Nate leaned on the wall and surveyed the grim faces turned toward him. “If any of us go rushing on out there, we won’t last two minutes. We’d be playing right into their hands.”
“Look!” someone cried. “What’s the Absaroka up to?”
Little Soldier had moved to Wagner’s side and was rummaging through the trapper’s possibles bag. Evidently not finding what he wanted, he stuck a hand into Wagner’s ammo pouch and drew out a strip of tan cloth Wagner used either to clean his guns or for making wads. Little Soldier flapped it a few times, said something to the Blackfoot, and handed over his rifle. Next, the Crow waved the cloth overhead while slowly advancing twenty feet toward the post. “I want truce!” he hollered. “I want talk Grizzly Killer!”
Allen scowled. “Curse his bones! That polecat knows our ways too damn well.” He glanced at Nate. “You’re not going to go, are you?”
In response, Nate gave the Tennessean his Hawken.
“You could be making a mistake,” Allen advised. “He might want to get you out there so the Blackfoot can pick you up.”
“More likely he wants to gloat.” Nate bent to the ladder.
“Keep me covered as best you can.”
At the bottom waited Winona, Evelyn at her side. Nate steeled himself as he descended. “Before you say a word,” he said, “I have it to do.” Winona had heard the Absarokas shout. Searing claws of pure fear slashed at her heart, and she brazenly pressed up against her man and kissed him full on the lips before replying, “I know, husband. Come back to me.”
Four mountaineers were ready to open the gate. Nate nodded and slipped out when they had it open just enough for him to do so. “No wider,” he cautioned. “Be ready to shut it if I get cut off.”
“Will do, Captain,” a trapper said.
Little Soldier was still waving his flag of truce. On spying Nate, he lowered it and grinned broadly. “I knew you come, white man!” Pointing at his waist, he rotated to show that the only weapons he had were a knife and a tomahawk.
“No guns, Grizzly Killer! Savvy?”
Reluctantly, Nate pulled his twin flintlocks and turned to pass them to one of the men. Instead, Winona was there, hands outstretched. Their fingers brushed, and she conveyed more by the look in her eyes than most folks could have expressed in an entire book.
“Come on, Grizzly Killer!” Little Soldier taunted. “Are you afraid face me?”
Nate threw his shoulders back, lingered a moment to brand his wife’s face into the depths of his soul, then headed across the valley. Twenty feet from the fort, he stopped. “Halfway, you coyote!” he shouted. “Prove you’re not the coward everyone thinks you are and meet me halfway!”
It was a calculated gamble on Nate’s part. He was hoping that the Crow wouldn’t want to appear yellow in front of the Confederacy. Should Little Soldier insist that he go all the way, he had no choice but to comply; he wouldn’t put it past Little Soldier to carve on the captives if he refused.
The wily Absaroka hesitated. He glanced at the rows of warriors behind him, at those to the east and west of the fort, and seemed to take courage from their numbers as well as the bows and fusees they had trained in Nate’s general direction. “I come, white dog!” he cried, striding forward.
A tingle shot down Nate’s Spine. In light of what he had in mind, it was hard to maintain a show of calm as he also advanced. To give the impression that he posed no threat, he held his arms out from his sides.
Nate tried not to think of all the weapons fixed on him. One false move, and the warriors would unleash a hailstorm of lead and shafts. He adopted a smirk that matched die Crow’s and came to a stop when they were only ten feet apart.
“Surprised, white dog?” Little Soldier asked.
“That I am,” Nate confessed. “I’ve never talked to a dead man before.”
Little Soldier’s brow knit and he warily started to back off.
“I saw you taken by the Bloods,” Nate hastily explained, “in a gorge east of the Bitterroots.”
The Crow opened his mouth wide and covered it with a hand, a typical Indian expression of amazement. “You were there!” he bleated at length.
“When you were knocked out, I figured that was the end of you,” Nate said, taking a casual step with his arms still hiked.
A gleeful cackle burst from Little Soldier. “Any other man die. Not me! I too smart for Bloods. I make deal for life.”
“What sort of deal could you possibly make?” Nate started to quiz the warrior when in a rush of insight he perceived the Crow’s strategy. It had been a bold gambit that confirmed the Absarokas intense hatred. “You came all this way to enlist the Blackfoot Confederacy’s help in doing what your own people refused to do? You offered to lead the Bloods and their allies to our fort in exchange for your life?”
Little Soldier was tickled. “I know maybe I die. But I never rest, never stop, until Grizzly Killer and all his people be dead.”
Nate took another pace. “I’m impressed,” he said to distract his enemy while sliding his leg forward yet again. “It was a stroke of genius on your part.”
“Genius?” Little Soldier repeated.
“It was very smart of you,” Nate clarified. He was now only six feet from the warrior. “Few men would have the grit to do what you did.”
The flattery had an effect. The Crow puffed up and put his hands on his hips. “Look around you, white man! Plenty warriors! Soon you and all in wooden lodge be dead.”
One last step brought Nate close enough to suit him. “Maybe so,” he said, “but I’ll have the satisfaction of seeing you die before we do.” He lowered a hand to his tomahawk.
Little Soldiers eyelids fluttered. “You crazy, white dog? You be killed before you reach friends.” He laughed a forced, nervous cackle that revealed how deeply afraid he had suddenly become.
“If I put an end to you, it will be worth it,” Nate said, continuing to smile and hold one arm out so the onlooking Blackfeet, Piegans, and Bloods wouldn’t suspect that anything was amiss.
The Crow’s throat bobbed. “Hold on, Grizzly killer!” he said, shoving both hands toward Nate as if to ward off a blow. “Touch me, friends die!” He jabbed at the captive trio to accent his point.
“You aim to kill them anyway,” Nate said harshly. “There is nothing I can do to save them. I might as well make sure that you never make life as miserable for anyone else as you have for us.” He inched the tomahawk upward.
The Crow was stupefied. He began to back up, placing each foot carefully. The cloth fluttered at his feet. “Know this!” he hissed. “Many more Blackfeet soon be here. Your family die for sure! Kill me, you not be here to help them!”
“So be it,” Nate declared, and sprang, the tomahawk glittering in the bright sunlight as he took a single bound and drove the keen edge at the crown of Little Soldier’s head with all the might in his sinews.
The blow should have split the Absarokas head like a pumpkin. But at the exact instant that the mountain man leapt, Little Soldier whirled to flee and tripped over his own two feet. Sprawling onto his side, he scrambled to get out of reach.
Nate closed in. It was then that the hostile warriors surged to life. Fusees boomed. Bow strings twanged. Nate paid them no heed. Lunging, he swung at the Crow’s midsection. This time his tomahawk was deflected by Little Crow’s. The warrior pushed up into a crouch and tried to take Nate off at the knees. Backpedaling, Nate blocked, countered, and was foiled once more.
Little Soldier was gaining confidence. Rising, he feinted to the right, pretended to go left, and went right. His tomahawk came within a hair’s width of opening Nate’s gut from hip to hip.
Nate drew back his arm as an arrow thudded into the soil close to his foot. Another missed the Crow by less. Startled, Little Soldier glanced at the warriors and shouted in his own tongue. The distraction permitted Nate to glide in and aim a vicious swing at the Absarokas neck.
Little Soldier, sneering in contempt, threw himself rearwa
rd. He was still sneering when the blade bit into his flesh, still sneering when it sheared through to his backbone, still sneering when his head flopped back onto his shoulders and a scarlet geyser spewed from the nearly severed stump.
In a flash, Nate spun and sprinted toward the post. Only at that moment did he realize hundreds of savage throats were roaring in outrage and that the brigade members were urging him on with yells and shrieks. The din was almost enough to mask the pop of fusees and the zing of arrows. Balls spattered all around him as he flew toward safety. Spinning shafts came close to making the Crow’s boast come true.
Nate stared at the gate, refusing to dwell on how much ground he had to cover to get there. He simply ran like a madman.
The gate was still open, and Winona appeared, beckoning, imploring. The next moment she pointed to the east and shouted, but he couldn’t hear the words. Not that he needed to. A quick look revealed a cluster of warriors hurrying to intercept him. They were swift like deer, and Nate knew that he couldn’t possibly reach the post before they did. Armed as he was with just his tomahawk and knife, they’d cut him down with ease.
Rifles poked over the posts above the gate, Hawkens and Kentuckys crowned by bearded faces that were fixed intently on the sights at the ends of their guns. Henry Allen was one, and at a bellow from him, seven muzzles spat lead and smoke.
Seven of the charging Indians dropped. The rest faltered, recovered, and ran on. Another volley dropped six of them, four to never rise again. The others were severely wounded and needed assistance to get out of there.
Nate could see the whites of his wife’s eyes. They widened in joy as he covered the last thirty feet. Arrows whisked past him, a few imbedding themselves in the fort.
Lead smacked into the gate near Winona but she never flinched. Her own safety was of no concern when her man was in danger. She waited until he reached her, threw her arms around his heaving chest, and drew him into Fort Ashworth just as a hail of hostile fire peppered the wall on either side.
Four trappers slammed the gate shut. Nate sagged against it to catch his breath. The aroma of his wife’s hair and the pulsing throb of her body against his were too exquisite for words. “For a bit there, I didn’t reckon I’d make it,” he commented.
“If I had known what you were going to do, I would have gone with you,” Winona said, her cheek on his arm. “We have been together too many winters to be separated now. It is fitting that we pass on side by side.”
Nate begged to differ. What about their children? he was going to ask. But their talk was nipped in the bud when he heard someone call his name. The Tennessean was waving for him to come up. He hustled onto the parapet.
The fallen warriors were gone. The wounded and dead had been carried into the trees, with a notable exception. Little Soldier had been left where he had dropped.
A council was being held. The tall Blackfoot and several warriors from each tribe were seated in a circle near where Wagner and the other two mountain men were tied.
“They’ll go after the stock next,” Allen said.
“We have a bigger problem,” Nate informed him. “The Crow told me that more Blackfeet are on the way.”
“How many? How soon will they get here?”
“I’d give my right arm to know,” Nate said. Their small outfit might be able to hold out until Jenks and Thomas arrived, but not if the 200 warriors already there were reinforced by just as many, if not more. “Spread the word. Let everyone know that we’ll be making a break for it before too long.”
“Will do.”
Nate scanned the compound and realized practically every last person was watching him, awaiting his command. In the crisis, they had turned to the one man they believed capable of saving them. It wasn’t the greenhorn, who was nowhere to be seen. It wasn’t the Sicilian, who although as powerful as a buffalo had only fought Indians once before. And it wasn’t any of the other mountaineers, whose experience rivaled his but not their ability to make critical decisions on the spur of the moment. Nate had to accept that, live or die, the fate of dozens rested solely on his shoulders.
Gripping the rail, Nate issued directions. The woman and children were told to gather up whatever they wanted to take along, so long as it would fit into a parfleche. The men were divided up evenly between the four walls and instructed to help themselves to an additional rifle from the room Ashworth had dubbed the armory.
As everyone hustled to obey, Richard Ashworth came from his quarters. He walked a tad unsteadily thanks to the jug he had polished off a while ago, but he judged himself in full possession of his faculties. Adjusting his cape so that the frills on his white shirt caught the sunlight, he moved into the open. “Mr. King, a word with you, if you please!” he demanded in his most official tone.
Nate had more important matters to attend to, but he went down one more time. Prudently, he got in the first word to forestall useless questioning. “Booshway, you’d best grab your possibles and get set to head out. We leave in five minutes.”
“We what?” Ashworth said, incredulous. Drawing himself up to his full height, he looked around at the people scurrying every which way, and went as white as a sheet of paper. “Are you demented?” he snapped. “Haven’t I made it clear enough to you how much I have invested in this venture? We’re not going anywhere!”
“Yes, we are,” Nate said with finality. “More Blackfeet are coming, probably a lot more. By tonight there could be five hundred out there, even a thousand.”
Ashworth gestured at the high walls. “We can hold off twice that number.”
“Never in a million years.” Nate minced no words. “Not with over half our brigade dead or missing. Unless we leave right away, the rest of us, including all the women and the children, will be butchered or taken prisoner and made to suffer in ways you can’t even imagine. Do you want that?”
“No, of course not,” Ashworth said, resentful of being manipulated. “But we still can’t go. I absolutely forbid it!”
“Then you stay if you want,” Nate said. He shifted to dash off and find his family when a hand the size of a grizzly’s paw closed on his wrist.
“Hold it right there,” Emilio said. He had listened to the two men, and he had no idea which one was right. But he did know which one the Brothers expected him to obey. “If Mr. Ashworth says no one is to go, then no one will.”
Nate had to resist an impulse to smash the giant in the mouth. He met the Sicilian’s troubled gaze. “I may not like you much, but I credited you with more sense than this. Do you want to be killed, mister? Because you will. If we don’t skedaddle while we can, we’ll be wiped out.”
Emilio wavered. There was no denying the mountain man’s sincerity. Nor could he deny that it would be pointless for him to die when there was nothing to be gained by his sacrifice. Easing his grip, he said, “Very well. We will be ready to leave when you are.”
“What?” Ashworth screamed. “Has everyone here gone stark, raving mad? You’re supposed to do as I want, imbecile! Not as this trapper dictates!”
Nate didn’t-stay to hear the Sicilian’s reply. He reached his quarters as Winona, Zach, and Evelyn were emerging. His wife and son each had two bulging parfleches.
“It is the best we can do,” Winona said. She regretted having to leave so many of their possessions behind. One of their heavy buffalo robes, in particular, she had spent days making. Yet she would gladly do without if it meant her loved ones would live.
Nate grasped her hand and headed for the north wall. Unknown to the Blackfeet and their allies, only the stock animals and spares were held in the corral attached to the outside of the fort. The personal mounts of every man, woman, and grown child were penned in a makeshift stable at the rear of the post.
Ashworth had raised a stink about it, but Nate had insisted. He’d learned his lesson well from his adopted people. Shoshone warriors routinely brought their most prized horses into their lodges to keep them from being stolen by marauding enemies.
Nate’s foresight might just save dozens. He lowered a pair of rails and moved in among the milling animals. Locating the black stallion was simple since it was one of the biggest in the pen.
Winona’s mare and his son’s bay took a little longer. As he saddled all three, other mountaineers set to work imitating his example.
Nate was acutely conscious of the time factor. Everything had to be just right, or the war party would cut them off. Guiding his wife and children to a spot near the front gate, he paused to hug Winona and say, “No matter what happens, remember I’ve always loved you.” Then he ran to where Henry Allen and a handful of men were loading rifles and flintlocks.
“Have all the women and kids in the middle,” Nate said to the Southerner. “Watch for my signal.”
“You can count on me.”
Nate’s next task brought him to the parapet on the north wall. The five mountaineers manning it acted relieved to see him, but they balked when he gave his order.
“You want us to do what?” one said.
“Abandon your post and get ready to ride out,” Nate said again.
“But what about the stock?” the same man protested, indicating the huge herd that filled the outer corral. Beyond it, scores of warriors had gathered. “Those vermin will run the horses off any second now, and we’re the only ones who can stop them.”
“We want them to run the herd off,” Nate said, much to their astonishment, and shooed the men down the ladder.
By Nate’s reckoning, most of the war party would take part in stealing the horses since every warrior would want to get his hands on one or two. Relatively few of the Confederacy would stay on the south side of the fort, which would leave the lower portion of the valley wide open once he broke through them.
That was Nate’s plan, anyway. He saw that more and more Indians were showing up every second in the trees nearest the corral, and he hurried to the southwest bastion to inform the pair of sentries that they were to get ready to ride out. Neither objected.
The compound was awhirl with activity. Mounts were being saddled, parfleches and saddlebags were being thrown on, items not needed were being discarded, women were collecting their offspring, men were lining up horses in an orderly file.
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