Easing lower, hoping his figure would be indistinguishable against the background, Nate spoke clearly. “Who are you and what do you want?”
His words sparked swift reaction. An Indian on the left wheeled and a rifle boomed, the muzzle spitting flame and lead.
Nate heard the ball smack into the tree above his head. The other Indians were scattering. He sighted on the one who had fired, who seemed to be trying to reload, and let the Hawken show how much he appreciated being shot at. At the retort from his gun, the Indian shrieked in pain and fell. Instantly, Nate dived to the right, and it was well he did.
Two other guns spoke, and two more balls struck the trunk of the tree.
Rolling to one knee, Nate held the rifle in his left hand and drew one of his flintlocks with his right. He cocked the hammer as he drew so he was set to fire when his arm reached full extension. Only there were no targets to shoot at. The four remaining Indians had gone to ground.
Realizing they would be out for his blood, Nate crept to the right. A stationary target was a sitting duck. He must keep constantly on the move if he hoped to partially counter their numerical advantage.
Off to the left there was an abrupt screech, then total silence.
What had that been all about? Nate mused, easing flat in the shelter of a low thicket. He crawled to his right, wishing he could reload the Hawken but knowing he increased his risk if he did. If they converged on him he had his two pistols and his butcher knife, and they would learn the hard way that a King was as hard to kill as the mighty bears after which he had been named.
A commotion erupted and Nate heard much thrashing and flailing. The scuffle was punctuated by the low growl of a beast and the strangled cry of a man. Suddenly, quiet descended once more.
Had that been Samson? Nate continued to crawl, scouring the ground. He hoped Benteen and Sublette would have the good sense not to blunder into the forest bellowing his name. By now they should have taken cover.
A second commotion ensued, much louder than the first, and the growling was much more ferocious. No one screamed, but a few seconds after the noise stopped, someone groaned in acute agony.
What the blazes was going on out there? Nate wondered as he skirted the end of the thicket, trying to outflank the Indians on the right. His elbow struck a thin dead branch lying on the ground and it broke with a sharp crack.
Fuming at his stupidity, Nate rose into a crouch and dashed to the right. The Indians were bound to have heard and would easily pinpoint his position. He must put distance behind him or find a hiding place.
One moment he was adroitly weaving among the trees, the next someone hurtled out of the night and slammed into him from the rear. He was knocked forward, onto his knees, and when he frantically twisted to see his attacker he saw a tall warrior armed with a knife—a knife that streaked at his face.
Chapter Nine
In sheer desperation, Nate threw himself to the right. He felt the tip of the blade dig into his left shoulder, felt a clammy sensation as blood spurted over his skin, and then he was on his back with his attacker looming above him in the dim light, ready to stab again. His right arm jerked the pistol straight out and he fired at close range into the Indian’s abdomen.
The force of the ball made the warrior stagger backwards and the man doubled over, let go of his knife, and clutched at his stomach.
Nate pushed off the ground, stuck the spent pistol under his belt, and drew his second flintlock. It wasn’t needed, though. The warrior was doubled over, his forehead resting on the grass, groaning pitiably. The knife lay at his feet.
Taking no chances, Nate backpedaled a few feet and covered the man. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, appeared Red Moon. The Crow slipped up beside Nate and stared at the downed warrior, who had tilted his head to peer at them.
“Blackfeet,” he commented.
“This far south?” Nate responded absently while gazing anxiously around for sign of the rest.
“They go where they please, when they please. These must have been looking for a village to raid when they saw our fire.”
“There were five in all,” Nate informed him, looking over his shoulder.
“I know. Now there is just this one.”
The man on the ground spoke, uttering his few words defiantly.
“He speaks my tongue,” Red Moon said. “He says all Crows are cowards and fit for the buzzards.”
Nate was worried about the remaining Blackfeet. He expected one of them to charge or open fire at any second. “What about the others?”
“Dead.”
“All of them?”
“Yes,” Red Moon said, and tapped the knife he wore on his left hip. “I killed one. You shot one with your rifle and then this one. And the dog sent the last two to meet their ancestors.”
“Samson?”
“Is there another dog around here?”
Nate turned in time to see the big black beast advance out of a tangle of vegetation nearby. Samson strolled over to him and stood at his side, staring wickedly at the wounded Blackfoot brave. He thought the dog might tear into the man and said sternly, “No. Leave him alone.” He had no idea if Samson understood, but the dog made no move toward the warrior.
Crashing in the underbrush heralded the arrival of Benteen and Sublette, who hurried over with their rifles at the ready.
“Who is he, Nate?” Milo asked, gesturing at the brave.
“What happened?” Tom added. “We heard shooting and growling and such.”
“This here is a Blackfoot,” Nate informed them. “He and his friends were fixing to take our scalps.”
“Blackfeet!” Milo exclaimed. Like every other trapper in the Rockies, he’d heard all about the many white men slain by the fierce tribe. “How many were there?”
“Five.”
Tom glanced at Samson. “Well, I’ll be damned! This mutt of yours saved our bacon by hearing them before they could get close enough to put an arrow or a ball into us.”
“That he did,” Nate agreed.
“If you want to keep him, I won’t raise a ruckus,” Tom said.
“What about this one?” Milo inquired, jabbing his rifle at the brave at their feet. “Shouldn’t we finish him off?”
As if the Blackfoot understood, he came up in a rush, his bloody arms flashing out with the knife clutched in his right hand. He tried to stab Red Moon in the neck, but the wily Crow was a shade faster and sidestepped.
Nate pivoted, bringing his flintlock to bear, but before he could fire there was a tremendous snarl and Samson sprang like a pouncing panther. The big dog didn’t bother going for an arm or leg as would others of his kind. Samson went straight for the throat, his momentum and weight enabling him to sweep past the Blackfoot’s knife and knock the brave over. They went down, Samson on top, his teeth sunk deep in the Blackfoot’s soft neck.
Still game, the Blackfoot drew back his knife arm to stab Samson in the side. Nate saw the movement and tramped down hard on the brave’s forearm with his foot, pinning the arm and the knife in place. He held his leg firm as the Blackfoot gurgled and thrashed, listening to the slurping sounds made by Samson as the dog’s teeth shredded the Blackfoot’s throat. A whine rent the cool air, not the low whine of a dog but the terrified whine of a man who was dying, a man who fought and struggled with all his waning strength but was no match for the massive brute chewing his neck to bits.
Abruptly, the Blackfoot lay still.
Samson moved back, blood dripping from his muzzle. Tiny pieces of pale flesh dotted his cheeks and lined his mouth.
“If I ever forget myself and try to kick this mongrel,” Tom said softly, “I want somebody to shoot me before it can get to me.”
“Consider it done,” Milo said, grinning.
Red Moon drew his knife. “I claim the scalp of the man I killed, but the rest are yours, Grizzly Killer.”
“Mine?” Nate repeated distastefully. Of the few Indian practices he disliked, scalping was at the top of his list. H
e’d taken the hair of a few foes since arriving in the Rockies, but he couldn’t reconcile his conscience to the horrid practice.
“You shot one and your dog finished off the rest,” Red Moon stated. “So, by right, four of the scalps are yours.”
“I don’t want them,” Nate said.
“You’re passing up four fine scalps?” Milo asked in astonishment.
“When you’ve taken as many as I have, what’s one more?” Nate said as nonchalantly as he could.
“I’d hate to see them go to waste,” Milo said, looking down at the last Blackfoot.
“If you want them, they’re yours.”
“What about me?” Tom interjected. “I’ve never taken a scalp either, and I wouldn’t mind having the hair of a Blackfoot hanging from my belt.”
“Divide them, then,” Nate proposed. “Each of you can have two.”
“You really mean it?” Milo responded eagerly.
“Yes”
“You’re all right in my book.” Tom beamed, drawing his knife. “It takes a big man to share scalps. Wait until we tell everyone about this. You’ll be the talk of the mountains.”
“I’d prefer if you didn’t tell a soul,” Nate said.
“If that’s what you want,” Tom said, and knelt to grip the Blackfoot’s shoulder-length black hair.
Nate didn’t stay to see the scalps removed. He started toward their camp, appalled by the attitude of the Pennsylvanians. Then he reminded himself that many trappers shared the same attitude, and some could boast of having a dozen or more scalps in their possession. For that matter, the Indians were no better. Every male in every tribe prided himself on his bravery in battle and the number of coups he’d counted. Owning a string of scalps conferred great prestige on the warrior who did, and Indian men entertained no qualms about lifting hair.
He was pouring hot coffee into his tin cup when the others drifted back. Red Moon had the fresh scalp attached to his thin leather belt. Milo held two in his hand and was examining them critically. Tom Sublette was swinging his and chuckling like a giddy child who had just received a new toy.
“Wait until I show these to the folks back in Pennsylvania,” Tom declared happily. “Why, they’ll think I’m the greatest Injun-fighter since Daniel Boone.”
“But you didn’t kill those Indians,” Milo noted. Tom laughed and winked. “We know that, but my friends in Pennsylvania won’t.” He swung the scalps again and grinned.
“Boone would roll over in his grave,” Milo said.
“He’d understand,” Tom countered. “After all, Boone was born in Pennsylvania just like we were.” He paused. “Besides, it’s just in the nature of a practical joke. I’m not trying to hurt anyone.”
Nate had heard all he could abide. “A man should never claim credit for a killing that isn’t properly his,” he commented, and took a sip of the delicious, steaming coffee.
“It’s easy enough for you to criticize me,” Tom said resentfully, “when you already have a reputation the likes of which most men only dream about.” He snorted. “You’re the mighty Grizzly Killer who can slay grizzlies with his bare hands. You can track and shoot as good as any Indian who ever lived. Beaver drop dead at the mere mention of your—”
“That will be enough!” Nate snapped, rising.
The others froze. They all knew there were certain things a man never did when in the company of others. A man never asked prying questions because many men had left the States to escape pasts they would rather forget. A man never made fun of another man’s woman because there was no surer way of getting a fist in the face. And a man never, ever insulted another man or treated others sarcastically unless he was ready to back his foolishness with a knife or a gun.
“We’re trapping partners, but that doesn’t give you the right to treat me like a green pilgrim,” Nate said sternly. “Any reputation I have, I’ve earned the hard way.”
Tom glowered for a full ten seconds. Only when Milo said softly “Tom” did he glance at Benteen and then sigh. He faced Nate. “All right. I was wrong and I admit it. Sorry, King.”
“No harm done,” Nate responded, and squatted in front of the fire. In his heart, though, he was developing a dislike for Tom Sublette. The man had a high regard for himself and a low regard for others, a dangerous combination in any person. Nate almost wished he’d had the presence of mind to turn down their offer, but again he thought of all the furs he would collect and of getting back to the cabin much earlier than he normally would. He would just have to put up with Sublette’s behavior for a few months.
Milo, who was tying his scalps to his belt, suddenly looked up. “Say, I just had a thought. What if those shots were heard by other Indians?”
“They might have been,” Red Moon said.
“We’ll act on the assumption someone did hear them,” Nate said. “And since we’re avoiding other company for the time being, we’ll saddle up and cut out of here before first light. If someone comes to investigate tomorrow morning, we’ll be long gone before they find where we’ve camped.”
“I will keep first watch,” Red Moon volunteered.
“I’ll go second,” Nate said, and drank more coffee while listening to Milo and Tom argue over who should pull guard duty third and fourth. At times they were more like bickering boys than full-grown men.
He sipped again, pondering. What had happened to him? he wondered. There had been a time when they wouldn’t have bothered him in the least, not even Sublette. There had been a time when others could tease him and he would have merely laughed and gone about his business. Why, now, was he so different?
All of the old-timers he knew were the same way. By old-timer, he meant anyone who had lived in the Rockies for more than two or three years. In comparison to the number of men who flocked to the Rockies to trap, very few stayed on for long. Most died, either from Indians, beasts, or accidents. Men like Shakespeare McNair and Jim Bridger were the exceptions rather than the rule. And they too were touchy about being offended.
Why? And when had he changed and become like them? What had done it?
Was it because living in the wilderness, where a person encountered the majesty of creation on a daily basis, conferred a profound sense of inner dignity on those who did so? A dignity above reproach, but not above reprimanding those who belittled it?
Was it because living in the wilderness, where survival was often won by superior wits and endurance, made a person appreciate his or her own uniqueness that much more, made a man realize he was special and had a place in the greater scheme of things? Consequently, he was unwilling to abide the insults of those who didn’t know any better?
Or was the cause simpler than that? Was it because the wilderness took a man and molded his soul in its own hard image? Nature, after all, was never forgiving or compassionate. Everywhere, the strong preyed on the weak. The slow deer fell to the panther, the weak elk was taken by wolves. And men who were weak seldom lasted out a year in the wild Rockies. Only the hard ones lived on. Those who were living reflections of the life-and-death spectacle surrounding them.
Nate shook his head, clearing his mind, and smiled at himself over his train of thought. He was starting to think in circles, just like Shakespeare often did. Give him another five years and he’d probably wind up as crotchety as that cantankerous old cuss!
“I hope we don’t run into any more Blackfeet before we reach the valley,” Milo was saying.
“The valley is very close to Blackfoot country,” Red Moon reminded him. “Very close. We must be on our guard at all times. But if we are careful, we will have much money when it is all over.”
“Now you’re talking, Injun,” Tom said. “I can’t wait to hold a couple of thousand dollars in my hand. I’ve never had that much money at one time.”
“Do not forget a share goes to me,” Red Moon said.
Tom glanced sharply at the Crow. “I won’t forget, old man. Don’t you worry none. And don’t you forget that for you to collect your mo
ney, we’ve got to make it back alive.”
Nate took a long swallow and peered at his companions over the rim of his cup, speculating on how many would actually make it back.
Only time would tell.
Chapter Ten
“The valley,” Red Moon said, and pointed straight ahead.
Nate placed a hand on the pommel and leaned forward to survey the land before them. They had reined up in a small clearing on a pine-covered ridge, and it became immediately apparent why few knew the location of the valley.
The old Crow had led them into stark, rugged country rarely visited by human beings. Regal mountains were everywhere, most craggy peaks over ten thousand feet high. Between and among the mountains were deep gorges, steep ravines, and occasional verdant valleys. Many were dead ends. The whole area was like a gigantic maze carved by the erratic hand of the whimsical elements.
The ridge on which they had stopped bordered an isolated series of jagged spires and rocky heights that formed a seemingly impassable barrier. Situated as it was so close to those heights, the ridge cut off from view whatever lay at their base. And there, nestled between two mountains looming over twelve thousand feet above the ground, was the opening to a lush valley.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Milo commented. “We’re finally here.”
“Where the hell are we?” Tom wanted to know, and shot a questioning look at Nate.
“It’s a branch of the Rockies, but I don’t know which one,” Nate said. “I’ve never been this far northwest before.” He paused. “Very few have.”
“What are we waiting for?” Milo asked eagerly, and nodded at the valley entrance. “Let’s get down there and set up camp for the night.”
Nate took the lead, squinting up at the late afternoon sun. There were about four hours of daylight remaining, enough for them to find a suitable spot to bed down. Bright and early tomorrow morning they could scout the valley and see if the beaver were as abundant as Red Moon had claimed.
He glanced over his shoulder at the warrior, who was riding at the rear of the line, and noticed Red Moon cast an anxious gaze toward the two mountains flanking the valley. Was the Crow thinking about the thing that lurked in the dark? Or about the Crow braves who had gone into the valley and never emerged? Facing front, Nate placed the Hawken across his thighs so he could lift it quickly in an emergency.
Wilderness: Mountain Devil/Blackfoot Massacre (A Wilderness Western Book 5) Page 7
