When the stallion was almost upon him, Nate swerved two steps to the right, let the big horse come alongside, and vaulted into the saddle while Pegasus was still in motion. The Hawken clutched tight in his left hand, he worked the reins and his legs and was immediately speeding for the sanctuary of the inviting green hills.
Pudge was hundreds of yards ahead. Libbie rode close in his wake. Brian, astride their third horse, was halfway between Nate and the others. The last horse, the bay, had been left exactly where it had stopped after Nate jumped off it. He glanced at the abandoned animal but did not veer from his course; any further delay would prove too costly. The bay would have to fend for itself.
The thundering of the herd grew and grew, until looking back Nate could see the wicked, curved horns of the leaders and imagined he could also see their brooding dark eyes and their flaring nostrils. Pegasus was galloping as fast as Pegasus could go and still the herd appeared to be gaining. Nate bent forward, his heart beating wildly in time to the driving rhythm of the stallion’s hoofs. Go! Go! Go! he shrieked in his mind.
Repeatedly he glanced at the buffaloes, fearful he had gotten underway too late. On his next glance he saw the bay break into a run. Belatedly, it had realized the urgency of fleeing. That most basic of creature instincts, self-preservation, sparked the bay into a mad dash for its life, a dash that it lost not a minute later.
The first squeal was almost humanlike, so much so that it chilled Nate’s skin. He saw the front rank of bison overhaul the terrified horse, saw the bay go down amid a swirl of hoofs and tails and slashing horns. Some of the foremost buffaloes tried to jump over the obstacle, and failed. Those behind the leaders never wavered, never parted even slightly. Their hoofs reduced the bay to a pulpy mass in the time it would take a man to pull on his boots.
Nate graphically knew what to expect should he suffer the same horrendous fate. Like the wind he rode, and like a raging storm the stampeding herd pursued him. He set his eyes on the first hill to the exclusion of all else. If he went down, it wouldn’t be for a lack of trying.
Each second became an eternity. The buffaloes didn’t gain any more ground, nor did they lose any.
Pudge was the first among the trees, and as Nate had directed he headed straight for the crown of the hill. Seconds later Libbie did likewise.
Nate had given that advice because he had witnessed stampedes before, and knew from prior observation that herds invariably broke in half at the base of hills and mountains to sweep around on either side rather than go up and over the crest. He counted on these buffaloes doing the same.
But could he reach the top before them? Despite the stallion’s superb performance, the bison would be so close at the bottom of the hill that if the stallion stumbled just once on the slope the herd would be on them before Pegasus recovered. So Nate opted to change his tactic.
Presently the hill loomed before him. With a jerk of the reins he cut sharply to the left, hugging the bottom. To his rear a tremendous din of earth-shaking proportions drowned out all other sound. The ground itself seemed to tremble. He glanced upward and glimpsed Brian racing up the slope. Libbie and Pudge were lost among the trees, and he hoped they would reach the top safely.
He dared to look at the herd just as the seething mass of unstoppable brutes reached the hill. As he had expected, the buffaloes parted, some bearing right, some left. But, to his consternation, not all imitated the example of those in the foremost ranks. A large bunch in the middle of the mass went straight up the hill, straight toward Libbie and the greenhorns!
His hope of evading the herd was now diminished. He’d intended to go around to the far side, then angle up the slope. But if he did so now, he’d run smack-dab into the portion of the herd going up and over. So he must come up with another brainstorm, and do it quickly.
Pegasus flew to the opposite side. Already a few buffaloes had appeared at the south end. Instantly Nate cut to the left, bearing due east, barreling into pines and brush that crackled as he plowed through.
The two prongs of the herd were sweeping around the hill as the third bunch rumbled over the top.
Faintly, Nate heard a scream. Or was it his imagination? He tried not to think of what might have happened to Libbie if she had been caught in the open. He couldn’t do her any good anyway, not unless and until he saved his own skin.
The swiftest buffaloes were not more than thirty yards behind him. They charged into the forest with the force of a tornado, smashing aside anything and everything in their way.
Nate weaved among trunks and hurdled logs while casting about for a means of escape. He anticipated the stampede would lose its momentum before too long. The trick was to stay alive till then. Bearing to the left, he sought for the end of the foremost line of bison, but saw only beast after beast after beast.
On and on he rode, losing sight of the hill because of the canopy of limbs overhead. Without warning the trees thinned and he found himself in a narrow valley. Heading up the center, the wind rushing past his face, he searched for a way out of his predicament. Any way out would do. He wasn’t fussy.
The valley bore to the right, meandering between a pair of jagged peaks, one of which threw an enormous shadow across the valley floor.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” Nate thought to himself, and suddenly stiffened on seeing that which promised to make the quotation come true. Two hundred yards ahead reared a rugged bluff. The valley was a trap!
To the right and left were steep slopes, so steep Pegasus would not be able to climb either without falling. To his rear arose the constant rolling thunder of the herd. A hasty glance showed him the buffaloes had him completely boxed in.
Of all the rotten times for his luck to run out! Nate reflected, desperately scanning the slopes and the bluff. He was not at all ready to meet his Maker; he had a wife and son depending on him for their sustenance. And of all the ways to be killed, being caught in a stampede had to be one of his least favorite. It would be much better to die in bed wearing a smile on his lips, and nothing else.
He was almost to the bluff. The bison had slowed, but not enough. They promised to sweep right up to the bottom of the bluff, and in the process to bury him beneath tons upon tons of hurtling sinew and muscle.
Then Nate spotted the game trail where the bluff and the slope on the right blended together. It wasn’t much of one, a winding ribbon stretching from the valley floor to near the top of the peak, but he was in no mood to quibble. As the old saying stated so well, beggars couldn’t be choosers. Either he took the trail or he died.
Incentive like that took him up the slope faster than was prudent. Pegasus slipped, faltered, and was on the verge of falling when Nate hauled on the reins and shifted his balance, giving the stallion help enough to carry it forward. From there on up he was compelled to take the ascent slowly, his gaze riveted on the herd below.
The buffaloes were moving at a trifle of their previous speed when the leaders came to the bluff and halted. Those pressing so tightly together in the main body of the herd did the same, and within moments what had once been a panicked horde of bison resembled more a peacefully grazing herd of tame cattle.
Nate climbed steadily. The only tracks on the game trail were those of bighorn sheep, and he marveled that the big stallion could negotiate the same terrain. Toward the top the going became exceedingly difficult. Pegasus slipped time and again, but never fell.
“You can do it, boy,” Nate coaxed, and wasn’t disappointed. Not quite an hour after commencing the ascent, they came to where the trail led over the crest and down into another valley. Pausing, he surveyed the tranquil herd, then gazed to the west at the distant hill where he had last seen the greenhorns and Libbie. Were any of them still alive?
The descent took half the time of the climb. Once at the bottom of the spacious valley, he turned toward the hill. He felt weary and slumped in the saddle. Having pushed Pegasus so hard in fleeing from the buffaloes, he let the horse tak
e its sweet time, although he was sorely tempted to gallop the entire way.
The countryside lay entombed in silence when he arrived. None of the usual wildlife was present, every animal that could having fled at the onset of the onrushing herd. Eventually the birds and squirrels would come out of hiding and the forest would resume its normal pattern of life, but for the time being it was as if he rode across an alien landscape devoid of life.
“Libbie?” Nate called out at the base of the hill. “Are you up there?”
The only answer was the sighing wind.
Most of the hill was a shambles. From top to bottom the buffaloes had flattened the underbrush, uprooted and flattened trees, and scarred the earth with their iron hoofs.
Nate rode upward, scouring for sign. At the top he halted. The west slope was in the same condition as the east. Broken limbs lay everywhere. Bent and snapped trees made a mockery of Nature’s design. “Libbie?” he repeated, to no avail. He started down slowly, his eyes roaming over the blistered slope, then reined up on spying a large lump of bloody flesh off to the left.
The general outline baffled him until he detected the wispy vestige of a tail and realized he was staring at the hindquarters of one of the horses. The animal had been literally torn apart. Moving closer, he saw a torn leg, then another, both ruptured, the cracked bones exposed. Scattered bits of grass, pine needles, and clods of dirt partially covered the horse’s head, but not enough to conceal the pulverized flesh and the bulging eyes.
Nate had seldom seen such a revolting sight, and his stomach churned. The implications were even more upsetting. If a horse had gone down, so had its rider. So which one had paid the ultimate price for foolishly trying to grapple with the wilderness on its own terms when all three of them were woefully ignorant of the basics of wilderness survival? Which one would have been better off staying in the States, where the worst a man had to contend with was an occasional marauding black bear or a poisonous snake?
He saw a leg jutting from out of a smashed thicket and at first mistook it for part of a tree trunk. Then he saw the shoe and the homespun pants, both coated with dried blood. Inwardly, he was relieved. The horse had not been Libbie’s. “Please let it be Brian,” he said to himself, stopping beside the mangled mess lying in the midst of shattered limbs and crushed leaves. “Please.”
But it wasn’t.
Pudge had fallen onto his back and had never had the chance to rise. Hundreds of driving hoofs had reduced his body to the consistency of pudding. Strangely enough, except for a pair of slash marks on his right cheek and a lot of grime, his face was intact. His eyes were wide open, his mouth the same, his tongue poking out. He had screamed as death claimed him, but it was doubtful he had heard it over the din of the herd.
Nate climbed down and gathered up enough branches and brush to cover the greenhorn’s head. It was the least he could do. No, not quite, he promptly corrected himself. There was one more thing. Pudge deserved to go properly.
He stood for a moment with bowed head, trying to think of the right words to say, but except for a passable knowledge of the Psalms and the words of Jesus, he wasn’t much good at quoting from the Bible. Feeling uncomfortable, he tried anyway.
“Forgive him, Lord, for being a dunderhead. He had no business being out here. But he came because his friend did, and, if I recollect rightly, ‘Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.’ If that’s the case, then Pudge here died the way a man should, and I hope his soul makes it to your side. Amen.”
Mounting, he grimly resumed his search. The others must have suffered a similar grisly fate. He dreaded finding Libbie, but he wouldn’t stop until he did. She also deserved to have a few words spoken over her remains. He would leave Brian for the vultures and the coyotes.
An hour of intensive hunting, crisscrossing the slope again and again, produced no results. He stopped at the bottom and scratched his chin. If Libbie and Brian had been trampled, he should have found some trace. Since he hadn’t, both must have somehow survived. Then where had they gone?
The obvious answer drew his gaze to the southeast. “Damn, not again,” he muttered, and broke into a gallop. The pair had a two-hour head start. If he overtook them by noon he would be fortunate.
Once Nate rode clear of the ground torn up by the bison, he immediately spied two sets of fresh horse tracks leading in the general direction of South Pass. Brian had wasted no time. Nate figured they had cut out the minute the buffalo had passed over the hill. Or the minute after they’d found poor Pudge.
A rare, cold hatred seeped into Nate’s soul. He imagined what it would be like to seize Brian in his hands and throttle the life from the bastard. The greenhorn had been an unending source of trouble ever since they met. And now, once again, Brian was bucking the wishes of Libbie’s parents and trying to get her out of the territory at all costs. The idiot! Didn’t he realize the pair of them stood little chance of crossing the prairie alone and unarmed?
He wondered what she saw in the man. Brian was handsome, he supposed, but a flashing smile wasn’t everything. Inner qualities counted for more, qualities like courage and devotion and loyalty. And a dash of common sense, which Brian evidently lacked.
This time he would not go easy on them. He would truss Libbie up, if need be, and throw her on her horse. If Brian objected—and Nate hoped he did—then Nate would thrash Brian within an inch of his life. Possibly closer. Libbie must cease acting like a child and do what was best for the Banner family.
The hours elapsed slowly. From the depth and spacing of the tracks, Nate gathered that Libbie and the greenhorn were riding their animals into the ground. They had yet to learn that he would catch them no matter how fast or how far they rode.
Noon came and went.
Since his throat was parched, he knew Pegasus was equally thirsty. So when he came abreast of a hill known to have a year-round spring on its north side, he strayed from the trail to give them both a short rest. The ice-cold water was delicious and he drank to his heart’s content. Pegasus was still drinking when he leaned against a boulder and rested the Hawken in his lap.
He thought of the Banners and the Websters, who must be besides themselves by now over his prolonged absence. Were they waiting for him to return, or in their impatience had they continued westward? If so, they might well be dead, meaning all his hard effort was being wasted. Time would tell.
Given the ability demonstrated by the emigrants, Nate sincerely hoped that great numbers of them would not flock to the promised land, for their own sakes. Many, far too many, would perish before they ever saw the crashing surf of the Pacific Ocean. And a line of bleached bones would be the only legacy they left behind.
Or would it?
Nate remembered all the quaint if sparse settlements along the frontier where hard-working men and women eked out spartan existences by wrestling day in and day out with a harsh land that fought them every step of the way. Drought, insects, hostiles, floods; all these the hardy breed of settlers took in stride, refusing to give up in the face of cruel adversity.
Perhaps he had misjudged them. He still didn’t want thousands of greenhorns to invade the Indian lands, but he now knew that if they did, they would come to stay. The Indians would be unable to drive them off, and in the long run the prairie and the mountains would become just another stepping-stone on the path to American’s conquest of the continent.
A buzzing bee intruded on his reflection and he stood. What had gotten into him? It didn’t do for a man to ponder weighty matters when he should be tending to business. Pegasus was done, so he climbed up and headed out, bearing, as ever, to the southeast.
When the dots appeared, Nate didn’t quite know what to make of them. There were two, on the horizon, not moving at all. Whatever they were, they must be big. He doubted they were buffalo or elk, which left a single, troubling, likelihood.
Riding closer, he distinguished the silhouettes of a pair of horses. That spurred him to ride
at a gallop until he was within fifty yards of the pair; then he slowed. They were the horses Libbie and Brian had been riding, but there was no trace of the lovely girl or her beau.
Puzzled, suspecting the handiwork of hostiles, Nate cocked the Hawken and rode to within twenty feet, then drew rein. Sliding down, he warily advanced. The horses simply gazed at him. He saw that the high grass all around them had been trampled down but bore no evidence of hoof marks. Something other than the horses must have been responsible. Glancing to the right and left, concerned he was blundering into a trap, he strode toward the animal Libbie had been riding. He had a yard to cover when suddenly something grabbed hold of both his ankles and he was brutally slammed to the earth.
Chapter Thirteen
Nate had to let go of the Hawken and throw out his hands to cushion the impact. The pressure on his ankles relaxed, but was instantly replaced by something encircling his knees, and looking down he saw that Brian had seized hold of him and was trying to keep him pinned to the ground. He also saw how he had been tricked. There was a shallow depression, not more than a foot deep but at least twelve feet long, that the devious greenhorn and Libbie had used as their hiding place; they had lain down in it earlier and then covered themselves with flattened grass. If he had been more attentive, he might have figured out their ploy. Nate wanted to kick himself. He had stupidly walked right into their trap, and they had him right where they wanted him.
Now Libbie was also emerging from concealment, her fair features etched with the same somber desperation as Brian’s. “Get his pistols!” Brian screeched.
Shocked to find Libbie working in concert with the greenhorn, Nate belatedly made a grab for his right flintlock. But Libbie reached him before his hand could close on the gun and grabbed his wrist.
“Please, Mr. King!” she cried. “Don’t resist and we won’t hurt you!”
Nate could feel Brian clawing higher, toward his waist, and he streaked his left hand down, grasping the other pistol. Again, though, Libbie thwarted him by grabbing his wrist.
Wilderness: Northwest Passage/Apache Blood (A Wilderness Double Western #6) Page 14
