Wilderness Double Edition #10

by David Robbins

  Zeigler’s eyes twinkled. “Heard that one, have you? I suppose pretty near everyone in the Rockies has.”

  “Do you?” Winona said.

  “I’m not sayin’ I do. I’m not sayin’ I don’t,” Old Bill said. “Let’s keep it as a surprise for later, after we get to where we’re going.”

  “Where would that be?” Zach asked.

  “All in good time, boy,” Old Bill said. “All in good time.”

  Zach saw his mother clutch Evelyn to her and felt a strange lump form in his throat. He gave the lead rope a sharp tug to move the packhorses along. Then he said, “You made a big mistake, mister. My pa will be after us before too long. And I wouldn’t want to be in your moccasins when he gets his hands on you.”

  “Spare me the bluster, brat,” Zeigler said. “Your father might be fringed hell on two legs, but I’m no slouch myself. I always stay two steps ahead of everyone else by thinkin’ ahead. This time will be no different. I have a little surprise in store for your pa that will put an end to the high and mighty Grizzly Killer forever.”

  Zachary became so mad, his temples throbbed. He recollected all the times his pa had warned him about being too trusting for his own good. “Trust has to be earned”, his father often said. To take it for granted that someone was dependable was a sure way of inviting trouble.

  Yet Zach had done just that. Old Bill had seemed so friendly, even after being konked on the noggin, that Zach had assumed that the old-timer was a harmless coot. He wondered if his pa had also been deceived, and he figured that had to be the case or his father wouldn’t have gone off and left them alone with Zeigler—unless his pa had counted on him to protect his mother and sister.

  Depressed, Zach glared at the mountain man and noticed Old Bill staring off at a flock of sparrows winging eastward. “You can see just as well as we can!”

  “Of course I can,” Old Bill said. “Fact is, I can probably see better than the lot of you. My eyes have always been as sharp as an eagle’s.”

  Zach was quick to discern something else. “You lied to my pa. You attacked him on purpose.”

  “Sure did. I was hoping to slit his throat and take his rifle from him before your ma or you could interfere, but he was too damned fast for me.”

  “It isn’t right, what you do,” Zach said resentfully. “It isn’t right to go around hurting others for no reason.”

  “Oh, I’ve got me a dandy reason,” Old Bill said, and he smacked his lips loudly a few times.

  “You’re vermin, mister, plain and simple.”

  Old Bill’s lips compressed into a tight line. “That’s enough out of you, pup. I want you to quit your jawing. I won’t stand for being pestered. Just ride along as if you’re out on a Sunday jaunt and we’ll get along right fine.”

  Young Zachary King did as he was told, but inwardly he seethed like a boiling volcano. He was not going to let Zeigler harm his father or mother or sister. Somehow, he would turn the tables on their captor.

  ~*~

  Brule rarely smiled. It wasn’t in his nature to find much amusement in life. But outwitting others always made him feel good. Which was why he smiled broadly now as he trotted eastward along the same rutted track he had been following in the opposite direction for so long.

  The warrior had grown tired of the company of whites. Their mindless chatter, their constant bickering, their body odor—all had made him long for the companionship of his own kind. And since that was denied him, he preferred to be by himself.

  Brule hadn’t bothered to inform Earl Lassiter and the others. That morning Lassiter had sent him off to spy on the whites in the wagons, as usual. Only this time Brule had merely gone a short distance and then circled around to the east. Lassiter and the rest were probably still waiting for him to return and report.

  Brule slowed down to study his trail. There was no sign of pursuit, nor did he truly think Lassiter would be stupid enough to send someone to bring him back.

  Brule gave his splendid new knife a pat, then admired his new rifle. As distasteful as it had been to associate with whites, he had to admit that he had benefited greatly. Perhaps he would do it again one day.

  Running on, Brule settled into a steady stride. He thought of the tracks he had seen at the grade and of the two whites who had watched him from the gully without being aware that he knew they were there. Who had they been? Why had they fought? Even more perplexing, why had they hid from him instead of ambushing him when he came over the summit?

  Brule had no burning interest to learn the answers. If the pair were after Lassiter, it was Lassiter’s problem. He wanted nothing more to do with the renegades.

  Then the Blood came to where a number of riders and packhorses had come on the wagon trail from the south. He studied the many tracks closely, reading them as a white would read a book. He saw where two men had ridden westward and one had returned. He was able to tell that another man had then gone after the first. They were the pair at the grade, he realized.

  Five horses had gone south again. Brule guessed that two of them were heavily burdened pack animals. The third horse carried lighter weight, perhaps a child or a small man or woman. The fourth horse, which was shod, carried a full-grown man. And the last animal, if the depth of the mare’s tracks were any indication, was being ridden by a woman. Since this horse wasn’t shod, Brule suspected the woman to be an Indian, which changed everything.

  Brule had not been with a female in many sleeps. White women revolted him; they were puny, pale whiners, about as attractive as slugs. He did not know of a single warrior of any tribe who had taken a white woman as a wife because they were so widely regarded as unable to adapt to the Indian way of life.

  Lassiter had surprised Brule by telling him that white women felt the same way about Indian men. In Brule’s estimation it was typical of white women that they were too stupid to appreciate worthy mates. He, for instance, was a skilled fighter and hunter. If he had a wife, she would never want for meat or hides. And the many coup he earned would bring honor to their lodge. Any woman in her right mind would leap at the chance to be his mate.

  Brule straightened and scowled. He must not think about such things. Being an outcast, he would never know the joy of having a Blood wife, never rise in standing in his tribe to one day be a war chief as he had always dreamed of doing.

  But just because a Blood wife was denied him did not necessarily mean Brule couldn’t have another. Any Indian woman would do. And here was one ripe for the taking.

  Brule gazed eastward. It had been in his head to travel to the prairie, but another idea appealed to him. Swinging to the south, he trotted on the trail of the three riders.

  ~*~

  A cool breeze on his face was the first sensation Nate King felt upon reviving. He lay still a few moments, his head racked by drumming pangs, trying to remember what had happened. When he did, he shot up into a sitting position and winced as the torment worsened. Blinking, he looked around.

  The sun crowned the western horizon. Soon twilight would descend. Jeremiah Sawyer was gone. The black stallion stood fifty feet off, nibbling at a small patch of brown grass.

  Nate carefully ran his fingers over his wound. A coat of slick dry blood matted his hair and clung to his ear, cheek, and neck. He rubbed his cheek but the blood wouldn’t come off. Retrieving his hat and Hawken, he slowly stood, and in doing so he discovered that both of his pistols were missing.

  The stallion saw him shuffling forward and walked over to meet him. Nate leaned against the big black for support, stroking its neck. “Good boy,” he said softly.

  Nate donned the hat, gripped the saddle, and pulled himself up. For a few moments the landscape seemed to dance as if alive, and he thought he would lose his hold and fall. Forking a leg, he slumped down on the stallion’s neck and breathed deeply while regaining his strength.

  At length Nate straightened and rode up out of the gully. At the Oregon Trail, he drew rein. From the tracks it was clear that Jeremiah had gone i
nto the valley. Nate had to make up his mind whether to go after him or to rejoin his family.

  Nate told himself that he was under no personal obligation. Jeremiah had been a friend, but that had been a totally different Jeremiah Sawyer, a man very much like Nate, a fellow free trapper who had taken an Indian wife and become a devoted husband and father. Unlike the majority of trappers, who took wives for a single season and then cast them aside or merely indulged when they could pay the price, the two of them always regarded their marriages as seriously as they would if they were wed to white women. It was no wonder they had become close friends, they were so much alike.

  But as far as Nate was concerned, Jeremiah had severed the ties that bound them by trying to beat in his head with a rock. He shouldn’t bother trying to save Jeremiah from himself. The man had made his choice and had to live with it.

  Nate lifted the reins and went to head eastward. To his mind’s eye appeared an image from the last rendezvous, when the two families had sat around a fire late at night swapping tales and joking. He remembered Jeremiah passing a whiskey jug to him after taking a long swig, and how they had both laughed when little Evelyn got a hold of Winona’s nose and wouldn’t let go.

  “Damn it all,” Nate muttered, turning the stallion. He went over the summit at a gallop, no longer caring about stealth. He couldn’t just ride off and leave Jeremiah to face the killers alone, no matter what had happened.

  Nate was grateful that Winona and the children were safe. Should anything befall him, Bill Zeigler was on hand to help Winona reach their cabin. He could rest easy and concentrate on the renegades.

  Suddenly Nate spied several large black birds wheeling high in the sky above the river. “Buzzards,” he said aloud and rode faster until the cottonwoods closed around him. Here he halted and secured the reins to a low limb.

  Never take anything for granted—that was the creed Nate lived by, and he applied it by crawling through the undergrowth to a vantage point that afforded an unobstructed view of the river. He could see the vultures, seven in all, swooping steadily lower. Toward what? he wondered, then saw a bulky form lying at the water’s edge. It was too big to be a man.

  Nate bided his time. Several buzzards landed, one on top of the carcass. Its hooked beak tore into the hide as neatly as a knife, ripping an opening so the scavenger could get at the juicy flesh underneath. Strips of red meat were ripped off and greedily gulped.

  Nothing else moved along the river. Nate searched the shadows long and hard. He wouldn’t put it past Lassiter to try to lure him into a trap, but after ten minutes he grew convinced the coast was clear.

  Still, to be safe, Nate hugged the ground as he snaked close enough to identify the carcass. He believed it was a horse, but he had no idea it would turn out to be the packhorse, partially buried in mud. Someone had slit the animal’s throat and left it to meet a slow, grisly end, its lifeblood pumping into the bog in which it had been stuck.

  Rising, Nate stalked as close as he could without sinking. There was no trace of Jeremiah. And with the sun gone, it would soon be too dark to track. He decided to try anyway, since his friend’s life was at stake, and he turned to hurry to the stallion.

  A guttural groan fluttered on the wind, arising somewhere to the north of where Nate stood. He walked toward the source, scouring the brush at ground level. Under a massive willow, he stopped to listen. Time passed and the groan was repeated. Only it came from above.

  Nate tilted his head back and gasped. He had witnessed many gruesome atrocities since taking up residence in the untamed Rockies, but few equaled the ghastly savagery Jeremiah Sawyer had suffered.

  The renegades had stripped him and peeled his skin from his body as if he were an orange. His fingers and toes had been hacked off, his ears smashed to a pulp, his nose sliced down the middle. Then they had tied a rope to his wrists and hauled him ten feet off the ground. As if that wasn’t enough, someone on horseback had thrust a knife into his gut and left the knife there. A loathsome pool of blood had formed under the doomed man.

  Quickly Nate scrambled into the tree. Working from branch to branch, he reached the limb to which Jeremiah was tied. He hesitated before applying his knife, then did. He tried to catch the rope before Jeremiah fell. The weight was too much for him, the rope searing his palms so badly he had to let go or lose all his skin. He winced when his friend smacked wetly into the pool.

  Clambering swiftly down, Nate dashed over and knelt. Jeremiah’s good eye closed and he was breathing heavily. Nate touched his head and almost jumped back when Jeremiah’s lid snapped wide open.

  “Nate?” The word was croaked, Jeremiah’s pupil dilated and unfocused.

  “I’m right here,” Nate said, reaching for a hand that wasn’t there. He didn’t know what else to do so he put both his hands on Jeremiah’s head.

  “You were right all the time. I should have listened.” Jeremiah licked red froth from his lips. “The Blood ran off on them. They were hunting for him when they saw me. Tricked me, the bastards. Made me think one of them was going back for the rest when all the time he was circling around behind me,”

  “Don’t talk,” Nate said when his friend took a breath. “You should lie quietly.”

  “For how long?” Jeremiah said weakly. “You have no idea of the pain. It’s worse than I can describe.”

  Nate swallowed his building grief and said, “I wish there was something I could do.”

  “There is.”

  “What?”

  “Kill me.”

  “No,” Nate said.

  “You have to. I hurt so bad. Please.”

  “No.”

  “You know I’ll die anyway,” Jeremiah said, tears streaming from the corners of his eyes. “Don’t let me suffer. Deprive them of that, at least.”

  “I—” Nate said, but couldn’t finish. He knew what he had to do but he couldn’t bring himself to accept it.

  “I’m waiting,” Jeremiah said forlornly.

  Nate lowered his leaden right hand to his butcher knife, then froze. The thought of burying the blade in his friend’s ribs was one he couldn’t abide. He didn’t care how close the renegades were. He picked up the Hawken and thumbed back the hammer. As Nate lightly pressed the muzzle to the other man’s temple, Jeremiah twisted his neck.

  “I don’t blame you, pard. You did all you could.” Jeremiah coughed. “Just do me one favor.”

  “Anything.”

  “Make them pay.”

  “You have my word,” Nate King said huskily, then stroked the trigger.

  Ten

  Katie Brandt was in the process of making a pot of fresh coffee when a shot echoed across the darkening valley. She glanced anxiously up at her husband, who was mending harness while seated on the tongue of their wagon. “Was that a shot?”

  “It was,” Glen said, standing. Against the wagon leaned his rifle, which he picked up.

  “But who could be shooting? We’re all here.”

  That they were, the Ringcrest family across the clearing by their wagon, the Potter clan at ease on a blanket spread out on the soft grass.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Glen said. “Do you think it might be hostiles?”

  “Mighty careless hostiles, if it is,” Glen said. “Indians don’t like to advertise their presence. It could be a trapper shooting his supper. I doubt he has any notion we’re here.”

  Katie stood, flashing her teeth in joy. “Do you really think so? Oh, I do so hope you’re right! It’s been ages since we talked to anyone besides our companions. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a guest in camp? Maybe you should go see.”

  The idea disturbed Glen. It was bad enough that they had been stuck in a small clearing on the west side of an unnamed valley for over a day while repairing Peter Ringcrest’s broken wheel. Hemmed in by trees, they were sitting ducks for savages inclined to deprive them of their lives or their belongings or both.

  Six days had gone by since Katie had seen the Indian. So far they had see
n neither hide nor hair of any hostiles. The others were of the opinion that they had been needlessly worried, but Glen didn’t share their outlook. He had a nagging feeling that they were all in grave peril. And if his hunch was right, it would be stupid of him to go off alone.

  At the same time, Glen had no desire to appear yellow in front of his new bride. So when no one objected to her proposal, he started for the ring of vegetation.

  “Hold on,” Bob Potter said. Like Glen, he had grabbed his rifle and stood peering into the woods. “Maybe you should wait until we know who is out there.”

  “We’ll never know who it is if one of us doesn’t look,” Peter Ringcrest said. “And we’d better do it before it’s too dark to be abroad.”

  “I’ll go,” Glen said, secretly hoping someone would stop him. No one did though, so he squared his shoulders and strode into the trees. Thanks to the glow cast by the trio of cooking fires, the area was lit up as bright as day for all of five paces. Then the darkness closed in like a murky veil and he could hardly see his hand in front of his face.

  Glen was surprised that Katie had suggested he go. Usually she couldn’t bear to have him stray out of her sight. He knew she had been embarrassed by her show of fear at the spring and further embarrassed when hostiles failed to materialize. Just the night before she had confided that she was beginning to think it had been a friendly Indian she scared off by acting like a ten year old.

  Was she trying to prove she could cope when alone by having him search for the shooter? Glen didn’t know, but it was the only logical explanation. Then again, as he’d learned during the short time he’d been married, trying to figure women out was guaranteed to give a man a headache.

  Glen halted and listened. The shot had come from the vicinity of the river but he heard no other sounds from that direction. Being by himself in the dark brought gooseflesh to his skin. Steadying his nerves, he slowly advanced.

  Seconds passed, and Glen thought he saw something move off to the right. Leveling the rifle, he said quietly, “Who’s there?”