Eric glanced at Nate. “You’re wife is pregnant?”
“Yep.”
The Englishman was speechless. He thought of all the hardships they had endured so far, and how Winona had borne them without uttering a single complaint. In all his life he had never known such exceptional people as these, so strong, so self-reliant. What he wouldn’t give to be one of them! A germ of an idea sprouted in his brain, an idea so breathtaking, so startling, that he had to go sit down to mull it over.
Later, as Diana Templar strolled past him, she wondered why he looked at her and laughed.
Chapter Thirteen
Nate King awakened with a distinct, uneasy feeling that something was wrong. He lay still for half a minute, listening, sorting the sounds to determine if there were any out of the ordinary. A few crickets were chirping. Close by someone was snoring. He heard someone else toss in their sleep. Since the sky was still dark and the first resplendent rays of sunshine would not appear for perhaps half an hour, the birds had not yet commenced with their morning ritual of singing with boisterous abandon.
Slowly Nate rolled over and surveyed the camp through slitted lids, feigning sleep in case hostile eyes were watching. Winona and Zach were slumbering peacefully to his left, Shakespeare off to his right. Not far from Winona slept Diana Templar. Across the charred remains of the fire lay the giant, Jarvis, and Eric Nash. Only Fletcher and the marquis were missing, and they were both on watch.
Nate shifted position again and gazed toward the horses. Or rather, toward where the string of tethered animals should be, because as he faced in that direction he was shocked to see every last horse was gone. Flabbergasted, he looked right and left, unwilling to accept the testimony of his own eyes. Then he sat bolt upright, grabbed the Hawken, and cautiously rose.
Jarvis snorted and mumbled something in his sleep.
Staying low, Nate moved to the cottonwoods fifteen yards away. The first thing he saw was the long, buff-colored rawhide rope that had been stretched between two of the trees now lying on the ground like a stricken snake. It had been cut at both ends. Turning, he walked the length of the rope, trying to make sense of the few tracks plain enough to see in the dim light. That was when he spied the feet.
A pair of black boots was jutting out from behind a nearby thicket.
Dreading what he would find, Nate edged to the thicket. In the dark the large black stain on Fletcher’s chest resembled ink more than it did blood, and the wide slit in Fletcher’s throat resembled another mouth more than it did the fatal cut made by a razor-sharp knife.
Pivoting, Nate sought sign of the marquis. He didn’t raise a cry as yet, because he didn’t know if the Blackfeet were still close at hand; doing so might initiate an attack. Bent at the waist, he crept in a circle around the area where the horses had been tied, and in a patch of high grass he nearly tripped over the body.
William Templar, son of the Duke of Graustark, was on his face in the grass, a pair of arrows sticking from the center of his back.
Nate crouched and gently lifted the marquis a few inches for a better look. There was a big welt on Templar’s forehead, possibly put there by a war club. He touched a finger to William’s neck and was surprised to discover a pulse.
Suddenly, to Nate’s rear, there was a footstep. He whirled, bringing the Hawken to bear, his thumb freezing on the hammer when he saw who it was. “Trying to get yourself killed?” he whispered.
Shakespeare nodded at the marquis. “Did they kill him?”
“He’s still alive but in a bad way.”
“Pity,” Shakespeare whispered, and there was no telling if he meant it was a pity the marquis was still alive or a pity the marquis was in a bad way. “Have you had a look-see all around to make sure they’re gone?”
“Not yet.”
“Then let’s get cracking.”
It didn’t take long thanks to the rapid fading of the night. The horses had been led one at time through the trees to the open prairie, far enough from the camp so the noise wouldn’t be heard when they were herded in a bunch to the northwest.
“They’re clever devils, I’ll say that for them,” Shakespeare remarked, on one knee with a hand running lightly over prints he had found. “They must have brought the horses out one at a time so they could keep the critters quiet. Probably took the better part of an hour.”
“The four I tangled with, you reckon?” Nate asked.
“Hard to tell, but that would be my guess. By now they’re miles off and having a fine laugh at our expense.
“I wonder why they didn’t try to kill us in our sleep.”
“They didn’t want to risk spoiling a good thing. It isn’t every day the Blackfeet can steal pretty near thirty prime horses without shedding a little of their blood in the attempt. Why, when they get back to their village they’ll be hailed as the best damn horse thieves in the whole Blackfoot nation,” Shakespeare said, not without a touch of envy.
“Or there might be another reason,” Nate said gravely.
“Such as there are more of the bastards within a day’s ride or so, and our four friends plan to get the horses to safety, then come back with reinforcements to finish the job?”
“Could be.”
“I had the same notion.” Shakespeare stood and frowned. “This is a hell of a note. Well be picked off like rabbits.”
“Not if I can help it,” Nate vowed.
Together, they carried William Templar back to camp. Jarvis was just waking up, and at his bellowed oath of surprise their whole party was awake and on their feet. Questions were answered, orders issued, and the next hour was a whirlwind of activity.
Shakespeare, by virtue of prior experience, was best qualified to extract the two arrows from between William’s shoulder blades. Diana and Winona assisted. Working carefully, he inserted the tip of his butcher knife, which he had heated until it was red hot in the rekindled fire, into William’s flesh, and pried gingerly at the shafts and the arrowheads. The heads were his main worry since they were designed to come loose in the victim’s body once the sinews used to fasten the barbed points to the shafts were loosened by warm blood.
Few greenhorns or Easterners realized it, but over half of all arrow wounds where a vital organ was spared, as was the case with William, resulted in death from infection or the poison Indians sometimes liberally applied to the arrowheads. The Blackfeet, Shakespeare knew, were partial to dipping their arrows into dead animals or coating the points with rattlesnake venom, but he had no way of telling if these had been.
It was with exquisite care that the seasoned mountain man dug and prodded and tugged until at long last he succeeded in removing the first shaft intact. Winona mopped Shakespeare’s brow as he applied the knife to the second arrow. A pale Diana Templar wiped the blood that trickled out of the wound off her brother’s fair skin.
Meanwhile, Jarvis was busy burying Fletcher. Since the others were all busy with pressing needs that had to be accomplished before the Blackfeet returned, he alone stood over the shallow grave, bowed his huge head, and said softly, “So long, mate. You were a right upstanding lad who kept to himself and never used bad language. You were always decent to the birds, and kind to children. I never knew you to get your knickers in a twist, not once.” He paused to cough. “I’m not one of God’s own, so I don’t know quite what else to say except I hope you reach those Pearly Gates.”
During the burial, Nate, Zach, and Eric Nash were occupied with hastily preparing a cache for the supplies they would be unable to take with them now that they were deprived of their horses. A case of extra rifles, spare ammunition, and black powder and various other provisions had to be hidden so the Blackfeet couldn’t get their hands on so much plunder. Since they lacked proper digging utensils, they had to make do with broken branches and flat stones, scooping and rooting and excavating as best they were able until they had a roughly oval pit into which they placed everything. The dirt was heaped back on top, then leaves and bits of broken limbs were
gathered from under the trees and strewn on top of the dirt.
When they were finished, Nate stepped back and critically inspected their handiwork. To a casual observer the cache was not readily noticeable. An alert Blackfoot might notice some irregularities and poke around the spot, but that couldn’t be helped. He went to the fire, arriving just as Shakespeare, with a cry of joy, removed the second shaft.
“Did you get both heads out?” Nate asked.
“Sure did. I’ll cauterize him while you rig up a litter.”
“Cauterize?” Diana Templar said, watching King and the other two walk off. “How do you propose to do that, may I ask?”
“Watch and learn, little lady,” Shakespeare answered. With a quick snap of his wrists, he broke the arrow off below the point and tossed the head aside. Then, turning, his hand curled around the owl feather fletching, he held the broken end out and let the fire lap at the wood. Soon the tip of the shaft was in flames. Then, with a quick motion, he swung around to the marquis, braced one hand beside the two wounds, and inserted the flaming tip into one of the holes.
“Oh, my God!” Diana exclaimed, covering her nose and her mouth with her hand when the pungent odor of burning flesh assailed her. She saw her brother twist and groan, but he didn’t revive.
Working methodically, Shakespeare repeated the procedure with the other wound, searing the openings shut and stopping the bleeding. With a sigh he threw the arrow from him and slowly stood. “There you go, ma’am. If his brain isn’t addled by the blow he received, and if there wasn’t poison on those arrowheads, and if the wounds don’t get infected, he should recover.”
“Dear William,” Diana said, tenderly resting her hand on his hot cheek. “I fear he has the beginning of a fever.”
“Check him now and then,” Shakespeare advised. “If it gets worse, then he’s infected and we’ll have to take special steps to pull him through.”
“I can’t thank you enough.”
“Don’t thank me yet. We’re not out of the woods yet,” Shakespeare said. He hurried to where Nate and the others were constructing a crude litter. “Need a hand?”
“Join in,” Nate said as he delivered a stroke of his tomahawk to a slender sapling. In short order he had a half dozen, and these, in combination with a pair of long, straight, stout limbs that Shakespeare collected and a sufficient quantity of rawhide cord brought by Zach, enabled him to have the litter put together before the sun cleared the eastern horizon.
Blankets and a robe were piled on the litter, then William Templar was placed on top of them and another robe was thrown over him to keep him warm. Jarvis and Eric Nash offered to carry the marquis during the early going.
Nate had everyone pack along as many parfleches as they could comfortably carry. Cords were looped to the bags so they could sling the parfleches over their shoulders and thus leave their hands free to meet whatever emergency might arise. Everyone had a rifle. Everyone had two pistols, even the women and Zach. Everyone brought along a powder horn and an ammo pouch.
In single file they marched to the northeast, staying close to the Yellowstone River where there was plenty of cover. Nate walked at the forefront, Shakespeare brought up the rear. They maintained a brisk pace, aware they might not have much time to put as much distance as they could between their camp and themselves. If the Blackfeet did come back in force, they had to be far away.
The sun climbed steadily higher. The river widened, leading Shakespeare to announce, “We’re near the junction!” Midday found them at the point where the Yellowstone merged with the bigger Missouri, and here the combined river widened even more as it flowed eastward across the plains.
Nate called a halt. Hard biscuits were passed out. Munching on his, he knelt by the litter and held his palm to William Templar’s damp brow; the skin was hot enough to melt butter. “His fever is much worse,” he declared.
“What do we do?” Diana asked anxiously. “He needs rest. I don’t think we should move him until the fever goes down.”
“We can’t stop yet,” Nate responded, and glanced at Winona. “Well have to keep our eyes peeled for any roots or plants that will help.”
“And acorns,” Winona reminded him.
“What good can they do?” Diana asked.
Nate answered her. “You take a couple of handfuls and boil them for a few hours. The water helps fight infection.” He scanned the nearest vegetation. “But I haven’t seen any oak trees hereabouts.”
“Please don’t let him die. He means everything to me.”
“We’ll do what we can,” Nate promised. Rising, he walked back to where Shakespeare stood, studying the country they had traversed, and said in a low voice so none of the others would overhear, “What about Fort Union?”
Established in 1828 as a trading post by the American Fur Company, Fort Union was situated on the north bank of the Missouri about three miles above the convergence with the Yellowstone. Manned by trappers and visited regularly by friendly Indians, it was the only refuge within hundreds of miles.
“I thought about that,” Shakespeare responded. “But those ornery Blackfeet would expect for us to head there and they might be waiting somewhere along the way. They might not even have gone back to our camp.”
“True,” Nate said. “Maybe one of us should go for help then. We’d stand the best chance of eluding them.”
“And leave just three men to watch over the women, your boy, and the royal pain in the hind end?”
“You go. I’ll stay.”
“If you sure that’s what you want. But keep in mind it’ll take me the better part of the day to get there, what with having to watch out for the Blackfeet every step of the way and then having to swim the damn river. And I’m not much of a swimmer. The earliest I could possibly make it back would be sometime tomorrow, probably late tomorrow at that.”
Nate hesitated. If Shakespeare was right about the Blackfeet guessing their intent, then chances were slim his friend would reach the fort. Besides that, with Shakespeare gone the burden of responsibility for taking care of the others fell on his shoulders alone, and he could hardly lead them and keep an eye on their back trail at the same time.
“If you want my opinion,” Shakespeare said, sensing Nate’s indecision, “we should just keep on going. Pretty soon we’ll be close to Mandan country, and the Blackfeet will think twice before following us that far. The Mandans and them have been feuding for years.”
“But the marquis—”
“Which is more important, his life or the lives of the rest of us? Because I feel it in my gut that if we head for Fort Union, the Blackfeet will sure as blazes cut us off.”
The decision had to be made quickly. Nodding, Nate returned to the head of the line and gestured for them to head out. He hugged the shoreline, his eyes lingering often on the north shore on the off chance that other Blackfeet might appear, spot his small party, and ride along the opposite side until they were far ahead, then cross and wait in ambush. No Indians appeared, although several animals showed themselves on his side: white-tailed deer, rabbits, a weasel, and a beaver out in the water.
At the rear of the little group Shakespeare constantly stopped to scour the land behind them. Sooner or later the Blackfeet would appear; he knew it as surely as he did the sun would set that evening and rise the next day. If his hunch was correct and they were lying in wait near the fort, eventually it would occur to those buzzards that they had blundered and their quarry wasn’t coming. They’d head for the camp, pick up the trail, and practically kill their horses catching up. He had to spot the warriors early enough to give his companions time to conceal themselves. If he was negligent, the Blackfeet might be on them before they could get off a shot.
Toward the middle of the afternoon Nate called another halt to check on William Templar. The marquis was worse off, his fever consuming him like a wildfire. Diana held her brother’s head in her lap while Winona let some cold water trickle down his parched throat. All William did was mum
ble and toss his head every so often as if in the throes of delirium.
As Nate stood silently observing, Shakespeare came up to him.
“You know, son, I’ve been using my noggin, and it’s occurred to me that we’re going about this all wrong.”
“How do you figure?”
Shakespeare smiled and wagged his rifle at the Missouri River, which had broadened until it was close to a mile wide. “We’d make better time and leave no tracks at all if we took to the water.”
“Sure. We’ll sprout feathers and pretend we’re ducks.”
“Mercutio it was and Mercutio it still is.”
“What?”
“I have two words for you,” Shakespeare said, smiling craftily. “Bull boats.”
Nate reacted as if someone had smacked him with the flat of a tomahawk. He recoiled, glanced at the river, then at McNair, and a matching smile creased his mouth. “We’d only need two if we crammed everyone in real tight.”
“That’s right. And have you noticed the willow trees we’ve been passing for the better part of an hour?”
Elation and hope pumped through Nate’s veins. They just might make it! Except for one little hitch. “We haven’t seen any buffalo in a long time.”
“Then it behooves us to keep our eyes peeled.”
“Behooves?”
“Sometimes, young sir, your ignorance is appalling. Get thee to a nunnery.”
“A what?” Nate responded, thinking that his friend couldn’t possibly have said what Nate thought he just said.
“Give a yell if you see any,” Shakespeare replied, and cackling like a madman he strolled to the end of the line once again.
They made slower progress once their journey was resumed. Everyone was fatigued. Jarvis held up well despite having borne the litter for so many hours, but Eric Nash faltered and kept stumbling, so Nate took his place until the blazing sun perched on the western rim of the earth.
In a secluded clearing they camped, positioning the litter near the river so water could be conveniently brought to William at regular intervals. The fire was kept low. Nate took the first watch, Shakespeare the second, Jarvis the third, and Eric Nash the watch prior to daylight.
Season of the Warrior (A Wilderness Giant Edition Western Book 2) Page 15
