Wilderness Giant Edition 6

by David Robbins

  “Won’t the Spanish authorities be suspicious when you show up in Santa Fe without your father?”

  “Not at all. Are we not in hostile country? The Utes wiped them out, without provocation.”

  “So that’s your story. What about your sisters? How do you plan to keep them quiet?”

  For once a flicker of sadness lined Martin’s countenance. “Ah, hermanas,” he said softly. Maria, Francisca, and Luisa were seated in the shade of the high wall, a portrait in misery. “They can be so stubborn. Why can they not see that what I have done was for their benefit as much as mine?”

  “So you’re fixing to make worm food of them, as well.” Nate had never despised anyone as much as he did this man at that moment.

  “You bore me,” Martin stated stiffly, rising.

  “One last thing,” Nate said. “The attack on my cabin. Was that your doing?”

  Martin shook his head. “Jasper Flynt is to blame. Why, I know not.” He adjusted his sombrero. “I learned later that Azul helped him in exchange for a new knife.” Martin snickered. “That Azul. He would kill his own madre for trinkets.”

  Nate could only stare. Martin was no better. Whether a trinket or a fortune in gold, no reward was worth becoming a Judas.

  For the next few hours they were ignored. Then Evelyn called out to Winona, wishing she could wet her parched throat. Not two minutes later, Rosa was there with a pitcher full of water. The guard blocked her way, but Rosa brushed past him as if he were not there. She gave Evelyn a drink, then each of them in turn.

  Nate was last. As the kindly matron tipped the pitcher to his lips, she leaned low to whisper, “Resignarse. Esta noche. Trinchante.”

  Before Nate could say that he did not understand, Rosa stood, smiled at Evelyn, and was gone. He rose on an elbow to call out, but the guard was regarding her suspiciously. Sinking back, he sorted through his meager store of Spanish. Noche was “night,” if he recalled correctly. Esta? Didn’t that mean “steak”? Had she told him that they were to have steak for supper?

  No, no, no, he had it all wrong. Estaca meant “stake,” the kind that had nothing to do with food. Esta, now that he thought about it, meant “this.” Esta noche. This night So she had hinted that something was going to happen later on. But what?

  Try as he might, Nate could not think of the meaning of resignarse. Did it mean “resign,” maybe? And what about trinchante? He was sure he had never heard the word before. Sometimes, though, Spanish words were a lot like their English counterparts.

  Take “doctor,” for example. It was the same, only pronounced differently. And what about mula, or “mule”? Or centro, or “center”?

  So maybe trinchante was one of those. But if so, what in the name of creation was a trinchante? Did it mean “trench”? Had she warned him that they were to be killed during the night and dumped in a trench? Was that it?

  More worried than ever, Nate counted every second until sunset. It was business as usual in the encampment. Cart after heavily laden cart clattered out of the mine to deposit its loads of rich ore. More trees were brought to further shore up the tunnel.

  The camp, though, was not as noisy as it usually was. All the vaqueros and the servants were uncommonly quiet, many deep in thought. Nate’s hunch was that the atrocity committed the other day had caught up with them. They were finally fully realizing just what they had done, and the burden they must bear for the rest of their lives.

  Presently the sun relinquished the heavens to the first stars. Four fires crackled and danced. The evening meal was being prepared. A buck, a doe, and several rabbits were the fare. Rosa skinned most of them herself. Nate saw her butchering the buck, her carving knife peeling succulent flesh with practiced strokes.

  About half an hour after everyone else had eaten, Rosa brought a tray to the Kings, just as she did each and every evening. Extra vaqueros came over to untie the captives, then to help stand guard while they ate. As Martin had boasted, he did not take undue chances.

  The guards had become so accustomed to the routine that they hardly paid any attention to the cook. Sinking onto her left knee, Rosa set the tray down and handed plates to Winona and Evelyn. She ladled out thick stew and gave each a spoon and a buttered roll.

  Next it was Zach’s turn. He was so hungry, he wolfed the roll in two chomps.

  Nate leaned forward. “I didn’t understand earlier,” he whispered. “What was that all about?”

  Rosa’s blank look was added proof, as if any were needed, that she did not speak English. Smiling sweetly, she put her right hand on the ground and pushed herself up. Her smile widened, and she winked.

  Mystified, Nate dared not so much as gesture to let her know how confused he was, or one of the guards might notice. Rosa turned to leave, and as she did, her right thumb, which was close to her dress, jerked toward the ground.

  Nate glanced down. Lying at the exact spot where she had put her hand was the large carving knife. She had hid it up her sleeve! Tingling from head to toe, he casually shifted his leg to cover it. His eyes had to express his gratitude, since he could not do so with words or signs.

  Rosa sighed with contentment. She beamed at Evelyn one last time, and walked off.

  Nate ate slowly. Each of them always did, to delay being trussed up again. It gave him plenty of time to slide the knife high up under his thigh. When he was done, he lay flat, as the guards required, and extended both arms, his wrists together.

  It was the cue for one of the vaqueros to tie them. For once, Nate did not mind. He had a nervous moment when the vaquero hiked his legs a few inches to bind his ankles, but the man did not raise them high enough to spot the knife.

  Winona had seen what the cook did. She watched Rosa go about her regular routine, marveling at the risk Rosa had taken on their behalf. Should Martin find out, his rage would be terrible.

  Now the minutes were endless. Nate feigned drifting to sleep but cracked his eyelids. All the guards but one went elsewhere. Activity gradually tapered off as more and more weary expedition members retired. By midnight only Martin and a few others were up.

  Soon it was just Martin, sipping coffee and gazing in entranced rapture at the huge pile of gold, much like a man would stare at a love.

  By one a.m. or so, Martin turned in. That left a guard at each of the two fires still burning, another over by the horses, and the man who sat on a boulder a few yards from the trapper and his family.

  Nate contrived to roll onto his side, facing the vaquero. The man was tired. Repeatedly, he yawned. Twice he stretched. Eventually his chin drooped. He snapped it up again, but his eyes were so heavy that they kept closing of their own accord no matter how many times he tried to keep them open.

  By two in the morning, the man dozed. So did the men at the fires. Small wonder. From dawn until dusk Martin had them perform grueling labor, then he had the gall to expect them to stay up half the night keeping watch.

  It would be another hour before the guards were to be relieved. That did not give Nate much time. Easing off the knife, he twisted, gripped the hilt in both hands, and slowly bent until he could slice the rope around his ankles. The razor-sharp steel parted the strands as if they were paper.

  Reversing his grip, Nate sliced the loops securing his wrists. The moment they separated, he was in a crouch and stalking the guard. A glance revealed that Winona and Zach were awake. Their eyes glinted in the starlight. Each of them knew that this was their only chance. They must not fail.

  Nate’s moccasins made no sound on the bare earth. He could hear the vaquero snoring softly. His next move was critical. It must be done swiftly and silently.

  Throwing his left arm around the Mexican’s throat, Nate clamped down, cutting off the guard’s breath and stifling any outcry. Even as his left arm constricted, his right drove the carving knife into the vaquero’s back, the long blade sliding between ribs to pierce the heart.

  It was over astoundingly quick. The guard stiffened, gasped, and was still.

&nbs
p; Neither of the men at the two fires lifted their heads. Of the vaquero by the horses, there was no sign. But no shouts rang out.

  Nate steadied the body, arranging it so it would not slide off to give the illusion all was well. Hurrying to his loved ones, he freed his son, who was nearest, then his wife and daughter.

  Zach was up off the ground in a flash. Gliding to the guard, he helped himself to the man’s personal arsenal. It consisted of two fine pistols, a rifle, a dagger, a powder horn, and an ammo pouch.

  Winona held Evelyn close. The poor child was sluggish and drowsy and might give them away.

  “Here,” Zach whispered, giving his mother a pistol and his pa the rifle.

  Nate was impressed by how competent his son had grown. Motioning for them to stay where they were, he returned to the dead vaquero for two more items they needed. One was the man’s sombrero. Nate also peeled off his jacket.

  “Stay low,” the mountain man reminded his family as he guided them toward the east wall. Slinking from boulder to boulder, always in the deepest darkness, they were not discovered.

  “What now, Pa?” Zach asked.

  “We wouldn’t get very far without mounts,” Nate whispered, giving his beaver hat to his son and donning the wide-brimmed sombrero. It was too small, but by mashing it down he made it stay on. The jacket was also several sizes too little. By slicing the seams at the sides and partway up the back, he could shrug into it. From a distance, he might pass for a vaquero.

  “If something goes wrong, get out while you can,” Nate advised. Shouldering the rifle, he headed for the horse string. Once in the open, he slouched to disguise his height and bulk.

  The guards by the fires had not stirred. A chorus of snores and grunts rose from scattered sleepers. One man muttered in his sleep. Another tossed and turned restlessly.

  Most of the animals also slept. A few raised their heads as Nate came up, but none whinnied or shied. He walked briskly down the line to where the stallion, his wife’s mare, Evelyn’s pony, and Zach’s horse were tethered together.

  “¿Quien es?”

  Nate froze. Shuffling sleepily toward him was the horse guard.

  The man rubbed his beard and yawned. “Estrada, is that you?” he asked in Spanish. “Are you here to relieve me already?”

  “Si,” Nate said to lure him closer. But the guard abruptly realized the trapper was not Estrada, and halted.

  “Wait. Who are you? I have never seen you—”

  With pantherish speed, Nate whirled. The carving knife was almost impossible to see, so fast did it span the six feet between them. There was a thunk, and the vaquero gaped dumbly at the hilt that jutted from his chest. He took a faltering step, lips gaping to yell.

  By then Nate reached him. A brawny hand clamped over the guard’s mouth smothered the alarm. Limply, the vaquero sagged, and Nate slowly lowered the body.

  Some of the horses were agitated. Don Varga’s Arabian was sniffing loudly. Nate prayed it would not catch the scent of blood.

  He untied the stallion first and led it to their hiding place. Every clomp of a hoof was like a peal of thunder to his edgy mind, but none of the sleepers awakened. Handing the reins to Zach, he went back for another animal.

  It took longer doing one at a time. To lead all four at once would make so much noise that someone was bound to hear. The pony was last. Evelyn hugged it and lavished kisses on its neck, whispering, “Are you ready to go home, precious?”

  “Let us go,” Winona said, gripping the mare’s mane.

  “What’s your rush?” Nate asked. Their luck had held so far. Why not a while more? “Come with me,” he said to his son, and padded to where the provisions were piled. Locating the blankets bound by cord was not the challenge he feared it would be. The bundles lay in plain sight, toward the back. Giving one to Zach, he carried the heaviest.

  They started for the east wall. Zach was in the lead, about to pass the last of the horses, when a man sleeping twenty feet away sat up and looked right at them.

  “Keep going,” Nate whispered. Smiling at the Mexican, he stopped and nodded. The man blinked, scratched himself, then sank back down with a low snort and a cough. Nate walked on.

  Now they had their mounts, and they were all armed. “What about our saddles?” Zach asked. His had been a gift from a Shoshone uncle, and he was loath to part with it.

  “We ride,” Nate said. They had tempted fate long enough. Boosting Evelyn onto her pony, he forked the stallion. Riding bareback came as naturally to him as breathing, as it did to all of them.

  Shoshones relied on saddles only for special occasions. Winona had ridden without one from an early age, and she had taught her children to do the same.

  In single file, the Kings headed for the mouth of the gorge. Nate brought up the rear to cover them. He had just flung the sombrero down and was adjusting his beaver hat when the vaquero by the fire nearest to the edge of camp stood and stretched. The man was facing Nate. In the rosy glow, the guard could not help but notice him.

  Recognition jolted the vaquero into action. “Los Americanos!” he bellowed, sweeping his rifle to his shoulder.

  Nate’s shot was a shade sooner. The impact tumbled the vaquero into a row of sleeping forms. Angry yells and lusty curses added to the mass confusion as people stumbled from their blankets groping for weapons.

  “Ride!” Nate bawled, and spurred the stallion into a trot.

  Winona was in the lead. She verified Evelyn was right behind her as they wound southward, the hammering of hooves on the gorge floor echoing off the high walls. At the entrance she reined up to learn which direction her husband intended to go.

  From deep in the defile came jumbled voices and the nicker of horses. Martin was organizing pursuit.

  “This way,” Nate said, bearing to the northeast. Riding in the dark was always a perilous proposition, what with logs and boulders and trees to be avoided, clefts that could swallow horses and riders alike, and more wild beasts than a man could shake a stick at. Nonetheless, they had to do it.

  For more than half an hour they climbed, traversing slope after slope. On a crest dotted by stunted trees, Nate stopped to give their animals a breather. Over a mile below, pinpoints of light flickered, crisscrossing back and forth.

  “They’re using torches to try and track us,” Zach guessed.

  For even the best of frontiersmen, that was a formidable feat. For the Spaniard and his men, who were fair trackers, at best, it was akin to searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack. In a short while the torches converged and headed down the mountain. Martin had given up.

  “We’ve seen the last of them,” Nate predicted. “Martin won’t waste any more time chasing us.”

  The trapper and his family rode on, northward. Nate would not feel completely safe until they were in their secluded valley. Dawn found them on a high ridge. The gorge was visible, a slash in the earth, bathed in shadow.

  “Do we rest a spell, Pa?” Evelyn asked. She was so weary, her eyelids weighed more than her pony. “Please,” she added. “I’m plumb tuckered out.

  To the west and north were wooded slopes. To the east, an aspen grove. It seemed all right, so Nate nodded. Dismounting, he moved to a spur that overlooked the gorge. Tendrils of smoke curled lazily above it. But of Martin and the others, he could see no sign; it was simply too far.

  Zach hopped down and pumped a leg to relieve a mild cramp. He happened to be facing the aspens, so he was the first to spy the grungy riders who filtered out of the trees. “Pa!” he exclaimed, bringing his Hawken up.

  Nate pivoted, afraid that a party of Utes had stumbled on them. But it might have been better if they were Utes. For spreading out into a skirmish line, savage glee rampant, was Jasper Flynt and twelve of the most venomous characters Nate had ever set eyes on. “You!” he blurted.

  Flynt and his men had their rifles resting across their thighs. Some ogled Winona, others smirked and chuckled as they drew to a halt not fifteen feet out.

&
nbsp; “Well, ain’t life grand!” Flynt declared. “Here we were, hidin’ in those aspens yonder, bored to death waitin’ for the Vargas to get done minin’ so we can steal all their gold, and look who wanders by! It’s almost enough to make a body believe in the Almighty.”

  Winona had her finger on the trigger of her rifle. There would be no quarter given, none asked. The outcome, sad to say, was inevitable.

  “So that’s what you’re up to,” Nate said, masking the fear for his family that threatened to render him as weak as a kitten. Angling toward a spot in front of Winona and Evelyn, he remarked, “You’re in for a surprise. Don Varga is dead.”

  Flynt’s eyes narrowed. “What sort of trick are you tryin’ to pull, pup? How’d he die?”

  Nate kept sidling to his left. “Martin. He wants all the gold for himself, the same as you.”

  “Well, I’ll be,” Flynt said. “I reckon that jackass has more gumption than I gave him credit for.”

  “Ignacio and Diego are also dead,” Nate disclosed to keep Flynt talking. “About a third of the vaqueros, too.”

  “You don’t say?” Laughing, Jasper Flynt smacked his leg and glanced at his men. “Did you hear that, boys? Our job just got a heap easier!” He paused. “Thanks for the good news, King. In return, we’ll make this quick and painless. How would that be?”

  Nate stopped, the Hawken in his right hand, his left hovering above a pistol. The cutthroats would come out on top, but they would know they had been in a scrape. Suddenly he noticed that a man on the far left held the lead rope to a familiar white horse. “That’s Shakespeare McNair’s mare!”

  “Sure is,” Flynt confessed. “Seems your mentor didn’t have no more need for it.”

  “You killed him?”

  Flynt chuckled. “Sure did, pup. I hacked off his oysters and made him eat ’em.”

  Just then, from the fringe of the pines to the north, an equally familiar voice hollered, “Liar! Say hello to a ghost, you son of a bitch!”

  Everyone shifted toward the slope. Shakespeare McNair and Blue Water Woman were side by side, arrows notched to drawn bows.