Only The Strong

by David Thompson

  “You weren’t with them when we tangled back in Missouri.”

  “Wesley hired me later. Me and some others who are a lot worse than me. We don’t get along much on account of I have scruples and they don’t.”

  Nate tested the rope around his wrists. It didn’t have any slack. The same with the rope around his ankles. To keep the older man talking, he said in mock surprise, “You have scruples?”

  “That was uncalled for. But I won’t harm females. Ever. And I won’t kill unless I have to. I failed to mention that to Wesley. He took it for granted I’d have no qualms about leading you into an ambush.”

  “So you’re a cutthroat, but a nice cutthroat?”

  “Hell, I’m no cutthroat at all. I used to be a trapper, like you. Now I mostly guide and scout and track and such. This Wesley hired me to tag along with him because he’s never been west of the Mississippi.”

  Nate’s head was beginning to clear, although it still throbbed. “Do you suppose I could impose on these scruples of yours and you could cut me loose?”

  “I would like to. I honest to God would. I’ve grown fond of you and that wife of yours. You’re fine folks. As fine as I’ve ever met.”

  “But…?” Nate prompted when Harrod didn’t go on.

  “But if I let you go you’ll go charging off to help the blacks and get yourself killed. I’m doing you another favor by keeping you tied.”

  “You’re full of favors I can do without.”

  Peleg Harrod chortled. “Now see, most men would be foaming at the mouth about now. They’d be cussing and kicking and saying as how they’d like nothing better than to slit my throat. But not you. You lie there as calm as can be. You even joke about what I did to you.”

  “So far all you did was conk me on the noggin. Set me free and there won’t be any hard feelings.”

  “I didn’t fall off the turnip wagon yesterday. You’re only saying that because you want to go after your wife and the blacks.”

  “Those blacks have a name.”

  Harrod shifted to stare quizzically at him. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not like Wesley and his bunch. I don’t hate blacks just because they’re not white. Hell, I’ve had me a few Injun wives.”

  “But…?” Nate said again.

  “But I don’t give a good damn what happens to them. They never did trust me.”

  “After what they’ve been through, can you blame them?”

  Harrod grinned and wagged a finger. “Don’t try to make me feel sorry for them. Sure, they’re decent folks. And yes, they must have had it rough as slaves. But Samuel killed a man. He up and murdered his master. He deserves what ever they dish out.”

  “Have you ever killed?”

  Harrod nodded. “I’ve had to blow out a few wicks. A couple of times so I could keep my hair on my head. And once or twice because someone thought they could help themselves to my horse or my poke.”

  “Did you know that Samuel Worth killed his owner to keep his daughter from being raped.”

  “Damn you to hell.”

  “What?”

  “It won’t work.”

  “What won’t?”

  Abruptly drawing rein, Harrod reined his horse around and brought it next to the bay. “You are one devious son of a bitch, do you know that? Trying to convince me to side with the Worths.”

  “I only told you what happened.” But the truth was, Nate did hope to change the frontiersman’s mind.

  “And money grows on trees and the moon is made of cheese.” Harrod made a clucking sound. “I don’t want another word out of you—not so much as a peep. Do you hear me?”

  “What if I promise not to talk about the Worths?”

  “Not about the Worths, or about slaves, or about slave hunters, or about slavery, or about how life ain’t fair, or about my scruples.”

  “Is that all?”

  “No. You’re not to talk about your wife or your kids if you have any or bring up Jesus or God or your parson if you have one or talk about how the human heart is tender or fickle or both.”

  “Is there anything left?

  Harrod blinked, then laughed and slapped his leg. “Don’t you beat all. But I mean it. No tricky talk.” He gigged his mount and resumed heading east.

  Nate flexed his arms. The rope dug into his wrists, but he didn’t care. He had to work loose no matter how much it hurt or how long it took. “You mentioned having wives—”

  “You can’ talk about them, either.”

  “Did you have any children?”

  “Nor them.”

  “How about pets? You must have had a dog or cat you were fond of. Or maybe you’re partial to that horse you’re riding.”

  Harrod swung around. “When I said you were devious, I didn’t know the half of it. All right. From here on out you’re not to speak unless I speak to you first.”

  “That’s awful harsh.”

  “It will be harsher if I have to gag you.”

  “Can I say one last thing?”

  Harrod groaned.

  “My wife thought highly of you.” Nate seldom lied. In fact, he could count the number of times he had lied on one hand and have fingers left over. But he was lying now. “How can you let them hurt her?”

  Peleg Harrod swore. “I should have led you into that ambush like they wanted.”

  Chapter Eleven

  In her panic Randa didn’t realize which direction she had fled until she burst from the vegetation that bordered the Platte River and beheld an unending vista of prairie. She didn’t stop. For all she knew they were after her. She had to get away so she could come back later and do what she could to help her family and Winona. That was her overriding thought as she slapped her legs against her mount, goading it to a gallop.

  Randa glanced back. She was puzzled that none of the slave hunters was after her. For a few happy seconds she thought she had escaped. Then she glanced back again—and three riders emerged from the trees. One was the burly bear with a beard, Trumbo. The others were the blond man and the man with the shotgun. Trumbo rose in the stirrups, spotted her and pointed. All three immediately gave chase.

  Randa hoped her parents and brother were all right. The fact that they were worth more alive than dead suggested they would be. But she had heard awful stories about the terrible things slaves hunters had done to runaways, and her heart was heavy with worry.

  When Randa next looked over her shoulder, the three men hadn’t gained on her. A grim grin curled her lips. They were in for a surprise, those three, if they thought she would be easy to catch.

  Randa galloped for another half mile. Then several things occurred to her. First, she was on the open prairie. There was nowhere to hide even if she should widen her lead. Second, her horse—a skew-bald, Nate King called it—was breathing heavier than she had ever heard it breathe. And third, the men after her were holding to the same steady pace, so she didn’t dare slow down. Put those three together and it told her they were deliberately trying to—what was the expression?—ride her horse into the ground.

  Randa would be the first to admit she didn’t know a lot about horses. For instance, how far could they go without tiring? At a walk, probably all day. But at a gallop? She figured five or ten miles, but she could be mistaken. She slowed anyway and glanced back again.

  The three were still after her at that same steady gait.

  Randa faced front and stiffened. Something strange was up ahead. Dark bumps lined the horizon. The bumps grew until she could see they were animals—big animals. There were a lot of them, too. She thought they might be elk until she remembered Nate King telling her that elk herds seldom numbered more than fifty or sixty. There looked to be hundreds of what ever was up ahead, scattered in clusters and singly.

  Randa considered going around, but that would take precious time and cost her much of her lead on her pursuers.

  Some of the animals heard her horse and raised their great shaggy heads.

  A tingle of apprehension rippled do
wn Randa’s spine. She wanted to smack herself for not realizing what they were sooner. How could she not when she had nearly been gored by one? Their huge heads, their curved horns, their funny tails with the tufts at the end; they were buffalo.

  Lots and lots of buffalo.

  Randa’s mouth went dry. The buff she had run into at the river had shown her how fierce they could be. And that had been just one. What was she to do against hundreds?

  Randa went to rein wide of a bull that was stamping its front feet.

  Then she saw that the three slave hunters had halved the distance. She had no choice but to go through the herd.

  A bull grunted and pawed the ground.

  A cow with a calf took a few steps in her direction and stamped and shook her head as if about to attack.

  “What do I do? What do I do?” Randa asked the empty air.

  The skewbald stopped.

  Randa jabbed with her heels to get it moving. Suddenly a bull came toward them, its head lowered.

  Randa tensed for a charge. She would try to outride it, even though Nate King had told her that buffalo were as fast as horses over short spurts.

  The bull abruptly snorted and wheeled and trotted off.

  Randa used her heels. The skewbald slowly moved forward, but it was trembling with fear. She tried to get it to go faster, but it balked. She didn’t blame it. Buffalo were on all sides now, some staring, some grazing. They were spaced far enough apart that if she was careful she might make it through without being attacked.

  A calf came prancing toward her.

  Randa drew rein and was on the watch for its mother. She motioned. “Shoo! Go away!”

  The calf paid no heed. It tossed its head and bobbed its tail, reminding Randa of herself when she was seven or eight and she would go skipping down the lane.

  The calf came within half a dozen feet, sniffed several times, and let out a bleat.

  Almost instantly there came an answering bellow. From out of a group of cows came one in particular, raising puffs of dust with her heavy hooves.

  Randa went to rein out of there when she remembered another kernel of frontier lore Nate King once shared: animals are drawn to movement. When confronted by a bear or a mountain lion, the worst thing a person can do is run. Randa imagined the same applied to a mother buffalo.

  The calf pranced in a circle around the skewbald, perhaps drawn to it out of curiosity. It didn’t seem to hear its mother’s bellows, and if it did, it had a lot in common with human children—it ignored her.

  “Go away, darn you!”

  At the sound of her voice the calf uttered another sharp bleat and scampered away. The mother went after it, veering wide of the skewbald.

  Randa let out the breath she had not realized she was holding. But her relief was short lived.

  Another buffalo was coming to investigate. This time it was a huge bull in its prime. Head lowered, it rumbled and snorted and gouged the ground.

  Randa figured that if she sat there quietly the bull would leave her be. She didn’t count on the skew-bald doing the last thing it should; whinnying in fear and bolting.

  “No!” Randa cried, and hauled on the reins. But the skewbald refused to stop. Worse, it was galloping toward a group of twenty or more buffs, bunched so close together that a goat couldn’t get through, let alone a horse.

  “Whoa!” Randa shouted. She heard drumming hooves and looked behind her. Her heart leaped into her throat.

  The big bull had given chase and was hard on the skewbald’s flank. Should the horse slow, even a little bit, the bull would be on them in the blink of an eye.

  Hugging the horse’s back, Randa gave it a smack. She hollered, thinking it might scatter the buffalo they were heading toward. A few looked up, but the rest, amazingly, paid no more attention than if she were a prairie dog. “Get out of the way!” she screamed.

  A few did. The rest stood chewing and staring or, as one buffalo was doing, rolling around in the dirt.

  Randa was certain she was done for. The bull would catch her or the ones in front would turn on her. Either way, she was dead. In desperation she did the only thing she could think of: she hauled on the reins with all her might.

  The bull thundered past, its horn missing the skewbald by a whisker. It plowed into the others, snorting and swinging its head, and they scattered in all directions, their tails held high.

  Several passed so close to Randa that she could have reached out and touched them. The skewbald stood still, but quaked.

  Then the buffalo were gone, and dust settled around her. She let out another sign of relief. Once again it was short lived.

  “Damn, girl. Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

  Randa wrenched her head around.

  The three slave hunters had caught up. They sat their horses calmly, smirking.

  “No!” Randa exclaimed.

  “Oh, yes,” said the man with the shotgun. He pointed it at her.

  Winona King was mad. Not at those who had jumped her and bound her. She was mad at herself for being taken unawares. In the wilderness a person must always stay alert. Now here she was, tied hand and foot. Helpless, and in the clutches of men whose violent natures were mirrored in their cold, uncaring eyes.

  Winona had been studying them and listening while they waited for the three called Trumbo, Bromley and Kleist to return. She remembered Wesley from before. Olan and Cranston were new to her. The former was a strutting fool, always belligerent, always angry. The latter was a boy in a man’s clothes, but a vicious boy who had never learned that kindness was a worthwhile trait.

  Winona shifted to relieve a kink in her leg and caught Wesley studying her even as she had studied them. “Yes?”

  “You sure are a thinker, squaw. I’ll give that to you.”

  “How about if we make a deal?” Winona requested. “You will not call me squaw and I will not call you son of a bitch.” She recalled that white men did not like that; they did not like that at all.

  Olan howled with delight. “Ain’t she something? She talks better than I do and she’s a redskin, for God’s sake.”

  “I can kick her teeth in if you want,” Cranston said eagerly.

  Wesley, cradling his Kentucky, shot the younger man a glare of annoyance. “I’m tired of telling you to leave them be.”

  “I thought it was the blacks you don’t want touched? You didn’t say anything about no Injuns.”

  “She stays alive and unharmed,” Wesley said. “At least until we bag her husband. He won’t lay a finger on us so long as we have her.”

  “Scared of him, are you?” Cranston snickered.

  In a blur Wesley was on him. He shoved the Kentucky’s stock in the younger man’s gut and Cranston doubled over, gasping. He thrust out a hand to ward off another blow to the ribs, and Wesley clubbed him in the head instead.

  Cranston sprawled, unconscious.

  “Was that necessary?” Olan asked.

  Wesley spun. “You heard him. I’m tired of playing nursemaid. He’s one of yours. That’s your job. Have a talk with him or the next time he gets a slug between the eyes.”

  “That’s the first threat I ever heard you make.”

  “It wasn’t a threat,” Wesley corrected. He turned back to Winona. “Now, where were we? That’s right. I was saying how you impress me. You’re smart for a female, red or white.”

  “I was smart enough to marry a good man who will not rest until you are six feet under.”

  “I might have a surprise for you. Has this good man of yours ever taught you a game called checkers?”

  “Checkers and chess and other games besides. We have spent many an evening playing them.”

  “Then you know that the key to winning at checkers is to remove the other player’s pieces. And that’s exactly what I’ve done with your husband.”

  Fear filled Winona, but she did not let it show. Another thing she had learned from the man she loved was something called a poker face. “Removed him how?”<
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  “You’ll find out soon enough.” Wesley turned to the Worths. “How about you three? Cat got your tongues? You can talk if you want, so long as you talk civil.”

  “I hate you,” Emala said. “And I’ll hate you more if anything happens to my baby girl. You hear me?”

  “Spare me, lady.”

  “I am, you know.”

  “Am what?”

  “A lady. I trust you and your friends will remember that and not try to take liberties.”

  Olan, who was helping Cranston up, let out a snort. “Poke a darkie? That’ll be the day.”

  “You’re perfectly safe in that regard,” Wesley assured her.

  “Poking you would be like poking a hog or a cow,” Olan added.

  Chickory started to come up off the ground but found himself looking at the Kentucky’s muzzle. “Don’t talk to my ma like that! She is a lady, you hear?” He twisted toward his father, who sat with his arms over his knees and his head bowed. “Pa? Didn’t you hear him? Say somethin’, will you?”

  Samuel didn’t respond.

  “What’s the matter? They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

  “I thought we were free, son. Finally and truly free. I thought we would have a place of our own and be happy.”

  “What does that have to do with how he insulted Ma? He called her a hog and a cow.”

  “I’ve never been so happy as these past weeks. I could do what I wanted. I could hold my head high and say I’m a man.”

  “Of course you’re a man. What else would you be?”

  Winona was concerned for Samuel. All the fight and much of the life seemed to have drained from his hardy frame. He hadn’t said a word until now. It wasn’t his body that was broken so much as his spirit. “We must never give up, never lose hope,” Winona said.

  “Even if my family and me got away from this bunch, they’d only send more after us. There’s no escape.”

  “I’ve been telling you that all along,” Wesley said.

  “It’s all that wool between his ears,” Olan taunted. Just then hooves thudded to the west, and around a bend in the trail came riders.

  Olan grinned and pointed. “No one escapes us for long.”