Now he was in his element, the wilderness. He deliberately turned the chase into an obstacle endurance race, forcing the bay through heavy thickets, jumping logs, and sticking to the driest, hardest ground he could find. He left tracks but not many. Unless the guards were skilled trackers they would be drastically slowed.
Ten minutes elapsed without a trace of his enemies. He rode to the crest of a hill, keeping to the brush, and studied his back trail. Oddly, there were no horsemen anywhere. This disturbed him. Did they suspect he would head for St. Louis? Did they know of a shortcut and were they at that moment on their way to intercept him? To be safe he must act on the assumption they did.
So rather than head directly for the city he swung in a wide loop to the west. He avoided isolated farms and small hamlets in case Jacques Debussy had sent riders out to request help in tracking down another “horse thief,” which in a sense he certainly had become. The day waned, twilight fell, and night had crowned the countryside when he finally spied lights of the city ahead.
He sighed in relief, confident he could lose himself in St. Louis.
At the outskirts, along an isolated road, he drew up and dismounted. A tree provided an ideal spot to tie the bay. As much as he would have liked to keep it, he had to consider that agents of Debussy were already scouring the city for him and undoubtedly had been provided with an accurate description of the horse. He would do better on foot.
It felt strange to be among a lot of people again. For the first few minutes he glanced suspiciously at everyone who walked past, certain one of them would shout, “Here he is!” and a swarm of Debussy’s men would swoop down on him with guns blasting. But hardly anyone paid any attention to him. A few nodded. Several said, “Good evening.” None behaved in other than a normal manner.
He began to relax. Debussy’s men couldn’t be everywhere. And the more he pondered the matter the more he realized that Jacques Debussy wouldn’t want to draw a lot of attention to the situation at the estate by dispatching a small army of guards into the city after him. Someone was bound to ask questions, and while there were many in St. Louis who believed slavery should flourish, there were also many who wanted the practice eliminated. One slip and someone might contact the federal authorities, who would have little sympathy for the slaver. Debussy could well wind up in leg irons.
Nate wondered if Debussy might not be involved in other smuggling operations besides blacks from Africa. Debussy undoubtedly had a sophisticated organization that would enable him to bring anything he wanted into the country, with his seafaring ships probably transferring their illicit cargoes to smaller boats that then carried the slaves or whatever up the wide Mississippi River to St. Louis.
He decided that Debussy’s wisest choice would be to have him slain quietly by paid assassins. So he must be on his guard always and trust no one at all. After what he had learned about Adeline, he wouldn’t even trust women.
How could someone have changed so drastically? he asked himself. She was nothing like the woman he remembered. Where before she had been a pampered princess, spoiled rotten by her doting parents, she was now shrewdly manipulative, even downright dangerous. How she ever could have married a man like Rhey Debussy eluded him.
Nate suddenly halted, amused by his reflection. Why should he marvel at the changes in Adeline when he had changed as much if not more, only in a different manner? He was no longer the gullible aspiring accountant who had lived a life of quiet desperation, chained to the routine of a daily job while dreaming of living the adventurous life of a Jim Bowie or a Daniel Boone. Now he was living as he had always wanted.
But alone.
The thought brought a chill to his spine. He missed Winona and Zach more than words could express, and he wished he could relive the events that had compelled him to travel to St. Louis so he could alter the fabric of destiny and spare them their terrible fate.
He gritted his teeth in rage at himself and hurried on, trying to recollect where the Flint and Powder was located. St. Louis was much different than he remembered it. The city had grown tremendously. There were many more people, many more streets and avenues, and even whole sections that had not been there when last he visited.
Over half an hour was spent comparing landmarks as he vaguely remembered them, and he was about ready to give up and try to find somewhere he could lodge for the night when he stumbled on a wide thoroughfare he recognized. Taking a right at the next block brought him into the narrow street on which the Flint and Powder was located.
The front door had been propped wide with a broom to admit fresh air, and from within arose the boisterous sounds of drunken singing, hearty laughter, and lusty swearing. He hurried inside, and was immediately enveloped in a crowd consisting of rowdy trappers in buckskins who were in all likelihood fresh in from the mountains, rough rivermen who were more than willing to fight anyone at the drop of a hat, and equally tough wagoners who brought in tons of freight every month in their heavy wagons.
Most of the interior was dim and thick with pipe smoke. The few lit lanterns did little to alleviate the gloom. Not one customer seemed unduly interested in his arrival as he threaded among them and up to the long bar. Only then did he realize he had no money.
Or did he? He opened his ammo pouch and rummaged in the bottom. At the Rendezvous he had purchased sweets for Zach and seemed to recollect placing the change in the ammo pouch, as was his custom when he didn’t want to burden his pockets with a lot of coins that would jingle when he walked. As every mountaineer was well aware, the quieter a man walked in grizzly country, the longer he lived. Sure enough he found a few coins, slightly more than enough for an ale, and placed his order.
The beefy man behind the bar brought the mug over, and Nate moved toward the rear of the establishment. He didn’t think he would find a place where he could sit and think, but in one corner was an empty table. Fatigue coursed through him as he sat down and sagged in forlorn dejection.
Now what?
He sipped at the delicious, tangy ale and contemplated his options. Unless he could find Santa Fe Bill or Tricky Dick Harrington his prospects were bleak. He had no job and practically no money, which meant he couldn’t return to the Rockies even if he wanted to. Horses and supplies didn’t grow on trees.
Not that he would leave until his score with Rhey Debussy and Adeline was settled. He was in debt to them for taking care of him after he was brought to St. Louis, but all the time they had entertained an ulterior motive. They were desperate for the money they believed he would inherit, and in cold deliberation had plotted how to steal the funds and dispose of him. Somehow he must get even with them.
Then there was the problem of Jacques Debussy. Contacting the proper federal authorities should be adequate. He didn’t have a personal grudge against the elder brother, but as matter of principle he would do all in his power to stop the influx of slaves.
He took another sip, then stiffened. Off to one side were two men, trappers by their attire, who were studying him and whispering excitedly. Why? He lowered the mug and stared at them, expecting them to come over and announce themselves. To his chagrin one of them turned and hastily exited the tavern while the second man blended into the merrymakers and was lost in the press of customers.
Damn it all! he fumed. What did it mean? He started to rise, acting on the assumption it could only be more trouble and intending to depart. Then it hit him. Why should he? He was sick and tired of running. Anger replaced his concern and he took his seat again. If those men were going to contact Debussy, let Debussy’s assassins come. He had met every challenge in the wilderness head-on and he would do the same here and now.
Another swallow of ale tingled his throat. He set the mug down and reclaimed the Hawken, which he had leaned on the back of his chair, and aligned the rifle on the top of the table with the muzzle pointing straight ahead. Next he loosened both pistols under his belt and the tomahawk and his butcher knife.
There. He was ready. If they came the fight
would be the big story in the next day’s newspaper. Settling back, he slowly drank while scanning the patrons for anyone who might be observing him.
Minutes went by. After twenty he had finished his ale but refused to leave. He would make his stand right there and hang the consequences. After forty he began to consider that he might have been mistaken. And at the end of an hour he braced his chin in his palm and gloomily stared at the Hawken. If Debussy had men in the city they should have arrived by then.
In a way he was disappointed. Confronting them when he was ready was preferable to having them pick the time and location. Perhaps they wanted to shoot him in the back as he walked along a deserted street. Or maybe they were—
“Well look at this, boys. Who do we have here? As I live and breathe, it’s the great Grizzly Killer!”
Nate’s head snapped up at the first word and he recoiled in amazement. He became speechless with shock. For standing near his table were the very last people he would have expected to encounter in St. Louis, the very last people he wanted to encounter anywhere.
Standing in postures of haughty contempt, grinning in smug satisfaction as their eyes glowed with evil purpose, were the Ruxton brothers and Robert Campbell.
Chapter Thirty
Nate slowly recovered his composure. The three men made no move to attack him; they merely stood and grinned. He placed his right hand next to the Hawken while under the table he gripped his left flintlock. “I sure am having a run of bad luck lately,” he commented.
“Ours has just changed,” Campbell declared. “We’ve been searching for you for days. I was beginning to think I’d have to head back to the mountains and try to find your cabin.”
“Why have you been looking for me?” Nate asked.
Campbell ignored the question. “We left the Rendezvous three days after you did, although I wanted to leave the same day.” His humor evaporated. “But Niles Thompson and other friends of yours were watching us like hawks. They didn’t leave us alone for a minute. Finally, in the middle of the night, we slipped away.”
“Why?” Nate persisted.
“I’d hoped to overtake you with the caravan, but couldn’t. When we caught up with the caravan, you’d just left. So we tracked you across the prairie, but lost the trail when your tracks were wiped out by a buffalo herd,” Campbell related. “So I figured we’d come on to St. Louis and hope for the best.” He encompassed the interior of the tavern in a sweeping gesture. “Every trapper who visits the city stops at the Flint and Powder sooner or later. I knew we’d cross paths again.”
“Why, damn your hide!” Nate angrily bellowed, drawing the attention of many of the nearby customers. He had started to rise when, to his astonishment, Campbell and the Ruxtons simply turned and made their way to the entrance. Before going out Campbell paused and gave a cheery wave. Then they were gone.
Bewildered, Nate tried to make sense of the encounter. The only reason he could see for the three cutthroats to travel all the way to St. Louis after him was to get revenge for the incidents at the rendezvous. Knowing Campbell as he did, Nate was certain the man hated him with an abiding passion. And now that they had found him they would be certain to spring whatever surprise they had in mind at the earliest opportunity.
Why had they left so soon? He glanced at the front door, his forehead creased in deep thought. It was doubtful they would try anything in the crowded tavern. Even in St. Louis the citizenry wouldn’t stand still for callous murder. Duels
were another matter. They were honorable clashes conducted almost daily on Bloody Island, but he couldn’t see Robert Campbell or the laconic Ruxtons challenging him to one because the contest would be fair, carried out according to the established rules for such affairs. No, they would strike when it suited them best, when there would be no witnesses who might later inform his friends, and when they were certain to have an advantage.
What if they were waiting outside at that very moment?
The longer he pondered, the more convinced he became that they would lie in wait in a nearby alley and pick him off after he emerged. Because of the tavern’s rowdy patrons, St. Louis residents tended to give the streets nearest to the Flint and Powder a wide berth, especially at night.
And if he tried to avoid the inevitable by staying until the tavern closed, he would be playing right into their hands. There would be even fewer people on the streets, making their chore that much easier. Perhaps, if he departed immediately, he could evade them.
Rising, Nate grabbed the Hawken and made for the right-hand corner at the rear of the establishment. If he recollected correctly there was a back exit into an alley that would bring him out on a well-lit avenue where his enemies would be reluctant to ambush him. He didn’t know if they knew of the alley, but was inclined to think they did not. None of them, so far as he was aware, had spent much time in St. Louis, although all three had probably heard many stories from those who
did make the trip on a regular basis.
He smiled when he spied the door in the shadows. There were a few men at the table closest to it but they paid him no mind whatsoever. Chuckling at his cleverness, he raised the latch and stepped out into the narrow, dark alley, then closed the door behind him. A repugnant odor assailed his nostrils and he realized countless tavern patrons had used the alley to relieve themselves.
Nate hurried toward the avenue some twenty-five yards off. The grimy walls of buildings hemmed him in on both sides and he didn’t like the feeling of being penned in, as it were. Other than a few inches of filth underfoot, and what appeared to be a couple of stacks of wooden crates, the alley was empty.
He started to go past those crates when a shadow swooped down and slammed into him, knocking him against the right-hand wall, the impact causing him to lose his grip on the Hawken. Harsh laughter in his ear told him the nature of the shadow, and he twisted and clawed for his butcher knife. A sharp object cut through his buckskin shirt, slicing into the flesh over his ribs, and with a mighty effort he shoved his assailant off.
“Now, bastard, we have you!”
Despite the lack of light Nate recognized one of the Ruxtons. He never had bothered to learn their first names and couldn’t tell them apart. But he was all too familiar with their reputation, and had no doubt the knife held in the right hand of the brother he now faced could be used savagely and efficiently. He whipped out his own and began to
move in the direction of the avenue.
“No, you don’t,” the Ruxton brother hissed, skipping in front of him and jabbing to force him to stop.
Nate halted and crouched, emptying his mind of all thoughts as he had been taught to do in a knife fight. His survival depended on relying exclusively on his finely honed instincts and reflexes. Any distraction at a crucial juncture, even a fleeting thought, might result in his death.
“I will carve you into little pieces and have them sent to your family,” the Ruxton taunted.
Being reminded of Winona and Zach added fuel to Nate’s growing rage and he suddenly lunged, slashing at the man’s neck, and came within half an inch of ending the fight then and there. The Ruxton brother leaped back just in time, then instantly countered with a swipe of his own.
Nate parried, their blades ringing loudly in the confines of the alley. He stabbed at the man’s chest but missed. The dull glint of Ruxton’s knife gave him enough warning to dart to the left and spare his midsection. He sprang again and nicked Ruxton’s shoulder.
Undaunted, the lean man tried to spear the tip of his knife into Nate’s throat, but was a shade too slow. He pressed his attack, swinging again and again, coming at Nate from different angles with each attempt, trying to break through Nate’s guard. He seemed to become increasingly frustrated as every blow was blocked or dodged with uncanny speed.
Although Nate was pleased at his performance, he was becoming winded sooner than he would have expected. After all he had been through in the past twenty-four hours, compounded by not having eaten a solid meal in all
that time, and coming as it did on the heels of his extended recuperation, he was in no shape for a prolonged fight. Somehow, he must prevail quickly. He tried to entice Ruxton into making a reckless mistake by deliberately holding his knife a little farther from his body than was ordinarily safe, but his foe was too experienced to fall for such an obvious ploy.
He was tempted to draw a flintlock, but doing so would leave his left side exposed. Not for long, true, but it might be all Ruxton needed to penetrate his guard and stab him. No, there must be another way of defeating his adversary.
Although he had willed himself not to think, he wasn’t being very successful. Another thought occurred to him, spurring him on even more. What if the other Ruxton brother or Campbell or both should show up? They were probably watching the front of the tavern, but he couldn’t be certain they would stay there forever. It was very likely the other brother would come back soon to check on his sibling. They rarely did anything apart.
He lashed out and Ruxton backed up, then countered. The blade flashed past his eyes and he twisted sideways to expose less of his body. As he did his left hand brushed against the tomahawk. In a burst of inspiration he saw a means to vanquish the killer and put the idea into operation.
Nate ducked a swing that would have partially scalped him and intentionally retreated. Not much, only a yard or so, but it gave Ruxton the impression that he was tiring and wasn’t as confident as he should be. All the while he presented just his right side to Ruxton while his left hand gradually strayed to the handle of the tomahawk.
Perhaps anticipating victory, Ruxton renewed his attack with fierce vigor, demonstrating why the Ruxton brothers were widely feared by whites and Indians alike.
Nate again retreated, feigning fatigue. Warding off an underhanded cut that would have severed his genitals, he swung halfheartedly. Ruxton adroitly blocked the move with his knife and their blades rang together once more. Then, while their arms were briefly locked stiff and motionless, he yanked the tomahawk out, raised it on high, and brought the razor edge hurtling downward.
Hawken Fury (Giant Wilderness Book One) Page 22
