The ammo pouch and powder horn slapped against his body as he ran, while the big knife smacked against his leg. He held the Hawken firmly in his left hand, swinging it at his side. Every so often he would press down on the flintlocks with his right hand, ensuring the pistols were snug under his wide leather belt.
He lost all track of time. After a mile or so his sore muscles loosened up and the stiffness went out of his joints. A minor pain intermittently flared in his chest but he disregarded it. Twice he stopped to gulp a mouthful of water and take a short breather.
A gray streak creased the eastern horizon when Nate spied, far ahead, the gap in the mountains that would grant him safety. He was winded again, so he halted and bent over, catching his breath.
Across the stream in the brush branches crackled as something moved about.
Straightening, Nate swung around and pressed the Hawken to his shoulder. A large, vague shape walked into the open and the creature seemed to be staring at him. He wondered if the things could see in the dark, like cats. If so, they had seen him sneak away from the lean-to.
A hint of sound to his rear made Nate whirl, his thumb pulling back on the hammer as he did. He saw a huge beast rushing at him, its arms outspread to envelop him in its crushing grip, its features veiled by the darkness except for its yellow fangs. Only a few yards separated them when Nate squeezed off a shot.
The ball took the creature low down, in the abdomen, the impact stopping it dead in its tracks. It doubled over, voiced a feral snarl, and leaped.
Nate tried to evade the thing’s brawny arms but it clipped him on the right shoulder and knocked him to the earth. On hands and knees he glanced up at its great hairy bulk and saw it raise a fist overhead to pound him into the dirt. Another snarl sounded, only this one came from off to one side, and a black streak hurtled out of the night onto the creature.
Nate recognized that black streak and his resolve soared. Samson had come to his rescue! He saw the dog clamp its jaws on the beast’s left wrist and the creature roared in primal fury, then swatted at Samson as a man might swat a fly. Nate heard the thud as the blow landed and imagined he heard the crack of Samson’s ribs. Unless he came to the dog’s aid, Samson would be slain.
He whipped both flintlocks out and up, cocking them as he drew. Pointing the left pistol at the creature’s head, he fired. In the flash from the gun the beast’s face was momentarily illuminated. Nate saw hairy, inhuman features dominated by a pair of dark, sinister eyes, eyes seemingly aflame with unbridled hatred, and then the flash was gone and the beast bellowed in agony and flung Samson to the hard ground.
The creature spun, both hands or paws clasped to its face, and bounded into the forest, crashing through the undergrowth as it fled.
Nate twisted and spied the beast across the stream advancing toward him. It was a third of the way into the water and taking strides that no man could hope to match. He aimed hastily and fired his other flintlock.
Jerking around, the creature staggered, then recovered and retreated, snarling and growling and rumbling in its barrel of a chest. Upon reaching the bank it bounded into the vegetation and fell silent.
Nate began reloading his guns, glancing in both directions in case the beasts came at him again. Samson rose, favoring a front leg, and limped over. His tongue flicked out and stroked Nate’s cheek. “You pick a hell of a time to be affectionate,” he muttered, his hands working feverishly.
Once all three weapons were ready, Nate jammed the pistols under his belt, grabbed the Hawken, and stood. Total quiet reigned in the woods on both sides of the stream, which meant nothing. The creatures might be skulking toward him at that very moment. Turning, he headed toward the gap at a slow gait so Samson could keep up without straining that injured leg too much. Splashes of red and yellow and orange colored the eastern sky. Soon the sun would rise.
They traveled half a mile when Nate glimpsed an indistinct form in the forest to his left. He halted and spun, dreading another onslaught but determined to fight until he dropped. Samson simply stood and stared, and Nate didn’t understand why until a few seconds later when the thing in the trees came toward them.
Into the growing light stepped his stallion.
Epilogue
There were eight Crow women gathering berries on a low knoll less than a quarter of a mile from their village. They chatted as they worked, gossiping about the latest news of a raid the men had been on against the Utes.
Stiff Back Woman was the oldest in the group. She had gotten her name in childhood when an accident had rendered her incapable of bending over. A horse had kicked her squarely between the shoulder blades and she had never been the same. Still, she had led a good life. She’d married a handsome brave and borne him two children, both sons. Now, in her old age, she much enjoyed spending time with her granddaughters and their friends. They respected her years, as all Indian youths were taught to respect their elders, and they looked to her for guidance in womanly matters.
As her wrinkled fingers nimbly plucked the ripe red berries and deposited them in her basket, she kept a wary eye on the surrounding plain for enemies. One never knew when the Blackfeet might stage a raid, and there were always grizzlies to watch out for.
As alert as she was, she still didn’t hear the rider approach, and had no idea they were no longer alone until she glanced up and saw the white man observing them. Although surprised that any white man could come up on them so quietly, she retained her composure. He was a big man on a fine black stallion, and nearby stood a great black dog. She stopped picking berries and greeted him in her tongue.
“Hello,” the man said in the Crow language, and then he pointed at the village and used his hand in flawless sign language. “I seek Red Moon’s people. Is that his village?”
“Yes,” Stiff Back Woman responded. She saw no reason to lie to this man. He had an air of honorable character about him that impressed her. “But Red Moon is not there. He has not been seen in four or five moons.”
“Is his grandson there?”
Stiff Back Woman frowned in sadness. “Little Sparrow died two moons ago. He was asking for his grandfather when he gave up the spirit.”
The rider closed his eyes and seemed to tremble. When he opened his eyes again they were moist. “Thank you. Tell your people Red Moon is dead. Tell them he died bravely.” With that the white man wheeled his horse and rode off, the dog keeping pace with the stallion.
“Wait!” Stiff Back Woman shouted, but it was no use. The rider went down the knoll and out across the prairie, and was soon lost in the dust raised by his mount.
WILDERNESS 10: BLACKFOOT MASSACRE
To Judy, Joshua, and Shane.
Chapter One
The strapping young man in fringed buckskins sighted down the barrel of his heavy Hawken rifle, his striking green eyes narrowing as he aimed at the buffalo cow grazing contentedly twenty yards off. From his prone position on a grass-covered knoll he could see her great jaws moving as she munched and the flick of her short tail as she lazily swatted at circling flies. His thumb curled around the metal hammer and pulled it back until he heard a click.
What a stroke of luck! Nate King reflected. To have stumbled on a lone cow so soon after beginning his hunt meant he would be back with his wife and son much sooner than he had anticipated. He would have liked to bring the boy along, but the only time Zach got to mingle with their kin and frolic with other children was for three or four weeks each spring when the family visited the Shoshones and for a brief spell at the annual Rendezvous. So rather than interrupt his son’s fun, he’d gone hunting alone.
Nate absently wondered why the cow was alone as he prepared to squeeze the trigger. Ordinarily, buffalo congregated in large herds, and he had been following a clear trail left by hundreds of the dumb brutes when he spotted the cow. Perhaps she was lame. Or maybe she had simply wandered off from the main body. Whatever the case, he wasn’t about to pass up this golden opportunity.
Although buffalo were n
otoriously difficult to dispatch with a single shot, at such short range he was confident of dropping her with one ball to the heart. Having butchered scores of buffalo since leaving New York City nine years ago for the rugged life of a free trapper in the majestic Rocky Mountains, he knew precisely where a buffalo’s vital organs were located.
Nate grinned, thinking of how amazed Winona would be to see him back at the Shoshone village so soon, and lightly touched his forefinger to the trigger. Taking a breath, he steadied the Hawken, and was all set to fire when the high grass near the cow stirred and up stood a young calf.
Blinking in surprise, Nate watched the reddish calf wobble over to its mother’s side and bawl to get her attention. It was a newborn! Now he understood why the cow was by herself. She must have stopped to deliver her offspring, and the herd had continued on to the south, leaving her behind. In a day or two, when the calf was strong enough, she would catch up with the main body.
Damn! Nate fumed in annoyance, lowering the gun. This changed everything. While there were some mountain men and any number of Shoshone warriors who would kill both mother and calf without hesitation, regarding both as nothing more than food on the hoof, shooting either now went against his grain. Others might laugh and call him soft, but he couldn’t bring himself to slay a mother and her baby, even if they were only animals.
Carefully lowering the hammer, Nate observed the calf greedily sucking milk from the cow’s teats. Then he eased backward on his elbows and knees and angled down the knoll until he could stand without being seen by the mother buffalo. His proximity to the calf might cause her to charge, forcing him to shoot her whether he wanted to or not.
Turning, Nate walked to his splendid stallion, a gift he had received at a recent rendezvous from the Nez Percé after he helped them fight the dreaded Blackfeet. Widely noted for their horsemanship, the Nez Percé were also regarded as the best horse breeders west of the broad Mississippi. Many frontiersmen would give a year’s earnings just to own one of their outstanding animals. His stallion was typical of the breed; it sported black spots on a roan background, had white-rimmed eyes, and was further distinguished by white stripes over its hoofs.
He swung nimbly into the saddle, gripped the reins, and swung around, about to head northward in search of more buffalo. In the far distance, at the limits of his vision, something moved, a tiny black speck amidst the vastness of the unending prairie. Leaning forward, he placed his left hand over his eyes to block out the bright morning sun. Was it another buffalo? If so, he’d reach the Shoshone village by dark and spend all night with his wife. The appealing prospect brought a smile to his lips.
Playing it safe, Nate turned to the west and rode in a wide loop in the hope he would spot a low hill or another knoll from which he could spy on whatever it was. While he would much rather ride in a beeline and find out if it was indeed a bull so he could kill it and return to the village, prudence dictated otherwise. As he well knew, careless mountaineers did not survive long in the wilderness. One of the first laws of survival he had learned was to never take anything for granted. What if that moving dot was in reality a fierce grizzly or a hostile warrior? He must determine what it was before he made his presence known.
He hunched low over the saddle to blend his silhouette with that of the stallion’s. From far off the horse would appear to be riderless, just one of the many wild animals roaming the plains. If that figure out there was indeed an enemy, a lone horse wouldn’t arouse suspicion.
Nate held the Hawken in his right hand, the reins in his left. He could feel the twin flintlocks he invariably carried rubbing against his midsection. They were wedged tight under his brown leather belt, one on either side of the big buckle. In addition to the pistols, he had a butcher knife in a beaded sheath on his left hip and a tomahawk tucked under the belt above his right hip. Slanted across his broad chest were a bullet pouch and a powder horn. Moccasins covered his feet. In every respect his attire was typical of trappers, those hardy souls who had ventured into the remote vastness of the foreboding Rockies to make their living by securing beaver pelts for the lucrative Eastern and European markets.
Nate had never regretted his decision to come west. Not only had he found the love of his life in the beautiful person of Winona, he had also discovered the true meaning of a word he had never paid much attention to during the years he spent growing up in New York City, a word he now regarded as one of the most precious in the entire English language: freedom. To be able to live as he pleased without being accountable to any man meant as much to him as life itself. Back in New York, where he had bowed to his father’s every whim and labored as an aspiring accountant under a spiteful taskmaster, he had been bound by invisible chains and never realized the fact. His behavior had been...
What was that?
Nate drew rein, listening to the mournful, wavering notes of an eerie howl that wafted on the cool breeze. He glanced toward the dot, squinting in an effort to see it better. The distance prevented him from being certain, but he had the impression the figure was walking on two legs. A man afoot? It must be an Indian since no white man in his right mind would dare be so foolhardy as to travel anywhere in the wilderness without a horse. There were too many dangers, from wild beasts and hostiles alike.
The howling was repeated, and to the east of the lone figure materialized a dozen or more low forms flowing over the ground in the figure’s direction.
Nate straightened, the short hairs at the nape of his neck tingling. Those forms were wolves. Although they ordinarily gave humans a wide berth, they would attack if hungry enough or if they came on an injured man or woman incapable of offering much resistance. They did the same with buffalo. Wolves were Nature’s way of gleaning the weak and the aged from the huge herds, of insuring only the fittest survived. Elk, deer, and smaller game also fell prey to the roaming packs.
“Let’s go, Pegasus,” Nate said, goading the stallion into a gallop. An avid reader, he had always been fond of the many tales about ancient Greek heroes. As a child he had delighted in the fantastic exploits of the winged steed Pegasus. So when the Nez Percé had presented the stallion to him, the finest horse he had ever seen, he had named it after the mythical mount of antiquity.
“Faster,” Nate urged. He had fallen into the habit of talking to the horse as he often did to the family dog, Samson. Some of his trapper friends thought he was mad. Why get attached to an animal, they often argued, when one day he might have to eat it? A valid point, but he still regarded Pegasus and Samson more as loyal friends than mere domesticated beasts. The dog had many times proven itself by saving him and his loved ones, and the horse had yet to fail him in time of need.
Now Pegasus flew, its mane flying, its sleek body rippling with latent power. Nate rode expertly, his gaze on the wolves. He guessed they were still a quarter of a mile from the man. If he rode hard he might be able to intercept them.
The wolves of the western lands were particularly hardy specimens. While not quite as large as their kin in the Atlantic states, they were thickly made and endowed with tremendous stamina and strength. Their color was usually a gray or blackish-brown, although some were occasionally seen that were a cream-colored white. Working in concert, they could pull down a grown buffalo bull or an elk with deceptive ease.
Nate wondered why the wolves’ quarry made no effort to run. Surely the man could hear the howling. As he drew nearer, he discovered he had been wrong about the figure’s identity. It was a white man, not an Indian, dressed in black pants, a white shirt, and a black coat. He also noticed the man walked slowly, unsteadily, with head bowed, and figured the poor soul must be injured or ill, which explained why the pack had given chase.
He hefted the Hawken, calculating the range, certain he could down one or two if he was to stop and take careful aim. But the rest would probably press on and overwhelm the man. If he was to do any good, he must get between the wolves and their prey.
The man suddenly turned, saw the pack, and broke i
nto an ungainly run, his right arm pressed to his chest as if he were in great pain. But instead of heading south, toward Nate, he raced westward in stark panic.
“Here!” Nate shouted. “This way!”
Looking around at the sound, the man spied Nate and instantly changed course, his legs pumping furiously. “Help!” he cried weakly. “Please help me!”
I’m trying to, Nate reflected grimly. Some of the wolves had seen him and stopped. Eight continued to close on their intended victim. In the lead was an enormous gray wolf bearing a black mark on its forehead.
The man glanced at his pursuers, failed to watch where he was going, and tripped when his right boot snagged in a clump of grass. He stumbled and fell, landing on one knee, his right arm tight against his chest.
Snarling viciously, the lead wolf was almost upon him. Nate let go of the reins and whipped the Hawken to his shoulder, using the pressure of his legs to stay astride Pegasus. He took a hasty bead, keenly aware of the consequences should he miss, and got off a shot just as the lead wolf leaped. Fate smiled on him, for the wolf reacted as if struck in the side by a mallet, twisting in midair and flopping over to crash onto the ground and lie still.
Undaunted, five of the pack were speeding forward. The rest had halted or were fleeing.
In a smooth gesture Nate drew his left flintlock, seized the reins in the same hand that held the Hawken, and came to an abrupt stop within a dozen feet of the man in black, who had slumped over in apparent exhaustion, head touching the ground. He vaulted from the saddle, faced the charging predators, and sighted on the foremost. The flintlock spat flame and smoke. Hit squarely between the eyes, the wolf was flipped onto its back by the impact.
The remainder had had enough. As one they veered sharply to the left and sped to the northwest.
Nate watched them go, jamming the spent flintlock under his belt so he could draw the second one. Only when he was convinced they were actually leaving did he step to the man’s side and squat. “You’re safe now. How bad off are you?”
Wilderness: Mountain Devil/Blackfoot Massacre (A Wilderness Western Book 5) Page 15
