wife’s cavalier attitude; she seemed to view giving birth in the same manner as she did eating and sleeping, as a bodily function that would pretty much take care of itself and wasn’t any cause for concern. “If I had any sense, I would have taken you to St. Louis to have the baby,” he said.

  Blinking in surprise, Winona stared eastward, out over the verdant valley in which their sturdy cabin was situated, and watched a flight of ducks come in for a landing on the aquamarine surface of the tranquil lake a stone’s throw away. The mere thought of traveling to one of the strange cities Nate had told her about sent a chill of apprehension rippling down her spine. Much of what he had described was incomprehensible—vast tracts of land covered in haphazard fashion with countless stone and wood lodges separated by narrow passages called streets, all swarming with the ceaseless activities of more people than there were blades of grass. To her, to a Shoshone woman accustomed to the orderly, quiet life of an Indian village, the sprawling cities of the whites seemed to be the embodiment of insanity, at odds with the way of Nature and the Great Medicine. “Why would you have taken me there?” she wondered.

  “Because a woman should have the best medical help available when she gives birth,” Nate said, turning to his black stallion. He began checking the cinch. “This is 1829, after all. It’s not like we live in the Dark Ages. A modern doctor would make sure everything came out just fine.”

  Winona grinned. “Everything will come out just fine without a doctor. Women have been having babies since the dawn of time and human beings have not died out yet.”

  Nate glanced at her. “I wish you would take this seriously. You don’t know how worried I am.”

  “Yes, I do,” Winona assured him. “And I know you worry because you love me.” She felt the baby kick and beamed. “But you worry too much, husband.”

  Finishing with the cinch, Nate walked into the cabin. He knew better than to debate the issue. They had been through it again and again with the same result. She simply refused to become in the least bit anxious about the birth. Fine and dandy, he reflected. At least he’d been able to talk her into visiting her relatives at a Shoshone village far to the north where there would be other women who could lend a hand just in case something did go wrong. Although, when he thought about it, she had agreed a bit too readily, as if she had wanted to visit her kin all along and was merely using his anxiety as an excuse to go. How typical, he thought. Women were the most devious creatures on God’s green earth. They always got their way, no matter what their men might prefer. Why was that? Why did men always fall for feminine ploys? It certainly couldn’t be because the men weren’t as smart.

  He retrieved his Hawken from the large table on which he had placed it an hour earlier after loading it. The feel of the heavy rifle snug against his palm heartened him slightly. The trip would take eight or nine days, perhaps more. They were bound to run into contrary critters and maybe a few hostiles. The Hawken would come in handy; next to the horses, it was the most indispensable item they were taking.

  Nate gazed around the interior, making sure they had packed everything he wanted to lug along, then went outside and closed the door behind him. The morning sun hung above the snow-crowned peaks rimming the eastern horizon, and there was a cool nip to the early April air.

  Winona had already mounted the mare she would ride and held the lead to the pack animal.

  “I’ll take that,” Nate said, walking toward her.

  “I am not helpless,” Winona said, giving the lead a tug as she brought her mare around to face due north.

  “But you’re pregnant,” Nate objected.

  “You are an observant man, husband,” Winona said and snickered.

  Annoyed, Nate mounted his stallion and moved out, passing her. “I don’t see why you must be so stubborn. I’m only trying to help.” He headed for a gap in the mountains, thinking about the route they must take, remembering where water existed and planning his stops accordingly. A person could go without food, if need be, for weeks, but anyone who went without water for more than three or four days stood a good chance of perishing. So, like the Indians, he would camp each night near water and start each morning refreshed and revitalized.

  “Do all white men act like you do when their women are heavy with child?” Winona inquired.

  “Most, I guess,” Nate said, wondering what she was leading up to. “Why?”

  “I would expect it.”

  Nate glanced over his shoulder. “Oh?”

  “From the stories you have told me and those I heard when I was younger, I know white men treat their women very strangely. You treat them like dolls.”

  “Dolls?”

  “Yes,” Winona said in her precise English. She had spent months mastering the language, and now she took great pride in pronouncing every word distinctly. “Among my people it is a custom for mothers and other relatives to make dolls for the little girls to play with. I had three dolls when I was a child, all from my mother. She even made clothes for them to wear and built a small lodge for them to live in.”

  “I don’t see the connection,” Nate said.

  “I treated my dolls very carefully because I was afraid they would break,” Winona elaborated. “Every day I dressed them in their fine clothes and had them do all the things real women would do, but I never let them get dirty or was rough with them.”

  “I still don’t see the point.”

  “Don’t you?” Winona responded. “White men treat their women just like I treated my dolls. You keep them in great lodges and dress them in fancy clothes. You let them rear the children and take care of the lodge, but you never let them do any of the work the men do. You act as if they will break
if they do anything a man does.”

  “That’s not necessarily true,” Nate said. “And you’re a fine one to criticize the way white men live. When was the last time you went on a buffalo hunt?”

  “I never have and you know it.”

  “And why not?” Nate asked and promptly answered his own question. “Because Indian men don’t let their women hunt big game or go on a raid or do most of the things men do.” He paused. “I guess when you get right down to it, Indian men aren’t much different from white men.”

  “In some respects they are much alike,” Winona agreed wistfully.

  “Does that upset you?”

  “I always wanted to go buffalo hunting or be part of a war party,” Winona said. “But I did not complain when my father told me I could not. My father loved me very much, and it was my duty as his daughter to obey his wishes.”

  Nate looked at her and detected a tinge of melancholy in her expression. “Tell you what,” he said impulsively. “After the baby is born, the two of us will go after buffalo.”

  “You would do that for me?”

  “Of course.”

  Winona brightened, then burst into laughter.

  “What is so funny?” Nate asked.

  “Who will watch our baby while we are off chasing buffalo?”

  “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought of that,” Nate admitted. “Maybe we’ll have to wait until the baby is old enough to tag along.”

  They fell silent, Nate pleased with himself for having made such a considerate offer. But the more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that he’d made a rash mistake. What if Winona was injured, or worse? Hunting buffalo was a tricky, extremely dangerous task. Many warriors died each year doing so. Next to being slain in battle, more Indian men died from hunting the shaggy brutes than from any other cause. Since Winona had no experience at it, she would be at even greater risk. Perhaps, Nate concluded, he should come up with a reason for her to not do it. Something logical, something devious. And if that failed, maybe she’d agree to go after elk or deer instead.

  He scanned the surrounding landscape, alert for movement or noise. They were crossing a boulder-strewn field between tracts of dense woodland. Chipmunks chattered at them or darted off at their approach. Far overhead, to the west, sailed a large red hawk, its wings virtually motionless as it glided on the air currents seeking prey. In the brush to the east a black-tailed buck appeared and watched them for a minute before bounding away in great leaps.

  Nate inhaled and smiled. This was the life! He could hardly believe that only a year earlier he’d left New York City to join his Uncle Zeke in St. Louis and, through a series of unexpected events, had found himself joining the slim ranks of those hardy trappers and adventurous mountain men who chose to dwell in the Rocky Mountains. He had, as the saying went, “gone native,” and he didn’t regret the decision one bit.

  Only out here, in the unspoiled wilderness where men could roam as they pleased and live as they wanted, was there true freedom. His Uncle Zeke had promised him a share in the greatest treasure any man could ever find, and Nate had to admit his uncle had been right. Freedom was more precious than all the money in the world, than all the gold and gems in existence.

  Thinking of Zeke brought to mind his father and mother, and Nate felt a twinge of guilt at having left them so abruptly with no more than a note of farewell. Did they miss him? Did they wonder if he was alive or dead? He speculated on the wisdom of contacting them, perhaps sending a letter back east with the next person he met who was heading that way. At least they would know he was all right.

  They would also probably despise him for what he had done. After all, his father had refused to allow Zeke’s name to be mentioned in their house after Zeke ventured beyond the frontier and never came back. That had been a decade before Nate left New York. To think that his father had nurtured such keen resentment for over ten years made him see his father in a whole new light. Zeke had been his father’s brother. How could a man hate his own brother?

  Nate shook his head to dispel the bothersome thoughts and skirted a boulder the size of a pony. It was too late to have regrets, he figured. He’d made the decision to leave New York on his own, and he would have to live with the consequences for the rest of his life.

  Twisting, Nate gazed fondly at Winona, who gave him a smile. If he had not headed west, he would never have met his wife, and he considered her the best thing that had ever happened to him. She brought genuine happiness into his life, helped him to smile when he was depressed and to confront hardships squarely. For her, he would do anything. And he didn’t give a damn whether his folks would approve of the marriage or not.

  There came a time, he reflected, when every man and woman must strike off on their own, must leave the nest just like little birds eventually left theirs to take up the responsibilities of adults. Well, he’d simply gone a lot farther from his nest than most did, and the rewards justified the deed.

  Nate saw Winona passing a cluster of small rocks on her left. He spied a flash of movement near a rock tilted upward at an angle and figured her horse had spooked a chipmunk. But then he saw a sinuous shape glide into the open and coil for a strike. The next moment, as he realized with horror what it was, he heard the distinct rattling of its tail.

  Chapter Two

  Rattlesnake!

  The word peeled like the loud clanging of a fire bell in Nate’s mind, and he reined the stallion around to bring his Hawken into play.

  Startled by the rattler’s buzzing, Winona’s mare started to rear up, its nostrils flaring, whinnying in alarm. Winona yanked on the reins, trying to turn her mount to the right away from the deadly reptile.

  A terrifying mental image of Winona being thrown filled Nate with fear. If she went down, they might well lose the baby! He whipped the Hawken to his shoulder and took a hasty bead on the rattler’s head. Its forked red tongue was flicking out and in, its tail vibrating vigorously. He cocked the hammer, held the barrel as steady as he could, and squeezed off the shot.

  At the booming report, a cloud of smoke burst from the rifle as the lead streaked true to the mark, the ball hitting the rattler between the eyes and coring the brain. The snake flipped onto its side and thrashed wildly, blood and brains oozing from the thumb-sized hole in its shattered cranium.

  Nate hardly gave the rattler a second glance. His wife was still striving mightily to bring the mare under control while holding onto the lead to the packhorse, which was trying to jerk free. He goaded the stallion to her side and leaned over to grip the mare’s bridle. “Whoa, there. Calm down. Calm down,” he said in a soothing tone.

  The mare—the same horse he had ridden all the way from New York to the Rockies and then presented to Winona because the animal was normally supremely gentle and obedient—reacted to his voice by standing still and bobbing its head, its eyes wide, still afraid but compliant.

  Winona turned her attention to the pack animal, hauling on the lead with both hands and speaking to the horse in Shoshone. “The snake is dead, silly one. Be still.”

  It took all of ten seconds, but the packhorse stopped trying to bolt and stood as quietly as the mare.

  Nate looked down at the motionless snake, then at his wife. “Are you all right?” he asked in her native tongue. He had spent as many hours trying to master Shoshone as she had mastering English, but he was not half as proficient at her language as she was at his.

  “I am fine,” Winona said and placed a hand on her belly.

  “Are you sure? What about the baby?”

  “Our son kicked to let me know we disturbed his nap,” Winona replied, grinning.

  Nate let go of the mare, moved closer, and placed a hand on her shoulder to draw her face near to his. He gave her a tender look, glad she was unharmed, thinking of how she always took everything in stride, how she seldom became agitated or anxious. He wished he had a smidgen of her self-possession. She was gazing at him with a puzzled expression. Nate chuckled, then pla
nted a passionate kiss full on her soft lips before she knew what he was going to do.

  When he pulled back, Winona stared at him in surprise. “Why did you do that?”

  “My heart overflowed with love,” Nate answered in Shoshone and climbed down. Having learned many months ago that a man in the wilderness must always keep his rifle loaded because trouble had a habit of popping up when least expected, he quickly reloaded the Hawken. First he placed the butt on the ground, then he poured the proper amount of black powder from his powder horn into the palm of his hand, knowing by sight exactly how much to use. He carefully poured the powder down the barrel, then took a ball and a patch from his ammunition pouch. Wrapping the ball in the patch, he wedged both into the end of the barrel with his thumb. Next he pulled the ramrod free, then pushed the ball all the way down.

  “Do you want to save the snake for a meal later?” Winona asked. “I can wrap it in a blanket and skin it when we stop.”

  Nate glanced at the dead reptile. Although rattlesnake meat was highly extolled by many of the trappers, the mere thought of eating one made him slightly queasy. If he had been without food for a spell, he’d tear into a rattler with relish. But given a choice, he’d rather eat rabbit or venison or anything that didn’t slither to get around. “I’ll bag us something else,” he promised her and slid the ramrod into its housing under the rifle barrel. Swinging into the saddle, he grasped the reins and headed northward again.

  Soon they were at the gap, riding between towering cliffs on either side, the path steeped in deep shadow, the wind whistling shrilly past them.

  Nate craned his neck, staring at huge boulders perched precariously on the rims of both cliffs, dreading what might occur should one suddenly come crashing down. He recalled a tale he’d heard about a trapper who was leading a pack string down a winding mountain trail when a ten-ton boulder swept down out of nowhere and slammed the man and his horse right over the edge. The trapper’s friend, who witnessed the freak accident, went down to see if there was anything he could do and reportedly found the trapper crushed to a pulp, unrecognizable. A shudder rippled through Nate at the memory.