Wilderness Double Edition #10

by David Robbins

  The slim blade imbedded itself in the base of the man’s throat. Squealing, the trapper clutched in a panic at the hilt and wrenched. The blade popped free. A scarlet geyser followed it, pouring onto the grass at the man’s feet.

  Brule didn’t give the man another look. He concentrated on reaching the last trapper before the white man could draw a pistol. His arm arched in an overhand blow that brought the tomahawk streaking down at the trapper’s head but the man was too fast for him and dodged aside while simultaneously drawing a flintlock.

  Spinning, Brule slashed sideways. The tomahawk clipped the pistol a glancing blow, just enough to deflect the barrel at the very instant the man squeezed the trigger. There was a loud blast and the ball went wide.

  The trapper speared a hand at his other pistol. Brule leaped in close and swung again. This time he connected, but not with the man’s face, as he wanted. The tomahawk’s keen edge bit into the trapper’s arm above the wrist and sliced the hand clean off.

  Uttering a scream of pure terror, the last trapper tried to flee. Brule was on the man in two bounds. He swung the tomahawk a final time and was splattered with gore when it split the trapper’s head like a soft melon. The man pitched forward, limp and lifeless.

  Brule turned to check on the one he had wounded in the jugular. The man had tottered a few feet toward the horses and fallen to his knees. Blood gushed and gushed, soaking the trappers buckskins and the soil. Brule stepped over and raised the tomahawk on high.

  The trapper twisted, eyes wide in stark terror. He managed to croak a few words in his strange tongue, red spittle flecking his lips.

  There was a loud crunch as the tomahawk split the man’s forehead wide open. Brule let the white man sag, then braced a foot on his chest and tugged on the haft. The blade came loose with a sucking sound.

  Brule had to work swiftly. He wiped the tomahawk clean on the dead man’s leggings, then tucked it under his own. A glance at the shelf showed Lassiter and the rest galloping down the slope, drawn by the shot.

  Quickly Brule dashed to the lean-to and claimed his prize. The blade gleamed brightly; the bejeweled hilt sparkled and shimmered. Brule stripped the bearded man of a large sheath, discarded his own, and strapped on the new one. Into it he slid his new weapon.

  Taking his old knife in hand, Brule scalped the former owner. In turn, he scalped the other two, and was just rising with all three dripping trophies in hand when Earl Lassiter rode into the clearing and drew rein.

  The men muttered among themselves. Cano appeared most displeased. Lassiter looked around, a scowl indicating his state of mind.

  “It would have been better if you had waited for us.”

  Brule ignored the remark, delivered in curt sign. Discarding the old knife, he hastened around behind the lean-to and retrieved his rifle. Only when he could shoot the first one who lifted a finger against him did he swing toward the angry men.

  “I wanted you to wait,” Lassiter signed.

  Brule deposited the scalps on the lean-to so he could respond. “I had to kill them,” he signed.

  “Did they spot you?” Lassiter asked.

  “No,” Brule signed.

  “Did they hear you then?” Lassiter asked. “Why did you have to slay them?”

  To answer honestly would invite trouble, so Brule elected not to reply. Instead he stuffed the scalps into a parfleche he carried slung over his chest. The whites took to chattering like chipmunks, snapping at one another. It was clear they were extremely upset. He observed them on the sly, ready to defend himself if need be.

  Eventually Lassiter shrugged and pointed at the rifles and pistols belonging to the trappers, then at the packs. Everyone dismounted except the breed and commenced sorting through the plunder.

  Brule came out from behind the lean-to and watched. He had no interest in the booty. He already had the only item he wanted.

  Just then Cano kneed his bay closer and stared hard at Brule’s waist. He said something that aroused the interest of all the whites.

  “Where did you get that knife?” Lassiter signed.

  Again Brule chose not to reply. He would not let Lassiter lord it over him. He was free to do as he wanted whenever he wanted, and he was accountable to no man, least of all a white man.

  Cano chirped at the others, using many angry gestures. Bear spoke, then Dixon. Cano shook his head, growing madder and madder. At length he addressed Lassiter and the two of them argued for a minute.

  Brule could see that the breed was urging Lassiter to act but Lassiter appeared reluctant. He kept his own features as impassive as the smooth face of a cliff.

  Earl Lassiter gazed at the new sheath, then at Brule. “The breed is upset and I do not blame him. As leader of this band, I have the right to pass out the spoils as I want to. And I promised him that he could have the first choice of weapons the next time. He has been wanting a new rifle for some time.”

  “I did not take a rifle,” Brule signed.

  “I know,” Lassiter signed. “But you did take that knife. And now Cano wants it.” He paused and mustered a patently fake smile. “So why not make everyone happy and give it to him? You can always get another later.”

  “I want this one.”

  “Have you been paying attention? Cano wants it too. And since he has every right to it, I am afraid you have no choice but to hand it over.”

  “There is one other choice.”

  “Which is?” Lassiter asked.

  Brule’s answer was to snap his rifle up and plant a ball smack between Cano’s greedy eyes.

  Six

  Nate King had to hand it to Bill Zeigler. The old trapper had guided them unerringly over some of the roughest terrain in the mountains to the valley where Jeremiah Sawyer lived with his Crow wife.

  Old Bill had done it all from memory. He knew the location of every prominent peak, pass, mountain, and vale. He’d tell them to be on the lookout for such and such a landmark, and sure enough, they’d spot it just when he said they should.

  “Now look for some pines to the north,” Zeigler said as they entered the valley. “His lodge will be there.”

  Zach poked a finger in the air. “Over yonder are a bunch of pines. Want me to go on ahead, Pa, and let Mr. Sawyer know we’re coming?”

  He had met Jeremiah Sawyer on several occasions and rated him the nicest trapper in the Rockies next to his own father. He was also quite fond of Sawyer’s oldest daughter, Beth, and couldn’t wait to see her again.

  “Go ahead, son,” Nate said. “Just hail the lodge before you go riding up to it so Jeremiah doesn’t mistake you for a Blackfoot.”

  Giddy with excitement, Zach galloped toward the pines. He sorely missed having others his age to be with. If there was any one drawback to living in the mountains, it was the lack of company that came calling and the all-too-few times the family went visiting.

  During the summer they always spent time with the Shoshones, and Zach loved every minute of it. He was half Indian, after all. His mother’s culture was part and parcel of his being. Except for his blue eyes, which he got from his pa, he could pass for a Shoshone anywhere, anytime.

  To Zach’s regret, he’d had little to do with his father’s people. Trappers, yes, but they were hardly typical of the people back in the States, as his father had pointed out many times. Nate kept promising that one day they would make the long trek to New York City so Zach could see where his pa had been born and bred, but so far an opportunity hadn’t presented itself.

  Beth Sawyer had often expressed the same wish. She yearned to visit the States, to see how folks back there lived. Zach and her had talked it over endlessly.

  Now, as Zach came to a clearing, he beamed happily, eager for a glimpse of Beth. But all he saw was the charred ruin of a lodge. Shocked, he reined up.

  Somewhere, sparrows twittered. In the distance a hawk screeched. All Zach had eyes and ears for was the clearing. Nudging the paint forward, he stopped beside a stump and slid down.

  Zach
had seen similar sights too many times in his brief life. He swallowed a lump that formed in his throat as he imagined sweet Beth and her younger sister, Claire, being brutally slain by hostiles.

  The soft tread of a stealthy footstep behind Zach made him realize his mistake. Instead of staying alert he had permitted his mind to drift. Fearing he was about to be killed by those responsible for the deaths of the Sawyers, he spun, or tried to. He wasn’t halfway around when something slammed into the middle of his back, knocking him onto his hands and knee.

  Racked by pain, Zach nonetheless threw himself to the right, rolling onto his back and making a play for the pistol his father had given him for his last birthday.

  Zach’s hand had barely closed on the smooth wood butt when a foot rammed into his sternum. The breath whooshed from his lungs. For a few seconds his vision spun. When it cleared, he found himself staring up at an awful apparition that resembled a man he knew and respected.

  It was Jeremiah Sawyer. A leather patch covered his left eye, attached by a thong looped around his head, while his right eye blazed with inner light. His hair was disheveled and matted with dirt. A deep scar marred his left cheek. In his hands he held a wooden club. His leggings were tom, his moccasins in tatters, and there was a bullet hole in his left thigh.

  “Mr. Sawyer?” Zach croaked. “It’s me, sir. Zachary King. Don’t you remember me?”

  The man whom Zach felt was most like his own father blinked and slowly lowered the club. “Zach?” he rasped, his skin pallid. “Is that really you, boy?”

  “Yes, sir,” Zach said, wheezing as he tried to breathe again. “My folks are with me too. Are you all right, sir?”

  “All right?” Jeremiah said and did an odd thing. He laughed long and loud, a strident, wavering sort of laugh that no normal person would ever make.

  The crash of horses coming through the brush emboldened Zach to sit up. He saw the stunned disquiet on the faces of his folks and thought he should explain. “I forgot to hail. He didn’t know it was me.”

  Nate merely nodded. He could see his son was unharmed. Sliding from the stallion, he stared at the blackened circle where the lodge had stood and beyond it at three graves crowned by crude crosses. The very calamity that he had always dreaded would strike his own family had felled that of his good friend. He put a hand on Sawyer’s shoulder. “Jeremiah?”

  The other man averted his sole eye and voiced a low, pathetic whine. He coughed a few times, then looked up, his haggard features a shadow of their former healthy hue. “Nice to see you again, Nate.”

  “Have a seat,” Nate said. “We’ll fix coffee and a bite to eat. You look half starved.”

  “I reckon I am,” Jeremiah said. He sank onto the stump and placed the club between his legs. “I can’t quite recollect when I ate a full meal last. I know it’s been two weeks or better since—” He broke off to swallow and lick his lips.

  “If you’d rather not talk about it, that’s fine,” Nate said. “For now, just rest.”

  Winona and Old Bill had climbed from their horses. Sawyer seemed not to notice them. His good eye fixed on something in the distance, something only he could see. “It’s never enough, is it?” he said softly. “No matter how hard we try, it’s never enough.”

  “How do you mean?” Nate asked, but received no response. He exchanged knowing glances with Winona, who gave the cradleboard to Zach so she could get a fire going that much sooner.

  Old Bill squatted by the stump. “Jeremiah? It’s me, your good pard. Don’t you recognize me?”

  Sawyer blinked a few times. “Bill? You’re here too? Well, isn’t this something? All my friends are showing up. How did you hear?”

  “Hear?”

  “About my wife and my precious sweethearts? About the murdering sons of bitches who killed them and nearly killed me. I’m going to get them, Bill. You watch. No matter how long it takes, no matter what I have to do, I’m going to find them and make them pay.” Jeremiah absently turned toward the horses and gave a start. “Look! Just what I need! Did you bring them for me? I can’t thank you enough.”

  The next instant the apparition was on his feet, stepping toward the stallion.

  “If you want to tag along, you’re welcome. But we’re not stopping until we find them. We’ll eat in the saddle, sleep in the saddle. If the horses drop dead, we’ll find others.”

  Nate darted between his friend and the animals. “Hold on, Jeremiah,” he said kindly, putting a hand on the man’s chest. “You’re not going anywhere right this minute. You need food; you need some sleep. And we have to talk.”

  Sawyer’s features clouded and his spine went rigid. “Get out of my way, Nate. I can’t afford any more delays. Those butchers have a lot to answer for.”

  “You’re not leaving,” Nate said.

  It was as plain as the nose on his face that his friend was extremely upset, so he expected to get an argument. What he didn’t expect was for Sawyer to haul off and take a swing at him. If Jeremiah hadn’t been so weak he could hardly stand, the blow would have felled Nate like a poled ox. As it was, the punch clipped Nate’s chin and made him recoil a step to ward off several other blows.

  But then the punches stopped. The effort crumpled Jeremiah Sawyer in his tracks. Venting a loud groan, he feebly tried to rise, his once powerful arms trembling violently from the strain.

  “No!” Jeremiah wailed. “You have to let me go! Those bastards have to pay!” Moisture rimming his eye, he tried to stand. He looked up at Nate in eloquent appeal but Nate made no move to help him. Scowling, he glanced at Zach. “Please, Zachary. They killed Beth! You liked her, didn’t you? Don’t you want to see her killers punished?”

  Torn by turmoil, Zachary started to go to the man’s aid, but drew up short at a gesture from his father.

  “Winona!” Sawyer said. “Bill!”

  Neither of them moved.

  “Damn it all!” Jeremiah raged at Nate. “If it had been your family, you know I’d help you!”

  “We’ll lend a hand, but we’ll do it right,” Nate said. Hooking his arm under Sawyer’s, he hoisted Jeremiah onto the stump and steadied him until he could sit up straight unassisted. “How long ago did this happen?”

  “I told you. About two weeks, I think,” Jeremiah said. “I’ve lost track of time.” Slumping, he bowed his forehead to his left knee. His next words were barely audible. “It’s a miracle I’m still alive, old friend. I remember running, with them nipping at my heels like a pack of rabid wolves. A shot hit me in the leg, and I thought for sure it was all over. Then I came to a ravine north of here.” Jeremiah paused, his voice breaking. “I was looking for a way down when I turned to see how close they were and a ball caught me in the eye. That’s the last I recollect for quite a spell.”

  There were so many questions Nate wanted to ask, but his friend was too worn down. He stripped his bedroll off the stallion and spread it out. “Here. Catch up on your rest.”

  This time Sawyer didn’t object. He slid onto the blankets and lay on his back. “I’ve been sleeping on the ground for so long I’d forgotten how soft a blanket can feel.”

  Winona had a fire going. She filled their coffeepot with water, then took a small bundle of herbs from a parfleche and added three slivers of root about the size of a large coin. “Toza,” she said when she noticed Sawyer looking at her. “It is the root of a plant quite common in these mountains. When dug up, it resembles a carrot in shape, but smells and tastes like the celery I once tasted when my husband took me to New Orleans years ago.”

  “What does it do?”

  “Toza is a tonic. It will help you build up your strength quickly.”

  “It better. I don’t care what your husband says. Once I’m strong enough, I’m leaving.”

  Winona remembered Sawyer as a man whose poise had never been ruffled, not by wild beasts, not by enemy tribes, not by anything. It was said that Jeremiah Sawyer always kept his head, even in the midst of dire crisis.

  This was a g
ravely different man. The deaths of his loved ones had pushed him close to the brink of mental chaos. Winona sensed it wouldn’t take much to drive him over that brink, and then there was no telling what he might do.

  Young Zachary stood close by, watching the man he thought he knew. Like his mother, he recognized that something was terribly wrong inside of the man’s head. He wondered if Jeremiah would ever be the same carefree man he had always been. Somehow, Zach doubted it. Glancing up, he saw his father walk over to the graves.

  Nate was even more troubled than his wife and son. Had circumstances been different, the situation might have been reversed. Would he burn for vengeance as his friend did? he asked himself. And being an honest man, he admitted that he would. The murder of a man’s family was the one atrocity he could never forgive or forget.

  Many times Nate had lain awake at night, fretting the same fate might befall those he cared for. Violent death was part and parcel of wilderness existence, but acknowledging the fact didn’t make the reality any easier to bear.

  Old Bill Zeigler ambled over. “I think he’s driftin’ off,” he whispered. “Let’s hope so. Sleep would do him a world of good.”

  “And make him harder to handle if he decides to ride out on us,” Nate said.

  “You can’t blame him,” Old Bill said. He rubbed the stubble on his chin, his brow knitting. “Say, do you reckon that the same bunch that rubbed out Buffalo Hump are the ones who paid Jeremiah a visit?”

  In the tragedy of the moment, Nate had completely forgotten about the reason for their visit. “Could be,” he said and checked an urge to question Sawyer more. He would just have to wait until the man was in better shape.

  “If so, that means they’re drifting north,” Old Bill said. “I don’t like that one bit. Go north far enough and we’ll hit Blackfoot country.”

  “Maybe the ones we’re after are Blackfeet,” Nate said.

  “I doubt it,” Old Bill said. “Blackfeet may be a lot of things, but they ain’t lazy. When they set about wipin’ a family out, they generally do a thorough job. If they saw Jeremiah fall into a ravine, they’d climb down to be damn certain he was dead and to lift his hair.”