Wilderness Double Edition #8

by David Robbins

  “Got you,” Nate said to himself. He raced along the west side, staying close to the trees so his silhouette wouldn’t be obvious. Pacing his strides, he maintained a brisk clip for over half a mile. By then he was near the east end of the lake and within several hundred yards of the stream.

  Nate entered the woods again, but never ventured more than a few feet from the tree line. When he heard low gurgling, he slowed to a walk. On cat’s feet he wound among the evergreens until he spied the near bank. Bending at the waist, he crept to a bush and poked his head out to survey the length of the stream. A buzzing sound alerted him to his mistake. He tried to jerk back, but the arrow connected before he could and he felt his hat whipped from his head.

  Dashing to a nearby tree, Nate hunched down and mentally cursed himself for being a cocky fool. The warrior must have halted at the mouth of the stream to check if he was being followed and spotted Nate in pursuit. Now the bowman had a fair idea where he was, but had no target to shoot at.

  Waiting a full minute, Nate suddenly launched himself at a stand of fir trees. He hadn’t gone three steps when a shaft clipped several whangs from the sleeve of his shirt. On the opposite bank a vague shape materialized.

  Nate yanked out his right pistol, pointed it at the shape, and hastily fired. The firs closed around him a second later, and since being caught short might prove fatal, he promptly reloaded the spent flintlock. With it in one hand and the rifle in the other, he cautiously flitted from bole to bole, advancing as close to the stream as he safely dared.

  So far, Nate realized, Fate had smiled on him. By all rights the warrior should have brought him down. He must be extremely careful from here on; no man’s string of luck lasted forever.

  The woodland across the way was now deceptively peaceful. Nate raked the shadows for telltale sign of the elusive archer, to no avail. Their conflict had become a battle of wits, a game of cat and mouse, and who was to say which was which? For all Nate knew, at that very moment the warrior might be creeping toward him.

  Retreating into the firs, Nate moved eastward. He refused to wait for the enemy to show himself. Going on the offensive was better, in his estimation. So he trekked over a hundred yards downstream, past a bend that would hide his next move, and when he came on a spot where the stream narrowed to a mere few feet, .he vaulted the swiftly flowing water and sought the protection of a thicket.

  Nate smiled as he thought of how surprised the Indian was going to be. Stepping lightly, he headed for the stretch of forest directly across from the firs. In the back of his mind he mulled the possible motive for the warrior’s attack on him at the cabin. Assuming it was the same brave who had attempted to slay Two Owls, what did the man hope to gain? Was it a warrior who objected to making a truce with the Shoshones? Someone who would stop at nothing to disrupt the peace council? Who was going to stop Nate from presenting the idea to them no matter what?

  There were a dozen unanswered questions. Nate hoped to learn the truth once he jumped the bowman. His senses quivering in anticipation, he snuck closer and closer to where he believed the man was hiding. So intent was he on locating his quarry, with his eyes riveted straight ahead, that he didn’t realize the warrior was much, much nearer until with his peripheral vision he registered the rush of a hurtling form. Pivoting, Nate brought the Hawken up, deflecting the powerful sweep of a knife that would have sliced him open like a melon. He swung the stock at the warrior’s head, but the brave was extraordinarily quick and managed to duck under the blow and spring.

  Arms banded thick with muscle wrapped around Nate’s waist and bore him to the earth. His right knee arced upward, catching the warrior in the groin, flipping the man off. Nate pushed to his feet and tried to bring the rifle to bear, but the Indian wasn’t about to let him do any such thing. The knife leaped at his face, forcing Nate backwards, and struck the barrel of the Hawken, jarring his fingers.

  Employing the Hawken at close range was impossible. Nate let it fall and snatched at a pistol. The brave swung again, at Nate’s midsection, and he had to jerk his hand aside. He settled for the tomahawk instead. The gloom hid most of the brave’s features but not the arrogant smirk the man wore. Nate, out of sheer spite, swung his tomahawk at the brave’s face and the warrior skipped to the right.

  Like awkward dancers the pair now circled one another, each with his weapon held close to his waist, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

  Nate noted the wiry frame of his foe, the man’s poise and supple grace. He also noted the style of hair: Ute. So his hunch had been right, evidently. His ill-timed reflection was cut short when the warrior unexpectedly leaned forward and started to swing the knife, but Nate, judging it a feint, didn’t react, and so was set to dodge when the knife reversed direction and speared at his privates.

  Lunging, Nate delivered a blow that would have split the warrior’s skull had it landed. Yet once again the Ute was too fast for him and skipped out of harm’s reach. Nate tried to press the advantage, swinging repeatedly, missing by a hair with every swipe. The brave made no attempt to block any of the blows, which Nate thought was odd. Then the crack of a twig to his rear showed there was a method to the Ute’s madness.

  A different pair of arms looped around Nate from behind, pinning his own to his sides. The discovery there were two of them startled Nate so badly that for a few seconds he offered no resistance. Warm breath fanned his neck. Gruff laughter mocked him. He saw the Ute in front elevate the knife for the kill. And instinct took over where reason failed.

  “No!” Nate roared, snapping his head backward. The crunch of cartilage verified he had struck the brave’s nose, and the hold on him slackened. But the one in front was closing. Nate jammed both heels into the ground, then shoved with all of his might, causing the warrior who was restraining him to stumble rearward. With a savage wrench, Nate tore loose and whirled.

  The two Utes were side-by-side, the brave with the crushed nose stooped, blood gushing over his mouth and chin.

  Nate had them at his mercy. His left pistol cleared his belt and his thumb curled back the hammer. In another moment he would blast the warrior with the knife into eternity. He was on the verge of prevailing when a feral growl sounded to his right and from out of the night flew a hairy four-legged terror, its jaws clamping down on Nate’s wrist so hard the teeth sheared his flesh as if it was butter.

  A dog! Nate’s mind shrieked as he tried to fling the beast from him. It clung on with terrier perseverance although it was the size of a wolf, its weight dragging his arm down. He clubbed the tomahawk at its head, grazing an ear. In retaliation the animal went into a bestial frenzy, shaking his arm as if trying to rip it from the socket. Grimacing in torment, Nate stepped back to get away from the pair of Utes before they thought to finish him while he was temporarily distracted. His foot bumped a rock and he tripped against a tree.

  The Ute armed with the knife was coming toward him.

  Nate was in a fix. He couldn’t fight off the dog and the brave both. One or the other would be the death of him if he didn’t do something, and do it quickly. The pistol was still cocked, still firm in his fingers, even though the dog was doing its best to chew his hand clean off. Gritting his teeth, he held his arm rigid and managed to swing it a few inches to the left so that the barrel was pointed at the onrushing Ute. Aiming was a useless proposition. He simply prayed for the best and squeezed the trigger.

  At the retort, the lean Ute clutched at his ribs and doubled over, stopped cold in his tracks.

  The dog, however, was roused to a fever pitch of fury by the smoke and the loud blast. It redoubled its assault, worrying Nate’s arm as if it was a slab of venison. Nate continued to retreat, bearing the animal with him as he tried to bash in its skull. But in the dark, and with the dog lurching and pitching every which way, he was unable to land a solid blow. His desperation was mounting by the moment when he took another swift step backwards and the ground seemed to vanish from under him. Dismay numbed him as he felt a ru
sh of cool air past his head and he realized he had just plunged over the edge of the bank—into the stream.

  Chapter Four

  There had been a time when Nathaniel King of New York would have broken out in gooseflesh at the mere thought of being set upon by a vicious dog. But Nate King of the Rocky Mountains had fought panthers and black bears, wolverines and grizzlies. He no longer feared animals. He was wary of them, yes. But when attacked, he became every bit as savage as his bestial adversaries.

  This time was no exception. As Nate felt the cold, clammy water of the shallow stream envelop him, he went practically berserk. At this spot the depth was only a foot, enough to soak him thoroughly but not to impede his movements as he surged to his knees and flailed like a madman with his tomahawk at the dog. The animal, unable to get a firm purchase because of the slippery streambed, took two solid blows to the skull, then released its grip and turned to scramble up the bank.

  Nate wasn’t about to let it escape. He bounded at the beast, the tomahawk glittering dully in the starlight, and sank the keen edge into the dog’s side. The animal yelped, twisted away, and scurried to the top, limping as it went over the rim.

  As much as Nate wanted to go after the dog and finish it off, he had the Utes to think of. They had bows, and he didn’t know how seriously either of them was hurt. He had lost his rifle—which might now be in their hands—and he was losing blood fast from the terrible wound on his left wrist.

  Swallowing his anger and his pride, Nate turned and scrambled up the opposite side. Keeping low, he sprinted into the pines and bore to the west, toward the lake. No pursuit had yet materialized, which puzzled him. The Utes should be anxious to run him down and take his hair.

  A spruce tree bearing branches low to the ground afforded Nate the hiding place he needed. Squatting, he worked his way to the trunk and sat with his back to it. The wind was picking up, swaying the tops of the trees and shaking the brush, denying him the aid of his ears in detecting the warriors.

  Sliding the tomahawk under his belt, Nate drew his other pistol and set both down in front of him. The water had rendered the loaded flintlock useless, so he had to reload both. Uncapping the powder horn, he set about doing so. His right arm was lanced by shooting spasms every time he moved, but he steeled his mind against the agony and forced his fingers to work as they should.

  Since Nate lacked the means to dry the guns completely, he couldn’t be certain they would discharge when he needed them. It was a chance he would have to take because he wasn’t going back without his prized Hawken. To a free trapper struggling to survive in the wilderness a rifle meant the difference between life and death. And although Nate owned spare rifles, he was so fond of the Hawken that he had given it a name: Hawkeye, after the hero of James Fenimore Cooper’s novels.

  Nate’s arm was throbbing abominably when he finished and secured the pistol at his waist. Gingerly tugging the sleeve up to his elbow, he examined the wound. The dog’s teeth had shorn through almost to the bone on the top but not so deep on the bottom. Blood still seeped out, although there was less and less each minute.

  Nothing could be done until Nate got back to the cabin. Pressing the wrist to his side, he filled his left hand with a flintlock and crawled into the open. Every sense primed, he slanted through the trees to the stream and down into the water. To recover his Hawken he must move swiftly, before the loss of blood took its toll or his arm became so painful he couldn’t use it at all.

  It was an eerie feeling, silently moving through the murk of the forest knowing there were two murderous braves and a ferocious dog out there somewhere looking to have their revenge on him. Nate made slow time since he had to stop every few feet to scan the woods.

  Presently Nate was in the general vicinity of where he had tangled with the Utes. Since they had still not shown themselves, he speculated they might have lit out, a logical assumption particularly if the one he had shot was bad off. He began working in a zigzag pattern to cover more area, scouring the grass and rocks.

  At length Nate halted, studying the closest trees. He was fairly sure the fight had taken place right at that spot, so he spent the next half an hour going over every square inch, stooped at the waist to see better. With each passing minute his discouragement grew, and he had about resigned himself to having to return during the light of day when he noticed a long dark streak in a patch of weeds. Eagerly he clutched at it and triumphantly lifted his Hawken on high.

  By now Nate’s arm was causing him terrible misery. From his shoulder to his fingers it seemed to be pulsing in rhythm with the beating of his heart. Gritting his teeth against the anguish, Nate bent his steps homeward. Bouts of weakness assailed him, each more potent than the one before.

  Reaching the lake took three times as long as it should. Nate knelt by the water’s edge and slowly dipped his arm in, smiling in satisfaction when the pain reduced somewhat. The frigid water only had a temporary effect, unfortunately, so he was soon hurrying westward along the south shore.

  Perhaps a mile had been covered when Nate experienced a fleeting ripple of dizziness. Holding his head high, he forged on, covering another twenty-five yards. Then more severe dizziness elicited a groan and caused him to stagger as if drunk. “Damn,” he muttered in frustration. The prospect of passing out was distinctly unappealing. Should a wandering grizzly or other predator stumble on him, he’d never open his eyes again.

  Abruptly, the dizziness subsided. Nate availed himself of the reprieve and trotted toward the trail leading up to the cabin, resisting every step of the way the tidal wave of agony that was doing its utmost to swamp him. He was nearly there when a creature materialized out of the trees, a four-legged creature slinking low to the ground.

  “The dog!” Nate blurted out, and tried to raise the Hawken to shoot. His right arm was sluggish to respond, his hand almost numb. The beast came closer and closer the white spot on its chest standing out like the white stripe of a polecat. Nate pulled a pistol with his left hand, curled his thumb around the hammer, and took a bead.

  “Now you’re gone beaver, you mangy varmint!” Nate declared, steadying his aim. He was in the act of cocking the gun when two words screamed in his brain: White spot? He glanced at the mark again, blinked, and laughed lightly. “Well, I’ll be doggone!”

  Blaze came up to him and sniffed, apparently disturbed by the fresh scent of blood.

  “Fancy meeting you,” Nate said weakly. “Where were you a while ago when I could have used some help? Off prancing with some she-wolf, I reckon.” He bent over to give the wolf a pat. Like a lance spearing through his skull, the dizziness flared again, and this time it brought him to his knees. He clenched his eyes shut and doubled over, hoping the attack would end soon so he could get to his destination.

  Something moist brushed his cheek.

  Nate looked up and received another lick on the forehead. “You stupid critter,” he muttered. “I can’t pet you when I’m halfway to being crow bait.” He tried to push the wolf away, but the movement aggravated his dizziness. “If you want to be useful, go fetch Zach and Winona. Hear me? Go fetch them.”

  Blaze cocked his head and whined.

  “Go, blast you!” Nate urged sternly. “Fetch Zach!” While accustomed to living with humans, the wolf was far from domesticated, and had proven extremely difficult to train even to go outside to relieve itself. On many occasions Zach and Nate had tried to teach Blaze how to go after tossed sticks, with limited success. So Nate wasn’t at all surprised that the wolf turned at his command and raced into the woods heading due south instead of due west.

  “Idiot,” Nate muttered. The dizziness was gone, enabling him to stand and hurry to the trail. Inky shadows closed over him once he was among the trees.

  Every stride took considerable effort, and once, when he inadvertently bumped his right arm with the Hawken, compounding his torture, he barely checked a shriek.

  “Oh, Lord,” Nate breathed, licking his dry lips. He longed for a glimpse of the c
abin. The next bend produced just that, and elated he shuffled ahead. Then, behind him, he heard the patter of someone or something rushing to overtake him. Pausing, he glanced around and grinned at the sight of Blaze bearing down like a bat out of hell. “What the devil?” he wondered aloud, and was even more surprised when he saw that Blaze was favoring the legs on one side.

  Too late Nate realized there was no white mark on the animal’s chest. He extended the pistol he held, yet he might as well have been moving in slow motion for all the good it did him. The dog snarled and leaped, barreling into his chest, its front legs striking his right arm.

  Nate cried out as he went down. He swung the rifle in front of his face and neck, protecting them from the dog’s snapping fangs. Claws ripped into his buckskin shirt. Saliva dripped onto his face. His shoulder rippling, he tried swatting the dog off, but he lacked the strength. He needed to use both arms; the right was virtually useless. The fangs drew inch by inch nearer to his vulnerable throat as the dog pressed its assault.

  Death hung over Nate King in the shape of the fiendish canine’s distorted features when another element was added to their somber life-and-death conflict. From out of nowhere hurtled a second hairy form, only this one plowed into the dog instead of Nate. In the blink of an eye the forest was filled with horrendous gnashing and gnarling and the crash of wildly tumbling bodies through the brush.

  Nate rose on the elbow of his good arm and watched helplessly as the fierce clash raged. He dared not try to shoot the dog in his condition; he might hit Blaze by mistake.

  The wolf and the Ute mongrel were about equal in size. Their speed was also roughly the same. In inherent ferocity neither could claim superiority. And there was a chance, since it was not uncommon for village dogs to stray into the wild and mate with their wild brethren, that the dog had wolf blood pumping in its veins. But the dog was wounded, and in the end that was the deciding factor.