Here Zach reined up to listen. To the southeast imitation thunder rumbled and warriors yipped, thrilled at the chase. Half a mile away, Zach reckoned.
Abby was trying to keep her paint still. The mare pranced and circled, eager to be off. “We’ll never make it,” she said forlornly.
“You might try looking at the bright side for a change, ma’am,” Zach said. “We’ll make it, but we have to keep our heads.”
“I’m trying,” Abby said. “Lord, how I’m trying. It’s not easy after two years, even though escaping is all I’ve cared about.” She rubbed the paint’s neck. “Before we go any further I want your promise, son.”
“I told you I’d get you to safety.”
“No. Something else.” Abby’s face was in shadow and she seemed to prefer it that way.
“If you make it and I don’t—”
“We both will.”
“Don’t interrupt,” Abby said gruffly. “If you make it and I don’t, I want your word that you’ll try to get word to my Lane. I can’t abide the thought of all I’ve been through, all I’m going through, being for naught.”
Zach detected an underlying quaver to her voice. “What is it you want me to tell him?”
“I loved him.”
“That’s it?”
“And I always did. Always will. There’s nothing more that needs to be said.”
Thinking of Bluebird, Zach nodded. “Rest easy. If something happens to you, I won’t rest until I track Lane Griffen down and let him know, no matter how long it takes me.”
“You’ve the stature of a boy but the soul of a man. Thank you, Zach King.”
“Let’s ride.”
The night was comfortably cool. Legions of crickets chirped in melodious chorus. For a while a coyote howled in lonely counterpoint but eventually ceased.
Zach was pleased with their progress so far. He bore westward until they had gone over four miles and he judged they were beyond the radius of the search area. Bearing southward, he slowed to a trot to save the horses in case the worst that could happen did.
Abby was too distraught to stay quiet for very long. “There’s something else I’d like to say, if you’re open to some unsolicited advice.”
“Only a fool won’t listen to those who know better than him.”
“Is that your pa speaking again?”
“My Uncle Shakespeare.”
“You’re so fortunate,” Abby said. “So fortunate.” She faced away. “But I wanted to talk about your future, not your family. I saw you, you know.”
“Pardon?”
“I saw you with Bluebird.”
Zach was thankful the night hid his reaction. “She and I are just friends,” he said self-consciously, a trifle peeved the woman had brought the subject up since his personal affairs were none of her business.
“You can’t hide true romance from a romantic,” Abigail said. “I noticed how the two of you were looking at one another. I saw you holding hands.”
“So?”
“Don’t waste your life, Zachary.”
“I’ve lost the trail.”
“Two years of my life have been spent in captivity. Two years are gone, years I can never replace, never relive.” Abby spoke somberly, earnestly. “If I’ve learned nothing else from my ordeal, it’s that time is too damned precious to be wasted. So don’t waste yours. Make the best of your life, Zach. Remember that every minute you spend unhappy is a minute you could have spent happy if you seize your life by the reins and guide it where you want to go and not where it takes you. Do you see my point?”
“I think so,” Zach said, recalling that White Grass had said something to the same effect. What a peculiar coincidence.
‘‘Too many people drift through this world as if it doesn’t matter one whit what they do or where they go. They’re wrong, son. Dead wrong. We’re not allotted much time as it is. Better, I think, to use it to full advantage.”
“I’ll remember, ma’am.”
“Quit calling me that. You make me feel older than I am. Abby will do fine.”
“I’ll remember, Abby.”
The prairie became broken by intermittent low hills. Sparse trees afforded concealment and Zach threaded a course among them while steadily bearing toward the Yellowstone. On his current heading they would come out miles east of where he had first tangled with the Blackfeet.
Abby became calmer the more distance they covered. She rode better, too, as she and the paint became accustomed to one another.
Zach wished she hadn’t mentioned Bluebird. He saw the girl’s lovely face in the starry sky, in the rustling grass, in clusters of trees. Try as he might, he couldn’t banish her from his thoughts. He fretted he would go on pining after the first love of his life forever.
It was a faint shout that succeeded where Zach’s will had not. Stiffening, he swiveled and heard another shout. The Blackfeet had spread farther westward. Perhaps they guessed his tactic and were trying to head him off. To do that they would have to send warriors southwest to get between the river and them.
Suddenly, directly ahead not more than a mile or two, a single rifle shot rang clear.
“That’s a signal!” Abby said. “They’re in front of us now! How?”
Drawing rein, Zach gnawed on his lower lip. He’d made a mistake. They should have galloped all the way to the river instead of pacing their mounts. “A few fast horses must have gotten there ahead of us. By swinging farther west, we’ll miss them.”
“I pray you’re right.”
So did Zach. A lowland rife with vegetation was the route he chose to take them another mile. They had to pick their way carefully at times because there was no moon. To their advantage, they were well screened from the surrounding hills.
At the edge of the brush Zach halted to study the lay of the land. To their right, prairie. To their left, hills apparently extending clear to the river. Were there Blackfeet in those hills? he wondered.
“Which way?” Abby asked apprehensively.
“Stay close,” Zach advised, swinging southward once more. To reduce the noise they made he walked the horses, the lance across his hips. He would much rather have had a rifle or a bow, but the lance would do. Like all Shoshone boys, he’d spent many hours practicing its use, both from horseback and afoot. He wasn’t the equal of a grown warrior but he could hit a man-sized target from ten feet off ten times out of ten.
Katydids called from the trees. An owl answered. A tree frog chimed in, indicating the presence of a spring or a stream.
“This land can be so darned beautiful at times,” Abby remarked softly.
Admiring the scenery was the last thing on Zach’s mind. They were winding lower along a series of switchbacks. In the distance the Yellowstone materialized, a pale ribbon against the inky backdrop of darkness.
“Look! Do you see it?”
Zach wanted her to keep quiet. A single slip now would result in calamity. He was turning to shush her when the bay’s ears shot erect, pointing to the left. A second later he heard the crackle of dry undergrowth and stopped.
Abby, gasping, did the same.
There was movement in the growth flanking the switchback and a rider appeared, a warrior astride a magnificent war horse, a rifle hooked in his left elbow. He was gazing down toward the river. Behind him came another, partially hidden in gloom.
In another moment either of the Blackfeet would turn and spot them. Zach did not bother to formulate a plan. He simply rammed his heels into the bay and charged, leveling the lance as he had heard the old-time knights did theirs in the books his father read to him when he was smaller.
The Blackfeet heard and twisted, the foremost rider bringing his rifle up, the other reaching behind him for an arrow in the quiver on his back.
Zach leaned forward and tucked the lance tight under his arm to absorb the brunt of the impact. He expected to be jolted. The tip of the lance struck the warrior on the side of the chest, slicing through flesh as readily as a knife
through lard and unhorsing the Blackfoot. The force of the blow was so slight Zach almost doubted the lance had connected until he saw the man toppling.
Yanking on the bay’s mane, Zach swung the animal around the riderless mount. As he did, he straightened, reversed his grip, and hurled the lance at the second warrior from a range of six feet. The Blackfoot was in the act of notching the arrow; he took the lance squarely in the stomach.
In a clatter of hooves Zach was past them and speeding down the switchback. He looked once to make sure Abby was still behind him, then he devoted his full attention to negotiating the hazardous trail. A gulf appeared where part of the ground had buckled. Urging the bay on, he sailed over the cleft, the wind whipping his hair.
Landing heavily, the bay faltered, buckled, nearly went down. Zach had to clamp his legs fast and lock his fingers into the mane to stay on. He brought the horse to a stop and turned just as Abby jumped the gap.
It was obvious she was in trouble in midair. The paint hadn’t jumped high enough or far enough. Legs rigid, it hit shy of the rim. Loose dirt slid from under its hooves and it slipped backward.
Abby showed her mettle. She let go and shoved off, vaulting at the edge, her hands grasping for purchase.
At the same instant Zach leaped from the bay and dashed to the edge. He saw her fingers digging desperately for a hold and dived, closing his hands on her wrists. She was too heavy for him to hold for long. But the seconds of leverage he gave her were all she needed to brace her knees, dig in her toes, and heave herself over the top.
They clung to one another, Zack shaken by the close call, Abby trembling uncontrollably. From below rose thuds and whinnies of torment as the paint tumbled down the slope.
“We have to keep going,” Zach admonished. In confirmation of his point, one of the Blackfeet cut loose with ear-splitting screeches to draw others. “We’ll ride double from here on out.”
The bay stood panting as they mounted. Zach felt Abby’s arms slip around his waist, felt her press against his back. He continued lower, moving as fast as the terrain permitted. He hoped the land would flatten once they reached bottom but found a confusing maze of gullies and hillocks blocked in spots by downed trees. Picking his way through was an annoyingly slow process. He could imagine the Blackfeet closing in from all directions.
An hour passed. The gullies gave way to knolls, and before long Zach was on a high point a quarter of a mile from the Yellowstone.
Horsemen moved below.
Zach cut back, into timber. Again he bore westward, avoiding clearings where possible. he had to shake the Blackfeet for good, yet the only way he could think of entailed great risk.
The timber ended, mesquite taking its place. Zach reined up, lending an ear to what the breeze had to tell him, which in this instance was nothing at all. The screeching had long since died, perhaps the screecher also.
“Why have we stopped?” Abby whispered.
“I have a plan.” Zach pointed. “I’m afraid we’ve got to cross the river.”
“Do you know where it’s safe?”
“No. We’ll just have to pick a likely spot and say our prayers before we try.”
“We’ll be sitting ducks if the Blackfeet spot us.”
“I know. But it’s our only hope. By morning this area will be swarming with them. South of the Yellowstone is Sioux country, and they might think twice before venturing over yonder.”
“If you think it’s best,” Abby declared. “You’ve gotten us farther than I ever thought we’d get, so do what you have to. And one more thing.”
“Ma’am?”
“In case something happens, I want you to know you’re more man than most men I know. You’ll make your pa proud when you grow up.”
Zach rode toward the pale ribbon, stopping often to scour the landscape. The bay was tuckered out and plodded at times. A line of willows and cottonwoods was all that separated them from the gurgling water when Zach heard the ringing crack of a hoof striking a rock somewhere to the left. He gained the sanctuary of the trees and halted.
Five riders moved along the river’s edge from east to west, their outlines stark black against the rippling surface. All had lances or bows.
Stroking the bay so it wouldn’t nicker, Zach waited with baited breath for the Blackfeet to ride from sight. Beyond them the Yellowstone gurgled softly. He had no idea how deep the river was at that point, nor could he accurately judge the distance to the opposite shore. Both would have been nice to know. Had there been time, he would have checked. But he had to cross before the Blackfeet discovered them, so he would just have to chance it.
The five warriors stopped. Zach gripped the hilt of his knife, prepared to slash his way through if the Blackfeet had spotted the bay. They seemed to be peering across the Yellowstone, although why they should do so mystified him. Presently the foremost warrior barked a single word and the entire party rode on.
“Get set,” Zach whispered to Abby. He listened to the dull clop of hooves, and when they died, he nudged the bay across the flat strip of rocky shoreline. Abby’s arms constricted around his waist and she breathed in shallow puffs as if fearing the Blackfeet would hear her.
Zach looked right and left. Nothing else moved along the river but there might be warriors hidden in the brush. Dreading an outcry or the report of a rifle, he came to the water. The bay stopped and had to be goaded before it slowly entered.
To Zach’s anxious mind, the slight splashing the horse caused sounded like the roar of a waterfall. He felt the animal tense up under him and he didn’t blame it. The water was too murky to see under the surface. An unseen hole or cleft could result in a bad fall or a broken leg.
The bay halted of its own accord, nervously bobbing its head. Zach smacked his legs against its sides to prod it on. The current didn’t look very strong and he saw no evidence of rapids or whirlpools. Gradually the water level rose, first to the bay’s ankles, then to its hocks, then to its belly. The lower half of Zach’s moccasins were soon soaked
Twenty feet farther the bay stopped again, ears pricked toward the south shore. Zach looked but saw no cause for alarm. He had to drive his heels into the animal’s flanks repeatedly before it would move, and when it advanced it did so skittishly, seemingly fearful of whatever lay ahead.
They were about at the midway point when shouts broke out on the north side of the Yellowstone. The rattle of hooves attended the shouts.
Glancing around, Zach spied another search party heading in the same direction as the first. They were forty yards to the east and very close to the water. Too close, Zach thought. All one of the warriors had to do was turn his head and he would see them.
“Bend low,” Zach cautioned, doing so as he drew rein. Abby shifted her weight on top of him, and pressed together they watched the Blackfeet approach.
“It’s Cream Bear!” she said fearfully.
The lead warrior did appear to have Cream Bear’s build, but Zach couldn’t be sure if it was or it wasn’t. The Blackfeet went by without slowing. Once they were gone, he finished crossing, rode a quarter of a mile onto the prairie, then swung westward.
“We did it!” Abby said in amazement, giving him a squeeze. “Or I should say, you did it.”
“We’re not out of the woods yet,” Zach said.
“Some of the varmints might have crossed to this side.”
For the rest of the night they trotted westward, both of them so on edge they started at any unfamiliar or loud noise. Zach was mighty tired by the time the eastern sky brightened with the advent of sunrise. His gaze had seldom wandered from the north side of the Yellowstone but he had seen no trace of their pursuers.
Now, with daylight so near, Zach remarked, “We should hole up and rest a while.”
“Don’t stop on my account. I can go on all day if need be.”
“I’m not thinking of us. It’s the horse that needs a break, unless you like the notion of walking clear to the Rockies.”
“We’ll stop.�
��
A large tract of thick woodland where the river curved was the site Zach selected. He had ridden a dozen yards into the dense undergrowth before he realized something was wrong. No birds were singing, no small animals were present. And on taking a deep breath he smelled the faint odor of wood smoke.
“They’re here!” Zach declared, lifting the reins to wheel the bay. He was much too slow. From out of the brush on both sides figures in buckskins pounced, some grabbing hold of the bay, others seizing Zach and Abby and pulling them off.
Zach heard Abby cry out. He got his fingers around the hilt of his knife as brawny arms swept him to the ground. Like a striking snake he whipped the blade overhead to strike and then froze in disbelief on seeing the curly black beard covering the lower half of the face above him.
“Hold on there, small coon! Don’t be stickin’ old Miles. We don’t mean you no harm. We just didn’t want your horse to run off or make a fuss. Truth is, we took you for a young Injun at first. Thought maybe you were one of the Blackfeet we saw prowlin’ the other side of the river a while ago.”
“You’re white!” Zach blurted.
“As a sheet,” Miles jested.
Zach gawked at the other four men. “You’re all trappers!” he deduced.
“And not no company men, neither,” Miles said proudly. “We’re all free as tumbleweed.” He gave Zach a friendly clap on the shoulder. ‘‘So what say you put that pig sticker away and come chaw with the booshway of our outfit. We’ll be wantin’ to know all about you.”
“This lady is Abby. I’m Zachary King, son of Nate King. Maybe some of you have heard—” Zach began, then stopped. They were looking at him as if he was some sort of creature not seen every day.
“King, you say?” Miles said, sounding astounded. “It’s true, I reckon. This sure enough is a damned small world.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will, soon enough,” Miles promised.
A dozen yards brought them to the edge of a wide clearing where other trappers were engaged in various tasks. The frontiersmen glanced up, their surprise at seeing a white woman so profound many of them were utterly dumfounded.
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