Wilderness Double Edition #8

by David Robbins

  “Every day.”

  “I hope you are not bored of hearing it because I will tell you the same thing each and every day until we go under.”

  “You can engrave it on my forehead if you want,” Nate quipped, leaning down to peck her nose. As he raised up, he glanced at the remnants of a broken chair that had been stacked next to the fireplace and a flinty gleam came into his narrowed eyes.

  There was no need for Winona to ask about the reason. She knew what he was thinking as surely as she knew her own thoughts, just as she knew there would be no convincing him to change his mind even had she been so inclined. So she made the only comment she could under the circumstances. “You be careful, my husband. They will not let themselves be taken alive.”

  “I’m counting on that,” Nate said harshly, and his hand closed on the hilt of his big knife.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Two more days elapsed before Nate was satisfied his wife had recovered sufficiently to justify his departure. He packed a pair of parfleches with the supplies he would need, saddled a sorrel before daylight, and was on the trail by the time the sun crowned the eastern sky. Although the tracks were old, they were easy to follow since very little melting had taken place.

  By mid-morning it became apparent the fleeing pair had no idea which way to go. The trail went northwest for a few miles, changed to due west, then to due north. Nate noted only one constant: Elden and Selena always took the easiest course, no matter where it led them.

  When sunset painted the heavens brilliant hues of red, orange, and yellow, Nate had traveled over twenty miles, but only a dozen from his cabin as the crow flies. He could have reached the same spot in a third of the time had he been relying on his own judgment.

  The next day was more of the same. And the next. The circuitous trail was so ridiculous it was maddening. Nate had hoped to be able to gauge the direction of their travel and take one of the many shortcuts he knew of to cut them off, but their insane meandering required him to stick with the trail at all times, slowing him down.

  There was one consolation. At the rate they were traveling, Nate expected to overtake them late on the fourth day. He was pushing the sorrel, riding at twice the speed they were. And where they had stopped often, perhaps to take brief rests or to argue over which way to go next, he seldom halted.

  That night, as Nate sat beside a crackling fire warming his hands, he wondered how the pair were managing to fill their bellies. He’d come on the remains of several of their campfires and not once seen evidence they had cooked game. Either they were living on bark and twigs, which he doubted they had the stomach for, or they were going without food. If so, they might be too weak to lift a finger against him when he caught them. And he wanted them to resist. He wanted them to put up a fight so he could slay them without regret.

  Dawn found Nate in the saddle, Hawken in hand, resuming his journey. Today was the day. Excited to be so close to them, he forged ahead for several hours. Then, as he came through a pass into a spacious valley, he saw something which made him rein up sharply and curse.

  Others had found the trail. Five unshod horses had approached at a walk from out of the northeast. On finding the tracks they had halted and one of their number had dismounted to better study the impressions, as shown by the moccasin prints paralleling the trail for a short distance. The man had climbed back on his mount and all five had gone on, three on one side of the tracks, two on the other.

  With a jab of his heels Nate brought the sorrel to a gallop. He was furious at this latest development. Whether the Indians were friendly or hostile was irrelevant. Either would spoil his vengeance. Friendly warriors, such as those from a Shoshone village, might take the Leonards to Fort Laramie if the pair made their wants known. Hostiles, on the other hand, might kill them before he caught up.

  Nate rode hard toward the end of the valley. He was still half a mile from it when he saw smoke, a slate-gray column spiraling skyward beyond a patch of pines. Veering to the left, he took advantage of all available cover until he was close enough to smell the acrid scent of burning wood. He slid down, tied the sorrel to a limb, crouched, and stalked through the underbrush. Presently he spotted men in buckskins moving in a clearing. He heard laughter and low voices.

  From there on Nate exercised the caution of a panther, gliding silently from tree to tree or boulder to boulder. When he had caught enough of the tongue being spoken to recognize it, he wanted to kick something. Anything. He could hardly believe his luck. What were the odds? he kept asking himself.

  The Indians were Bloods.

  From behind a spruce tree Nate scanned their camp. The seven horses were tied in a row to the right. In the middle of the clearing blazed a small fire. To the left, their arms bound to saplings, their heads bowed, were Selena and Elden Leonard. In front of them stood the five braves.

  Nate had no way of knowing if the warriors were part of the same bunch he had tangled with days ago, but he suspected they might well be. They were having great fun poking and slapping the Leonards, or mocking their captives with lewd gestures. Selena was being mistreated too, and it was this fact more than anything else which indicated to Nate the braves were some of those he had fought before, now out for revenge.

  Warriors rarely abused white women because having a white wife was a symbol of prestige and considered good medicine. White women were often pampered, accorded better treatment than their Indian sisters. But not this time. Selena was being jabbed and struck as hard as her brother, as if out of spite.

  Nate felt no sympathy at all for their plight. Any compassion he might have felt had died when the pair tried to kill his family. In his opinion they were getting exactly what they deserved. Justice was being served. His only regret was that others were doing the serving.

  “Dear God! No!”

  At Elden’s cry, Nate glanced up and saw that a stocky warrior had drawn a knife. He watched the man step up to Elden and lightly run the blade over Elden’s face, around the nose and under the chin, leaving a pencil-thin wake of blood.

  Elden was too petrified to do more than gawk. But when the brave lowered the knife, Elden started crying and blubbered, “Spare me! Please! I’ll do anything you want! Just don’t hurt me! That’s all I ask.”

  “Be quiet, you spineless worm!” Selena snapped. “For once try to pretend you’re a real man.”

  “I don’t want to die!” Elden wailed.

  “Do you think I do?” Selena retorted. “But you don’t see me behaving like a coward.”

  “Go to hell!” was her brother’s rejoinder. He appeared ready to say more, but the stocky brave suddenly drove the bloody knife to the hilt in Elden’s groin.

  Nate flinched at the sight, his skin erupting in gooseflesh at the high-pitched shriek the greenhorn vented. He saw the warrior yank the knife out, saw blood pumping from the hole in Elden’s pants, and averted his eyes as his stomach churned. When next he looked, Elden was babbling hysterically and struggling against his bounds like one demented.

  The Bloods cackled at his antics. The louder he grew, the louder they laughed.

  Having lived with and among Indians for years, Nate knew many tribes liked to torture captives. The knife in the loins was just the beginning for Elden Leonard. Before morning came, the man would be begging the warriors to finish him off, to put him out of his misery, and Nate didn’t care to witness the whole ordeal. He was glad he had something else to do.

  Retreating into the forest, Nate worked his way around to the horses. His stallion and mare were tied in the middle of the string. Slinking up behind them, he peered between their legs to verify the Bloods were still busy with the Leonards; then he rose beside the stallion and swiftly unfastened its reins. The same was done for the mare. With reins in each hand, Nate slowly turned the animals and hastened into the trees. Elden’s screams smothered any noise he made.

  Nate took the horses to where he had left the sorrel. He placed a hand on his saddle, preparing to swing up, when a waver
ing screech caused the sorrel to prance nervously away from him and ravens in nearby trees to take wing. Turning, he listened to the most awful cry of despair and terror he had ever heard, a cry that set his teeth on edge, that lingered on and on and finally subsided into a pathetic moan.

  “It doesn’t concern me,” Nate said angrily. He stepped to the sorrel, started to mount, then paused. The moaning seemed like it would never end. He waited, and waited, then, frowning, mad at himself for being so softhearted, he ground-hitched the three horses and raced back to the same spruce he had hidden behind minutes ago.

  Both Elden and Selena were on the ground, spread-eagle, totally naked. Ringed around them were four of the five Bloods. The fifth was between Selena’s legs, but she wasn’t the one moaning. That was Elden. With excellent cause. The Bloods had amused themselves by depriving him of his manhood, slitting open his abdomen o his intestines dangled out, and chopping off his nose and ears.

  Nate had seen many mutilations, had observed atrocities that would make most people sick on sight. These were no different, yet they bothered him, and in being bothered he became further upset because by all rights he should be overjoyed to see the Leonards get their comeuppance. Why did he feel the way he did?

  One of the warriors changed places with the man on the ground. This one, to heighten his pleasure, hoisted Selena’s legs over his shoulders.

  The angle gave Nate a clear view of Selena’s face, her expression was as dead as that of a corpse, devoid of all emotion, like a blank mask sculpted from white clay. The brave’s shoulders blocked her torso from sight until the man was done and stood. Then Nate discovered he tips of her breasts had been cleanly removed. Bile rose in his mouth. He lifted the Hawken, but hesitated.

  Another warrior took up position, the stocky one who tad cut Elden’s face. The man laughed and slapped Selena’s behind, trying to induce her to cooperate. Her empty eyes must have made him mad, because he drew back a fist and punched her full on the mouth. When she gagged, he barked directions at two of his fellows, who then stepped forward, each to grab her by an arm, and lifted her until she stood limply erect.

  Nate knew what he was going to do before the stocky brave drew the bloody knife. He knew, and he was furious. Taking a quick look back, he plotted out the path he must follow to reach his horses as swiftly as possible. He would have a five to ten second head start since it would take that long for the Bloods to realize they weren’t under attack and to sprint in pursuit. That should be more than enough time. He’d be on the sorrel and hundreds of yards off before they broke into the open. When they saw him, they’d no doubt turn and race for their horses, taking another minute. By the time they broke from the trees he would be half a mile off. If they began to gain, he’d stop and drop one or two with the Hawken to discourage the rest. Then it was on to the cabin and his family.

  With the details all worked out, Nate placed his cheek to the smooth stock of the Hawken and took deliberate aim. The stocky brave had swept his knife arm back she could bury the blade in Selena.

  The next instant Nate King shot her smack between the eyes.

  WILDERNESS 16:

  BLOOD TRUCE

  To Judy, Joshua, and Shane.

  Prologue

  From high out of the cloudy sky swooped a large golden eagle, wings outspread as it glided on the swift air currents always astir above the Rocky Mountains. Over jagged peaks and lofty cliffs it soared, seeking prey, its exceptionally keen eyes constantly roving over the rugged landscape below. Forested slopes unfolded underneath, the mighty pines appearing as mere bushes from the great predator’s vantage point. Banking to the left, the eagle arced into a graceful dive that carried it to within a few hundred feet of the earth.

  Now the golden eagle could distinguish objects the size of mice. It eagerly probed the high grass as it sailed across a meadow. Suddenly a flash of movement alerted it to a bounding rabbit which darted into the cover of a dense thicket. The eagle circled the thicket twice, saw there was no way it could penetrate to where the rabbit sat trembling in fright, and continued on its hungry way.

  A steep mountain caused the scourge of the clouds to veer sharply higher, up and over a snow-tipped crown. Beyond lay a pristine valley. Thin columns of smoke spiraled heavenward from near a stream at the center. On spying them, the eagle tilted its wings to reduce its speed. Here was something new, something unexpected, and curiosity urged it lower. Caution, however, prompted the exact opposite a moment later when the wary bird detected a bustle of activity taking place among the strange nests made of buffalo hides from which the smoke wafted.

  The eagle had seen such dwellings before. It had learned to associate them with the bizarre two-legged creatures who occasionally visited its domain. Once, when the eagle had been but a short while on its own, it had ventured close to a gathering of such creatures to better study them, and a small one had shot a slender wooden shaft that had clipped the eagle’s wing and nearly brought it crashing down. Ever since the eagle knew to stay out of range.

  Now the eagle observed dozens upon dozens of big and small creatures moving about and heard playful shouts and chanting. It noted the many horses and loud dogs. Bothered by the smoke and the noise, the eagle banked to the west to follow the stream out of the valley, and in doing so it discovered a second group of two-legged creatures in the trees bordering the strange nests.

  This new group, the eagle noticed, was quite numerous. And they were moving quietly from pine to pine, making hardly any noise at all, so unlike the others. A little farther on, the eagle came to where many more horses were clustered together in a gully.

  Changing direction yet again, the eagle was about to wing northward when its sharp ears heard a piercing shriek followed by harsh yells and a few popping retorts.

  Puzzled as to the cause, it flew in a tight loop, back over the stream, and beheld a scene of sheer chaos.

  The creatures who had been moving through the trees were swarming into the open and wreaking havoc among the nest dwellers. Figures grappled on the ground. Others fought upright. Thin shafts streaked every which way. Now and then one of the creatures would point a long branch at another and there would be a blast like thunder and a puff of smoke. There was much screaming and shouting.

  Baffled by the bedlam, the eagle made a circuit of the site. Bodies littered the area. Some creatures were thrashing in torment or convulsing in the pangs of death. Pools of blood were everywhere, seeping into the earth.

  The eagle witnessed countless brutal fights in which creatures were slain or maimed. It saw big ones ripped open by whooping foes and small ones who had their heads caved in. It had never beheld such outright carnage, such bloodthirsty slaughter, so it lingered, absorbing every detail. Its kind learned by studying other wildlife, by learning the rhythms of the woodland. It knew of the ferocity of grizzlies and the savagery of mountain lions, but it had never seen any sight to quite match this.

  Since to the eagle all the two-legged creatures were more or less alike, it had no means to tell if the ones from the trees or the ones who lived in the conical nests were prevailing. It did see a shift in the conflict when dozens of creatures on horseback appeared over a hill and charged into the midst of the fray. Soon some of the creatures were fleeing into the trees. They raced to the horses hidden in the gully, climbed up, and swiftly departed. Many laughed and waved strips of hair.

  The eagle made one final sweep. All the fighting had ceased, but some of the creatures were going around striking others sprawled on the ground if the latter showed the slightest hint of movement. Presently wailing and bawling arose, forming a mournful din that so upset the eagle it sailed off, heading deeper into the virgin wilderness where it could enjoy life undisturbed by the two-legged terrors.

  Chapter One

  Nate King raised his heavy ax overhead, then paused as the forest around him abruptly became eerily silent. Shifting, he scanned the nearest firs, then glanced at his prized Hawken rifle, which was propped against a convenien
t log. He had lived in the wild recesses of the majestic Rockies long enough to know that squirrels, sparrows, chipmunks, and the like only ceased their constant chatter when there was a meat-eater abroad—or man. Since the animals living close to his cabin were accustomed to his presence, he knew he wasn’t the cause; there must be an unwanted visitor in the vicinity.

  Lowering the ax, Nate stepped to the log and crouched. He strained his ears, but heard just the sighing of the wind and the rustling of limbs. Switching the ax for his rifle, he glided to the right and knelt at the base of a tree. The forest remained unnaturally silent. As yet, nothing out of the ordinary had showed itself.

  Nate stayed perfectly still, his thumb resting on the cool hammer of his Hawken. His powerfully built frame was covered by fringed buckskins, his feet protected by moccasins. Perched on his head was a beaver hat, around his waist a wide leather belt. Wedged under that belt were two flintlocks, a matching set he had bought in St. Louis. Complementing the pistols was a big butcher knife on his right hip and a tomahawk on his left. In addition, he carried a bullet pouch and a powder horn, both slanted across his broad chest.

  While Nate would have drawn stares back in New York City or elsewhere in the States, his attire was typical of the trappers and mountain men with whom he shared an abiding affection for the untamed but free life of the raw frontier. At the annual Rendezvous he wouldn’t stand out of the crowd at all. And here, amidst the deep woods, he blended into the background so well that he seemed part and parcel of the forest itself.

  Tense minutes went by. Nate had reason for concern—two very good ones, in fact—so he wasn’t about to lower his guard until he was fully satisfied there was no danger. Foremost on his mind was the grizzly that had taken to paying his homestead regular visits in recent months. From the size of the tracks he had found, the beast had to be gargantuan. He feared it would one day attack his wife and children, and he wanted to end the monster’s life beforehand.