“Not yet,” McKeever noted. “They’ll wait. Figuring something will happen. Distract us. As soon as we’re not fixed on them? That’s when they’ll try and take us.”
“Listen to that wind,” Joseph said, perhaps in an effort to cut the tension. “It’s blowing like a bastard up high. Glad we’re protected here and not out on the flats.”
Dawson cocked his head. The sound of the wind blowing through the trees above was indeed vicious. It covered any sound outside of camp. Enough so that he wondered how Wasichu was supposed to find a woman out in that swirling storm.
“So, Fenway,” Tylor asked, shifting as he tugged at his bonds. Snow was piling on his body and now caked as he struggled to sit up. “Whatever happened to your plan to become king of the Missouri? Thought you were going to wreck Lisa’s expedition so you could go back and sell yourself to Gratiot, offer him control of the Upper Missouri? That all changed now that you’ve joined the other side?”
Dawson caught Joseph’s puzzled glance, then whispered, “Later.”
McKeever seemed undisturbed by the charge. “Johnny, me lad, nothing’s changed. If anything, I’m more committed than ever. Dawson and Joseph, here, they’re not the only agents Dickson sent to turn the river tribes against Lisa. I think Lisa’s in fer a tough winter. And they’s a bloody fortune in those packs the Arapaho want. Enough to set a man up right fine. So, for the time being, I’ll play the British against Lisa. Be ready to step in when Astor finally moves on the river.”
Through a sour smile, Tylor said, “And kill anyone who gets in the way. What were your words that night on the river? Ah, yes. People, you said, ‘Who’ll mysteriously die one by one.’ Then I recall that you added, ‘I’ve seen how taking out the right man at the right time can throw an operation into chaos.’ Then you sounded so happy with yourself when you bragged, ‘Made a study of it, I have.’ ”
Tylor frowned. “So, let’s say the British do win. The war’s over, and Dickson is the kingpin. Why do I suspect he’s going to be found dead in his bed soon thereafter?”
“Life’s a fleeting thing,” McKeever granted noncommittally, his eyes missing nothing as the Arapaho emptied Tylor’s packs.
Tylor flinched when they threw a book out into the snow.
Dawson clamped his jaws, eyes on McKeever as Tylor talked. The big Scot seemed completely at ease with the accusation. Dear God, that faint smile hinted that McKeever wouldn’t just do it, he’d look forward to it.
“So,” Tylor asked, “How do you get your two thousand dollars out of good old Joshua Gregg and another thousand out of Andrew Jackson when you’re up here spreading chaos between Lisa, the South West Company, and Astor’s Pacific Fur Company? Then, to sweeten the mix, God alone knows what Governor Salcedo is going to set loose down in Santa Fe? You’ll be leaving it all to rot and ruin while you take my head back east.”
“Figure I can find me a courier for that, laddie.”
Tylor laughed hard, clearly amused. “Fenway, this is Joshua Gregg we’re talking about. Think it through. Your courier arrives at Gregg Mansion in North Carolina, rides up the oak-lined lane to the big house. Knocks on the door.
“Gregg’s manservant, Grady, answers, and when he hears your courier’s tale, tells your man to wait. Ten minutes later, Joshua appears, demands to see my head.
“Your man opens the package, and there I am, all caked in salt. Joshua looks down, recognizes me, and the corners of his eyes tighten the way they do when he’s in delight. His heart is pounding in his chest with triumph and exultation.
“But no expression crosses his lips, and without the slightest hint of emotion he tells your courier, ‘That’s not him. Don’t come back until you have the right head.’
“And at that, Joshua will turn away, seem to pause, only to turn back as your man hits the bottom step. That’s when Joshua will say, ‘You might want to leave that here. If the authorities find you with it, they will charge you with murder. Especially when I tell them I know nothing about Fenway McKeever, and to my knowledge, John Tylor is long dead somewhere beyond the frontier.’ ”
McKeever’s expression had gone as cold as the falling snow.
“You didn’t really trust him, did you?” Tylor asked. “I know the man. Grew up with him. He’s not going to part with any two thousand dollars unless you have a gun to his head.”
McKeever’s expression had stiffened. The corners of his lips were quivering.
Dawson jumped as a rifle shot banged in the canyon above them, the sound echoing, only slightly muffled by the thick veils of falling snow.
“Too bad, Johnny,” McKeever crooned. “I’d guess that Wasichu just found yer woman. Hope ye didn’t pay too much for her.”
CHAPTER 41
As the rifle report died away, McKeever studied Tylor in the yellow light cast by the fire. Damnation, the man had just raised a carbuncle deep in Fenway’s soul. Of course that high prig, Gregg, would try and stiff him for the two thousand. Why hadn’t he realized it from the start?
But something bothered him. Tylor’s woman was dead. Soft as he was, the laddie didn’t seem as horrified as he should be. Why? What did little Johnny have left to hope for?
“Thinking that perhaps Wasichu missed?” McKeever prompted. “Could be. In the storm and all. But the laddie had his bow wi’ him. I’ve seen him with a bow and arrows. So, sorry, Johnny me lad, yer woman’s dead. No hope in that direction.”
McKeever shot a knowing look to where the Arapaho had straightened, fingers tight on the nocks of their arrows, as if some pending attack might come from the night.
They’d have to be taken out. But the moment had to be right. As it was, with McKeever’s three against the Arapaho, all it would take was a single missed shot. Most likely from Joseph. He was the weakest link. If any of them missed, whichever Arapaho was left standing would skewer Dawson, McKeever, and Joseph before they could reload their rifles.
That was the conundrum. It had to be three shots for three Arapaho. And no mistakes.
McKeever shot a worried glance at Tylor. The man seemed to be studying on something. McKeever had learned to read Tylor’s every expression back on the river. What was he counting on?
Was it that in the end there’d be no payment? In McKeever’s mind, he could see Gregg, his mashed nose, the scar on his face, as he looked down into that keg of salt and said, “Never seen him before in my life.”
Tylor was right, he’d have to take the head himself. And that knowledge sent a shiver of rage through him. He’d have to leave the river on hold. Hurry east with the head, and rush back to the Upper Missouri. Hope the war lasted long enough.
“Awfully quiet out there,” Tylor noted, as if offhandedly.
“Really?” Joseph muttered, nervous fingers twitching on his rifle as he watched the Arapaho watching him. “I keep hearing a lot of wind ripping around in the trees up above us.”
“That could cover a lot of misfortune,” Tylor said.
“What misfortune? That doesn’t make much sense.” Dawson kept his eyes on the Arapaho.
McKeever shifted his attention from the Arapaho back to Dawson and caught the subtle tones of anger in the young man’s voice. Could see his conflicted expression. Too bad. That was the price of keeping Tylor alive this long. If Fenway had killed Tylor the moment he saw him, the Arapaho would have used the distraction to have murdered every white. For surely Dawson and Joseph would have been staring in horror at the blood gushing out of Tylor’s severed throat. Wouldn’t have realized the threat until arrows were sticking out of their backs.
The fact that they now knew they’d been played?
Alas, poor laddies, but no one lives forever.
Just as soon as the Arapaho were dead.
Ach, such a torturous balance, all having to be orchestrated so carefully.
“Fenway,” Tylor said reasonably, “You’re going to lose.”
“I’m not the one trussed up like a Christmas ham. With the snow building on me body.”
Dawson, damn his soul, was looking ever more nervous, working his mouth, eyes darting from McKeever to the Arapaho, and back to McKeever, as if he couldn’t figure out just where the darkest danger really lay.
Joseph, dumb as a post, was almost quivering with fear. It could be seen in the way the simpering fool kept swallowing, shifting, working his jaws.
They’re going to fall apart on me.
“Laddies,” he said softly, “this is going to have to be done quickly and just as I say. Now, don’t say anything, don’t even jerk yer heads. Do ye get the thread of what I’m saying here? Joseph, I need ye t’ shift yer weight. Point yer shoulder in Red Bear Man’s direction. But do it ever so slowly.”
“I . . . what?”
“Yer the laddie most likely to miss. Now, Red Bear Man’s the slowest. Takes the longest time to nock an arrow. So take a deep breath. Hold it. And shoot when you know you’ve got him.”
“That’s murder.”
“That’s living, laddie.” He paused just long enough to let it soak in. “Dawson? Ye’ll take Wide Crane. Center shot with yer fancy London gun. Like Joseph, I don’t want you rushing anything. Make sure yer sight’s centered in the middle of his chest afore ye trigger’s the gun.”
At that moment, Tylor raised his voice, calling out to the night. McKeever hesitated, gave him an irritated scowl, and bellowed, “Shut yer hole, ye shite, or I’ll shut it for you.”
The Arapaho figured it out an instant before McKeever did. They were nocking, drawing, as an arrow hissed through the night and drove itself into Stone Otter’s chest. The man started, fumbled, his arrow releasing short to stick in the ground at McKeever’s feet.
“Now!” McKeever cried, cocking Tylor’s ugly rifle, taking aim at Stone Otter. He triggered it, seeing the flash an instant before the gun belched fire and thunder. Through the flame and smoke, Stone Otter collapsed as if poleaxed.
McKeever had a momentary glimpse of Red Bear Man’s bow, extended, the string twanging as the man loosed an arrow.
Dawson McTavish’s rifle boomed; Wide Crane staggered at the impact, his arrow flying off into the night. Then the warrior stumbled to the side. His left leg gave out, and he toppled.
An arrow hissed from the darkness, whizzed past Red Bear Man’s face. The warrior spun on his feet. Staring out at the falling snow, he loosed an arrow into the darkness beyond. Then clawed for another arrow. Then he saw where his friends had fallen. McKeever caught that instant of understanding as the Arapaho spared him an evaluative look, then stared back at the darkness.
Red Bear Man turned, pounding off into the safety of the storm as a rifle boomed from the night. Muzzle flash shone out in the falling snow.
McKeever turned, searching the darkness. Arrows? A rifle? How many were out there?
He tossed Tylor’s rifle to the side as useless, then glanced frantically around.
There.
Joseph sat frozen, terror wide in his eyes, an arrow sticking out of his belly.
McKeever ripped the unfired rifle away from the boy’s right hand. As he lifted it, pointed it at the night, an arrow hissed. The impact on his cheek was like being slashed by a willow stick. A sort of sting. A pulling at his hair.
McKeever triggered the gun; the pan flashed before his eyes— followed an instant later by the boom and recoil. But all he saw was falling snow.
McKeever bellowed, “Who’s out there?”
He was peering through the falling flakes when another flash, just a flicker, caught his attention off to the right. McKeever was running by the time the rifle’s report sounded. Hang fire. Pan must have been wet.
Two rifles, an archer, there had to be at least three men out there in the dark. Meanwhile there he’d been, standing like a daft maniac in the firelight to be shot at. But for that hang fire, he’d be dead or dying in the snow.
In sudden panic, McKeever understood that his only chance was to run. Get as far from that fire as he could. With a bellowed curse, he charged off into the night.
“God’s sucking damnation!” McKeever crashed into low-hanging branches. Dead stuff that broke, cracking and snapping; it dropped snow onto his head. He fled headlong. Hit a log while running full tilt. One moment he was upright, the next he hammered chest-first into the ground. Stunned, he gasped for breath, fingers clutching futilely at the snow.
Searching around, he got his hands on the rifle. Took two tries to get his feet under him.
Everywhere he looked was darkness, snow pattering on his head and face, melting to run down in cold trickles that slipped down past his collar. A burning traced along his right cheek and the side of his head. His ear stung as if a thousand wasps had been at it. He dabbed at it with fingertips, felt the gaping cut, found it warm, tacky. Had to be blood. To his dismay, the top of his ear hung by a flap of skin.
He could hear shouting, voices behind him.
With his left arm raised to fend off any obstacles, he shuffled his way forward. As his eyes were beginning to adjust after the firelight, the snow made the world into a dark gray haze.
Got to get away.
Outnumbered, armed only with an empty rifle, they’d kill him for sure.
That’s when something moved ahead of him. Large. Mc-Keever stopped short, raising his rifle like a club.
Horses! He saw horses! Two of them.
CHAPTER 42
Tylor’s view of the camp was restricted where he lay bound in the snow. Beside him, Joseph Aird was gasping and shivering as he clutched the arrow. From the angle at which it was protruding, the point had driven deeply into his intestines.
Dawson was on his knees, making a mess of his attempt to reload his rifle. The man was shaking so hard he kept spilling powder, dropped two balls in succession as he tried to short-seat one in the muzzle.
“Wife!” Tylor called. “Hold your fire!”
“I can kill the last one.”
“Wait,” Tylor called. To Dawson, he said, “You want to live?”
“Who’s out there?” Dawson was staring at the darkness, blinking at the falling sheets of snow that glowed in the firelight. He was trying to prime the pan.
“You better put that rifle down. Cut me loose. If you don’t, she’ll kill you.”
“She?”
“Put the rifle down, Dawson. It’s your last chance.”
The young man, panting his fear, nodded too quickly, and laid the fancy rifle to the side. His shaking hands fumbled at Tylor’s ties. Couldn’t seem to manage the knots. He pulled his knife.
“Easy. Don’t cut me,” Tylor warned. “That’s it. Take a breath. You’re all right.”
The bindings parted.
“Dear God,” Dawson whispered. “What happened here?”
“Joshua Gregg and the spoils of hate,” Tylor muttered, shivering himself as snow melted on his body and trickled down between gaps in his clothing to chill his skin.
Ripping the last of the leather wangs free, Tylor stood, walked over, and retrieved his rifle. “Check Joseph.”
He took long enough to find his horn and bullet pouch, stuffed a load into the jack handle, and primed the pan. Tylor eased toward the closest of the downed Arapaho. The man was gasping, writhing in the snow. The blood draining out of his shattered hip looked like a black pool where it melted the snow. From the amount, a major artery was hit.
The second Arapaho stared sightlessly, the fire’s leaping flames reflected in miniature in those wide eyes. He lay on his side; Singing Lark’s arrow stuck out from the man’s ribs. The path of McKeever’s bullet through the Arapaho’s spine was marked by a bloody hole and bits of bone in the back of the man’s coat.
Tylor retreated, hunching down beside Dawson where he worked on Joseph. The young Canadian was whimpering, making mewling noises as he tried not to move lest it jiggle the arrow in his guts.
“Why?” Dawson kept asking through tears. “Why did this happen?”
“You came here to kill me.”
“He said you were working again
st us.”
“The only thing I wanted was to be left alone.” Tylor kept his eyes on the falling snow, nerves grating. He raised his voice, asking in Shoshoni, “What happened to the Sioux?”
“Dead,” Singing Lark answered from the darkness. “The red hair said he should shoot me if I wouldn’t come in. Besides, he had another rifle and I needed his bow and arrows.”
“What did she say?” Dawson asked.
“The Sioux is dead. That was the first gunshot.”
“She had a gun? A woman?”
“Mr. Dawson, the problem with making assumptions is that when they’re wrong the consequences can be disastrous.”
“How could this have . . .”
A rifle banged close by in the night, the report muffled by the sheets of falling snow. It was followed by an agonized scream. Then the sound of thrashing, a cough, and silence.
“Wife?” Tylor called, suddenly panicked. He stood, the jack handle shouldered, eyes searching desperately.
“It is all right, husband,” she called. “The last of the Sa’idika came to the sound of my voice. His puha wasn’t strong. Or maybe he just didn’t think well.”
Tylor ground his teeth. “McKeever’s still out there.”
A moment later, Singing Lark stepped into the firelight, a rifle dangling from each hand, a bow and quiver over her snowy shoulders. “He is gone. Two of the horses got loose. He caught them before I could kill him. From the sound, he’s moving fast.”
“Which way?”
“Back down to the Bad Water. He is a man alone in country he does not know. The Sa’idika and Pa’kiani are out there. If he finds the Kuchendukani, we will hear about it. I don’t think he will last long.”
“Don’t count him out. I thought I left him drowned back in the Missouri River.”
Joseph shivered, gave off a croaking sound, and turned his tear-streaked face to the night. Beside him Dawson dropped his head into his hands and wept, whispering, “My fault. All my fault.”
Flight of the Hawk: The Plains Page 20
