Wilderness Giant Edition 6

by David Robbins

  “So,” Don Varga said softly. “That is the last of them, I do believe.”

  “You don’t know that for certain,” Nate whispered. “My advice to you is to wait a while longer.”

  “And how long would be long enough to suit you?” Varga responded. “Another hour? Another day? No, Señor King, you are trying to stall us. We go in now, while the light is still with us.”

  “At last,” Ignacio gloated. “I will bring our men and have them fan out to surround the camp.”

  Varga snatched his son’s sleeve. “Make it plain that they must move like ghosts. The man who gives us away will answer to me personally. Tell them not to shoot until I give the signal. We will fire a volley into the savages, then rush in and finish them off.” Ignacio started again to leave, but his father held on to his arm. “Above all, my son, impress on them that not a single heathen must escape us. The women, too, must be shot down like the animals they are. If any of the Utes are able to mount up, our men must shoot their horses out from under them.”

  “It will be done, Father.”

  The next half an hour was one of the most awful in Nate’s whole life. To know that thirty innocents were about to be slaughtered, and that he was powerless to prevent it, tormented him in heart and soul. His only recourse was to give a yell at the right moment. It would earn him a rap on the noggin, or much worse, but he could not just sit there and do nothing.

  The Spaniard glanced at him, then leaned toward Chivari and whispered so that no one else could hear. Nodding, the Maricopa rose and began to go in the same direction Martin and Azul had gone.

  Nate did not think much of it until suddenly he was gripped by the shoulders and flung to the ground. Chivari pinned his chest, while the vaquero, acting under Don Varga’s directions, viciously punched him on the jaw. Bright points of light pinwheeled before Nate’s eyes. He remained conscious but groggy. He was dimly aware that his mouth was being pried open and that something was being stuffed into it. He tried to swallow and nearly gagged.

  A gag! Nate realized. They were ensuring he could not warn the Utes! He struggled in vain. When the vaqueros and Chivari rose, he had a bandanna stuffed into his mouth and another tied around the lower half of his face, holding it in place.

  “There,” Don Varga said. “In case you had any silly ideas of letting the Utes know we are here.”

  Could the man read his thoughts? Shaking his head to clear it, Nate sat up. The vaquero sat next to him, the cocked pistol wedged against his ribs.

  “Try anything, señor” Don Varga whispered, “and you assuredly die.”

  Impotent fury brought tears to the mountain man’s eyes. He had to sit and watch as the vaqueros filed past and spread out to enclose the encampment in a crescent of rifles and pistols. For once, the Utes had their guard down. The women were about ready to cook the buck, and the hungry men gathered to talk and relax.

  Don Varga and his sons moved in. The skinny vaquero prodded Nate forward. Nate intentionally stepped on a dry twig that cracked loudly, but not loudly enough to be heard at the lake. For his ruse, he was hit across the back of the head. His legs nearly buckled, and it was a minute before he could go on.

  By then the Mexicans were ranging wide to the left and right. Silently, they stalked their prey, the whole line freezing when one of their number accidentally smacked the stock of his rifle against a pistol tucked under his belt. The offender withered under Don Varga’s glare, but no harm had been done. The Utes did not hear the noise.

  Advancing more carefully, the vaqueros took up positions within twenty feet of the sandy shore. A few horses lifted their heads, but none whinnied. The wind was blowing from west to east, bearing the scent of the attackers away from the camp.

  Nate was made to kneel near Don Varga. The Spaniard was staring at a petite woman roasting a haunch over a crackling fire. Was it Nate’s imagination, or did Varga’s face soften?

  For the longest while the patron simply stared. With a toss of his head, he snapped out of it. The peculiar gleam returned. Perspiration coated him from his hairline to his neck. He glanced at the trapper.

  Nate could not speak, but he could convey his feelings with his eyes. Don’t do it! he yearned to shout. Varga was about to cross the invisible line that separated humanity from the beasts, and once across, there was no turning back.

  Ignacio eagerly hefted his rifle and nudged his father. Don Varga nodded. All along the line, rifles were leveled and quietly cocked. Cheeks were bent, sights aligned.

  Nate’s blood boiled. He looked at the Utes and began to rise. Immediately, the skinny vaquero and one of the Maricopas seized him and held him fast.

  Part of him wanted to close his eyes and blot out the slaughter to come, but another part of him overrode the impulse. He must be a witness to the atrocity so there would be someone to speak out against Varga should the opportunity arise. Justice demanded that he do all in his power to see that the Spaniard paid in full for the heinous act.

  Don Varga was squinting down his barrel. Opening his right eye, he looked at Nate, his expression unreadable. It appeared as if he were going to say something. Then, abruptly squaring his jaw, he took aim once more.

  Nate attempted to rise, to crash through the brush, to alert the Utes, but the vaqueros and the Maricopa held him in grips of iron. As if in slow motion, he saw a Ute warrior smile, saw one of the women throw back her head and laugh, saw the petite one bend to run a finger over the top of the roasting deer haunch.

  A single word was roared in Spanish. At Don Varga’s command, thirty-six rifles boomed, belching lead and smoke. The combined retorts echoed off Long’s Peak, rumbling like thunder.

  About half the Utes dropped at the first volley. Many were struck by more than one ball. Nate saw a husky warrior lurch backward as a ball cored his chest, another his neck, and a third his thigh. The man was dead on his feet. Oozing blood, he melted to the sand.

  Bloody bodies littered the ground. A woman thrashed and moaned, a gaping wound high in her shoulder, her left knee shattered.

  In the time it took the vaqueros to bring their spare rifles into play, the Utes scrambled for their bows or bolted toward the trees to the north and the south. One man ran to the lake and dived neatly into the water.

  Standing, Don Varga bellowed. The entire line closed in. The Spaniards, Mexicans, and Maricopas all fired at will, as targets presented themselves. Guns blasted in a steady cadence, punctuated by screams and war whoops.

  An arrow sizzled out of the blue to transfix a vaquero on the left. Another shaft caught Diego in the right leg and he dropped, yowling. Don Varga instantly halted and knelt by his youngest. When the rest of his men likewise stopped, he waved them on with angry commands.

  Ignacio took charge. Boldly stepping into the open, he fired his spare rifle, handed it to a Maricopa, and drew two pistols.

  Nate’s eyes were glued to the Utes, who had rallied and were ferociously fighting back. From behind their conical lodges, warriors sent arrows whizzing into the woods. Two women were still alive and passing out arrows to the men as fast as the men could shoot.

  Three Mexicans were down, either dead or severely wounded. The line wavered, trading lead for barbed tipped shafts. Hot lead tore into the lodges like molten sleet, sending slivers flying everywhere.

  For a few moments it seemed as if the vaqueros would break and retreat. Then Ignacio shrieked like an angry eagle and charged. Taking their cue from him, the Mexicans spilled onto the shore, shooting madly.

  Arrows and spears whistled through the air. Another four vaqueros fell, one with an arrow through his left eye, another clutching a spear that had pierced him below the sternum.

  In a collective rage, the vaqueros rushed the lodges. Venting howls and whoops, the Utes bounded out to meet them. War clubs and tomahawks were met by swords, knives, and pistols. The combat was man to man.

  Outnumbered, the Utes fought fiercely. Two or three vaqueros would jump a single warrior, seeking to batter him down throu
gh sheer weight of numbers.

  Nate could not have closed his eyes now if it meant his life. The Utes had long been his enemies, yet he was overcome with pride. They resisted valiantly, battling with more than human desperation. Gradually, though, they were whittled down.

  Soon only six warriors and the petite woman were left. Clustering together, side to side and back to back, they sought to break through to the trees. In a solid breast, cutting and bashing and hacking, their wedge parted their enemies like the prow of a canoe slashing through water.

  Above the bedlam rose Don Varga’s voice. The words were in Spanish, but Nate did not need to have them translated.

  “Stop them! Do you hear me? Stop them!”

  Two of the Utes sprawled, pierced by a dozen wounds. Another had his throat cut. A fourth took a sword in the back. The last pair and the petite woman paused, too exhausted to take another step. Covered with blood, their garments gashed and rent, they panted and gasped, held at bay, waiting for their adversaries to end it.

  Ignacio pointed at the tallest Ute, and four pistol balls shattered the man’s skull. The last warrior stepped in front of the woman to shield her. Ignacio’s finger stabbed again. A burly Mexican, wielding a sword, sprang, the curved steel shearing into the warrior’s temple like a knife through soft wax.

  Only the petite woman was left. In her scarlet stained right hand was a long knife, in her left the broken haft of a lance. She jabbed at a vaquero who skipped in close. Another attempted to grab her from the rear, and she whirled, opening his arm with her blade.

  Stepping forward, Ignacio pointed his pistol at her head. She faced him, slowly straightening. Weariness and resignation etched her lovely features. And so did something else. Squaring her slim shoulders, she met Ignacio’s gaze in bold defiance.

  Nate’s heart went out to her. She reminded him so much of Winona. He wanted to scream in rage, but all he could do with the gag wedged so tight was groan.

  Some of the Mexicans and Maricopas were equally impressed. They lowered their weapons, bestowing looks of respect on the blood-drenched figure who so calmly awaited her doom.

  Ignacio took another pace. Extending his pistol, he laughed, whether in glee or scorn it was hard to say. And as the cold mirth died, he casually stroked the trigger.

  Nate bowed his head, unable to bear the sight of the twitching form or the gruff mirth of several of the vaqueros. He let himself be hauled to his feet and shoved toward the shore on the heels of Don Varga and the two men supporting Diego.

  Manuel Varga barked orders. His men went from body to body, finishing off the wounded Utes and helping fallen companions. Suddenly a yell brought them in a rush to the water’s edge.

  The warrior who had dived into the lake was hundreds of feet out, stroking smoothly, bound for the opposite shoreline.

  “Martin!” Don Varga shouted. “He is yours. Take him.”

  The middle son took four or five steps into the lake, the water rising up to his knees. Tucking his rifle to his shoulder, he fixed a bead on the swimmer.

  Nate prayed that Martin would miss. It was a difficult shot; even Shakespeare, who was generally acknowledged as one of the best marksmen in the trapping fraternity, might not be able to make it.

  The warrior slowed. Nate tried to push the gag from his mouth with his tongue so he could shout a warning, but it was hopeless. He watched, aghast, as the Ute tread water to catch his breath and glanced shoreward.

  Spotting the massed Spaniards and Mexicans, the warrior bent and fairly streaked toward the far side. He was a marvelous swimmer, his arms and legs superbly coordinated. Spray swirled around him and spewed from under his feet.

  “He is a fish,” Don Varga commented.

  Martin had not twitched a muscle. Now, inhaling and holding the breath to steady his aim, he thumbed back the hammer, then lightly touched his forefinger to the trigger.

  Nate sidled toward him, thinking to ram his shoulder into Martin’s at the very moment Martin fired. But the vaquero guarding him was too clever. The man grasped him by the back of the shirt and held him where he was. Nate drew back a leg to kick.

  Martin’s rifle spat lead and flame, the recoil snapping the barrel upward. Three hundred feet out on the lake, the Ute warrior raised both arms into the air, turned completely around, and sank like a rock. All eyes were fixed on the spot, waiting for him to reappear. He never did.

  Martin looked expectantly at his father, apparently anticipating a compliment. If that was the case, he was severely disappointed. Don Varga, grunting, walked into the camp. Martin’s cheeks flushed, and he clenched his fists until the knuckles were white, but he did not say anything.

  Nate surveyed the carnage and felt his stomach curl up into itself. The massacre had been a success. Every Ute, every last man and woman, was either dead or dying. Vaqueros were dispatching those who still clung tenaciously to life.

  Don Varga came over. “There is no need for this anymore,” he said, and unfastened the bandanna that held the gag in place. “I trust it was not too much of an inconvenience.”

  Wriggling his tongue, Nate spat the gag out. His mouth felt dry and rough. Swallowing, he moistened it enough to rasp, “Go to Hell!”

  “I most likely will,” Don Varga said soberly, staring at a Ute woman whose brains formed a gory halo around her broken body. “I most likely will.”

  Revulsion and hatred waged a bitter war in the depths of Nate’s being. If only his wrists were free! He would hurl himself at the Spaniard and throttle the life from him with his own two hands.

  Harsh laughter came from a trio of vaqueros who had surrounded a warrior trying to sit up. The Ute had a hole in his torso, another in his arm, a third in his leg. A pool of blood framed him as he unsteadily propped an arm and struggled to rise. A vaquero, chortling, kicked the arm out from under the Ute, and the man pitched onto his face.

  “Enough! Kill them, don’t torment them!” Don Varga yelled in English, forgetting himself. Repeating the command in Spanish, he walked northward alone.

  The same vaquero who had kicked the Ute now produced a dagger and plunged it into the warrior’s unprotected back, between the shoulder blades. The Ute exhaled once loudly, convulsed, and died.

  Nate could not stand to see any more killing. Sick to his spirit, he shambled off, head bowed. There would be no stopping the Utes now. Once the bodies were discovered, the tribe would rise up in righteous wrath and launch a campaign of extermination that would make the bloodthirsty campaigns of the Blackfeet pale in comparison.

  Varga’s only hope was to find the vein, mine enough ore to suit him, and vacate the territory before the Utes learned of the slaughter.

  “What have I done, señor?”

  Nate stopped. Don Varga was a few feet away. Self-loathing marked the haughty Spaniard’s swarthy countenance as he stared at a Ute no older than Diego whose right cheek was gone. “What have I done?”

  “What you set out to do, as I recollect,” Nate snapped. “Remember this day well, mister! Sear it into your brain, so at night when you’re asleep you’ll hear the screams of the dying and see the faces of those women as they were shot to pieces.”

  Nate took a step and would have cuffed Varga if not for the vaquero, who seized his arm. “I want you to recall every detail!” he declared, his anger swelling like a river in a torrent. The floodgates had been lowered, and his pent-up emotions roiled out. “I want you to have nightmares for the rest of your life! I want you to suffer! To suffer as few men ever have!” Suddenly shoving the vaquero, Nate hiked both arms to bash the Spaniard full in the face. Don Varga, though, did not try to defend himself. His haggard visage had grown pasty, his eyes glazed. Deaf and dumb to events around him, he stood there like a dumb cow about to be butchered. Nate banded his muscles, then hesitated.

  “What have I done?” Don Varga repeated, gazing out over the scarlet-spattered battleground at the scores of crumpled figures.

  Nate peered into the Spaniard’s dull eyes. Like a branch t
hat breaks after being bent too far, something had broken deep within Manuel de Varga. Nate stepped back without swinging.

  “Patron?” the vaquero said.

  Don Varga tilted his face to the heavens. His lips trembled and he took a halting step. “I had to do it,” he said, but to neither of them. Thrusting his hands at the sky, he contorted his fingers into claws and roared, “I had to do it!”

  The cry echoed off the peaks, growing fainter and fainter until it was swallowed altogether by the vastness of the shadowed mountains.

  Seventeen

  Blue Water Woman was glad that Flathead saddles did not have large saddle horns like those some whites used. She was jostled and jolted every few steps as her captors led the sorrel through the darkening woods. After they had traveled a quarter of a mile, her belly was terribly sore.

  It was not the sorrel’s fault. The three Utes were in a hurry to reach their dead companion before sunset. So they pushed their animals, not caring how rough the terrain was.

  Bands of pink and yellow painted the western horizon when they finally reached the ridge. The dead man was right where he had fallen, but he was not alone.

  Several buzzards were perched on the corpse, one pecking at the neck. Stout howled in anger and trotted toward them, waving an arm. One bird hissed in protest, but vultures were not renowned for their bravery. Flapping ponderously, they rose into the sky and circled overheard, waiting for another chance at their supper.

  Hook Nose was more upset than Stout. Galloping up, he dismounted and knelt by the dead warrior. Tenderly placing a palm on the man’s chest, Hook Nose said something in the Ute tongue. Then, unslinging his bow from his shoulder, he nocked a shaft and sent it whizzing at the buzzards. The arrow clipped a wing on one of them; marvelous skill, considering how high they had climbed.

  Without further ado, the buzzards left to find food elsewhere.

  Rope drew rein and dismounted, leaving his end of the rawhide dangling across his animal. He did not bother to lower Blue Water Woman down.