The blade caught the Piegan in the chest over the heart and sank in clean to the hilt. He abruptly stopped, dropped his war club, and grabbed the knife. Venting an enraged growl, he tore the blade out, held it in his right hand, and sprang at Nate. But he only took two strides. Then his knees buckled and he sprawled forward to lie still, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.
Nate knelt to pry his knife from the warrior’s fingers. He wiped the blade clean on the grass and stood. In the woods bordering the meadow erupted a series of strident whoops, and he glimpsed painted figures gliding through the trees. So the whole war party was after him! Turning, he slid the knife into its sheath and fled for his life.
Now that the Piegans had him in sight they would run all out; they wouldn’t slow down until they overtook him. His main worry was being struck by an arrow. Indian boys were instructed early in the use of the bow, and by the time each boy became a full-fledged warrior he could hit a human-sized target from horseback at a full gallop.
He came to the end of the meadow and plunged into pines. Not a moment too soon. Buzzing like a provoked hornet, a shaft sped out of the blue and thudded into the ground within inches of his left foot. He weaved to the right, then the left, putting as many tree trunks as possible between the Piegans and him.
Unbidden, a terrifying thought entered his mind: He was going to be slain! Outrunning the Piegans was impossible. It was only a matter of time, of mere minutes, before the fastest among them was nipping at his heels.
Frowning, Nate shook his head, dispelling the gloomy notion. Where there was life, there was hope! And so long as he had a single breath remaining in his body he would fight for his survival with all the strength he could muster.
Another arrow clipped a branch to his right. A third streaked over his shoulder and hit a tree.
Nate looked back. Three or four of the Piegans were well ahead of the pack and rapidly narrowing the gap. Of them, two held bows. If only he had his Hawken! But he didn’t, and no amount of wishful thinking would change the stark reality of the imminent death confronting him unless he could come up with something fast.
But what? What could he possibly do to evade the determined Piegans? All his tricks had failed him and he could think of nothing new.
An arrow snatched at the fringe on his right sleeve. Nate glanced over his shoulder to see one of the bowmen was now fifteen yards away and nocking yet another shaft. On impulse he drew the flintlock, halted, and spun. The warrior was raising the bow when the pistol cracked, and the Piegan clutched at his face, then toppled.
The other warriors immediately sought cover.
Nate continued his frantic flight. He would gain a few seconds on them. Perhaps, on second thought, even more. Now that the Piegans knew he had a gun, they would be more cautious and go a trifle slower. Thank goodness they had no way of knowing he was out of ammunition and the flintlock was useless!
He spent over two minutes in running flat out, until his body throbbed with agony and he found the taking of a single breath to be an excruciating ordeal. He was close to the end of his endurance and he knew it. The yips of the pursuing Piegans reminded him they were on the verge of catching him, but there was no reserve of energy for him to draw from that would enable him to pull ahead, nor was there any way of eluding them.
His legs weighed a ton. Despite his wishes, his body slowed of its own accord. His legs refused to cooperate. His lungs screamed in protest. Inhaling raggedly, he stumbled into a clearing and stopped. The least he could do was sell his life dearly. With that in mind he started to draw his tomahawk and butcher knife. Then he froze, wondering if his ears had deceived him.
He’d heard a low whinny.
Looking up, he was stupefied to see a horse walking toward him. And not just any horse; it was Pegasus! The stallion bore dozens of scratch marks on its belly, flanks, and legs, and it was coated thick with sweat.
“I’m seeing things!” Nate blurted. But the apparent apparition came right up to him and touched his neck with its muzzle. He could feel its warm skin, smell its body. “Pegasus?” he said softly, reaching up to touch the stallion’s mane.
A cry of baffled rage came from the throat of the first Piegan to spy the animal.
Nate galvanized into motion. Gripping the reins, he swung into the saddle and brought Pegasus around sharply. At a stroke of his legs the stallion plunged into the woods. He hunched low in case one of the warriors tried to bring him down with an arrow, and he hadn’t gone five yards when two shafts narrowly missed his head. Then Pegasus reached a gallop and the war party swiftly fell far to the rear.
It had all happened so incredibly fast that Nate feared he was dreaming. Perhaps he had fallen and struck his head and was only imagining the stallion had arrived at the very last instant to pull his hide out of the fire. But the rolling gait of the big horse and the feel of the immensely powerful animal between his legs reassured him that this was real.
Dazed, he rode several miles before he thought to slow down. He was safe. The Piegans could trail him all they wanted, but they’d never catch him now. All thanks to Pegasus.
Leaning forward, he stroked the stallion’s neck and spoke soft words of affection. In the past there had been horses he’d liked, some he’d even been quite fond of, but none held a candle to his gift from the Nez Percé.
It was strange. When he’d first received the stallion, the horse had willingly let his wife and son climb on and had taken them for many a pleasant ride. His best friend, Shakespeare McNair, had also ridden Pegasus once. But the more time Nate had spent with the animal, the more it came to regard him as its sole master. Eventually, Pegasus would only let Nate climb up. When others tried, the stallion would snort and kick or rear.
Nate had never known a horse to become so particular, and had mentioned as much to McNair. The aged mountain man had claimed to have known of two or three other horses that had developed exceptional attachments to their owners, and Shakespeare had been of the opinion that it was a blessing in disguise. “No one,” Shakespeare had said, “will ever be able to steal this critter. If they try, they’ll wind up on their backsides in the dirt.”
Was that the explanation for Pegasus turning up at the right place at the right time? Had the stallion broken away from Libbie and the greenhorns and returned to find him? It was the only logical reason that he could see. So Shakespeare, as usual, had been right. Having a superbly devoted animal like Pegasus was a blessing. Never again would he—and he grinned at the thought— look a gift horse in the mouth.
He rode for another hour, until a stream beckoned, then finally halted. Pegasus was parched and gulped the water in great draughts. Sinking to his knees, Nate cupped a mouthful to his dry lips and sipped.
His bedroll and parfleches were still tied to the stallion. Since one of them contained the jerked venison and pemmican Winona had packed, he need not worry about having to waste time hunting game. And since his spare ammunition and black powder were stored in the other, his pistol was no longer useless.
After drinking his fill, Nate attended to the first order of business reloading the flintlock. After the stallion slaked its thirst, he mounted and rode leisurely westward. As much as he wanted to catch up with Brian, he was not going to ride Pegasus into the ground doing it. That Pegasus was weary was self-evident. Nate would have to stop in a while so they both could rest and recuperate.
An hour and a half later he ascended a hill and reined up in a dense group of pines. Confident the stallion would hear or smell anything or anyone that approached, he secured the reins on a tree next to a patch of grass, then crawled under the tree, curled up into a ball, and was immediately asleep.
~*~
This time it was a cool breeze from the northwest lightly caressing his face and rattling nearby tree limbs that brought him around. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and turned.
Pegasus was cropping grass a few feet away.
Crawling out, he straightened, then stretched. His body ached f
rom head to toe, but he was alive and glad to be so. The sun had set hours ago and now a half-moon bathed the countryside in a pale light.
“Ready to travel?” Nate asked, stepping to the stallion, which lifted its head and rubbed against him like an oversized dog. Climbing up, he rode down the hill and bore due west.
Munching on jerky satisfied his hunger. He felt invigorated and raring to tangle with the polecat who had laid him low. Now that he had time to think, he dwelled on the fact his prized Hawken had been stolen, and could barely control his anger. Next to a free trapper’s horse, his most important possession was his rifle. Stealing one was a certain death warrant.
Back in ’23 a man by the name of Hugh Glass had set the example for all mountaineers. Severely mauled by a she-bear protecting her cubs, he was left to die by the party he was with, abandoned in the most remote region of the mountains without so much as a knife to his name. His associates, certain he would die, took everything he owned but the clothes on his back. Through sheer willpower Hugh Glass survived, and then he commenced an odyssey that became legendary.
Living on berries and the carcasses of game killed by wild beasts, laying low when hostiles came near and avoiding the numerous grizzlies that appeared, Old Glass, as the trappers called him, traveled hundreds and hundreds of miles until he eventually caught up at Henry’s Fort with the men who had deserted him. There he learned that one of the party, the man who had taken his rifle, had headed back toward civilization.
Unfazed, Old Glass went on, covering hundreds more miles, going far down the Missouri to near the mouth of the Platte, and there at Fort Atkinson he caught up with the man. Glass would have killed him too, if not for the fact the former trapper had enlisted and wore the uniform of the United States Army. The commanding officer intervened, talking Glass out of seeking revenge, but when Glass cut out for the wilderness again he held his own rifle in his gnarled hands.
Nate could understand Glass’s determination. A good rifle often saved a man’s hide again and again, so it was only natural for a trapper to come to regard his rifle more as a friend than as merely a lifeless piece of wood and metal. Some mountaineers got into the habit of talking to their rifles like they did to their horses, and no one made light of them for the habit.
Those living in the States seldom understood such a way of life, but to those who experienced the rigors of mountain living such behavior was perfectly all right. And as attached as the whites became to their horses and their guns, they were outdone by the Indians, many of whom would take cherished war ponies into their lodges at night if they feared a raid by an enemy tribe. A prominent Shoshone warrior went so far as to bring his war pony in whenever it rained.
A sharp nicker from Pegasus shattered Nate’s idle reverie, and he looked around for the source of the stallion’s alarm. He readily found it.
Ten feet off to the left, crouched on a giant log, was an equally giant panther.
Chapter Eleven
Nate instantly reined up and drew the flintlock. He cocked the pistol but held his thumb on the hammer, waiting for the big cat to make the first move. A single shot might not down it, and he didn’t want to fire unless he had no choice.
Its pointed ears laid back, its long tail twitching back and forth, the panther uttered a piercing snarl.
Still Nate refused to shoot. He hoped the panther would leave him alone and elect to go seek prey elsewhere. It was rare for the reclusive predators to attack humans, so rare that many Indian tribes regarded panthers as timid. Unlike grizzlies, which would go after any intruders in their domain, more often than not panthers would flee at the first whiff of human scent.
The cat tilted its head, then growled and slowly backed off the log until just its head was visible. In a blur of speed it whirled and vanished in the underbrush.
Nate listened, but heard no sound other than the wind. Not surprising, since few creatures could move more silently than panthers. Carefully lowering the hammer, he tucked the pistol under his wide leather belt and resumed his journey.
Traveling at night was risky business. There were more meat-eaters abroad, heightening the odds of running into one. And a man had to constantly be on the lookout for potential dangers to his mount, such as prairie-dog burrows or other such holes that could cripple a horse in the blink of an eye.
But Nate had no intention of stopping. This was his chance to gain on the greenhorns and Libbie. The trio had not enjoyed a moment of rest since their capture, so they must have been utterly exhausted when they made camp. They’d sleep until dawn, perhaps even later. And he would use those hours to make up the time he had lost.
He thought of Shakespeare’s prediction that one day the vast territory west of the Mississippi River would be overrun by men just like Simon Banner and the greenhorns. It was inevitable, Shakespeare had said, because Americans were a restless race who always liked to see what lay over the next horizon. That wanderlust, combined with the need for more and more land as the population grew and grew, would lure countless emigrants westward.
Lord, he prayed McNair was wrong! If emigrants did come by the thousands, it would spell an end to the way of life he knew. The Indians would not stand still for having their land occupied by farmers and ranchers and the like. Warfare would be widespread. And Nate shuddered to think of what would happen to the game now so marvelously abundant. Just as back in the States, the wildlife would be killed off, hunted to near-extinction by those who could see no further ahead than their next meal.
Already beaver were hard to find thanks to the diligent trapping of only several hundred whites. And the mountain buffalo had been drastically thinned out to supply food and blankets for the trappers. The effect of a mass migration would be like that of a plague of locusts, chewing up the land and killing off practically all the wildlife in its path.
Nate gazed fondly out over the sea of trees intermittently eclipsed, as it were, by gigantic islands of stone and dirt, the majestic Rockies that so stirred the souls of those who chose to dwell among them. He never wanted the paradise he had found to change. Should the prediction come true, he would be strongly tempted to join with the Indians in opposing the white onslaught.
Time went by. His thoughts drifted. Toward daylight he reached the basin and turned to the southeast. Searching for tracks could wait until the sun rose. He was positive Libbie and the two men were making for South Pass, so all he had to do was make a beeline for it.
Now he brought Pegasus to a gallop. His eyes roved the region before him seeking a telltale pinpoint of light, although he doubted he would spot one. Any fire left unattended since the evening before would now be extinguished.
A pink and orange tinge graced the eastern skyline when he saw the smoke. Arising from the other side of a hillock a mile away, the gray column signified his hunt was at an end. He slowed to a walk as he neared the base of the small hill and palmed the flintlock.
One of the three must be awake, Nate deduced. Perhaps they had taken turns keeping watch. Reining up, he swung down and moved around the hill until he could see their camp. First he saw the four horses tethered to scrub trees. Then he spied a crude lean-to, the open end facing to the south, away from him. Near it was the fire, beside which squatted Pudge.
Dropping into a crouch, Nate threaded through the grass. He figured Brian and Libbie were still asleep in the lean-to. Well, they were in for a rude awakening! Keeping low, he advanced to within a dozen feet of the fire.
Pudge had the look of someone who was thoroughly miserable. His hair was a mess, he needed a shave, and his homespun clothes were bedraggled. Wedged under his belt was Nate’s other pistol. He yawned, then muttered to himself as he warmed his hands.
Nate could see through the gaps between the slender branches forming the wall of the lean-to. Glimpses of golden tresses told him Libbie was lying nearest the back, so Brian must be at the front. Stealthily rising and tiptoeing forward, he came up behind Pudge and lightly touched his flintlock to the greenhorn’s head.
“Don’t make a sound,” he warned.
Gasping in fright, Pudge went rigid.
“Did you really think I wouldn’t find you?” Nate asked softly, and leaned forward to grab the stolen pistol. Then he moved around to where Pudge could see him. The greenhorn swallowed and looked as if he wanted to dig a hole to hide in. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shoot you here and now,” Nate said.
“Please, Mr. King,” Pudge blubbered. “It wasn’t my idea to knock you out and steal your things. Brian did it all on his own. I’m sorry it happened. I truly am.”
“Not as sorry as you’re going to be. I’m of half a mind to take Libbie on back to her folks and leave the two of you here afoot.”
“You wouldn’t!”
Nate glanced at the lean-to and raised his voice. “All right, you two! Rise and shine! Company has come calling.” He trained both pistols in their direction. “And I want your hands where I can see them or one of you might end up eating lead for breakfast.”
He saw Libbie sit up, and grinned at the shock both she and Brian must be experiencing. A moment later she stepped into the open, smoothing her dress down and gazing in amazement at him.
“Mr. King! You’re all right! Thank God!”
“As well as a horse like few others,” Nate added, wagging a pistol to beckon her closer. He stared at the lean-to, eagerly waiting for her beau to emerge. The prospect of paying Brian back made him tingle with anticipation.
“I’m so glad you weren’t hurt,” Libbie said sincerely. “I was totally against what Brian did to you, and I tried to get him to revive you and bring you along but he refused to listen.”
Nate was wondering why the bastard had yet to appear. He peered at the wall of the lean-to but saw no one moving within. “Where is the no-account varmint?”
“Right behind you!” snapped the gleeful voice of the other greenhorn. “And I’ve got your rifle pointed at your spine. So if you know what’s good for you, you’ll drop those pistols and turn around.”
Wilderness: Northwest Passage/Apache Blood (A Wilderness Double Western #6) Page 12
