Wilderness Giant Edition 6

by David Robbins

  “Why the hell haven’t they shown up yet?” Jasper Flynt rasped. Pacing back and forth, he raked the slopes below for sign of movement. “It’s been a week, hasn’t it? Where the hell can they be?”

  The cutthroats in his band swapped looks but did not speak. They knew his moods all too well, and none wanted to earn his wrath.

  Shakespeare McNair, though, had no such qualms. “Long’s Peak is a big mountain,” he commented.

  “The mine could be anywhere on it or near it. That’s a heap of territory.”

  “You reckon I don’t know that?” Flynt snapped. “Why do you think I’ve been sendin’ my boys out in pairs to scour the countryside?”

  “For exercise?” Shakespeare cracked.

  Flynt was not amused. Striding to where McNair sat on a flat boulder, he kicked the mountaineer in the shin. “I’m tired of you rubbin’ my nose in how stupid you think I am. One more time, old man, just one, and I’ll slit your wrists and tie you to a tree for a griz to sniff out.”

  Wincing from the pain, Shakespeare rubbed his leg. He would be damned if he was going to shut up. Being struck was a small price to pay for the satisfaction of making Flynt’s life miserable. “Don’t blame me if you haven’t planned this out very well,” he said.

  “Like hell,” Flynt said. “What would you do that I haven’t, you old fart?”

  Shakespeare pretended to be interested in something on the ground so they would not see the gleam of triumph that came into his eyes. Flynt had played right into his hands. “I’d wait until nightfall, then send riders out in all directions. An outfit the size of Varga’s is bound to have three or four fires going. They should be easy to spot in the dark.”

  Jeb Calloway forgot that Flynt was in a foul frame of mind. “The old geezer has a point, Jasper. You’ve had us do all our huntin’ in the daytime.”

  “Who asked you?”

  The Alabamian realized his error and timidly grinned. “Sorry, Jasper. No offense.”

  Flynt walked to the edge of the shelf on which they were camped. Situated five thousand feet up on the east side of Long’s Peak, it afforded a magnificent vista of the foothills to the east and the sprawling expanse of upthrust peaks on either side.

  Shakespeare hobbled to a spring partially hidden in a cleft. They had discovered it by accident, when they stopped on the shelf to rest briefly and a horse strayed over to take a drink.

  As punishment for his escape attempt the other day, Shakespeare’s ankles were linked by a two-foot length of rope when he was off the mare as well as on. It was to prevent him from getting any more “bright stupid ideas,” as Flynt had phrased it.

  Kneeling, Shakespeare dipped his lips to the cool, refreshing water. This was his second drink in less than half an hour. None of the cutthroats noticed how thirsty he had become, which was fine by him.

  Earlier, Shakespeare had spied a jagged piece of quartz more than six inches long. It was ideal, but it was also lying on the narrow rim toward the rear of the spring, well out of reach. He could not get to it without wading in, and the renegades were bound to notice.

  Reluctantly, Shakespeare walked back in time to overhear Jasper Flynt.

  “… like the idea. When the sun goes down, eight of you will ride out in pairs and search around. The rest of us will stay put and keep a small fire going so you can find your way back.”

  “What if something happened to the Spaniard?” asked a man whose salt-and-pepper beard was as curly as the hairs on his head. “What if the Utes got him? They could get us next.”

  “You worry too damn much, Jansen,” Flynt said. “We ain’t seen hide nor hair of those red devils this whole time.”

  Shakespeare shuffled to the flat boulder. If eight of them left later, that would leave five to contend with. Too many. Somehow he had to whittle the odds even more.

  Cards were broken out, and some of the men hunkered to play. Another cleaned his rifle. Two others rolled dice. One man slept.

  Jasper Flynt continued to pace the rim. A restless bundle of energy, he could not sit still for more than five minutes at a time. His restlessness fit his surly, quixotic disposition. From one moment to the next his moods fluctuated. Small wonder his own men lived in fear of him.

  Shakespeare massaged his thigh. It was still sore from the bullet wound. Scar tissue had formed and the gash was healing nicely, but he would bear a reminder of the ambush for the rest of his days.

  A shadow fell across him. Shakespeare was startled and looked up. “What do you want, Flynt?” he demanded, flustered that his nerves had turned traitor.

  “How highly does Nate King think of you?”

  “We’re friends.”

  Flynt squatted so they were eye-to-eye. “That’s not what I meant, damn it. Everyone has heard tell that the pup is right fond of you. I need to know how fond.”

  The query was so strange that Shakespeare grew wary. “What is it to you, mister?”

  Like a striking sidewinder, Flynt’s hand lashed out and closed on the mountain man’s windpipe. His fingers tightened, but not enough to choke off Shakespeare’s breath. “I swear, old man. You must have a secret hankerin’ to push up weeds. Just answer my questions, you old goat.”

  “We’re close friends.”

  “Would he die for you?”

  Shakespeare hesitated. Undoubtedly Nate would, but dare he reveal as much? Of what use was the information to Flynt? “Ask him,” he hedged.

  Flynt’s steely hand clamped fast, his fingers gouging deep. When Shakespeare grasped his wrist, his other hand materialized holding a pistol, which he cocked and pressed against the trapper’s temple. “Lordy, you’re dumb! I could blow a hole in you and not bat an eye.”

  Shakespeare was unable to respond. His throat was on fire, his lungs heaved for air. Flynt relaxed the hand, chuckling, and Shakespeare sucked in deep breaths. If only I was thirty years younger! he thought. No one had ever roughed him up when he was at his peak.

  “Ready to behave?” Flynt mocked him.

  “I’ve told you what you wanted to know. We’re friends, for God’s sake.”

  Flynt tapped the pistol against Shakespeare’s head. “There are friends, and there are friends. Take Calloway, for instance. He’s a pard, but he ain’t about to sacrifice himself for my sake.”

  “In what manner?” Shakespeare asked, stalling.

  The renegade chewed on his lower lip a bit. “Say, for example, we were jumped by Utes, and I was knocked out of the saddle. If Calloway had a choice between ridin’ back to save me or hightailin’ it to save his own hide, he’d head for the hills and leave me to bleed.”

  “The quality of a man’s friends mirrors his own character,” Shakespeare said.

  Flynt chortled. “Where do you come up with this stuff, McNair? Is it more of that English feller?”

  “Truth is truth.”

  Standing, Jasper Flynt let down the hammer on his flintlock. “How anyone could stand to live with you for more than two days is beyond me. I’d go loco. That squaw of yours either can’t speak English, or she’s stupider than spit.” He found his own humor hilarious.

  Shakespeare rubbed his neck, imagining how sweet it would be to have his fingers on Flynt’s. “Is that all you wanted?”

  “You’ve told me enough, yes.”

  “I didn’t tell you a thing.”

  “That’s just it,” Flynt gloated. “By hedging like you did, you showed me that you were afraid to fess up with the truth. King does care for you, McNair. Enough to die for you, if need be. And that’ll be his undoing.”

  Shakespeare stared at the cutthroat’s retreating back, then at the sky. In another four hours the sun would set and he could put his plan into effect. The last time, he had let Flynt buffalo him by threatening to shoot the mare. This time, he wasn’t going to back down no matter what. He would escape, or he would die trying.

  It was as simple as that.

  Thirteen

  A quarter of a mile lower down the mountain grew a wi
de belt of aspens. Their slender trunks were spaced close together, superb cover for the tall woman who gazed longingly at the shelf.

  Blue Water Woman had been shadowing the cutthroats for quite some time. On the day after her encounter with the grizzly, she had found their tracks and nearly ridden the sorrel into the ground to catch up.

  Staying close without being observed had taxed her wilderness skills. She was not as versed in stealth and warfare as a Flathead warrior would be, but she proved to be up to the challenge. The whites rarely made any effort to hide their tracks, and not once had they sent a rider to check their back trail as a Flathead war party would have frequently done.

  Many times Blue Water Woman had glimpsed her mate, his white mane setting him apart from his captors. On each occasion her heart fluttered with joy to find him still alive and apparently well, although twice he had seemed to be limping slightly.

  For all their blunders, though, the whites were smart enough to pitch their camps in easily defended spots that gave them an unobstructed view of the surrounding countryside. She could never get close enough to spirit Shakespeare away.

  Since it appeared the men were not planning to move on, and would probably spend the night on the shelf, Blue Water Woman devoted her attention to another problem.

  Food.

  She had almost finished the pemmican. It had not occurred to her to take more than a few days’ supply when they left the King cabin. They were only going to the base of the foothills, after all, and she had anticipated being back at the cabin by the next afternoon.

  How was she to foresee the nightmare that befell them?

  In order to stay close to her husband’s abductors, she needed to refill her parfleche. Jerky was the logical choice. But that meant she must go off in search of game, leaving Shakespeare alone with them.

  She balked at the idea. It was comforting to stay close, reassuring to know that she could fly to his aid if it became apparent he was in imminent danger. Although of what help she could be, armed with only a knife and crude spear, was an issue she chose not to dwell on.

  Forlornly, Blue Water Woman tore her gaze from the shelf and glided through the aspens to where the sorrel had been tied. She mounted and rode northward, avoiding open places, never exposing herself to view.

  After a mile Blue Water Woman felt safe enough to leave the aspens and cross a meadow into dense pines. For one of the whites to spot her at that distance, he would need the eyes of a hawk.

  She hefted her spear. At that elevation game was not quite as plentiful as down in the valleys. Elk were abundant, but they were so big that a single cast might not bring one down. Black-tailed deer were also common, but they were extremely alert and fleet of foot.

  Blue Water Woman would gladly settle for a whistler, as her people called the small brown animals that lived in burrows and whistled shrilly to warn their fellows when predators were abroad. Woodchucks, Shakespeare said they were, although they differed slightly from the kind he had seen as a boy back in Pennsylvania. Some whites called them marmots.

  In any event, one of the animals would provide her with enough meat to last four or five days if rationed.

  Whistlers lived in rocky, elevated areas, often along the crest of ridges. A ridge to the northwest seemed as likely an area as any, so Blue Water Woman bent the sorrel’s steps toward it.

  Presently, she came to the end of the trees. Beyond, a gradual grassy slope climbed to the bony crest. She slowly moved into the open, scouring the boulders that dotted the heights, seeking telltale furtive movements.

  The sorrel had gone only a few yards when Blue Water Woman detected motion. But it was to her right, not above her. A large black-tailed buck stood forty feet away, regarding her nervously, ears high. She drew rein, and the buck turned as if to run off. But instead of bounding into the pines, it shied from them, prancing uncertainly, glancing from the undergrowth to her and back again.

  Puzzled, Blue Water Woman did not try to kill it. She could not hurl her spear that far, and the buck would vanish in a heartbeat if she were to rush closer.

  Again the animal started toward the vegetation.

  Again it stopped and stamped a hoof. Suddenly snorting, it spun and fled northward along the edge of the pines rather than into them.

  Blue Water Woman did not know what to make of its peculiar antics. It was almost as if the buck was afraid of something that lurked in the undergrowth.

  She was right.

  The next second, a thicket parted and out rode a muscular, broad-shouldered warrior on a fine bay. He had an arrow notched to a bow. His black braided hair, the style of his buckskins and moccasins, his rugged features, all identified him as an Ute.

  Blue Water Woman stiffened. The man had been after the buck, but now he was more interested in her! Where there was one, there must be more. Either they would kill her for being an enemy, or they would capture her and take her back to their village.

  Slapping the sorrel, Blue Water Woman bolted up the slope. The Ute yipped like a coyote and gave chase. She bent low to present a smaller target.

  An arrow buzzed past her shoulder. Had it been a warning to stop, or intended to slay her? Glancing back, Blue Water Woman saw him reach over his shoulder to snatch another shaft from his quiver.

  The sorrel’s legs pumped, its hooves digging into the soil, raining clods in its wake. Blue Water Woman goaded it with the blunt end of the spear.

  Once she gained the ridge, she would make a stand. But she was merely delaying the inevitable. Her puny weapon was no match for a bow. The warrior could stay out of throwing range and keep her pinned down. Should she try to flee, he might drop the sorrel. Once other Utes arrived, her fate would be sealed.

  Frustration choked her. To be so close to Shakespeare, and have this happen! She smacked the sorrel again. She had to get away! She just had to!

  Abruptly, the spear was wrenched from her grasp and fell. Bewildered, Blue Water Woman looked back and saw an arrow jutting from it. The Ute had shot the spear from her hand! Such a feat spoke highly of great skill and daring.

  He was smiling now, following hard but not too hard, confident he had her. Instead of nocking another arrow, he slung the bow over his left shoulder.

  No! Blue Water Woman would not let him take her captive. Somehow, some way, she must foil him. The sorrel churned higher. She spotted a gap in the boulders and slanted toward it. Twisting, she surveyed the tree line. As yet, additional Utes had not appeared. But it was only a matter of time.

  The gap was narrower than it had seemed. Blue Water Woman had to spur the sorrel through, scraping her legs in the process. Vaulting off, she scooped up a rock the size of a melon and stepped to the gap.

  The Ute was fifteen feet below. His bay had slipped on a patch of slick bare earth and was down on its front legs. He was struggling to get the animal to stand. Glancing up, the Ute saw Blue Water Woman and the rock she held. He laughed.

  Whipping her arm, Blue Water Woman hurled it. She hoped to knock him off and send him tumbling down the slope, which would give her time to remount and escape. But just then the bay heaved upward, straightening, and the rock meant for the Ute’s chest struck the bay in the head.

  The animal whinnied in pain and scrambled backward, losing its balance completely. Legs flailing, it toppled. The rider tried to regain control, but gravity took over. The Ute shifted to spring clear, but as he did, the bay gave a sharp lurch that threw the warrior off balance. He cried out as he was pitched from the saddle—under the falling animal.

  Blue Water Woman heard an awful crunch and rending of bone. The bay kept kicking and nickering as it slid lower, right over the prone warrior. In a spray of dust and dirt, the horse eventually came to a stop and rose unsteadily.

  The Ute did not move. Blue Water Woman suspected it might be a trick to lure her near. She picked up another rock and ventured down. A spreading scarlet puddle was the first sign that it was not a ruse. She stepped closer, and tasted bile.

  Pa
le, gleaming bone had ripped through the warrior’s hunting shirt. Shattered bone also jutted from the left thigh. Red froth rimmed his lips and dribbled from his nostrils. His eyes were locked wide in the amazement he must have felt at the moment of his passing.

  Blue Water Woman was no less amazed. She had not meant to slay him, although she would have if he had persisted. Swallowing the bile, she knelt beside the bloody ruin. His body had been crushed, his chest flattened like a board. Gingerly, she pried at his shoulder, lifting him high enough to see the bow and quiver. The bow was broken, the arrows useless.

  Easing the body down, Blue Water Woman rose. It was too bad. The bow would have come in handy.

  She had no remorse over the mishap. These things happened routinely in the wild. Her people lived daily with the knowledge that they might not be alive to greet the next day. Enemies, beasts, accidents, all claimed a fierce toll.

  Knowing how frail existence was, her people had a keen zest for life. From childhood, Blue Water Woman had been reared to regard each and every day as a priceless gift. She never took life for granted, as many of her husband’s acquaintances seemed to do.

  Violence. Bloodshed. They were part and parcel of existence. Why that should be, she could not say. The ways of the Great Mystery were beyond human understanding.

  Shakespeare had told her that his people believed humankind once lived in peace and harmony. Then two brothers disputed, and one killed the other. Cain, one was called. She couldn’t remember the name of the other. But from that day on, violence had plagued the human race, a lingering legacy of their fall from grace—

  The sorrel whinnied. Blue Water Woman turned and saw that it was staring past her, at the forest below. She did the same, and her breath caught in her throat.

  Three more Utes had emerged from the trees.

  Fully half of the renegades were dozing. Others were involved in cards, a favorite pastime. Flynt was off by himself, brooding, as was his custom.

  Two hours remained before nightfall. Shakespeare found it difficult to curb his impatience. He went to the spring again to eye the piece of quartz that promised to be his salvation. As he cupped water to his mouth, boots scuffed the ground behind him.