Wilderness Double Edition #10

by David Robbins

  Helplessness and frustration seared Winona like red-hot coals. She obeyed, giving her precious daughter a kiss as she straightened up. “If you harm her—”

  “Oh, please,” Zeigler said, cutting her off, “save your threats. You’re in no position to do a damn thing, and you know it. And you don’t want to get me riled.”

  Winona gazed toward the Oregon Trail. How long would it be, she wondered, before Nate showed up? Would he suspect what had happened? Or would he ride blindly into Zeigler’s sights and be cut down before she could warn him?

  “Get crackin’ with them vittles, Shoshone,” Old Bill said. “All this ridin’ has given me a powerful appetite.”

  “What would you like?”

  “We have some jerked deer meat left, as I recollect. Fix me a stew and throw in some of that tasty pemmican of yours.” Old Bill glanced at Zach. “What are you waitin’ for, boy? I told you to collect firewood. And get a lot of it. I aim to keep the fire going all night long.”

  From the old trapper’s expression, Winona knew that he had something devious in mind in case Nate came. She absently went about making the meal, the whole time racking her brain for a way out of the predicament. Zach brought four loads of dead wood, which wasn’t enough to suit Zeigler. He made Zach bring two more.

  Old Bill walked to his horse and produced a coiled rope. Throwing it at Winona’s feet, he said, “Now tie the brat’s ankles so he won’t try to sneak off.”

  It was senseless to argue when staring up the barrel of a heavy-caliber flintlock. Winona reluctantly did as she was bid, then resumed stirring the stew. Evelyn began to fuss, so Winona started to go to her. But she was stopped by a curt command.

  “No you don’t!” Old Bill said. “My stomach is more important than your sprout. Finish with my supper. Then you can rock her to sleep or whatever the hell you have to do.”

  Gloom gripped Winona’s soul, a feeling that if she didn’t act soon, she would lose those who meant more to her than life itself. Her husband and children were her reason for living.

  Winona tested the broth with her fingertip. It was nearly done. She glanced at Old Bill, who was staring glumly at Evelyn as if he was of half a mind to shoot her.

  Zachary also noticed and automatically tried to take the mountain man’s mind off his sibling. “So how many folks have you killed over the years, Mr. Zeigler?”

  “What’s it to you?” Old Bill asked.

  “I’d just like to know if the stories are true,” Zach said.

  “Live to be my age and you’ll learn there’s always a kernel of truth behind every tale,” Old Bill said. He sank onto the ground and leaned against the log, the rifle draped across his thighs. “I reckon I’ve killed thirty people or thereabouts. Not countin’ Injuns.”

  “Killed them how? Did you eat them?”

  Old Bill laughed. “You keep harking back to those rumors about my being a cannibal. How come? Are you afeared I’m liable to plunk you in a pot and boil you alive?”

  “I’m just curious,” Zach said, glad that the old killer had taken his eyes off of Evelyn.

  “Ain’t you ever heard about what curiosity did to the cat?” Zeigler said. “A person should never go pokin’ his nose in where it doesn’t belong. Someone might up and lop it off.”

  The stew had come to a boil. Winona dipped the ladle in and tasted it. Her stomach was so empty it growled, but she ignored the pang. Using a small cloth, she gripped the metal handle and went to carry the pot over to Zeigler. Once she was close enough, she intended to toss the contents in his face, wrestle the rifle from his grasp, and shoot him between the eyes.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doin’?” Old Bill said. “Just leave the pot there and fill a bowl. It’s not like we’re at one of those fancy inns where they serve your food in bed.”

  Winona had no idea what he meant, but she offered no objection. To rush him would prove fatal; all he had to do was lift his rifle and squeeze the trigger. She rummaged in a parfleche for a wooden bowl, filled it full to the brim, and carried it over in both hands. It was in her mind to hurl the contents into his eyes. As if he guessed, he squinted at her and elevated the rifle in her direction. She had no choice but to gently deposit the bowl beside him, then back away.

  “Smart squaw,” Old Bill said. “You’d be pushing up grass tomorrow if you’d done as you wanted.”

  Winona indicated the cradleboard. “May I hold my daughter now?”

  “Suit yourself. Over there by the brat.”

  Bending, Winona scooped her hands under the cradleboard and was rising when Zeigler’s foot lashed out, catching her in the shoulder. Knocked off balance, she fell to one knee and listened to his laughter.

  “Ma, are you all right?” Zach cried.

  “Of course she is, sonny,” Old Bill said before she could. “A little tap like that won’t bother no squaw. She’s used to being slapped around by her men.”

  Zach was livid. “My pa has never laid a finger on my ma.”

  “Don’t blame me if he’s weak kneed. The only way to keep a woman in line is to beat her whenever she acts uppity. I know because I had a few wives in my younger days. Wasn’t a one of them who didn’t give me sass, but only once.” Zeigler spooned soup into his mouth, then spoke while chewing. “Your pa could do with some lessons in how to handle women.”

  Winona held her hand out when her son opened his mouth to reply. She feared Zach would antagonize the mountain man into shooting. “I will get your soup.”

  “I’m not hungry, Ma.”

  “You will eat anyway. You must keep your strength up.” Winona filled bowls for both of them. Although she had no real desire to eat, she did so to set an example for her offspring, who, once he had tasted the stew, downed it with relish.

  Winona attended to Evelyn next. It was Indian custom to wean children at a later age than was common among whites, and Evelyn was at that age. Winona fed her some soup after mashing the jerky to a soft consistency.

  Old Bill polished off his supper slowly, cast the bowl down, and belched. “Not bad, squaw,” he said. “I have half a mind to keep you around just so you can fix me fine vittles every day. But we both know that wouldn’t be too bright, would it? You’d gut me the first chance you got, wouldn’t you?”

  Winona knew better than to answer.

  “That’s all right. Don’t say a word. The truth speaks for itself.” Old Bill settled back. “Well, now that the eats are out of the way, I want you to tie your boy’s wrists nice and tight. And I mean nice and tight. I’ll be checking, so don’t try to trick me.”

  The fleeting panic in Zach’s eyes tugged at Winona’s heart, but she had to do as bidden. Besides, something told her that Zeigler was in no great hurry to kill them. He might even wait until they reached his dugout. Covered by his rifle, she secured her son’s arms. “I am sorry, Stalking Coyote,” she whispered. “Do not give up hope.”

  Old Bill stood. “Now I want you to take that last piece of rope and tie your own ankles together.”

  Once more Winona obeyed. The mountain man walked toward her and she quickly pressed Evelyn to her bosom. Old Bill merely tested the knots, did the same with Zach, and nodded.

  “You did a right fine job. Both of you lie on your sides.”

  Afraid that she had made a dreadful mistake and that Zeigler was about to abuse them or worse, Winona sank down, but balled her fists to strike when he came close enough. Zach was also coiled.

  “Wouldn’t want you to catch your death,” Old Bill said. From their supplies he obtained two blankets. “These will keep you nice and warm until morning.”

  Winona lay still as Zeigler spread the blanket over her from her neck down. She noticed that he took particular care to tuck the edges under her feet. His intent was plain. He wasn’t concerned about their comfort so much as he was about concealing the fact they were bound. To anyone surveying the camp, it would appear they were sleeping soundly.

  Old Bill covered Zach, then straightened up.
“There, now. If you pa shows, he won’t suspect a thing.” He jabbed the boy with his rifle. “Don’t try to throw the blanket off, brat. I’ll be watching you the whole time.”

  Mother and son lay there and watched their captor tramp off into the undergrowth near the trail of tracks they had left. The fire crackled and snapped, casting light to the trees but no farther.

  “Ma,” Zach whispered. “What are we going to do? Pa will ride right into the buzzard’s trap.”

  “I might be able to free my ankles without Zeigler noticing,” Winona said, “but I will not escape without you. Do you think you can loosen your bounds?”

  “I’ll try my darnedest.”

  Many minutes passed. Winona waited as her son grunted and squirmed, and at length he gave a deep sigh.

  “I’m sorry, Ma. I’ve tried my best, but all I’ve done is rubbed the skin off my wrists and gotten my arms all bloody.”

  “Then one of us must stay awake at all times. And when we hear your father coming, we must cry out to warn him.”

  Zachary frowned. He was upset that he had allowed himself to be trussed up, even more upset that he hadn’t thought of a way of turning the tables on the sly old fox who had abducted them. “You can sleep first, if you want. I’m not very tired.”

  “Wake me when you can no longer keep your eyes open,” Winona said. Making herself comfortable, with Evelyn tucked at her waist, she tried to relax so she could doze off. She didn’t think she would be able to, not with Zeigler lurking out there somewhere, watching them, but her exhaustion and the comforting crackle of the fire lulled her to sleep.

  ~*~

  Unknown to Winona King, another set of eyes was fixed on her as she fell asleep—a dark, stony set that belonged to Brule the Blood.

  Brule had caught up with the travelers an hour before sunset and dogged their footsteps until they camped. It had been his intention to slay the white man, the boy, and the small girl at the first opportunity, then to have his way with the Shoshone. But it had soon become apparent that something was amiss. The white man made it a point to always hold a rifle on the others. By the actions and expressions of the woman and the boy, Brule discerned that they were being held captive. His insight was proven to be right when they were bound.

  Brule did not know what to make of it. This was a new experience, and he resolved to study the situation to learn why the old trapper had taken the woman and children prisoner.

  The mystery was compounded because the tracks told Brule that the white-eye, the Shoshone, and the breeds were all part of a party that had trailed Lassiter’s bunch northward for quite a few sleeps. Two men in that party had gone on ahead; they were the ones who had fought at the grade and then hid from him in that gully.

  How did the woman and children fit into the scheme of things? Was she the wife of one of the whites? Or had she been held at gunpoint the whole time, forced to ride along whether she wanted to or not? And why had the old trapper gone to hide in the brush near the trail? Was the trapper expecting the other two to show?

  There were so many questions, and Brule was unable to answer a single one. He wanted to solve the mystery. So, for a while, he would content himself with shadowing them. Perhaps he would learn the answers.

  Brule leaned back against a tree trunk, folded his arms, and permitted himself to doze off. Every now and then he would snap awake to look and listen. He saw the boy keeping watch and, later, the mother. Of the old trapper there was no sign, but Brule knew exactly where the man was concealed and could have slit the man’s throat whenever he wanted.

  A pink band framed the eastern sky when Brule roused himself and crept one hundred yards along the creek to quench his thirst. He was hungry, but suppressed the need. There would be plenty of time to eat later. He hurried back.

  The old white-eye had returned to the camp. The Shoshone was untying herself. Soon she had the boy untied too. While the boy fed limbs to the fire, the woman busied herself making breakfast.

  Brule found it hard to maintain his self-control while they ate handfuls of pemmican and drank cups of coffee.

  Shortly after sunrise they were mounted and bearing to the south once again, the old one bringing up the rear as before. Frequently the white man glanced over his shoulder as if expecting pursuit.

  Traveling on a parallel course, Brule had no difficulty keeping them in sight. They rode no faster than a brisk walk. At midday they stopped briefly to water their animals and munch jerky. The woman breast-fed her daughter, and Brule imagined what it would be like to take the little one’s place.

  By late afternoon they were among rolling foothills. Beyond loomed sawtooth ridges and high, jagged spires. They climbed steadily until it was almost dark.

  Brule had learned nothing all day. He was growing tired of their plodding rate of travel and debated whether to finish the white man off before it grew too dark. Either that or he had to go in search of food to tide him over until morning.

  Deciding there was all the food he needed in their camp, Brule placed a hand on the hilt of his wonderful new knife and began to rise. Then he stopped because the most remarkable thing happened.

  ~*~

  Winona King had made up her mind to break free of Zeigler’s grasp, no matter what. She was convinced that as each day took them farther and farther away from Nate, so too did each day increase the chances that she or her children would be harmed.

  During the afternoon Winona had contrived to whisper to Zach, but was thwarted when Old Bill refused to let them ride close to one another.

  On a belt of grassy land halfway up the side of a ridge, Zeigler called a halt for the day. A small spring was nestled under a short rock overhang that bordered the grass. Here Winona watered the horses under the mountain man’s hawkish gaze while Zach gathered wood.

  Old Bill sat perched on a waist-high boulder, scratching himself, as Winona tethered the animals. Out of the corner of her eye she saw that he couldn’t take his eyes off her, that her every movement came under close scrutiny. So it came as no surprise when he cleared his throat.

  “You’re a fine figure of a woman, Shoshone, if I do say myself.”

  “My husband will be glad to hear that you think he has good taste,” Winona said.

  Zeigler snorted. “It would be best for you to forget you ever met him. Nate King ain’t your man anymore. I am.”

  “I am Grizzly Killer’s forever,” Winona said with a toss of her head. “I will never lie with another man. If he were to die, I would never take another husband.”

  “It’s not like you have any choice,” Old Bill said. “What I want, I take. And I want you.” He strode toward her, leering.

  Winona sensed the moment of truth had arrived. She was thankful that little Evelyn was yards away, propped in the cradleboard against a boulder. Squarely facing Zeigler, she said, “No man has the right to force himself on a woman. I will not let you put your hands on me.”

  “Ask me if I care about how you feel?” Old Bill said. Halting, he leveled his rifle. “I think I’d like to see how you look without that buckskin dress on. Take it off.”

  “Never.”

  Old Bill swiveled so his gun was fixed on Evelyn. “The dress or your daughter? Which will it be?”

  “You are a despicable man,” Winona said, backing slowly away. She cast about for a weapon—a rock, a club, anything. But there was nothing.

  “Despicable?” Old Bill said. “Mercy me. Your husband has taught you better English than I use myself. Do you squeal in English?”

  “Squeal?”

  “You know,” Zeigler said, his eyes straying to a point below her waist. “I sure do like it when a female squeals. Sets my blood to boilin’.”

  Winona suddenly bumped into one of the horses. She stopped and looked to the right and left, ready to bolt if he came one step nearer. The distinct click of the rifle hammer rooted her in place.

  “I’m not playin’ any games,” Old Bill said, taking a bead on the cradleboard. “Either star
t strippin’ to your birthday suit or you can kiss your bundle of joy good-bye.”

  Winona felt her mouth go dry. She had nowhere to run, no way to fight, even if her daughter’s life wasn’t at stake. “Do not hurt my child,” she said.

  “Then don’t keep me waitin’, damn it.”

  Desperate to avoid the inevitable, Winona reached up and fiddled with the neck of her dress, pretending to be loosening the strings of beads that encircled her throat. In reality, the only way for her to undress was to pull the buckskin garment up over her head.

  Old Bill had the feral air of a wild cat about to swallow a minnow. He licked his lips and grinned wickedly, feasting on her turmoil. “It’s been too long since last I had me a woman,” he said. “Please me and I just might keep you alive so you can service me on a regular basis. What do you say?”

  “I would rather be choked to death,” Winona said before she could stop herself.

  “That can be arranged, bitch,” Old Bill said. “Hurry it the hell up!”

  Despair tearing at her, Winona bent down to grip her dress. Abruptly, past the mountain man, a small figure moved into sight. It was Zach, with a thick length of branch in both hands. Her son whipped the branch overhead as he charged and let out with a Shoshone war whoop.

  For a man well into his sixties, Bill Zeigler had the reflexes of a twenty year old. He spun at the first note of the outcry, his rifle pointing at the boy’s midsection.

  “No!” Winona said, and flew at the mountain man like a tiger gone berserk, her fingers formed into claws to rake his face and eyes.

  Old Bill glanced at her, realized she couldn’t reach him before he could shoot, and faced Zach again. He expected Zach to swing the club. He figured he had plenty of time to kill the sprout and deal with the squaw. He was wrong.

  Zachary King had learned to fight from a man whose survival skills were unsurpassed. His father had bested grizzlies, wolverines, painters, wolves, bobcats, hostiles, and renegade whites. With gun, knife, and tomahawk, Nate King was extremely skilled, and he had diligently tried to pass on some of that prowess to his son.