The black stallion took the grade on the fly. Nate knew that in less than a minute he would catch his quarry. He saw Sawyer’s mount stumble, drop to a knee, then rise again. The animal plodded instead of trotted; its head hung low.
Jeremiah Sawyer looked over his shoulder, cursed, and jumped to the ground. He ran toward the top of the grade, his moccasins raising tiny puffs of dust.
Nate didn’t bother with the packhorse for the moment. He galloped on past, leaning low, the Hawken clutched in both hands. The summit of the grade was mere yards away when he pulled abreast of Sawyer. “Stop,” he said.
A maniacal gleam lighting his features, Jeremiah slowed and swung his rifle, trying to knock Nate off the stallion. Nate had anticipated the swing and evaded it. Then, lashing out with the Hawken, he hit Jeremiah across the shoulders. Jeremiah landed in the dirt, face first.
Nate was off the stallion before Sawyer could rise. He tore the rifle from Jeremiah’s grasp and trained his own on the man’s chest. Jeremiah froze in the act of pushing to his feet, his face that of a beast at bay.
“Damn you, Nate! You had no right to stop me!”
“I had every right,” Nate said, backing up a few strides so he would have room to maneuver if his friend came at him. “The state you’re in, Lassiter is liable to kill you before you kill him. And I don’t want Lassiter to know anyone is on his trail until we’re ready to make our move. That way he won’t be on his guard.”
“Even if he did put windows in my skull, there’s no way he’d know about you and Old Bill,” Jeremiah said, rising slowly. He looked at the stallion. “Let me take your horse and go on by myself.”
“No.”
“Please,” Jeremiah said. “For the sake of our friendship, you have to.”
“It’s because we’re friends that I’m not about to let you go riding off half-cocked. Yellow Flower wouldn’t want you to throw your life away on her account.”
Jeremiah turned red, clenched his knobby fists, and took a menacing step. “How would you know what she’d want? She was my wife, not yours!”
“I knew here fairly well,” Nate said calmly. “Well enough to know that she was a lot like Winona. She was as kind as the day is long, and as smart as can be.” He noticed that the stallion had stopped shy of the summit and backed toward it. “Yes, she’d want you to avenge her, but she’d never stand still for your committing suicide. And that’s exactly what you aim to do.”
“You think you know everything,” Jeremiah said bitterly, his tone that of a small child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“I wasn’t born yesterday,” Nate said.
The stallion turned as he came up and stood meekly while he grabbed the reins. Jeremiah made no move to interfere. Nate was so close to the top that he only needed to take a few steps to see over it, and curiosity got the better of him. Keeping one eye on the melancholy avenger, he sidled high enough to view the vista beyond.
A wide green valley bisected the trail, running north to south. A river, in turn, bisected the valley. Along its banks grew trees as well as patches of heavy brush. There was no sign of a fire or movement and Nate was about to climb on the stallion when he lowered his gaze to the opposite slope.
Someone was jogging up it toward him. As yet the figure was several hundred yards away, too far for Nate to note much other than it was an Indian. Ducking low, hoping he hadn’t been spotted, Nate hastened toward Sawyer.
“Mount up. Quickly.”
“What’s wrong?” Jeremiah asked, having the presence of mind to obey.
“I think it’s that Blood you were telling me about. He’s coming this way.”
Jeremiah stopped. Lips quivering, the veins on his temples bulging, he had the look of a bear hound about to bolt after a griz. “Does he know we’re here?”
“I can’t see how,” Nate said. He wagged the Hawken. “Do as I told you. We can’t shoot him yet. His friends must be nearby, and they’d hear.”
“So what?” Jeremiah said. “I say we end it now.”
“It’s not open to parley.” Nate stepped into the stirrups. To the north stretched a grass covered tract bounded by a low spine. To the south reared a series of small bluffs interspersed with boulders and gullies. When Sawyer had complied, he motioned southward and let the tired pack animal go first.
The arid ground became rocky. Their horses left few tracks. Nate wanted to cover the impressions with handfuls of dirt, but there was no time. Into the nearest gully he went, there to dismount and creep back to the rim. They had sought cover none too soon.
A lithe form stood atop the grade. The warrior looked both ways, then down at his feet. He must have seen Nate’s tracks because he promptly crouched and pressed his rifle to his shoulder.
“That’s the Blood,” Jeremiah whispered at Nate’s elbow, his voice full of raw emotion.
Nate looked to see if the other man would do anything rash. Jeremiah had dug the fingers of both hands into the earth and was trembling uncontrollably. “Be patient,” Nate coaxed. “Your time will come.”
The Blood was studying their tracks. Apparently the prints confused him because he walked around and around the spot where they had clashed.
“He’ll find us. I know he will,” Jeremiah whispered.
Nate wasn’t so certain. Indians differed in ability, just like whites. Some were excellent rifle shots, while some couldn’t hit the broad side of a mountain with a cannon. Some, like the Comanches, were natural-born horsemen. Others, like the Blackfeet, only rode when they had to. And in any given tribe, only a handful qualified as outstanding trackers. The rest were no better or worse than the average mountain man.
This one appeared stumped. The Blood strode to the summit again, then back along the line of tracks to where Jeremiah had been knocked down. He scratched his chin, squatted, and shook his head. After a while he made an impatient gesture and jogged on eastward.
“Damn it all,” Jeremiah said. “I wanted to make maggot food of the son of a bitch.”
“We will when the time is ripe,” Nate said, marking the Blood’s progress. The warrior never looked back and eventually his silhouette dwindled to a black speck.
Sighing, Nate shifted on his heel to descend. Belatedly, he saw the flick of Sawyer’s hands. A spray of dirt struck him flush in both eyes. Involuntarily, he blinked, and it felt as if he had just submerged his head in sand. Tears gushed, blurring his vision. He knew what was coming and tried to leap to one side.
A granite blow landed on Nate’s head above the right ear, and it was as if a bolt of weakness shot through him. His legs buckled of their own accord. He felt another jarring jolt when his head hit the ground. The world had gone black but he was still vaguely conscious, still aware of who he was and where he was. But even that was denied him moments later when another blow hurtled him into oblivion.
Jeremiah Sawyer raised the big rock a third time, then paused. There was a nasty gash in King’s head, covered with trickling blood. Another swing might well kill him.
As much as Jeremiah craved revenge on those who had slain his family, he wasn’t about to rub out one of his few friends to achieve it. He slowly lowered the bloody rock, took a deep breath to regain his self-control, and cast it aside.
“I’m sorry,” Jeremiah said softly. “But I can’t rest until the butchers have gone under.” He reclaimed his rifle and slipped King’s pistols under his own belt. Nate groaned, but made no move to resist.
The black stallion lifted its head as Jeremiah dashed toward it and grabbed for the reins. To his annoyance, the horse pranced backward, out of reach.
“Hold still, damn you,” Jeremiah said. Taking a few steps, he lunged. His reflexes were no match for the stallion’s, which skipped off, tossing its mane.
Unwilling to waste time chasing the animal down, Jeremiah climbed onto the horse he had been using and rode to the grade. The brief rest had given his mount a chance to catch its wind. It balked a little when he made for the top, but settled down
after a sharp kick in the ribs.
Jeremiah rose in the saddle and stared eastward. He couldn’t be positive if it was his imagination or not, but he swore that he saw the Blood far, far off, staring back at him. The image vanished when he blinked. Shrugging, he rode on down into the valley. The Blood could wait. First he wanted Lassiter.
The trees were deathly silent when Jeremiah rode up. It was a warning that all was not as it should be. Any prudent mountain man would have proceeded with caution. But Jeremiah rode boldly into the woods. He didn’t care if the cutthroats saw him coming. They were going to pay, come hell or high water.
In due course Jeremiah reached the low bank of the shallow river. Rather than seek a spot to ford, he crossed right there. Or rather, he tried to, for no sooner had the horse stepped into the water than it gave out with a loud whinny and commenced struggling to pull its hooves free.
Jeremiah prodded the animal again and again. It tried valiantly to extract itself from the mud bog, without success.
“Come on, you mangy cayuse!” Jeremiah said. “You picked a pitiful time to give out on me.”
The animal’s legs made great sucking noises as it lifted first one, then the other. Try as it might, it was unable to raise a single limb clear of the mud. Jeremiah was left with no recourse other than to slide off and gingerly pick his way to the bank. He sank with every stride, but not as deep as the horse.
Jeremiah could I’ll afford to lose his mount. He studied the problem a bit and had decided to simply grip its reins and try to pull it out, when to his ears came the creak of leather accompanied by a low nicker.
Spinning, Jeremiah dashed under cover. As he flattened he saw two riders materialize on the other bank. One was the giant known as Bear. The other was the smallest of the butchers, whose name Jeremiah didn’t know.
“I told you that I heard something,” the small man said.
“And you were right,” Bear said, surveying the vegetation. “But where’s the owner?”
“Maybe it belonged to some pilgrim and strayed off,” the small man said. “Go fetch Earl while I take a gander.”
“Keep your eyes skinned, Snip.” The giant nodded and trotted off.
Jeremiah was almost beside himself with glee. He’d caught the killers at long last. It would have been child’s play to drop the one called Snip at that range, but Jeremiah held his fire. He was after bigger game.
Snip rode a dozen yards to the south and crossed. A gravel bar provided a natural bridge across the bog. His beady eyes swept the tree line the whole time, and he kept one finger on the trigger of his rifle.
Once on the near shore, Snip drew as close to the stuck horse as he could without endangering his own. He whistled to it, trying to lure it to the bank, but the hapless pack animal had sunk to the points of its hocks and could do no more than whinny helplessly.
Jeremiah was impatient for Lassiter and the rest to appear. He extended the rifle and sighted down the barrel at the same spot where the two cutthroats had appeared. Listen as he might, he heard nothing.
“I wish I had me a rope,” Snip was saying. ‘I’d have you out of there.”
Dismounting, Snip walked to the edge of the bog and leaned forward as far as he dared. His fingers brushed the animal’s tail. “There has to be a way,” he said to himself.
Fifteen feet away, Jeremiah scarcely breathed. He probed the stretch of river for evidence of Lassiter, his body tingling with excitement. Snip hardly interested him. He paid scant attention when the killer paced back and forth as if mulling over how best to free the horse. He didn’t give Snip a second look when the man walked to his mount and fiddled with a saddlebag. But he did go as rigid as a plank when Snip suddenly looked in his direction.
The cutthroat wore a mocking sort of smile, as if gloating. It made no sense to Jeremiah until, with a start, he realized that Snip was looking at something behind him. At the same instant he heard a soft scraping noise, as of a bush rubbing buckskin.
Jeremiah knew that if he twisted, Snip would see him. Yet a terrible feeling came over him that, if he didn’t turn, he would regret it. For a few moments he wavered.
Suddenly a pair of steely hands swooped down, one closing on the rifle, the other on the back of Jeremiah’s neck. He was wrenched into the air and shaken as a terrier might shake a rabbit. And then he found himself staring up into the twisted visage of the huge killer called Bear.
Nine
Nate King and Jeremiah Sawyer were barely out of sight when Old Bill Zeigler smiled and turned to Winona and the children.
“What has you so happy?” Zachary asked while trying to catch a last glimpse of his pa.
“Life, boy,” Bill said. “If you were to live long enough, you’d find that life has a sense of humor all its own. From the cradle to the grave, life is one big laugh.”
“I don’t think I agree,” Zach said.
“Ask me if I care?” Old Bill said, and with deceptive speed he hauled off and rammed the stock of his rifle into the youngster’s side, which sent Zach tumbling from the saddle, doubled over in agony.
Winona was so shocked that she sat as one transformed to stone for the few moments it took Old Bill to swing the muzzle of his rifle around to cover her.
“I wouldn’t lift a finger against me, were I you,” the mountain man said. “Not if you’re partial to breathing.” He snatched her rifle and threw it down, then stripped her of her pistol and knife. She offered no resistance, which would have been hard to do in any case, with Evelyn in her arms.
“There, now!” Old Bill said, grinning. He moved his mount a few yards away so he could keep track of all three of them. “At long last my patience has been rewarded.”
Bewildered beyond measure, Winona saw her son roll from side to side, sputtering through clenched teeth. She wanted to go to him, but was leery of the possible consequences. “We thought you were our friend!” she said.
“Your mistake, not mine,” Zeigler said gruffly. “I can’t help it if I’m so darned good at actin’ that I can fool most any man alive, white or red.”
“The whole time you have been pretending to like us?”
“Playing you all for jackasses,” Old Bill said. “All these days I’ve been bidin’ my time, waitin’ for the opportunity I was sure would come. And it did.”
“But why?” Winona asked. It staggered her that she had let herself be duped, that she had been taken in by a man whose nature was akin to that of the killers they chased.
Long ago, as a young woman, Winona had learned that some whites were deceitful, that they secretly harbored strong lusts and perverse longings. Once, when her family had attended a rendezvous, a white man had entered their lodge without permission and tried to have his way with her. Only the timely intervention of her father had stopped him.
The experience had taught Winona to always be on the lookout for such men and to avoid them as if they had the pox. Since marrying Nate, she had rarely been bothered, and as a result she had let down her guard when she shouldn’t have. There was really only one man any woman could trust fully and completely, and that was her husband.
“We’ll chaw later, woman,” Old Bill said. “For now, we have to put a lot of miles behind us before your man comes back. Soon as your boy quits his bellyachin’, we’ll be on our way, pack animals and all.”
Unknown to Zeigler, Zachary King’s pain had subsided. He was sore but otherwise unharmed, and he wanted nothing more than to draw his pistol and put a ball through the man’s skull. The only thing that stopped him was the rifle Zeigler held on his mother. All it would take was a twitch of a finger as Zeigler fell, and his mother or his sister might pay with their lives for his brash action.
Old Bill glanced down. “I reckon you’ve moaned and groaned long enough, boy. Why, when I was your age, a little tap like I gave you wouldn’t have made me blink. On your feet now and keep your hands where I can see them.”
It was the very last thing Zach wanted to do, yet he felt he had no choice.
He uncoiled and stood, poised to draw if the mountain man lowered his guard. But Old Bill held that rifle steady on his mother’s chest.
“Drop the flintlock and your knife. Then climb on your paint.”
Once again Zach complied. His mother gave him a sympathetic look that only made him feel worse. With his pa gone, it was his responsibility to protect the women in their family. And he had failed.
Winona dearly desired to spare her children, so she said, “I am the one you want. Leave Zach and Evelyn here. They pose no danger to you.”
“Goodness, you think right highly of yourself,” Old Bill said. “I couldn’t give an owl’s ass about you, Shoshone. You’re involved because I can’t leave any witnesses.”
Confused, Winona said, “But if not for me, then why?”
Old Bill grinned at her son. “For him. Now move out before I take it into my head to shoot the girl.”
Both mother and son were confounded by the revelation. Paralyzing fear seized Winona, and she meekly goaded her mare into motion.
Zachary was flabbergasted. He couldn’t understand why the old man was going to slay them on his account. “What did I ever do to you?” he asked.
“You hit me, boy.”
“That time I walloped you with the rifle when you were fixing to stab my pa?”
“Know of any other time?” Old Bill said brusquely. “That once was enough. I made up my mind then and there that I’d fix you and fix you proper for the hurt you caused me.” His voice lowered to a growl. “No one lays a hand on William T. Zeigler and lives to tell of it. No one.”
“But he’s just a boy!” Winona said, disbelief and fury vying for dominance in her heart. “He was doing what any other boy would do.”
“Maybe so,” Old Bill said. “And I’d do the same to any other boy.”
Winona had known whites to do things that were judged extremely peculiar by the standards of her people, but this, as her husband would say, beat them all. What sort of man would hold a noble act against someone of her son’s tender years? Perhaps the horrible tales told about Old Bill stemmed from a kernel of truth. The somber thought prompted her to ask, “Do you eat people? Is that what this is all about?”
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