“What’ve I got to lose?” asked Coburn as a wry smile curved his lips. “I speak to you as one man of honor to another, and I ask that you spare this man.” He nodded toward Walter von Stauffenberg, who stood close beside him, bumping his shoulder occasionally as he swayed and muttered. “You can see for yourself that he’s in no shape to fight anybody. He’s no threat to the Blackfeet, and he likely never will be again.”
“What would you have me do with him?”
“Let him go be with the women. They can take care of him.”
Stone Bear smiled. It didn’t make him look any less threatening.
“The yellow-haired woman who prides herself on her defiance has already spoken to me about this one.” Stone Bear nodded toward von Stauffenberg. “I have agreed that he will not have to fight.”
Coburn knew from the description Stone Bear had just given that the chief was talking about Countess Katarina. All the other female prisoners looked cowed, despairing, but not Katarina. Her head was still up, and as she returned Coburn’s glance across the clearing, he saw the fire burning in her eyes.
There was a woman who would never give up, he thought. A woman who would do to ride the river with . . . in another time, another place . . . if they had been different people . . .
No sense in thinking about that, Coburn told himself. He turned his eyes back to Stone Bear and said, “Thank you.”
“Will you beg for your own life now?” the chief asked in a taunting voice.
“Not hardly.”
“Very well. I would not have granted it, anyway.” Stone Bear motioned to one of his men. “Free the white man touched by the spirits.”
The warrior went over, drew a knife from a sheath at his waist, and moved behind von Stauffenberg to cut the rawhide thongs around his wrists.
Von Stauffenberg looked over his shoulder and said, “Papa?”
“He’s not your papa, Walter,” said Coburn. “I’m right here, remember?”
Von Stauffenberg looked at Coburn again and smiled. “Papa.” His bonds fell off and his arms sagged back around to their normal position.
Coburn nodded toward the women. “Go over there, Walter. Go to those women. You see Countess Katarina? She’s your friend. She’ll take care of you.”
“Yes, Walter,” Katarina called. “Come over and join us.”
Von Stauffenberg looked at her for a second, then turned back to Coburn and said, “Auf wiedersehen, Papa.”
Coburn had picked up enough of their lingo to know what that meant. He smiled and said, “So long, Walter.”
Von Stauffenberg walked over to the women, weaving a little on the way. Katarina greeted him by throwing her arms around him and holding him tightly to her.
Coburn felt a little better, knowing the countess would do everything she could for the poor fella.
That left the rest of them to face what Stone Bear had in store for them. In a way, Coburn was ready to get it over with, and the nod he gave Stone Bear indicated that.
Stone Bear wasn’t going to make it easy, though. He pointed to Barton and said, “You first.”
“No!” Barton cried. “No, I . . . I won’t do it! You won’t make me fight for your . . . your perverted entertainment!”
Stone Bear fingered the hilt of his knife. “You fight or die now.”
Barton sobbed a few times, but as Stone Bear started to pull the knife out, he said, “All right! All right, I . . . I’ll do what you say. I’ll fight.”
Stone Bear grunted. He turned, looked at his assembled warriors, and pointed to one of them. The man he chose was middle-aged, probably a veteran of many battles. That impression was confirmed when the warrior pulled his buckskin shirt over his head and revealed numerous scars on his still muscular torso.
At a nod from Stone Bear, the man who had cut von Stauffenberg’s bonds moved behind Barton and sawed through the thongs around his wrists. Barton pulled his arms in front of him and hurriedly began rubbing his hands to get some feeling back into them. Tears still ran down his cheeks, but a dull look of fatalistic gloom had come over his face.
“Would you fight with knives?” asked Stone Bear. “Tomahawks? Or bare hands?”
Barton tried twice before he got out the word knives.
The warrior who had cut him loose stepped in front of him and extended the knife in his hand, bone handle first. Barton hesitated, swallowed hard, and then took the weapon. He wrapped his fingers around the handle, hefted it, acted like he was studying the blade and getting a feel for its balance.
Maybe he was, thought Coburn. Or maybe he was just putting it off as long as he possibly could.
“The time is now,” Stone Bear said. He stepped back to give the combatants plenty of room in the open area along the creek.
Coburn saw something in Barton’s eyes and suddenly knew the young officer was considering making a run for it. Barton glanced at the creek, which was shallow enough to get across easily. “Don’t do it, son,” Coburn warned him in a low voice. “You’d be full of arrows before you made it ten yards.”
“Maybe . . . maybe that would be b-better,” Barton said without looking at him.
Maybe it would be, Coburn mused. He wouldn’t take that way out himself, but he had no right to tell anybody else how to spend the last few moments of life they had left. “Do what you gotta do,” he said quietly.
Barton drew in a deep breath. Then, suddenly, he broke into a run. Not toward the creek, though.
With a strident yell, he charged at the middle-aged warrior waiting for him.
Chapter 20
The attack didn’t really take anybody by surprise, since fighting was what they were there for, but Coburn thought Barton’s opponent wasn’t really prepared for the desperate speed with which the lieutenant came at him. Barton thrust out the knife, and the Blackfoot warrior had to twist aside hurriedly to avoid the blade.
Not having drawn his own knife yet, the warrior clamped both hands on Barton’s arm and took advantage of the fact that the lieutenant was off balance to throw him to the ground. Barton landed hard and rolled over a couple of times.
Instead of seizing the advantage and closing in to finish Barton off, the warrior turned to face the assembled villagers and held up both arms, motioning with them as he grinned. He was really playing to the crowd, and the Blackfeet rewarded him with cheers of appreciation.
Barton forced himself to his feet and charged again.
The warrior was just waiting for that. He turned as Barton reached him, grabbed the lieutenant’s wrist, and thrusting that arm up, leaned in to head-butt his opponent. Barton reeled back several steps before catching his balance.
Looking more serious, the warrior drew his knife from its sheath and stalked toward Barton. The young officer waved the knife he held back and forth in front of him. His dark hair fell down in front of his eyes, and sweat coated his face even though the day was cool.
The warrior feinted, leaping forward and jabbing with the knife. Barton jumped to avoid the thrust, only to find that the blade was already slashing at him in a backhanded swipe. The tip raked across his chest, ripping through his shirt and drawing blood. He cried out in pain and stumbled backward.
“Compose yourself!” von Eichhorn shouted at Barton. “Your fear makes you slow and confused.”
Barton didn’t show any signs of even hearing the nobleman. He tried another clumsy rush that the Blackfoot warrior avoided easily. As Barton went past him, the man bent low and swiped with his weapon. Barton screamed and pitched forward, blood welling from the back of his left calf where the blade had cut him deeply.
Again, the warrior held back instead of finishing him off. Gasping and whimpering, Barton got his hands under him and tried to push himself to his feet. Hamstrung, his left leg wouldn’t hold his weight, and he collapsed.
With a mocking smile, the warrior held out his empty left hand and crooked the fingers, making a beckoning gesture. The villagers roared their approval.
Anybody who fi
gured that Indians were unemotional had never seen them tormenting an enemy, thought Coburn. “Blast it, that’s enough,” the frontiersman called to Stone Bear. “He can’t get up. What’s the point in this?”
Stone Bear didn’t answer that directly. He asked Barton, “Do you wish to yield, white man?”
Barton knew what giving up would mean. He gave a desperate shake of his head and tried again to get to his feet. He made it, although his left leg dangled uselessly. He couldn’t move, but he could stand and wait for the warrior to come to him. His hand shook wildly as he held the knife up.
The warrior moved in, knocked Barton’s knife arm aside with no trouble, and then sliced his forearm deeply with his blade. Barton shrieked, dropped his knife, and clamped his left hand over the blood-spouting wound.
“Just finish it,” Coburn said wearily.
The warrior wasn’t ready to do that. He bent and picked up the knife Barton had dropped, and held it out, handle first, to the lieutenant. Barton, crying and swaying, hesitated, then reached out and took it with his left hand.
So swiftly that no one could even think about stopping him, he plunged the blade into his own throat, driving it in so hard that the bloody tip emerged from the back of his neck. As his eyes rolled up in their sockets, he toppled to the side and landed on the ground, where he quivered for a few seconds before the stillness of death stole over him.
Silence had fallen over the crowd when Barton struck the fatal blow against himself. It lasted for several seconds, then the Blackfeet erupted in laughter. It wasn’t as amusing as torture, of course, but seeing a white man kill himself in sheer panic that way was still great sport to them.
Coburn looked over at the women and saw that all of them had averted their eyes from the grisly sight, even Countess Katarina. A couple of the servants doubled over and lost whatever the Blackfeet had fed them for breakfast.
Walter von Stauffenberg gazed around vacantly. Clearly, he had no idea what was going on.
The remaining dragoon looked a little pale and sick, too. Von Eichhorn stood straight and stiff, his face impassive. Coburn got the sense that he was holding a very tight rein on his emotions, though. Von Eichhorn didn’t want the Blackfeet to see how deeply the atrocity had affected him.
Coburn understood that. He felt the same way himself.
Stone Bear barked orders in his native tongue. Several of the older men came forward, took hold of Barton’s corpse, and dragged it away.
The middle-aged warrior who had battled the lieutenant stalked back and forth, scowling and obviously upset that he hadn’t gotten to strike the fatal blow. He flung out a hand and said something to Stone Bear, then pointed at the remaining soldier.
“He wants to fight you, too,” von Eichhorn said to the man. “He feels that the lieutenant robbed him of his dignity.”
“I don’t give a damn about that,” muttered the dragoon. “He’s got to be a little tired after that, and I’ve seen how he fights now. I figure I’ve got more of a chance against him.”
“Perhaps,” von Eichhorn agreed. “But I do not know if Stone Bear agrees with you.”
Indeed, the chief had snapped something back at the warrior, who continued to argue. Finally, Stone Bear jerked his head in a nod. The warrior looked satisfied and turned toward the captives.
The dragoon didn’t wait for Stone Bear to ask him which weapon he preferred. He said, “I’ll take a knife.”
One of the old men who had hauled off Barton’s body had retrieved that knife. At a nod from Stone Bear, the old man handed it to the dragoon, who took it without any of the fussing Barton had done over it. He stepped into the clearing, ready to confront the warrior who waited there for him.
Instead of charging wildly, the dragoon came to a stop and waited for the warrior to come to him. The Blackfoot advanced warily as he slowly weaved his knife in front of him. When he was close enough, he tried the same sort of feint he had been successful with against Barton. The dragoon didn’t fall for it, and lashed out with his own blade. The warrior darted aside, untouched.
That initiated a burst of lunges and slashes from both men, that left both of them breathing hard from the effort. Even though neither of them had done any harm to the other, they drew apart, panting and glaring at each other for a long moment before the warrior sprang forward again.
The dragoon twisted out of the way and swung his knife. Angry shouts came from the onlookers at the sight of blood on the warrior’s chest. The dragoon had raked a long slash across the torso that would add to the warrior’s scars—if he survived.
The painful wound increased the warrior’s visible fury. With his lips drawing back from his teeth, he grimaced and charged again. The dragoon leaped away and backpedaled. The warrior went after him.
Coburn saw what the soldier was trying to do. He wanted to wear out the warrior and get him mad enough to make a mistake. In a contest like this, one error was usually enough to end it. One slip, one delay in adjusting to a new angle of attack, and it would be all over. The dragoon had nothing to look forward to except a life of mistreatment and degradation, but at least he would be alive.
The crowd wasn’t making nearly as much noise as the villagers sensed what was happening. They didn’t want to see one of their own defeated, and they certainly didn’t want one of the hated white men to emerge victorious.
Stone Bear looked on, arms crossed, no expression on his rough-hewn face.
Coburn thought the dragoon had a chance. He really did. But as the warrior puffed and wheezed, the white man got overconfident and pressed in too close.
The warrior hooked a foot behind the dragoon’s left ankle and jerked that leg out from under him. With a startled yell, the dragoon fell onto his back.
He had the presence of mind to stick the knife up so that if the warrior dived on him, he would land on the blade.
The warrior struck again with his moccasin-shod foot, kicking the dragoon’s wrist and sending the knife spinning away. Then and only then did the warrior leap. He rammed a knee into the dragoon’s belly, pinned him to the ground, and dug the knife point into the man’s chest.
But he didn’t ram it home, which would have ended the fight. The warrior clamped his other hand around the dragoon’s throat and held him there while he gradually, inexorably, increased the pressure on the knife. The blade penetrated a little deeper.
The dragoon let out a choked cry and started hitting the warrior in the head with his fists. He couldn’t put enough power behind the blows to knock the warrior off of him. Ignoring the blows and grinning in his murderous rage, the warrior leaned closer and pushed a little harder on the knife, then a little harder . . . and a little harder . . . as inch by inch, the steel disappeared into the dragoon’s chest.
Suddenly, the dragoon spasmed and his arms flung out to the sides. His legs kicked wildly. The knife point had reached his heart, Coburn knew. He wanted to look away, but horrified fascination kept him watching as the warrior, his face only inches from the dragoon’s, finally bore down hard on the knife’s handle.
That savage face was the last thing the dragoon saw as he jerked violently again and then died.
Chapter 21
Despite the brave façade she was trying to put up, Katarina felt like she might pass out from horror at any moment. The gruesome suicide of the lieutenant had been bad enough. The slow, methodical killing of the other soldier, after Katarina had had a glimmering of hope that the man might win his battle and therefore survive, was almost too much to endure.
With her arms around Walter’s shoulders, she tightened her grip and swallowed hard. She had to be strong for his sake, if for no other reason.
She glanced at Reese Coburn. He looked as sickened as she felt. And his time was coming. He and Peter were the only male prisoners left.
The warrior who had just killed the dragoon still knelt atop the body. Stone Bear strode forward and clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder, spoke to him in the Blackfoot tongue. The man pulled his k
nife out of the dead man’s chest and stood up, looking exhausted but pleased with himself. He bent, wiped the blood from his knife on the dragoon’s uniform trousers, and went to join his friends. They gathered around him and slapped him on the back, congratulating him on his victory.
Stone Bear turned and carefully regarded Coburn and von Eichhorn, as if he were trying to decide which prisoner to send into battle next.
Von Eichhorn took that decision out of his hands by stepping forward, jutting his chin out defiantly, and declaring, “I am ready to do battle with whoever you choose, you filthy savage.”
Stone Bear went over to him and regarded him with an equally arrogant look. “How would you fight, white man?”
“Well, if you were the least bit civilized, I would suggest sabers or foils or even pistols . . . but I don’t suppose you have any of those things, do you?”
Stone Bear actually smiled, which surprised Katarina as she watched the tense confrontation. The chief barked something in Blackfoot to one of his warriors. The man hurried back to the village. Several minutes passed as the feeling in the air grew even more taut until the man came trotting back with a pair of scabbarded sabers in his hands.
Von Eichhorn let out a surprised exclamation in German.
Stone Bear said smugly, “The men who brought you to us had these with them. They did not want to give the long knives to me, but I told them it would be wise for them to do so.”
Katarina could imagine that negotiation. It probably hadn’t taken very long. The men who had attacked the camp wouldn’t have wanted to antagonize the Blackfoot chief. Not if they wanted to make it out of this wilderness alive.
Stone Bear took the sabers from his warrior and turned to von Eichhorn, who reached out eagerly for one of them.
The war chief stepped back and said, “None of my men have ever fought with long knives like these. It would not be fair to ask one of them to make such an attempt now.”
“Then how about you?” von Eichhorn demanded as his lip curled in a sneer. “Perhaps you and I should duel.”
“I am tempted, white man. I would like nothing better than to kill you with your own weapon.” Stone Bear shrugged. “But one of my young warriors has requested that honor. He knows he will be at a disadvantage and that I would not ask it of him . . . but neither will I turn down his request.”
When All Hell Broke Loose Page 13