Wilderness Giant Edition 6

by David Robbins

  The Indians filed into the mine, a vaquero playing out the rope. Don Varga and his sons crowded forward. Nate rose and started to move closer, but a vaquero holding a cocked rifle motioned him back.

  Contempt washed over Winona. Varga had forced the Maricopas to go in first because in his eyes the warriors were expendable. They were nothing but heathens, weren’t they? So what if they were all killed? It would be no great loss.

  Winona was not a naive innocent. She had met people before who insisted on having their way at all costs, people who were so wrapped up in themselves that they never gave a thought to the feelings of others.

  Don Manuel de Varga was such a man. He would do whatever was necessary to achieve his goal, even if he had to slaughter unsuspecting women like those at the lake.

  What did that bode for her? For the children?

  The light reflected on the walls of the mine was growing dimmer. Ignacio cupped his mouth and shouted, getting only a few words out before his father cuffed him and berated him in Spanish.

  Nate would have done the same. Shouting might cave the roof in on the Maricopas, and along with the servants, they were about the only members of the expedition against whom he did not nurse a grudge.

  He could forgive many things. Being mistreated. Being called names. Being forced to accompany Varga against his will. But what he could not and would not ever forgive was the abuse his family had endured. That they had not been physically beaten or otherwise hurt was beside the point.

  No one had the right to lord it over others. Politicians did it all the time. So did European royalty. In their own estimation they were special; as a result, they assumed special privileges to which they were not entitled.

  The airs that people put on had always rubbed him wrong. If it wasn’t his father acting as if God had granted him a special dispensation to run Nate’s life any way he wanted, it had been his employer, making him work late without extra pay or belittling the job he did in front of fellow workers.

  No one did that in the wilderness. Any man who presumed to tell another what to do had better be right handy with a gun or a knife. Frontiersmen cherished their freedom above all else, and woe to the jackass who did not respect the fact.

  Politicians and their ilk were unwelcome west of the Mississippi, and if Nate had his druthers, they always would be.

  A fuss at the mine returned Nate to the here and now. The rope had stopped playing out. By the antics of Varga and his sons, it was clear that the Maricopas had stopped for some reason and were not going on. Don Varga stooped and gave the rope a powerful tug to signal the warriors, but it still lay limp and unmoving.

  Ignacio headed into the tunnel, brushing past Martin, who made no attempt to stop him. Their father did, though, calling Ignacio back. Then Don Varga surveyed the camp and smiled when he saw the big trapper. “Señor King, come over here. Por favor.”

  Winona sat up. “Do not go, husband,” she whispered.

  “If I don’t, he’ll have me dragged there.” Caressing Evelyn’s cheek, he moved to the bottom of the incline.

  “Up here,” Don Varga said, beckoning. The icy smile was branded into his skin, and the same strange gleam that had lit his brooding eyes at the lake was lighting them again. “I want you to do something for me.

  “I’m not going in there,” Nate said bluntly.

  Varga chuckled. “Ah, but I think you will. You see, señor, now that I have found the lost mine, you are the one person I need the least.” The Spaniard’s pause was masterful. “That is, if we do not count your wife and children.”

  The thinly veiled threat fired Nate’s temper to a fever pitch. But covered as he was by several guns, to throw himself at Varga would be pointless.

  “Perhaps you would prefer for me to ask your son?” Don Varga added salt to the wound. “I am sure he would obey me, if only to spare you from having to do it. What do you think, señor?”

  Not dignifying the barb with an answer, Nate snatched a lantern from Diego, who had to use a crutch to get around, and stepped to the opening.

  “Off you go, gringo,” Ignacio said.

  Nate resisted an urge to smash the lantern against the hothead’s face. Holding the lantern in front of him, he strode into the dank bowels of the earth.

  Twenty

  At that very moment, high on the gorge rim, Blue Water Woman was secretly rubbing her wrists back and forth while keeping an eye on the three Utes. The warriors were on their bellies at the very brink of the precipice, peering down. By their excited whispering it was apparent that they had located their quarry.

  They had forgotten all about her. Blue Water Woman stopped rubbing, eased onto her hands and knees, and crawled to the edge a few yards from her captors to take a look herself.

  The Varga expedition was down there, all right. They were swarming about like bees, engaged in a variety of tasks. Almost instantly she spotted Winona, Evelyn, and Zach. She did not see Nate, which worried her. Had something happened to him?

  Don Varga and his family were gathered together almost directly under her. She did not understand why they were staring at the wall until it hit her that they must have found the mine. The Spaniard’s party could not have been there very long, judging by the fires just being started and the horses not yet tethered.

  Rope, Stout, and Hook Nose pulled back from the brink and crouched. An urgent exchange resulted in Stout dashing to his horse, mounting, and flying to the southwest as if he were pursued by a pack of rabid wolves.

  Blue Water Woman knew that he would race to the nearest Ute village, there to rally his people against the invaders. Before long, a war party would be on its way. The word would go out to other villages. In no time, an army of vengeful warriors would be there.

  It bothered her that Stout had gone instead of one of the others. He was the friendliest of the three, the one who had treated her the nicest.

  As if to prove her point, Rope suddenly hissed and sprang to her side. Seizing her by the elbow, he yanked her back from the edge and shoved. She fell on her hip. Scrambling to her knees in case he came at her again, she brought up her arms to ward off blows.

  But Rope did not pounce. Using gestures, he commanded her to stay away from the edge.

  The Utes were afraid someone below would see her, Blue Water Woman reasoned. That would alert the Spaniard and his men, and the Utes did not want Varga to know he was being spied on. It would spoil the surprise attack the war party was bound to spring on the slayers of their brethren at the lake.

  Blue Water Woman grew rigid with anxiety. What about Winona and her family? Although innocent of any wrongdoing, they were bound to be slain with the rest. Or more likely, they would be taken alive and tortured.

  She could not allow that. Somehow, she must help them. To that end, she moved to a boulder well back from the brink and sat with her forearms between her legs. That satisfied Rope, who grunted and flattened to peer into the gorge again.

  Gritting her teeth, Blue Water Woman worked on the rawhide. It was tight, but not so tight that it cut off the circulation. She had loosened it a bit already, at the cost of raw skin and a trickle of blood.

  The situation had gone from bad to worse. Not only must she free herself, not only must she find Shakespeare and save him, now she must save the Kings.

  Others might have said it was hopeless, that she could never achieve all that, but Blue Water Woman pushed pinpricks of despair from her mind. She would never give up, not so long as life animated her body.

  Her upbringing had a lot to do with her resolve. Flatheads were pragmatic people. They took each day as it came, coping with problems as they arose. From her mother she had learned to adapt to the flow of life without complaint, to take the good with the bad, to meet hardship with courage and an iron will.

  Now she applied that will to the cords. By constantly moving her wrists, by moistening the rawhide with her blood, she gained a little more slack. Not enough to slide her hands from the loops, but that would come.
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  Unexpectedly, Rope stalked toward her. Blue Water Woman sat perfectly still, fearful that he had figured out what she was up to. But no, he gestured at the woods that fringed the gorge, at the trees, and mimicked picking up things from the ground.

  They wanted her to gather firewood! Blue Water Woman rose and walked into the growth. They must be supremely confident she would not try to escape on foot, she mused. And they were right. Afoot, she could not possibly do all that had to be done. She needed the sorrel.

  She bent to grab a small fallen branch, resting it in the crook of her elbows. As she unfurled, inspiration struck. What if she were to trick the Utes into thinking she had run off? They would probably jump on their horses and hunt for her, leaving the sorrel where it was.

  Grinning, Blue Water Woman threw the branch down. She roved to the right, seeking a place to hide. She was among firs, tall pines with no low limbs. With her wrists bounds, climbing one was out of the question. She knew that—and so did the Utes.

  Her grin grew positively devilish. Casting about, she ran to a waist-high boulder, jagged at the top. She pressed the rawhide against it and sawed vigorously, biting her lip when the rough stone scraped flesh.

  It took forever. Rawhide was tough, which was why it was used to make ropes and the like. Both of her wrists were repeatedly gashed and nicked. When, at long last, the loops parted, she desired nothing so much as to plunge both arms into ice-cold water. But that would have to wait.

  Sprinting to a fir, she wrapped her arms and legs around the trunk and shimmied upward. Her wrists protested. More pain seared her arms and shoulders. Refusing to be deterred, she did not stop until she was high above the ground.

  Straddling a limb was precarious; firs did not have thick branches. She had to clasp the trunk in order not to fall. Looking down, she gulped. To slip would be disastrous.

  Composing herself, Blue Water Woman leaned a shoulder against the bole. Now all she had to do was wait. And not that long, as it turned out.

  She could not see the Utes from her vantage point. So she was startled when Rope appeared as if from out of nowhere in a clear space less than half an arrow’s flight from the tree in which she roosted.

  He was mad, and it showed. Glancing around, he ventured westward, prowling noiselessly. Failing to see her, he increased his speed, swinging wide from north to south. He bent his head to the soil, but he was looking for tracks in the wrong area. Soon he stopped, smacked his thigh, and whirled.

  At a run, Rope raced to the gorge. Presently, a horse snorted. Rope and Hook Nose rode into the woods, spreading apart to cover more ground.

  Blue Water Woman almost laughed aloud. The tactic had worked! Clinging to the fir, she watched until the two warriors were out of sight, then she shimmied down twice as fast as she had climbed, scraping her arms and her legs but not caring.

  She dropped the final seven feet. Steadying herself, Blue Water Woman sprinted to where she had left the sorrel. Lithely, she bounded astride its broad back, gripped the reins, and cut to the north.

  Earlier, the Utes had reached the crest of the knobby spine that flanked the gorge along a game trail that approached from the south. Quite naturally, they would expect her to go back the way they had come. So she was doing the exact opposite.

  Blue Water Woman could only hope that she was not making a grave error in judgment. She did not know if there was a way off the spine to the north or the west. She could get there and find impassable cliffs. In which case she must turn around and try to sneak past the Utes.

  The trees were so thickly clustered that she could not hold to a gallop. Settling for a trot, she threaded steadily on until the pines thinned and rocky terrain unfolded. She hesitated to venture out. The ring of hooves on rock would carry quite a distance, perhaps to the ears of Rope and Hook Nose. But if she stayed where she was, the warriors might show up anyway.

  Clucking to the sorrel, Blue Water Woman headed for what she hoped was a gradual slope that would take her safely down from the spine. She held to a walk to reduce the noise, avoiding flat rocky stretches.

  Suddenly a gust of wind struck her full in the face. Dreading the cause, she clenched her jaw as she advanced. Another gust fluttered her long hair, howling up from the depths below.

  She was on the verge of another precipice. This one was not as high or as sheer as the wall of the gorge, but there was no descending unless the sorrel were to sprout wings and fly.

  Quelling a surge of panic that rattled her nerves, Blue Water Woman loped to the west. A sense of urgency pushed her, the clatter of hoofs like the beating of drums.

  The cliff extended for as far as she could see. She raked her heels against the sorrel, breaking into a full gallop, aware that every precious moment wasted could mean the difference between escaping and winding up in the clutches of the Utes.

  To her consternation, the cliff covered the whole north side of the highland spur. She swung south along the west rim, longing for a break or rift that would enable her to reach the bottom.

  A feeling of helplessness came over her. She dismissed it with an angry shake.

  Even if the Utes were watching the game trail, she might get by them. Jerking on the reins, Blue Water Woman made for it. She moved slowly, utilizing the shadows. The woods had fallen quiet. To her, every thud of a heavy hoof resounded like a clap of thunder. The Utes were bound to hear.

  A lightning-scarred tree marked her goal. She reined up, head cocked. If the Utes were nearby, they were very well hidden.

  Coming to a decision, Blue Water Woman slammed both legs against the sorrel and smacked the animals between the ears. It had the desired effect.

  The horse exploded into motion. She was on the trail in the blink of an eye and swinging due south at a breakneck pace.

  At her mount’s top speed, Blue Water Woman streaked down the slope. The trail twisted and turned and she did the same, riding as she had never ridden before, expecting to hear an outcry at any second.

  Soon the trail began to level off. She was almost to the bottom! Elated, she looked back, and into view burst Hook Nose and Rope, in hot pursuit. Hook Nose was in the lead, Rope trying to swing past to give the speckled horse its head. But the narrow trail hampered him.

  She bent, slapping the reins against the sorrel’s neck. Her mount responded as it always did, superbly. Fleeing onto the valley floor, she made for a band of woods on the other side. The open ground permitted her to go slightly faster.

  Unfortunately, it also allowed Rope to pull ahead of Hook Nose. The speckled horse was a blur of motion, gaining rapidly.

  The helplessness that had assailed Blue Water Woman up on the cliff enveloped her again. To have gone to so much trouble, only to be foiled! And this time the Utes might not be as forgiving. With Stout gone, there was no predicting what Rope would do. He might beat her. Or kill her.

  Even so, she would not give up. She rode brilliantly, flawlessly, a credit to her tribe. But sometimes all the ability in the world was not enough.

  The pounding of the sorrel’s hooves seemed to grow louder. She did not bother to look back. The Ute would have to drag her from the saddle to stop her.

  He did something else.

  A flash of brown fluttered past her eyes. She felt a constriction around her arms and chest a heartbeat before she was viciously wrenched backward. The reins were torn from her grasp. For an instant she seemed to hang in midair, then she dropped, slamming onto her shoulders.

  The world spun. The sky danced. Blue Water Woman forced herself onto her knees and saw the sorrel still running flat out. She tried to stand, lowering an arm to push herself erect, but her movement was hampered by the constriction across her chest. She glanced down.

  A rawhide loop explained her fall. Gruff laughter sounded and Rope came alongside her, the other end of the rawhide rope in his hands. His features hardening, he hauled on it sharply, spilling her onto her stomach.

  Blue Water Woman tasted grass in her mouth. She attempted to get up, only
to be pitched onto her face by a violent thrust forward. The constriction became an iron band that dug deep.

  Rope was dragging her! The realization spiked renewed panic into her gut. Blue Water Woman had once seen a white man who had been dragged to his death by Comanches. Every last shred of clothing had been ripped off, including his thick boots. His skin had been flayed to where it hung in thin shredded strips. What was left of his face was horrid to behold. And now Rope intended doing the same to her!

  Blue Water Woman attempted to brace her legs, but it was useless. Her strength paled beside the raw power of the speckled horse. Thankfully, they were crossing a grassy tract. The stems lashed and whipped her but did no real harm.

  She glimpsed Rope. The Ute wore a sinister expression that did not bode well. Sneering, he cantered to the right. Terrified that he intended to ride into the trees, she redoubled her efforts to slip free of the rope.

  The warrior changed direction again, and slowed.

  Blue Water Woman momentarily relaxed, assuming the worst was over. She was battered and bruised and her dress was a mess, but she would recover readily enough.

  Then Rope yipped in sadistic glee and spurred the speckled horse into a gallop. Blue Water Woman’s breath was whooshed from her lungs by the abrupt jerk and the gouging of the rawhide into her chest.

  Swiftly, she gained speed. The grass beat at her, lashing her face, her hands. She managed to raise herself high enough to see what lay ahead.

  Her heart leaped. A stone’s throw away was a broad patch of thorny brush, and Rope was heading straight for it.

  Shakespeare McNair wiped his perspiring brow with a buckskin sleeve and walked to a log. Sitting, he placed his right foot on his left knee and examined the sole of the moccasin. As he had suspected, it had a hole.

  “Never so weary, never so in woe,” he quoted glumly. “Bedabbled with the dew, and torn with briers. I can no further crawl, no further go. Me legs can keep no pace with my desires. Here will I rest me till the break of day.”