Wilderness: Savage Rendezvous/Blood Fury (A Wilderness Western Book 2)

by Robbins, David

  “A Mexican gave it the name a few years ago. He said the shape reminded him of the head of a coyote.”

  “But what’s a coyote?”

  “Oh. Sorry. Coyote is the word he used for the animals we call a prairie wolf and the Indians know as the medicine wolf.”

  “Why do they call it by that name?”

  “Because Indians are the most superstitious people you’ll ever meet, and many of them happen to believe the medicine wolf can predict the future or give them warning of an approaching enemy.”

  “Predict the future?” Nate repeated in disbelief, glad for the conversation, for the chance to take his mind off Winona.

  “Yep. Some tribes believe that when a medicine wolf comes near their village and barks, it means someone will soon die. Other tribes claim the barking means enemies are close at hand. I’ve been in villages when a prairie wolf’s barking has caused all the warriors to put on their war paint and grab their weapons in preparation for an attack. The women all scurry for cover and the old ones wail their death chants. It’s quite a sight.”

  Nate said nothing. He was thinking about the Indian superstition that medicine wolves, or coyotes, were harbingers of death, and he wondered if Coyote Rock would be the site of his own.

  Chapter Sixteen

  After two and a half hours of arduous travel, pushing their mounts as fast as they dared, Nate and Shakespeare emerged from a stretch of woodland onto a plain sparsely dotted with stands of trees and clusters of huge boulders. Rearing above the center of the plain, hundreds of feet into the crisp night air, was an imposing bluff.

  “Are we near Coyote Rock yet?” Nate asked.

  The frontiersman pointed at the bluff. “Only four miles to go. You can’t tell it from here, but the top is solid rock.”

  Nate studied the contours of the black silhouette. He failed to discern any resemblance to a prairie wolf, but he did spot a flickering point of light on the crown. “Is that a fire?”

  “Appears to be,” Shakespeare confirmed. “There’s a flat area at the summit. The Giant must be waiting for us there.”

  “Let’s not disappoint him,” Nate stated harshly.

  They rode onward, moving side by side, for over two miles before either man spoke.

  “The tricky part is coming up,” Shakespeare informed his companion. “The trail to the top winds back and forth across the face of the bluff. One slip and you’ll fall to your death.” He paused. “It would be easier if we could use torches, but the Giant would spot us if we did. As it is, I expect he’ll post someone between the bottom and the top to give us a proper reception.”

  “Is there another way to scale the bluff? What if we went around to the far side?”

  “Too steep. There’s just the one way up.”

  Nate fixed his gaze on the fire. Was Winona next to it right at that moment? Was she bound? Had the bastards molested her? He couldn’t wait to get the Giant in his sights. For the first time in his life he keenly relished the prospect of killing another human being. He wanted to taste the sweet nectar of revenge, to see Cleroult’s blood pumping onto the ground, to know the man would never pose a threat to Winona or him again. And to Shakespeare, of course. He glanced at the frontiersman he’d grown to care for more than anyone except his wife, and frowned at the thought of the men awaiting them on the bluff. “Say, I’ve been thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “Since the Giant took Winona, I should be the one who confronts him.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “She’s my wife.”

  “He wants both of us to show up, remember?”

  “Then why don’t you let me go on ahead. You come on if you hear any shooting.”

  Shakespeare snorted. “That’s the dumbest idea you’ve ever had. I guess it’s true that too much thinking wears out the brain.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “For one thing, you’d never make it to the top of the bluff by yourself. I doubt you’d even get halfway. For another, Cleroult might be the meanest son of a bitch in the Rockies, but he’s not stupid. If you show up alone, he’ll suspect a trick and kill Winona and you both before you can get off your horse.”

  The older man’s logic was irrefutable. “I just wish there was another way,” Nate said.

  “You’re not the only one.”

  They drew nearer to the bluff and lost sight of the campfire. Shakespeare angled toward the northwest corner of the base, his rifle cradled in his arms. He led the way past a row of trees, then rode slowly to an incline running horizontally across the precipitous face.

  Nate craned his neck to look at the top, which gave the illusion of reaching the very heavens, and almost didn’t notice when his friend stopped.

  “This is it,” Shakespeare whispered. “From here on out make as little noise as possible. Keep your mare behind my horse at all times. Above all, don’t look down once we’re up there unless you’re not afraid of high places.”

  “I’m ready.”

  The frontiersman began the ascent, proceeding carefully, leaning over the pommel so he could better see the way.

  Nate sat rigid in the saddle, tense with expectation. The first stage of the climb turned out to be easy and gradual, with the trail five feet wide. After going forty yards he relaxed, thinking the difficulty had been exaggerated, and almost immediately the trail turned sharply to the left, cutting back on itself, and narrowed to three feet. The slant became steeper, much steeper, and he had to tense his thighs to keep himself from falling, fighting the pull of gravity.

  Less than fifty feet farther on, the trail reversed itself again and became a mere two and a half feet wide. Jagged rocks jutted from the cliff. Bumping into any one of them could send horse and rider plunging over the edge.

  The mare picked her way carefully, placing one hoof after the other, taking short strides. Whenever she drew abreast of a rock she brushed past it cautiously.

  Nate’s mouth went completely dry. He tried not to think about the danger, not to think about the consequences should his horse slip. His life depended on her performance. He stroked her neck every now and then and spoke softly, soothingly, to reassure her.

  The climb became more treacherous. They slowed, picking their passage, the cool breeze chilling their sweat.

  Nate lost all track of the time it was taking them. He’d assumed they’d only been climbing for ten or fifteen minutes when he glanced down at the plain and was shocked at how high they were. The trees below resembled bushes. He licked his lips and suppressed an involuntary shudder. Dwell on Winona, he told himself, on Winona and nothing else.

  Winona. Winona. Winona.

  They were two-thirds of the way up the bluff and rounding a curve when Shakespeare unexpectedly halted.

  Nate quickly reined up to avert a collision. He saw the frontiersman gazing at something above them, and he strained his eyes to discover the reason.

  The cliff concealed its secrets well.

  Frustrated at seeing only the rock wall, Nate glanced at Shakespeare, and was about to whisper a question when his friend resumed their climb.

  Twice again the trail reversed itself, and after the second bend it widened, becoming much like the section at the bottom.

  Nate breathed a sigh of relief, then realized the frontiersman had stopped again. He glanced up in alarm.

  “Do like I do,” Shakespeare directed, and without any warning whatsoever he broke into a gallop.

  Stunned, Nate obeyed, his heart beating faster. Past experience had taught him to rely on Shakespeare’s judgment. If the mountain man wanted him to ride like a bat out of hell, he would. The mare responded superbly, staying close to the sheer face.

  A rifle blast shattered the night.

  Nate glanced to his left and saw a vague figure perched on what appeared to be a ledge situated just below the rim. He snapped off a return shot, not expecting to hit the rifleman, but the discharge of the Hawken was greeted with a piercing scream and the
figure toppled from view. Seconds later the mare swung from the trail onto the bluff proper, and Nate realized with a start they had made it. They were on top of Coyote Rock!

  Shakespeare stopped and slid from the saddle. “Get down,” he declared.

  Well aware of the tempting target he made on the mare, Nate dropped to the ground and crouched.

  “Reload,” Shakespeare instructed him.

  Nate did so, relying more on feel than sight, approximating the amount of powder as best he could.

  They were near the western rim of the bluff. Before them was a flat area, dozens of yards in circumference. To the north were enormous boulders; to the south a low rise that obscured whatever lay beyond it, although the faint light dancing above the rise indicated the campfire was on the far side.

  Squatting and peering into the darkness, Shakespeare cocked his rifle. “I think we should split up,” he said quietly.

  “Why?”

  “Because they’re expecting us and they’re probably spread out to catch us in a cross fire. If we go in together, it’ll be easier for them to pick us off.”

  Nate finished reloading and gazed at the rise. He didn’t like the idea of being separated, but he knew better than to argue.

  “You go that way,” Shakespeare said, and pointed to the east. “I’ll work my way along the rim. Stay low at all times, and under no circumstances go near the fire.”

  “Will do.”

  The frontiersman rose, bent over at the waist, and moved off. “Take care of yourself, Nate.”

  “You too.”

  In seconds the night swallowed the older man.

  Imitating Shakespeare’s posture, Nate headed to the east along the bottom of the rise. Solid rock was underfoot, enabling him to pad silently. He stopped every twenty feet to listen and survey the terrain. The wind picked up, stirring his long hair and whistling across the top of the bluff.

  Nothing moved within the radius of his vision.

  Nate came close to the east end of the stony rise and eased his hands and knees, then flattened and crawled to a point where he could see the stretch of bluff in the vicinity of the fire. He saw a single person seated near the blaze, the figure’s back toward him, but he couldn’t make out who it was.

  A faint scratching noise wafted to his ears from the darkness behind him.

  Moving slowly so as not to betray his presence, Nate inched his head down and twisted. He looked toward the boulders and immediately spied an inky form moving among them. Since Shakespeare had gone along the west rim, it couldn’t be him.

  The man headed straight for the rise.

  Indecision gnawed at Nate’s mind. Should he shoot or try to take the man alive? The abduction of Winona justified killing in cold blood, but he couldn’t bring himself to point a rifle and fire. Despite the provocation, he wasn’t a callous murderer. He watched the person approach, calculating he would pass a few feet to his right, and came to a decision.

  Walking stealthily, the man crossed the flat area.

  Nate waited until the man was a mere yard away, anticipating a sharp cry of discovery at any second. But lying in the deepest blackness as he was, he remained safe from detection.

  The man abruptly halted and looked over his shoulder.

  Now! Nate thought, and leaped to his feet. He started to point the Hawken at the other’s chest and declared prematurely, “Don’t move!”

  But the man did move, with astounding speed, whipping around and batting the Hawken aside with his own rifle barrel, then sliding in close and swinging the stock.

  Nate took the blow on the point of his chin, and he stumbled backward against the rise, the Hawken slanting uselessly to the right. An instant later he found himself staring down the menacing barrel of the man’s rifle.

  “Don’t you move!” his captor hissed.

  Obediently, Nate froze. He recognized his captor as the trapper he’d struck, the lecher named Henri.

  “You’re not such a big man now, Grizzly Killer!” the trapper stated contemptuously.

  Nate said nothing. He still held the Hawken in his right hand. If only he could bring it into play.

  “Where’s Carcajou?” Henri demanded, glancing around.

  Even with the gun in his face, Nate almost sprang. He tensed to leap, then changed his mind when he spotted someone else running toward them from the northwest.

  “Laclede!” Henri declared. “I’ve caught the pup.”

  “I know,” the weasel responded angrily. “I heard you clear over by the rim. Why don’t you shout it out at the top of your lungs, you idiot!”

  “Why are you mad at me?” Henri asked. “I caught him, didn’t I?”

  Laclede halted and stared at Nate. “So we meet again, mon ami.” He came around behind Henri and took the Hawken. “You won’t be needing this. Nor these,” he added, and snatched the pistols and knife.

  “Where’s my wife?” Nate snapped. “What have you done with her?”

  “How touching, yes?” Laclede said to his companion, and they both snickered. “If you want to see your woman, we’ll take you to her.” He motioned with his right arm. “Lead the way, please. Head for the fire, and no sudden moves unless you want to die.”

  “You plan to kill me anyway,” Nate noted resentfully as he started to go around the rise.

  Laclede laughed. “True enough. But would you rather die now or later?”

  The solitary figure still sat near the campfire. Nate hoped it was Winona and increased his pace.

  “I haven’t seen the old man,” Henri said. “He must be on top of the bluff too.”

  “So? McNair won’t try anything now that we have his protégé. Cleroult will be very pleased.”

  “Where’s Peterson? I heard shooting a while ago,” Henri mentioned. “I was coming to investigate when the pup tried to capture me.”

  “Peterson is dead.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure. I found his body lying behind rocks on the ledge. Someone put a ball through his head.”

  Nate grinned at the news.

  “Cleroult will not be so pleased about that,” Henri observed. “I think I’ll let you tell him. You know how he is when his temper is aroused.”

  “I do.”

  The fire was only ten feet off. Nate couldn’t take the suspense any longer. He thought he detected Winona’s raven tresses, but the flickering shadows caused by the wind-whipped flames prevented him from being certain. He ran the final distance and stepped in front of the person, his heart soaring with joy as he laid eyes on the woman he loved. “Winona!” he exclaimed in relief.

  She gazed up at him, her eyes conveying the depths of her affection, her mouth unable to convey anything because she’d been securely gagged with a thick strip of cloth. Her wrists had been bound, and her arms tied to her bent legs just above the ankles.

  Nate glared at the two men. “Cut her loose!”

  “We can’t do that, mon ami,” Laclede said condescendingly.

  “That’s right. We wouldn’t want her to go running around in the dark and maybe fall off the bluff,” Henri chimed in, smirking.

  Nate’s burning emotions almost seethed out of control. He took a stride toward them, his fists clenched. “If you didn’t have the upper hand, I’d shove those words down your throat!”

  “Have a care, pup,” Henri responded, wagging his rifle. “Cleroult wants you alive, but he didn’t forbid me from putting a ball into your leg if you give us trouble.”

  Spinning, Nate crouched next to Winona and tenderly squeezed her shoulder. “It will be all right,” he assured her. “We’ll get out of this fix.”

  She looked at him quizzically.

  Nate was about to repeat his statements using sign language when a deep voice addressed him from the right.

  “Don’t delude yourself, Grizzly Killer. You’re not leaving Coyote Rock alive.”

  Straightening slowly, his features hardening into a mask of fury, Nate pivoted and saw Gaston Cleroult
and Edward Mulhare walking toward him, along with one other. The sight of that third person transformed his fury into a state of absolute shock. “It can’t be!” he blurted out.

  “But it is, you stupid son of a bitch,” Crazy George retorted, and cackled insanely.

  Chapter Seventeen

  In a daze, as if he’d just been clubbed on the head and his brain no longer functioned, Nate gasped at the thin man in the big wool cap, at the man he considered to be a friend, the man Shakespeare cared for so deeply.

  Crazy George pointed at him, still chortling. “Look at the great Grizzly Killer. He’s trying to catch moths in his mouth!”

  The other men, except for the Giant, all laughed.

  “I told you I wouldn’t forget you,” Cleroult stated, his face agleam with an elemental wickedness, his baleful features accented unnaturally by the glow from the crackling fire. “No man insults me or those who ride with me and walks off to brag about it. We’ve had a debt to pay to McNair for years, ever since he stopped Laclede from giving an Indian bitch the treatment she deserved. But he’s crafty, that McNair, and dangerous. Very dangerous. So we’ve bided our time until the right opportunity should come along.” He grinned broadly. “And here you are.”

  Nate absently listened to the words, his gaze still on Crazy George. “But you!” he declared. “How do you fit into their scheme?”

  “Me?” George glanced at the rest and sniggered. “Why, I started riding with Cleroult about a year ago. Found out we have a lot in common. He’s a man after my own heart.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, it’s like this, son. When you’ve been in the wilderness as long as I have, when you’ve survived burning deserts and frigid winters where your spit can freeze in midair, when you’ve lived like an Indian, and at times like an animal, when you’ve known the way of life nature intends for us to lead, it changes you.”

  “I don’t understand,” Nate said, his bewilderment impairing his reasoning.

  “Out here ain’t like back in the East. Out here the only law is survival. But maybe you know that already. Maybe you know that, as those naturalist fellows are fond of saying, everything eats everything else. The big animals eat the medium-sized animals, and the medium-sized animals eat the little animals.”