Wilderness: Northwest Passage/Apache Blood (A Wilderness Double Western #6)

by Robbins, David

  He figured it would take the Piegans a half hour or better to work out their strategy, and he made himself comfortable. Crossing his arms, he rested his chin on his right wrist. Far to the west several buffalo were grazing. To the southwest soared an eagle. The serene scene belied what was taking place on the ridge.

  Minutes passed slowly. He constantly scanned the slope, but saw nothing. His every instinct told him the Piegans were sneaking closer and closer, but for the life of him he couldn’t spot them. Grudgingly, he had to admit they were every bit as skillful as the Blackfeet and the Bloods, whom he had fought more times than he cared to recollect.

  “Mr. King?”

  The softly uttered words startled Nate. He twisted, stunned to see Libbie Banner sliding down toward the spring, a tin cup gripped firmly in her left hand. “Don’t—” he began, too late. For a heartbeat later there was a loud buzzing noise and a streaking shaft thudded into the earth within an inch of her left leg. To her credit, she didn’t sit there paralyzed with fear. Instead, she scooted among the boulders and crouched low, her breaths coming in great gasps.

  Nate checked the slope, saw no hint of the Piegans, and moved back to confront her. “What the blazes are you doing here? Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

  “Ma got a fire going and whipped up a batch of coffee,” Libbie said, holding out the cup. “She thought you might like some.”

  Of all the harebrained acts Nate had ever heard of or witnessed, this one took the cake. He was about to tear into her, to give her a piece of his mind for foolishly risking her life over a trifling cup of coffee, but he held his tongue. Both Alice and Libbie had the best of intentions. They probably believed they were helping out, doing what little they could in the crisis. Sighing, he took the cup. “Thanks. Just don’t ever do this again. I don’t want your death on my conscience.”

  Her response was unexpected. “Why should you care one way or the other if I live or die? You hardly know me.”

  “True,” Nate admitted after taking a sip. “But I gave my word I’d see all of you folks safely to Fort Hall and I aim to do as I promised.”

  “I hope you won’t be too upset if one of us doesn’t make it.”

  “You?”

  Libbie nodded. “As I told you before, I have no intention of reaching the Oregon Territory alive.”

  “Strange words coming from one so young. You have your whole life ahead of you. Why—”

  “Please, don’t,” Libbie said brusquely. “I’ve heard all this already from my ma. The last thing I need is another long-winded speech about how I have so much to look forward to, and how I should be grateful to be alive.”

  Nate was surprised to learn that Alice knew how her daughter felt. It seemed to him that a girl would keep such a thing secret. “Does your father know you want to die?” he inquired.

  Fleeting rage—or was it hatred?—rippled across Libbie’s delicate features. “I would never tell him. He’d tan my hide good if he knew.”

  “A young lady your age is a bit too old to be spanked,” Nate remarked.

  “My pa doesn’t think so. Until I marry, I’m his to do with as he pleases. And he’s a firm believer in applying the rod of correction whenever I misbehave.”

  “Doesn’t your mother object?”

  “What Ma wants doesn’t matter. In our family Pa rules. Every little thing has to be done just the way he wants or he sees red. If Ma objects, he slaps her around. He never talks things out. He treats us just like he does the horses.” She paused. “No, I’m wrong. He treats his horses better than he does us.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Nate swallowed more coffee. “No woman deserves to be treated like property. When a man and a woman disagree, they should sit down and talk things out until they reach some common ground.”

  Libbie regarded him as she might someone from a foreign country. “Do you practice what you preach?”

  “I try, but my wife isn’t one for wearing her feelings on her sleeve. She keeps everything to herself, even when she’s upset, so I have to pry things out of her. It tries my patience sometimes, I will confess. I’d much rather she’d come right out and speak her piece.” Nate grinned. “Nicely, of course. No man can long abide being nagged.”

  “And you say I’m strange,” Libbie said. “My ma told me that you’re married to an Indian woman. And I’ve heard that Indian men treat their women about the same way my pa treats us.”

  “Not true,” Nate said. “The men in different tribes treat their womenfolk differently. I’m an adopted Shoshone, and I can tell you from having lived with them off and on for years that the women in the tribe are always treated with respect.”

  “I had no idea. Too bad I wasn’t born a...” Libbie began, and then her gaze strayed past him and her eyes became the size of saucers.

  Furious at himself for being so stupidly careless, Nate whirled, sweeping the Hawken up as he turned. Two Piegans were at the boulders, the first in the act of drawing back his arm to hurl a lance. Nate fired from the hip. The ball smacked into the warrior’s chest, dropping the man where he stood.

  Undaunted, the second Piegan raised a tomahawk and charged, venting a nerve-tingling screech intended to freeze Nate in place.

  Nate grabbed for a flintlock. His hand just touched the pistol when the Piegan reached him and the tomahawk arced at his head. Without thinking he threw himself to the right, and in so doing slammed his shoulder into a boulder. Pain coursed through his arm and down his spine. He tried once more to draw the flintlock but his right arm was temporarily numb.

  Like a banshee the Piegan pounced.

  From out of nowhere came a stream of dark fluid that struck the warrior in the face as he began to swing the tomahawk. Frantically the Piegan wiped his other forearm across his eyes to clear his sight.

  That delay saved Nate’s life. He drew the other flintlock, pointed it at the Indian’s belly, and fired.

  At such close range the ball staggered the warrior, sending him tottering backwards. Gurgling, the Piegan sank to his knees. In a last act of fierce desperation, he raised his tomahawk to throw it, but his strength failed him. His eyelids fluttered. He growled like an animal, then pitched onto his face in the dirt.

  Nate scrambled up into a crouch. A glance at Libbie showed her holding the coffee tin he had dropped when he used the Hawken. Quickly he moved to the last boulder and peeked around it. Another pair of Piegans, evidently discouraged by the deaths of their fellows, were just seeking shelter behind pines lower down. He had a breather, and he used the time to reload his weapons.

  The Piegans weren’t pressing their attack. Perhaps, Nate reasoned, they had been probing to test the defenses of his small group. He hurriedly finished with the Hawken and began on the flintlock. Slight footfalls to his rear made him look over his shoulder.

  “I’ve never seen anyone killed before,” Libbie said weakly. “It’s worse than I thought.”

  “It had to be done,” Nate told her. “If I hadn’t shot them, they’d now be taking our hair.” He nodded at the top of the ridge. “You’d better sneak on back to the wagons. And tell your mother not to pass out any more coffee unless I say otherwise.”

  Libbie nodded. She glanced at the second Piegan he had slain, at the man’s gut wound, and put a hand to her pale brow.

  “Can you manage on your own?” Nate asked.

  “I’m fine,” Libbie said, but her dazed appearance made a mockery of the statement. She steadied herself against a boulder, then took a few steps.

  “Hold up,” Nate said, going to her side and taking her arm. “I’ll escort you back.” He disliked leaving his post, but he doubted she could safely scale the few feet of slope between the spring and the rim given her emotional turmoil. To those unaccustomed to the savage realities of frontier life, violent death could be extremely upsetting. Leading her to the boulder nearest the rim, he held her arm tight and suddenly burst from concealment, hauling her along with him.

  An arrow whizzed from out
of the blue and sank into the soil to their right.

  Nate’s back prickled until he was up and over and he had dropped flat. Libbie stayed close to him the whole time. Turning, he inched to the edge and peered down at the slope. The Piegans were still in hiding. But for how much longer?

  Backing away, he took Libbie’s hand and made for the wagons where the women were waiting. They had heard the shots, and all wore expressions of worry. Alice, her dress swirling about her ankles, ran to meet him halfway.

  “What happened?”

  “Two Piegans tried to jump us,” Nate disclosed. “Your daughter is a bit rattled.”

  “The poor dear,” Alice said, putting her arm around Libbie’s shoulders. The girl stood docile, as blank as an empty slate. “As if she hasn’t been through enough in the past few months.” She led Libbie off. “I swear that if we make it to the Oregon Territory alive, I’ll make it all up to her.”

  What did that mean? Nate reflected, and pivoted when Simon Banner and Neil Webster ran up to him. Before they could open their mouths, he tore into them. “Damn your hides! Don’t any of you have the common sense God gave a turnip? How could you leave your positions at a time like this?”

  “But we heard—” Simon tried to object.”

  “If the Indians were trying an all-out attack, I would have given a yell for your help,” Nate declared. “And if they’d made it past me, you would have heard the women scream. Now you’ve left two sides undefended.” He scanned the top of the ridge. “Where’s Harry? At least he had the brains to stay put.”

  “He’s on the north side,” Simon said.

  Nate looked in that direction, doubt creeping into his mind. Young Harry Nesmith was the hothead of the group, the rash one who always did things without thinking. It was odd that Nesmith should be the only man who hadn’t come on the run upon hearing the shots. So odd, in fact, as to spark a disturbing premonition. He broke into a run, angling toward the north end of the ridge.

  “What’s the matter?” Simon asked.

  “King, what’s wrong?” Webster added.

  Nate saved his breath for running. Shy of the edge he slowed and dropped into a crouch. On silent feet he moved to where he could see the upper portion of the notch and the slope below it. There was no movement, not so much as the flutter of a chipmunk’s tail. Nor did he spy Nesmith. Lowering onto his elbows and knees, he carefully worked his way forward until his head poked over the edge. It was then he found the hothead.

  Harry Nesmith lay on his back in a pool of blood between two huge boulders at the bottom of the notch. His blank eyes gazed lifelessly at the azure sky. Jutting from his chest were two deeply imbedded arrows.

  Racked by guilt, Nate frowned and pulled away from the edge. He hadn’t thought much of Nesmith, but he hadn’t hated the man either. In any event, his personal feelings didn’t really count. What did matter was his failure. He had promised to do his best to get all of the emigrants to Fort Hall, and now he had lost one of them.

  Footsteps heralded the arrival of Simon Banner and Neil Webster, who both dropped flat.

  “Where’s Harry?” Simon inquired. “He should be right around here somewhere.”

  Nate jerked a thumb at the edge, then moved a few yards before standing and walking toward the wagons. His next chore weighed heavily on his heart. He would much rather face a horde of Blackfeet unarmed than do what had to be done. Eleanor Nesmith and Cora Webster were watching him approach, and he avoided meeting their anxious gazes until he was right in front of them.

  “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” Eleanor immediately asked. She stared northward. “Where’s my Harry? Please don’t tell me what I fear you’re going to tell me.”

  Words were unnecessary. Nate merely looked at her, his sorrowful countenance conveying the message he couldn’t bring his lips to utter.

  “Oh, God!” Eleanor exclaimed, tears flowing from the corners of both eyes. “Dear Lord, no!” She spun, her hands covering her face, her shoulders quaking as she began sobbing uncontrollably.

  “I’m sorry,” Nate mumbled. Her grief was like a red-hot knife blade searing the core of his being. He felt as if he was directly to blame for the tragedy. Cora Webster put an arm around Eleanor. Overcome with remorse, not knowing what he could possibly say or do that would help, he moved to one side and bowed his head in thought.

  He had to suppress his guilt and concentrate on their predicament or more lives would be lost. The Piegans were bound to attack soon. And with one man dead, defending all four sides of the ridge was now impossible. “Mr. King?”

  Nate looked around. Alice Banner was climbing down from the first wagon. “Yes?”

  “Are we going to be moving out soon?”

  “I don’t rightly know yet. Why?”

  “Libbie is in no shape to travel,” Alice said, walking over. “She’s just lying in there in a state of shock. All of this has been too much for her on top of everything else she’s been through. She’s so young, after all.” A loud wail from Eleanor Nesmith caused her to stop and scowl. “I couldn’t help but overhear about Harry. If you ask me, now we have two reasons to stay put for a while. Eleanor is in no condition for traveling either.”

  “We may not have much choice but to leave,” Nate said. “But if we do, who will drive the Nesmiths’ wagon? Eleanor is too distraught.”

  “We’ll figure that out in a bit,” Nate said, scanning the ridge. The conversation had served to rouse him from his budding melancholy, and he realized he had better stop feeling sorry for what had happened and work to save the lives of the rest of the settlers. At the moment no one was keeping watch; the Piegans could be among them before they knew it. Hefting the Hawken, he ran to the west side and knelt near the rim. Below, a pebble or stone rattled loudly. He removed his hat, then rose up high enough to view the entire slope, and the moment he did a glittering shaft sped from behind a tree and nearly clipped his left ear.

  Nate went prone and cocked the Hawken. Since the spring offered ideal protection and was their only source of water, he donned his hat once more and crawled close to the slope. He had to make a dash for the boulders and hope for the best. The Piegans had seen Libbie and him leave the spring, so the warriors might be expecting him or someone else to return. They would have the slope well covered.

  Touching his left cheek to the grass, he slid out far enough for a quick glance. What he saw made him recoil in alarm. There were two Piegans at the spring! He glimpsed them crouched behind boulders. Now the Indians had control of the water supply, and any attempt to try and drive them off would result in certain death for some of the emigrants.

  He heard a faint noise and risked another look-see. A Piegan was just disappearing behind a tree close to the spring. Others must have worked their way higher in his absence. Twisting, he saw Simon and Neil at the wagons and beckoned for them to hasten over. This time they were paying attention.

  “What now?” Banner whispered when they got there.

  “Spread out and get set. I have a hunch we’re about to have some visitors,” Nate said softly.

  Neil Webster swallowed. “Shouldn’t one of us stay with the women in case the savages make it over the top?”

  “The women will have to fend for themselves. We’ll be too busy,” Nate predicted. As if on cue, a piercing war whoop sounded and was echoed by a dozen throats. He surged to his knees, aware they had run out of time and options, and beheld a ragged line of Piegans sweeping toward the crest. “Here they come!” he cried, wedging the stock of the Hawken against his shoulder. “Give them hell!”

  Chapter Six

  There were ten Piegans, all told, their painted features animated by the bitter hatred they bore all whites. Shrieking and waving their weapons, they bounded upward like agile mountain sheep. In their frenzied desire to count coup on their mortal enemies they paid no heed to their personal safety.

  Nate took a bead on one of the pair rushing out from among the boulders bordering the spring. This time he went for
a head shot, and his ball put a new hole smack between the Piegan’s brown eyes. Lowering the Hawken, he heard Banner’s and Webster’s rifles crack as he whipped out a flintlock.

  Arrows zipped past or arched overhead. He pointed the pistol at a charging warrior, then fired. The Piegan clasped his side, stumbled, and fell. To the left another Piegan had almost gained the top. Rising and taking four swift strides, Nate jammed the spent flintlock under his belt, grasped the rifle barrel with both hands, and swung the gun like a club.

  The stock smashed into the Piegan’s temple and the man toppled.

  Yet another Piegan, lower down, whirled and ran.

  Simon Banner and Neil Webster were embroiled in a life-and-death struggle with three warriors. Banner was using his gun in club like fashion, holding two warriors at bay. Webster, however, was down, an arrow in his shoulder, grappling with a stocky Piegan who was trying to bash in his skull with a war club.

  Nate sped to their aid, drawing his second flintlock en route. Without slowing he aimed at the stocky Piegan astride Webster and sent a ball crashing into the warrior’s right ear. Then, discarding both the flintlock and the Hawken, he drew his butcher knife and his tomahawk and closed on the pair striving to slay Banner.

  One of the Indians glimpsed him coming and spun to meet him. A war club swept at his face.

  Pivoting, Nate blocked the club with his tomahawk and in the very next instant buried his butcher knife in the Piegan’s torso. The warrior grunted and buckled, his legs as weak as runny pudding. Taking a breath, Nate threw himself at the third Piegan. The Indian was so intent on killing Simon Banner that he didn’t see Nate’s tomahawk swing in a loop that ended with the keen edge shearing off the back of his head.