The Outcast w-60

by David Thompson

Blue Water Woman looked all around. She swung her leg over the dun and slid down. The pinto must belong to whoever had taken Lou, but where were they? She slowly advanced. As quietly as she could, she cocked the Hawken. Passing under a pine, she paused to scour the undergrowth.

  A sound reached her. A low cry, muffled. She tried to pinpoint where it came from. When she heard it again, she moved cautiously. She went around a thicket—and saw Lou.

  Louisa was on her side, bound wrists and ankles. She had been gagged with a piece of her dress. Her eyes were wide and she began to shake her head and thrash about.

  Blue Water Woman saw no one else. She hastened to her friend, whispering, “Don’t worry. I will cut you free.”

  Lou thrashed harder.

  Blue Water Woman took her finger from the Hawken’s trigger and put her hand on the hilt of her knife. She heard rustling and started to turn. She wasn’t quite all the way around when a blow to her head sent her stumbling to her knees. Pain exploded. She looked up.

  A warrior was poised with a large rock in his hand.

  “No,” Blue Water Woman said.

  The world faded to black.

  Chapter Seven

  Louisa King thought she was done for when the warrior gripped her by the throat and raised his knife. But instead of stabbing her, he shoved her toward the front door and came after her, pushing her when she didn’t move fast enough to suit him. She almost made a grab for her rifle. The jab of his blade low in her back dissuaded her.

  Lou blinked in the sudden glare of the sun and paused. He pushed her again, toward the corner. She thought he might want her to mount her horse, but then he pushed her toward the woods.

  “I’ll do what you want. There’s no need to keep shoving me,” Lou said, even thought she knew it was a waste of breath. She glanced at him and saw that he had taken Zach’s rope from its peg on the wall and brought it along.

  The Outcast pushed her again. He was mad at himself and taking it out on her. He didn’t need her alive, but she was still breathing. It was the first weakness he had shown since the day that changed his world. He could remedy that by plunging his knife between her shoulder blades, but he thought of her belly, and couldn’t.

  Lou would dearly love to know what his intentions were. To her knowledge, Indians rarely committed rape. Small comfort at best, since there were so many worse things they did. Mutilating enemies was common, and some tribes enjoyed torture. She prayed to God her captor wasn’t from one of them.

  The Outcast paused at the tree line to look back. He gazed across the lake, and was taken aback to see a figure moving along the far shore. A woman, it looked like, and she was facing him. It had to be the Flathead.

  Lou halted. She wondered why he had stopped. Having second thoughts, she hoped. But no, he shoved her again and barked at her in his own tongue, no doubt telling her to keep going.

  The Outcast had seen the Flathead run toward her lodge. Either she was going for help or for a horse. Either way, she threatened to spoil everything.

  Lou trudged angrily along. She was more mad at herself than the warrior; he was only doing what was natural. No, she was mad at herself for leaving the front door open and not keeping her rifle or pistols within easy reach. Most of all, she was mad because her carelessness might prove costly for the people she loved most in the world. They were bound to come after her, and her captor did not strike her as the type to die easily.

  The Outcast was debating what to do. The important thing was to get away unnoticed. The woman across the lake might spoil that.

  Lou tripped over a root and nearly fell. Her dress kept getting snagged on brush and limbs. She’d pull it loose, only to have it catch again ten steps later. She vowed that from here on out, she would only wear buckskins.

  A whinny didn’t surprise her. She’d figured that the warrior had a horse. Few entered King Valley on foot. It was too remote, too far from the trails used by whites and red men alike. She rounded a thicket and beheld a pinto. A fine animal, if she was any judge. She seemed to remember Zach saying that some Indians were partial to pintos over all others. It had something to do with the bright colors, which Indians loved.

  Her captor jabbed her in the back to get her attention, then motioned at the ground.

  Lou gathered that he wanted her to sit. She did, and was roughly pushed onto her back. For a few anxious moments she feared her notion about being raped was wrong; but no, he made her lie on her side with her arms behind her, and he proceeded to cut short lengths from Zach’s rope to bind her ankles and wrists. She didn’t like it, but there was nothing she could do. She noticed that while he bound her tight, he didn’t do it so tight that the rope cut into her flesh. Then he reached for the hem of her dress.

  “No!” Lou instinctively bleated, and the razor point of his knife flashed at her throat. All he did was prick her. A warning, she reckoned, and watched as he cut two strips. “Dang you. I sent all the way to St. Louis for this, and look at what you’ve done.”

  Her anger puzzled the Outcast. Most women would be groveling in fear. But not this one. She was white, and she was an enemy, but she was gloriously brave. He caught himself and frowned. Gripping her jaw, he motioned for her to open her mouth.

  Lou balked. It was bad enough being tied. But when he poked her in the ribs with that long blade of his, she did as he wanted, and the next moment her mouth was filled with a piece of her dress. “Wonderful,” she said, only it came out as “Unerful.”

  The Outcast tied the other strip over her mouth so she couldn’t spit out the gag. Rising, he faced their back trail. In the distance hooves drummed. He went around the thicket until he was out of sight of the woman. Crouching, he wormed his way into it until he could see her without her seeing him.

  Lou wondered where he had gotten to. She tried to rub off the strip over her mouth. Failing, she went to sit up and froze. Someone was calling her name. With a start, she recognized Blue Water Woman’s voice. She tried to yell, but the gag muffled her cries.

  Blue Water Woman stopped shouting.

  Lou wriggled toward the lake. She figured her friend was wondering where she had got to. Blue Water Woman wouldn’t know what had happened and might turn around and go back to her own cabin.

  Then, to Lou’s relief, she saw her. Blue Water Woman, her rifle at the ready. Lou almost laughed for joy. She wanted to scream for Blue Water Woman to hurry and cut her free before the warrior came back. Her friend glided past the thicket—and a figure rose out of its depths.

  Frantic, Lou shook her head and thrashed about, trying to warn Blue Water Woman before it was too late. She watched, aghast, as the warrior picked up a rock. Blue Water Woman started to turn. Lou thrashed harder but stopped at the thud of the blow.

  Blue Water Woman fell to her knees. The warrior raised the rock to hit her again, but she pitched to the ground, unconscious.

  The warrior threw the rock aside.

  Relief washed over Lou, but it was short-lived. The next moment the warrior had her in his arms and threw her over the pinto. He swung up and lashed the reins.

  She was being abducted.

  From the heights to the west, the valley was a green gem rich with life, the lake blue turquoise at its middle.

  The seven Tunkua gazed down at the brown dots that were the lodges of the invaders.

  “We still have a long way to go,” Splashes Blood said.

  Skin Shredder grunted and continued their descent. He did not care how far it was. He had come to avenge the death of his brother and nothing would stop him, save his own end.

  They passed through ranks of tall firs, somber with shadows, and came on a grassy shelf and a spring. Skin Shredder hardly gave it a glance and was halfway across the shelf when Splashes Blood cleared his throat.

  “We walked all day and we walked all night and now you would have us deny our dry throats?”

  Skin Shredder stopped. “Drink if you want.”

  “We have not eaten, either.”

  “Y
ou have your deer meat.”

  All of them had bundles of dried venison, which six of them now unwrapped. Splashes Blood bit into a piece and smacked his lips. “You are not eating.”

  “I am not hungry.” Skin Shredder began to pace, his gaze on the lake and the lodges.

  “You think of one thing and one thing only. It is not good.”

  “When I want someone to tell me how I should think, I will ask them.”

  Splashes Blood stopped chewing and frowned. “We have been friends since our mothers took us from our cradleboards, yet you talk to me with so little respect.”

  Skin Shredder stopped pacing. He frowned, too, and then raised a hand to the scarred ridges on his face. “I am sorry. Killing the Bear People is all I have thought of for many sleeps now. I want them to suffer. I want them to suffer more than anything.”

  “They killed my brother, too,” Splashes Blood reminded him. “We must not underestimate them. We must be rested and have our wits about us.”

  “It is hard to rest when your heart burns with the need to slay.”

  “You must try,” Splashes Blood insisted.

  Skin Shredder slung his bow across his back. His meat was tied by a deerskin thong to his wolf hide belt. All of them wore such belts.

  The Tunkua rite of manhood required three things of every warrior: that he scar his face with the symbols of their clan; that he fast for five days and five sleeps and have a vision; and that he hunt and slay a wolf and forever wear its hide.

  “I have been told there is a girl among the Bear People,” Splashes Blood mentioned. “Those who have seen her say she looks to be but fifteen winters.”

  “You and your girls…” Skin Shredder sank his teeth into a piece of meat. “Maybe the Bear People do not age as we do. Maybe they look younger than they are.”

  “No matter how old she is, I want her first.”

  “You can have her. I want only to spill blood. The rest does not interest me as it once did.”

  Another warrior had moved to where the shelf fell away into pines. He now pointed and called out to the others. “Come see. I do not know what it is, but it was not there the last time I spied on them.”

  Skin Shredder and Splashes Blood went over.

  “Where is this thing, Star Dancer?”

  “Look at the east end of the lake, close to the trees. I think it is a lodge. But it is not like the other lodges. It is longer and round at the top.”

  “I see it,” Splashes Blood said.

  “It is too far to tell much,” Skin Shredder declared. “But you are right. It is different from the others.”

  “What can it mean? Have more Bear People come? Or have other people come to the valley?”

  The question caused Skin Shredder to clench his fists. “It is as it was by the bay. First a few came, and then more and more, until we were driven from our home.”

  “The world has too many people.”

  “Will we move again?” Star Dancer asked.

  “No.” Skin Shredder was emphatic. “This time we will not let them drive us off. This time we kill them as they come.”

  “But if they come in great numbers…” Splashes Blood did not say the rest. They all knew his meaning.

  Skin Shredder gloomily ate. That was the problem. The Tunkua were a small tribe. Never had there been more than several hundred of them, and since being forced from their home, their numbers had dwindled. Battles with other tribes, wild beasts, and disease had taken a toll. “They are not in great numbers now. We will kill all those who are here and burn their lodges as a warning to any who come later.”

  “And if some come anyway and stay?”

  “We will kill them, too. We will be ghosts in the night and stalkers by day, and they will fear us. We might even let some of them leave to tell the rest of their kind that this valley is bad medicine.”

  “I like that idea. Fear is more powerful than blood. Fear will keep them away. Spilling their blood will only make them mad and they will want vengeance.” Splashes Blood grimly smiled. “Look at us.”

  “Fear is good,” Star Dancer agreed.

  “We will talk it over with the Old One when we return to our village,” Skin Shredder proposed. “He is wise in all things and will help guide our steps.”

  Refreshed by the meat and the water, they were soon under way. Skin Shredder was in the lead, studying landmarks. To the north gleamed a glacier high atop a mountain. To the south was a cleft peak. To the east, barely visible on the far valley rim, was the gap that led out of the valley into the world beyond.

  Splashes Blood cleared his throat. “I have been thinking. We should not burn everything.”

  “No?”

  “They have many wondrous things, these Bear People. They have thunder sticks that spew fire and death. They have knives made of a new kind of metal. They have blankets much finer than ours, and who knows what else in their lodges.”

  “The Bear People own much that we do not.”

  “What is to stop us from owning it? After we kill them, why not take all that we want?”

  “It will not be much,” Skin Shredder noted. “We can take only what we can carry.”

  “We can take a lot if we pack it on their horses.”

  Here was a thought that excited Skin Shredder. The Tunkua never had horses of their own. It put them at a great disadvantage when waging war and in moving about.

  Star Dancer said to Splashes Blood, “It is a fine idea. I am for it.”

  “But we do not know how to handle horses,” Skin Shredder reminded them.

  “If the Bear People learned, we can learn.”

  “They are animals and we are men,” Star Dancer declared.

  “It will be a great thing we do,” Splashes Blood said. “Our people will praise us. Songs will be sung around the campfires about what we have done.”

  Skin Shredder tingled with excitement. It was a very fine idea, indeed. He couldn’t wait to start the slaying. Not only would he have his revenge, he stood to stand high in the councils of the Tunkua. “We should thank the Bear People before we kill them.” And he did something he rarely did—he smiled.

  Chapter Eight

  Zach King tried to tell himself he had no reason to worry. There had been only the one shot. If Lou and Blue Water Woman were beset by hostiles, surely there would have been more. They were tough, strong women; they wouldn’t go down without a fight.

  Then Zach remembered that his wife was forever traipsing outside without her weapons and leaving the front door open. He glanced at McNair, riding hard beside him, and said loud enough to be heard over the pounding of hooves, “What do you think?”

  Shakespeare thought they were making a mountain out of a prairie dog mound. There could be a perfectly ordinary explanation for the shot. Either woman might have shot a deer or some other animal for the cook pot. Or maybe a fox had got in with the chickens. Or a rattlesnake decided to sun itself close to one of their cabins. He seemed to recollect that Louisa, in particular, was skittish about snakes.

  Since Zach was looking at him and waiting for a reply, Shakespeare shrugged and said, “I bet they’re fine, but it doesn’t hurt to check.” He said that last for Zach’s benefit. The boy—Shakespeare mentally caught himself—the young man had a tendency to overreact. When there really was danger, well, heaven help anyone or anything that threatened Zach King or those he cared for.

  The south shore came into sight. There stood McNair’s cabin, awash in sunlight, as picturesque as a painting.

  Shakespeare counted the horses in his corral. “My wife went somewhere on her dun.” That the packhorses were still there told him that no one had stolen it. No self-respecting horse thief would steal just one animal.

  Zach rose in the stirrups to try and see the north shore. He spied his chimney. It was too far to be certain, but he thought wisps of smoke curled to the sky. That was a good sign. Lou was supposed to be doing some baking. “Do we stop at your place or go on to mine?”

>   “On to yours.”

  When they reached the west end of the lake, Zach slowed to a walk to spare their sweaty mounts. “If they ask why we came back, I’ll tell them I forgot my whetstone.”

  “ ‘You do advance your cunning more and more,’ ” Shakespeare quoted.

  “I just don’t want Lou to think that I think she can’t take care of herself. She’d never let me hear the end of it.”

  Shakespeare chuckled. “ ‘Oh, what men dare do. What men may do. What men daily do, not knowing what they do.’ ”

  “Can you say that in English or Shoshone so I can understand it?”

  “Lout,” Shakespeare said. “It’s not my fault you’re so light of brain.” He quoted again. “ ‘A lip of much contempt speeds from me.’ ”

  Zach laughed, but his heart wasn’t in their banter. He’d noticed that the front door to their cabin was wide open. “Why don’t women ever listen?”

  “That was a rhetorical question, I trust.”

  “A what?”

  “Women are the queens of curds and creams, and queens need not stoop to listening to their subjects.”

  “I ask a serious question and that’s the answer I get?”

  “Haven’t you learned by now that women have minds of their own? They listen when it suits them and don’t when it doesn’t. But to be fair, men don’t listen at all.”

  “What are you talking about? I listen to Lou all the time.”

  “You only pretend you do. When she talks about cooking and sewing and all the things she does, you think about hunting and fishing and the black powder you need to buy the next time you’re at Bent’s Fort. When she goes on about how you need to repair the roof, you think about going for a ride up in the mountains.” Shakespeare chuckled. “We nod our heads and say ‘Yes, dear,’ and they let us cuddle with them at night. Not a bad trade, if I say so myself.”

  “I don’t do any of that.”

  “You don’t? Then someone else is the father of Lou’s child? My word. Who can it be?”

  A retort leaped to the tip of Zach’s tongue, but then he noticed something else. “I don’t see your dun anywhere.”