It was unfair. Nate did not deny that. Someday, maybe it would change. Until then, men like Varga would be overly protective of their daughters for their own good.
“Where is the Maricopa?” Blue Water Woman suddenly asked.
Nate glanced up in alarm. Chivari was gone. While they talked, the warrior had slipped away. “Come on!” he said, and hurried to the southwest. Blaze marks were spaced at regular intervals. Here and there he came on moccasin tracks that proved the Maricopa was not far ahead.
Try as he might, Nate could not narrow the gap. He did not spot Chivari again until he climbed to the rim of a plateau dotted by enormous slabs of rock. To his surprise, all four Maricopas were waiting.
“Trail gone,” Chivari said in chopped English. “We not go on.”
Nate rode past them, scouring the barren earth. Where there should have been plenty of tracks, there were none. Someone had erased every last one. Swish marks betrayed how the deed was done. The dusty loincloths of the four Maricopas added proof. He roved the far edge. Finding nothing, he covered the opposite slope, which was so rocky his stallion did not leave prints. It was the same. The Maricopas had done their job well. His mentor’s abductors had seemingly vanished into thin air.
Furious, Nate climbed back up to the plateau. His intent was to make the Maricopas say why they had wiped out the sign, and reveal which direction the cutthroats had taken. Again, however, he was foiled.
Chivari and the others were gone.
Ten
Winona King was uneasy from the moment Nate left. She was distrustful of the Spaniards and their Mexican vaqueros, many of whom made no attempt to hide the spite in their eyes when they looked at her. They despised her simply because she was an Indian.
Her uneasiness was proven justified by what Don Varga did half an hour after Nate and Blue Water Woman departed. On coming to a meadow, Don Varga halted his men. At first she assumed it was to let the horses rest awhile. Then she saw the vaqueros stripping saddles and settling down for an extended stay.
Bewildered, Winona marched over to where Don Varga and Ignacio roosted on a low mound. She held Evelyn’s hand; Zach was at her elbow.
Varga and his eldest son were chatting in Spanish. They saw her but did not stop their conversation. Taking another step, Winona interrupted. “Pardon me, Don Varga. But you seem to have no intention of going any farther.”
“True, Señora King,” the Spaniard said suavely.
“But my husband will need our help if he overtakes the men who ambushed us,” Winona said. “We must ride on right away.”
Don Varga glanced at Ignacio, who grinned like a fox that had outwitted hounds. “I have decided to wait here for your husband to return.”
“You cannot!” Winona objected. “The men who took McNair will be on their guard. My husband cannot save Shakespeare with only Blue Water Woman to help him.”
The Spaniard’s jaw muscles twitched. “I can do whatever I want, señora,” he said in an icy tone. “Rest assured that I have everything well in hand. Nate will be back by dark, or shortly after. He will come to no harm. You have my word.”
Winona could scarcely credit what she was hearing. “Were you not listening earlier? He is not going to quit until he catches up to Shakespeare. How can you abandon him this way? He is relying on you to be there when he will need you the most. And what about your scouts, the Maricopas? Will you desert them, as well?”
Ignacio laughed. “Chivari and the others know what to do. They will be here soon enough. Wait and see.”
Winona did not see the sense in any of this. “I must insist,” she said. “Please, Don Varga, we must go on before it is too late.”
“No.”
“Very well,” Winona said stiffly. “My children and I will take our leave of you, then. We will tell my husband that you are not going to help, as you said you would.”
Don Varga sighed. “Two things, señora. First, I told your husband before we ever left camp that I could only devote one day to the search. Second, it would be unwise of you to ride off unescorted. These mountains teem with hostile heathens and wild beasts. You should stay with us.”
“I am sorry. We cannot.” Winona turned to go.
“Hold on, Señora King,” Don Varga said. “Evidently I did not make myself sufficiently clear. I am not asking you to stay. I am telling you that you will.” Smiling, he gestured past them.
Winona looked, and her blood ran cold. Vaqueros were unsaddling the Kings’ horses, unbidden. “What are they doing?” she demanded. “Order them to stop!”
“I am afraid I cannot,” Don Varga said. “I have only your best interests at heart, believe me. Make yourselves as comfortable as you can. We will be here for several hours, at least.”
Releasing Evelyn, Winona gripped her Hawken with both hands. Something was dreadfully, terribly wrong. She had to get her children out of there right away.
Zach shared his mother’s sentiments. He had never liked Ignacio, and trusted him even less. The father he had taken for a bossy but basically kindly old man. Now that Don Varga had turned against them, Zach was bound and determined to leave and help his pa. He started to raise his rifle.
Don Varga, surprisingly, still smiled. “I would not be so hasty, were I you.” He nodded to their left.
Six vaqueros had them covered.
“A word from me,” Don Varga said, “and they will shoot. To maim, of course, since a Varga does not kill women or children. But it will be most unpleasant for all of us. So do yourselves a favor and place your guns on the ground at your feet. Por favor.”
Winona was in a quandary. Her man needed her, and a Shoshone woman never let her mate down. But Varga had the upper hand. Indeed, she gathered that he had planned this all along, that they were no more than pawns to him, to be played with as he saw fit. So mad she saw red, she lowered the Hawken and placed both pistols beside it.
Zach hesitated. If he could snap his rifle up fast enough, and if he could cover Don Varga before the vaqueros fired, he could force Varga to do as they wanted. He tensed.
“No!” Winona said softly but urgently. “Do not sacrifice yourself. Your sister and I need you alive, my son. Together, we can find a way out of this.” Zach still hesitated. A jerk on his rifle was all it would take. Just a quick jerk.
“Please, Zach,” Evelyn said. “I don’t want you hurt.”
Ignacio stood. “Really, boy. Are you as stupid as most ’breeds? Our father would be upset if I or my brothers were to shoot you, so we won’t, but our vaqueros will riddle you with holes. Go ahead. Shoot. I will dance on your grave.”
Zach had never hated anyone before as much as he hated Ignacio Varga at that moment. He wished that he was older and bigger so he could tear into that mocking countenance with his fists flying. As it was, every nerve quivering with indignation, he deposited his guns on the grass.
“Excellent!” Don Varga said. “That was not so hard, was it? Now sit and rest. You are welcome to share our coffee when it is done.”
“I want nothing more from you, ever,” Winona said. “Except an explanation.”
“All in good time, woman,” Don Varga responded. “Everything will be clear as soon as your husband shows up.” Leaning back, he nodded at a shaded spot at the meadow’s edge. “There is an ideal spot to spread out your blanket.”
Winona deliberately began to walk farther into the meadow so she would spot Nate that much sooner. Varga’s upraised hand stopped her.
“Again you misunderstand. I did not leave it up to you. You will sit under those trees, out of the way, and you will not cry out when your husband arrives.” Don Varga snapped his fingers. “Pedro, if you please.”
The six vaqueros surrounded the Kings. A short man who wore a yellow sash and jingling spurs motioned, saying, “After you, señora”
To be thwarted at every turn was humbling. Winona draped an arm protectively over Evelyn’s slim shoulders and walked to where their belongings had been piled. Collecting a blanket
and a parfleche filled with pemmican, she walked to the spot Don Varga had selected and gave the blanket to Zach to spread out.
Zach watched the vaqueros out of the corner of his eye. If only one would step close enough and let down his guard! But they were too savvy. They sat ten feet away, at ease, their rifles across their legs.
Pedro looked elsewhere when Winona glared at him. “I am most sorry, señora” he said, “but we must obey our patron”
Evelyn leaned against her mother, distraught. “What do we do, Ma?” she asked. “What do we do?”
Hugging her daughter, Winona had to face the truth. “There is nothing we can do, little one. We are at their mercy.”
Nate King was not conscious of the passage of time. Simmering with resentment, he retraced their route, anxious to confront Manuel de Varga. He tried not to think of Shakespeare, alone and helpless, or what might happen to his friend because of Varga’s treachery.
Blue Water Woman was also somber. Her hopes of rescuing her husband had been dashed, and she blamed the Maricopas. The four warriors must pay for what they had done.
As the minutes became hours and the afternoon waned, it dawned on Nate that they should have met up with Don Varga’s party by then. Had Varga gone back already? His question was answered by tendrils of smoke to the northeast. Based on the location, he deduced that Varga had stopped shortly after they separated. His anger mounted.
Nate covered the last mile at a gallop. Bursting into a meadow, he spied Varga and Ignacio at their ease on a low mound and angled toward them. Close by squatted the Maricopas. In his angry state, he did not bother to survey the rest of the meadow. It was a mistake.
“What the hell are you trying to pull, mister?” Nate bellowed as he brought the black stallion to a halt. Vaulting from the saddle, he stormed up the mound.
Unruffled, Don Varga savored a sip of coffee. “Calm yourself, amigo,” he said. “Why are you so disturbed?”
“You know damn well why,” Nate said, and slapped the tin cup from the Spaniard’s hand. Varga flushed but did not lift a finger to defend himself. “What are you up to?”
Ignacio sprang erect, fists clenched. “Beware, gringo. No one mistreats my padre. Ever!”
“Hush, son,” Don Varga said. “We will hear Señor King out. He has a grievance he would like to air.”
The man’s calm demeanor agitated Nate even more. “Grievance!” he exploded. “That’s a fine word for what you did. Why?” He grabbed the front of Varga’s jacket. “Why did you have the Maricopas erase the sign?”
Ignacio Varga coiled, his hand on the hilt of his dagger. “Take your hands off him, Americano!” he warned.
Nate was aware of vaqueros rushing from every direction, but he paid them no heed. Only the truth would satisfy him, even if he had to wring Manuel Varga’s neck to get it. “Why?” he repeated.
Don Varga might as well have been carved from granite for all the emotion he showed. “I told you, my friend. I made it plain that I could not spend more than a day searching for McNair. When it grew apparent that you were not willing to give up no matter how long you had to hunt, I took steps to stop you.”
“You did what?’ Nate said, rankled by the man’s gall.
“I instructed Chivari to catch up to the other Maricopas before you could. I told him to make sure that you could not track the bandidos—”
Nate lost his temper. He shook Varga as a panther might shake a buck. “What gave you the right? Do you have any notion of what you’ve done?”
A hint of movement gave Nate a split second to react. He let go of Varga and pivoted, bringing his rifle up in time to block the downward sweep of Ignacio’s dagger. The hothead slammed into him and they both crashed to the ground, tumbling down the mound to the bottom. Nate had to release the Hawken to clasp Ignacio’s 'wrist as the keen steel sought his throat.
Locked together, they grappled, Ignacio livid, nostrils flared. Nate twisted, slammed his fist into Ignacio’s stomach, and heaved his legs upward. It enabled him to spring into a crouch, but that was as far as he got. Hands seized both arms.
“Hold him!” Don Varga commanded.
Nate glanced at the two vaqueros. Others were moving in .to encircle him. Still others had rifles trained on Blue Water Woman. He relaxed as if in defeat, and when the two vaqueros let their grips slacken, he erupted like a volcano, driving a foot into the groin of the man on the right even as he hauled on his left arm and flung the other vaquero as if the man were a flea.
“Damn you!” Nate roared, and threw himself up the mound at Manuel Varga. Vaqueros swarmed over him, four, five, six of them, their combined weight bearing him to the ground where brute strength failed. He swung lustily, punching faces, jabbing throats, kicking and thrashing.
“Do not hurt him!” Don Varga cried. “The man who does will be shot!” Catching himself, he repeated it in Spanish.
Nate fought with the silent ferocity of his breed. A frontiersman never succumbed, not while life animated his limbs. Nate knocked one of the vaqueros off him, upended another with a well-placed kick. Knuckles scraped his cheek, pounded his iron jaw. A boot caught him in the stomach.
“Hold him!” someone thundered.
More vaqueros piled on. Nate felt his arms pinned. Someone grasped his left ankle and was treated to a brutal swing of his right foot. Then his legs were held flat under irresistible pressure.
Panting from the exertion, stinging from bruises and scrapes, trembling with the intensity of his rage, Nate glowered at Don Varga. “So help me—!”
Wearing patience as if it were armor, the Spaniard walked down and sank to one knee. “Do not be hasty, my friend. What I have done, I have done because I had to.”
“Why?” Nate said again. “What can you gain?”
“Your cooperation,” Don Varga said, and folded his hands. “I have been honest with you from the beginning, my friend. I told you that I needed your assistance in finding the mine.”
“Is that was this is all about?”
“What else? Nothing matters to me except restoring my family’s wealth and prestige.” Don Varga mustered a smile that had no effect on Nate. “Tomorrow I move my people into the mountains on the last leg of our journey. To succeed, I require your services. Now that you can no longer track your friend, you have no excuse not to help me.”
“You son of a bitch,” Nate said. “You’d sacrifice a man who never did you any wrong just so you can get your hands on the gold that much sooner.”
“Have I ever pretended otherwise?” Don Varga answered. “Do not blame me for doing exactly as I said I would do. Blame Jasper Flynt, if you must fault anyone. If he had not run out on us, I would have been content to question you about Long’s Peak and whether you knew about the legend, and gone my way.”
Nate burned with white-hot wrath. “So now you expect me to behave and do all I can to locate the mine? You must be loco, mister.”
“Oh, I think you can be persuaded.” Don Varga grinned and spoke in Spanish to two of his men, who rushed off and were back in no time, prodding Winona, Zach, and Evelyn at gunpoint.
Sickly giddiness churned Nate’s insides. “You wouldn’t,” he declared.
Winona ached to go to him, but when she took a step, a vaquero jabbed her with a rifle. “Refuse him, husband!” she called out. “We will stand by you!”
Nate’s mouth had gone desert dry. He had been licked, and licked as neatly as you please. “What happens after you locate the mine?”
Don Varga rose. “I am not a callous killer, señor. Once I have mined all the ore we need and we are ready to leave for Santa Fe, you and your family will be released unharmed. On this, you have the solemn word of Manuel de Varga.”
Blue Water Woman had been a furious onlooker to the sequence of events. She did not resist when a vaquero pulled her off the sorrel and another snatched her rifle and pistols. Now she tried to brush past them to get at Don Varga. “And my husband, Spaniard? What of him, and of me?”
�
��Whether you see your esposo again, señora, is in the hands of God. I would very much like for you to keep Señora King company until we have finished our mining operation.”
“That could take months!”
“Si. I regret the imposition,” Don Varga said, “but if I were to let you go, you might take it into your head to sneak up on me some night and shoot me.”
Given half the chance, Blue Water Woman would have done just that. But she was desperate to go after Shakespeare, desperate to the point of sacrificing her outrage to her love. “What if I give you my word that I will not try to harm you or any of your people?”
Don Varga stroked his mustache. “Would that I could believe you.”
Blue Water Woman grew frantic. “What if you keep my rifles and pistols? My ammo pouch and powder horn, as well? Would you feel safer?”
“And leave you with nothing but a knife? How would you rescue your husband?” Don Varga shook his head. “No, you would ride to your death.”
“It is my life to do with as I want,” Blue Water Woman stated. She would gladly brave any danger, tackle any risk, to save her husband.
Ignacio stopped glaring at Nate long enough to say, “Don’t listen to her, Father. Her kind are not to be trusted. Keep her with us.”
At the annual rendezvous, it was not uncommon for lurid language to be bandied about as freely as the rarefied mountain air was breathed. Cusswords flew thick and fast once the mountaineers had scorched their throats with enough whiskey. Blue Water Woman could not help but pick up additions to her vocabulary. Never before this day, though, had she resorted to them.
Generally, Flatheads did not swear. When a warrior was angry, he vented it by growling or roaring, much like the wild beasts with whom he shared his domain. Women might mutter or smack something. But hellacious cursing, as Shakespeare called it, was rarely done.
Blue Water Woman had never done so before this day. Now she launched into a string of oaths that would have turned the head of any mountaineer alive. She insulted Ignacio. She insulted Ignacio’s mother. She insulted his intelligence. And last, but not least, she insulted his manhood.
Wilderness Giant Edition 6 Page 11
