Wilderness Double Edition 14

by David Robbins

  Ed Stark was staring at the trees as if a horde of savages were about to pour out. “Let’s get the hell out of here while we still can!”

  Without any warning, Vince Kendrick stepped over to Stark and backhanded him across the cheek. The force of the blow knocked Stark to his knees. Kendrick hiked his pistol, on the verge of bashing in the other’s noggin. But, quivering with suppressed rage, Kendrick slowly lowered his arm. “We’ll leave when I say, not before.”

  Zach had come to a couple of conclusions. First, Kendrick wasn’t very bright, but he had a mean streak as wide as the Divide. The man ran roughshod over the others, and some of them resented it. This was useful knowledge Zach might be able to use to his advantage. Second, these men were greeners, relatively new to the mountains. True mountaineers would have sought cover the instant they knew Indians were in the vicinity.

  Kendrick pivoted. “Now, as for you, Indian,” he poked his pistol against Zach’s ribs, “if those friends of yours give us a lick of grief, you’ll be the first to die. I guarantee it.”

  “Let me go and we will let you leave in peace,” Zach said.

  Snorting, Kendrick responded, “Just like that? Do you reckon we fell out of the clouds during the last rainstorm? If we set you free, what’s to stop your friends from turning us into pincushions?”

  “You have my word.”

  Kendrick and Sanders laughed. Billy was too busy wringing his hands and glancing at his brother to share their humor. As for Ed Stark, he was slowly rising, rubbing his cheek and smoldering with indignation at how he had been treated.

  “Take the word of a lousy savage?” Kendrick said. “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.” Sobering, he gouged the barrel deeper into Zach. “No, I have a better idea. What’s your name?”

  “Stalking Coyote.”

  “I hope those warriors out there are good pards of yours, Stalking Coyote, because if just one of my men takes an arrow, you pay the price. You’re our insurance. So long as we have you, no one will lift a finger against us.”

  The man’s logic was flawed. Were there really Utes in the woods, they would pick the whites off in a volley of lead and arrows that would drop the fools where they stood. “Will you release me later?” he asked, secretly girding himself to make a bid for freedom.

  “Sure we will,” Kendrick said. “On that you have my word.”

  The big man’s pledge, Zach reflected, was as worthless as teats on a bull buffalo. The brute intended to slay him once the whites felt they were safe—no doubt after doing to him as they had done to Frazier.

  No sooner did the thought cross Zach’s mind than the old trapper groaned and stirred. Frazier’s eyelids fluttered and he looked up. “Never tell you,” he mumbled. “Not in a million years.” He gazed straight at Zach, and for a few seconds Zach feared Frazier would recognize him and blurt something that would give the cutthroats a clue to who he really was. But the trapper merely groaned once again and lapsed into unconsciousness.

  Zach exhaled in relief. But it was short-lived. For a moment later, Vince Kendrick hauled off and punched him in the stomach.

  Louisa May Clark was beside herself. It was taking Stalking Coyote much longer than she thought it should. She anxiously scanned the tree line for sign of him, but the minutes continued to drag by and he never appeared.

  Tempted to go after him, Lou nervously gnawed on her lower lip. Should she or shouldn’t she? Zach had specifically told her to wait, and he might be mad if she didn’t. But what if he was in trouble? She was the only one who could help.

  Climbing down, Lou paced at the edge of the grass. She had a feeling something was wrong, and the feeling grew as more time went by. At last she couldn’t take the suspense. After tying both sets of reins to a small fir, she jogged off, a rifle in each hand.

  Once in the woods, the quiet unnerved her. Birds should be chirping, chipmunks chattering. But it was as still as a graveyard at midnight.

  Inadvertently, Lou stepped on a dry twig that snapped. Freezing, she waited with bated breath for an outcry or a shot. Her confidence boosted when nothing happened, she moved toward the clearing.

  Lou had not gone another dozen feet when she detected movement off to the left. Squatting, she set down Zach’s Hawken and pressed her own to her shoulder. She hoped it was he, but then tall bushes parted and two figures materialized. They were two of the men who had been in the clearing, a pudgy fellow and another built like an anvil. Back to back, rifles level, they prowled closer, evidently searching for someone.

  For her? Lou regretted being so rash; she should have done as Stalking Coyote wanted. She fixed a bead on the pudgy one, who was facing her. From his expression he seemed to be scared to death, although what he had to be scared of was a mystery. Then the pudgy one whispered to the other loud enough for her to overhear.

  “I say we’ve looked long enough, Johnson. Let’s go back.”

  The anvil lowered his rifle a trifle. “We can’t, Cyrus. We haven’t made a complete sweep of the area, like Kendrick wanted.”

  “To hell with Mr. High-and-Mighty. There hasn’t been any sign of any more savages.”

  “That doesn’t mean a thing,” Johnson said. “They’re like ghosts. For all we know, the whole war party is watching us right this minute.”

  “All the more reason for us to head back. Or do you want to lose your scalp?” Cyrus sidled to his left. “I don’t much like the notion of throwing my life away. I have a wife and two sprouts back home, and I aim to see them again someday.”

  Johnson hesitated, gave the forest a final scrutiny, then trailed the pudgy man off into the pines.

  Louisa was more confused than ever. What was that about savages? And a war party? If it was true, she must warn Zach. Hefting his Hawken, she let the two men get a good lead, then shadowed them. When the clearing came into sight she veered to the right. Men were moving about. Horses nickered. A broad pine offered a convenient haven from which to observe the goings-on.

  Cyrus and Johnson were just walking into the open. Others were saddling mounts, wrapping blankets, extinguishing the fire. A young man, not much older than Zach, was helping someone who appeared to be sick, stand. Frazier was still tied to the trunk.

  Lou did not see her beloved until a big man near the trapper moved. Icy terror lanced through her at the sight of Stalking Coyote on his knees, his arms over his stomach. In her fear for his welfare she almost leaped from concealment to rush to his side.

  “Anything?” the big man asked Johnson and Cyrus.

  “Not a trace,” the pudgy one said.

  “But they’re out there, Kendrick,” Johnson quickly mentioned. “I swear I could feel their eyes on me at one point.” He surveyed the woodland. “I have the same feeling now.”

  Kendrick scowled and put his hands on his hips. “Just so they keep their distance. Saddle up, boys. We’re leaving.”

  “Where to?” Cyrus asked.

  “You’ll see soon enough. I have an idea how to find out exactly how many Indians we’re up against. And maybe cut the odds. So hustle. We only have four hours of daylight left, and it will take us half that to reach the spot I have in mind.”

  Louisa, aghast, saw them bind Zach’s wrists behind his back. A packhorse was brought and he was roughly thrown over it, facedown. The sick man had to be boosted onto his mount, and he was so weak, he nearly fell off. So the young one climbed up behind him. Soon they were ready to leave. Frazier had been tied on a mule, and blood trickled down his saddle as Kendrick led the whole bunch to the northwest.

  Ducking from view, Lou stayed where she was until the hoofbeats faded. Then she uncoiled and ran as she had never run before. At any second she expected hostiles to burst out of nowhere, but none did, and within five minutes she was on the mare and trotting in pursuit of those who dared endanger her betrothed.

  It consoled her, somewhat, that Stalking Coyote had not been gravely hurt. Her main concern was how long he would stay that way. Kendrick might take it into h
is head to kill Zach at any time. Somehow, she must save him. And the old trapper, if at all possible.

  Squaring her slender shoulders, Louisa May Clark rode deeper into the dark heart of the merciless wilderness.

  A man could learn a lot if he kept his mouth shut and his ears open.

  Zach King did not say two words over the next two hours, but he heard a lot, comments that painted a telling portrait of the members of the band. Ed Stark and Ira Sanders, for instance, had been with Kendrick longer than the rest. Billy and Frank Batson were simple farmers who had let dreams of wealth lead them astray. Cyrus Walton had been a clerk who tired of scribbling in ledgers all day and decided to take part in the grand adventure of trapping beaver. That left Elden Johnson, the quiet one of the bunch, who never said enough to give Zach a clue to what he had done before he joined the ill-fated “brigade.”

  It was Johnson who brought up the rear and was always shifting in the saddle to scour the countryside. About three hours after they left the clearing, Johnson galloped to the head of the line and consulted briefly with Kendrick. As he was returning, Johnson slowed to sneer at Zach and say, “They’re back there, sure enough. I just caught sight of a couple of them off in the trees. But don’t get your hopes up, vermin. Vince has a surprise in store for them.” Cackling, he went on.

  Zach knew better. No Indians were back there. It had to be Lou, following them. She was being lured right into whatever trap Kendrick had cooked up.

  Cyrus Walton held the lead rope to the packhorse. Glancing over a heavyset shoulder, he remarked, “Pretty soon all your friends will be so much buzzard bait.”

  “You are wrong, white man,” Zach said, pretending to be confident when in truth worry ate at him like acid. “Harm one of my people and the whole tribe will be after you. Can you fight off two thousand warriors?”

  Cyrus’s thick mouth puckered. “Two thousand, my ass! Maybe I haven’t fought many redskins, but I know there’s never that many in a single village.”

  “One village, no. Five villages, yes.”

  “Five?”

  Zach laid it on as thick as pine sap. “In the summer all my people gather at a river south of here. We feast, dance, meet old friends. Every Ute warrior in the Ute nation is present.”

  “Maybe I should have a talk with Vince.” Cyrus rubbed his double chin. “For an Indian, you sure do speak English good. Where’d you learn?”

  “From a missionary,” Zach fibbed.

  “You mean to say the Utes would give a Bible-thumper the time of day?” The former clerk rose in the saddle to see beyond the packhorse. “Two thousand? Damn. We wouldn’t stand a prayer.”

  Zach twisted his head to verify that no one else was within earshot. “Let me go, Walton. I will tell my people you are my friend and they will spare you.”

  “You’re just trying to trick me,” Cyrus said.

  “Suit yourself. But what do you have to lose? Do nothing, and you will be killed with the others when my people catch up.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Inwardly smiling, Zach said, “Even if your friends lay an ambush, it is unlikely they will kill all the warriors who follow us. A messenger will be sent to the gathering, and all of you will be wiped out.”

  It had an effect. Cyrus Walton became a bundle of apprehension. His eyes darted back and forth and he licked his lips again and again. A quarter of an hour elapsed. Then Cyrus slowed so his bay was alongside the packhorse. Softly, he said, “You mean it, Indian? About sparing me if I help you?”

  “When a Ute makes a promise, he keeps it,” Zach said. That happened to be true. The Utes were honorable in all their dealings.

  “I still don’t know,” Cyrus said.

  But Zach did. He had the man hooked. Walton wanted to live more than anything. Manipulating him would be simple. “Think on it. But do not think too long. In less than an hour we will be wherever Kendrick is taking us, and I must stop him from killing any of my people.”

  The fish didn’t take the bait. “Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t do anything until well after dark, when everyone will be asleep.”

  That would be much too late. Zach racked his brain for a way of persuading Walton, but he was denied the opportunity. Cyrus suddenly went as rigid as a board and said, “Kendrick is watching us! I can’t make him suspicious.” Slapping his legs against the bay, he pulled ahead as far as the lead rope allowed. Frustration coursed through Zach. Lou was going to ride right into their clutches, and he was helpless to help her.

  The thud of hooves heralded Vince Kendrick, who wheeled his horse so it walked beside the pack animal. “What were Walton and you just jabbering about?” he demanded bluntly.

  “He wanted to know why my people hate whites so much.”

  “Why do they?”

  “Whites kill our game. They take beaver from our streams. They come and go as they please, as if the land our forefathers have lived in for countless winters is theirs.” Zach had heard enough complaints from various tribes to rattle off a list as long as his arm. But Kendrick wasn’t really interested.

  “That’s all you talked about?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “If you do not believe me, ask him.”

  Kendrick dismissed the idea with a curt oath. “What good would that do? He’d only lie through his teeth to spare his hide. But just so you’ll know, I have a hunch what you’re up to, and I’ll be keeping my eyes on you.” A flick of his reins and he was gone.

  Kendrick had spoken loud enough for Walton to hear, deliberately, to put a scare into him. And from the fearful glance Walton gave the big man as he rode by, it had worked.

  Zach fought down a wave of despair. He was on his own. He must escape and reach Lou, and he must do it quickly. Time was running out.

  A series of rolling, wooded hills had brought them to a broad meadow over half a mile long. Vince Kendrick hollered and pointed at the far end where a bluff reared skyward. It was the key to the trap, Zach guessed. From up there, the whites could see for miles in all directions. No one could approach unseen. They would lie up there and wait for the Utes to show.

  But it was sweet Louisa who would be in their gun sights.

  Desperate, Zach glanced back at the trees. They were sixty feet away. Only one rider, Elden Johnson, was between him and Lou’s salvation. All Zach had to do was get past Johnson and he could give the whites the slip.

  Precious seconds were wasting.

  Zach flung himself backward and rolled when he hit, rolling over and over until he was well into the high grass. Someone—Johnson, was it?—yelled to alert the others. Coming to rest on his back, Zach tucked his knees to his chest and levered his wrists down over his buttocks and his moccasins so his hands were in front of him. Then, pumping upward, he sprinted madly toward the pines.

  “Stop him!” Vince Kendrick roared.

  A shot blasted. Lead sizzled the air close to Zach’s ear.

  “Not like that, you idiot!” Kendrick bellowed. “We need him alive, remember?”

  Zach ran flat out. The grass clung to his legs like vines, but he didn’t let it slow him down; the whites were converging on him like a pack of rabid wolves. Foremost was Elden Johnson. Out of the corner of an eye Zach saw Johnson narrow the gap and elevate his rifle as if it were a club. Leaning outward, Johnson grinned in sadistic anticipation.

  Zach had to time it just right. He waited until the very last instant, until Johnson was on top of him and the rifle stock swept at his head. Then Zach vaulted to the right, recovered his balance, and sprang, grabbing at Johnson’s waist as the white man galloped by.

  Fate served Zach cruelly. Had he been as large and as strong as his father, he could have thrown Johnson to the ground. But Johnson was too bulky, too powerful, and although Zach strained and pulled, Johnson stayed in the saddle.

  To go on trying would be useless. Zach dropped, stumbled a few feet, and took off for the trees like an antelope fleeing a fire. Forty feet! That w
as all he had to cover! But it might as well be forty miles, because no man alive could outrun a horse and Johnson had already reined around to intercept him.

  “Stop the son of a bitch!” Kendrick raged.

  Thirty-five feet. Thirty. Zach darted to the left, hooves thundering at his heels. Again the stock of Johnson’s rifle narrowly missed him. Again Zach lunged, but at the Kentucky, not at Johnson. Wrapping his hands around the barrel, he wrenched, seeking to unhorse his adversary. Instead, he ripped the rifle from the man’s grasp.

  Johnson, hauling on the mount’s reins, clawed for a pistol.

  A bound brought Zach close enough. The stock caught Johnson on the ear, crushing cartilage and toppling him like a felled oak.

  An empty saddle beckoned. Zach leaped, but the spooked horse bolted. Zach’s fingers closed on empty air. Thwarted, he dashed toward the woods, the hammering of heavy hooves rising in a crescendo. Ed Stark and Ira Sanders were almost on top of him. Twisting, Zach trained the Kentucky on them and both swerved wide.

  Kendrick, farther back, was livid. “What the hell are you doing? Don’t let him reach the trees! Shoot him if you have to!”

  “But you said not to!” Stark responded.

  “Do what I tell you!”

  Stark and Sanders raised their rifles. Zach immediately started zigzagging. Another eighteen feet and he would be there! A gun cracked, the ball thudding into the soil rather than his flesh. He cut to the left, to the right.

  “He’s worse than a rabbit!” Ed Stark complained.

  Zach covered the last four yards and streaked between a pair of saplings. He’d done it! About to angle toward a thicket, he couldn’t resist a last glance, couldn’t resist flashing a grin at his tormentors. And when he did, he saw Vince Kendrick, who had stopped to take steady aim. He saw Kendrick at the exact split second that Kendrick’s rifle spewed smoke. Then a ten-ton tree fell on him—or so it felt like—and he pitched into an inky well, falling down, down, down into oblivion.

  Four