“Just don’t ever pull a stunt like that again. If the hostiles don’t get us, I may just naturally keel over when my heart gives out.”
Once Long Holy had attended to the corpses, Nate and the warrior scattered leaves and pines needles about to cover their tracks and the blood. Only when Nate was satisfied a casual glance would not arouse suspicion did he mount up and head back through the stand to a boulder-strewn hill situated a mile from the stream.
Having tied the horses on the opposite side, Nate hiked to the top and took a seat on a flat boulder commanding an excellent view of the entire valley. His family and Long Holy followed his example.
“Once the sun sets,” Nate announced, “I’m paying those Utes a visit. If I can get the drop on them, I can take them all prisoner.”
“You will surround all ten of them by yourself?” Winona said. “Utes are not Otoes. They will not line up meekly simply because you cover them with a gun. As soon as you show yourself, they will be on you like a pack of wolves.” She shook her head. “Zach and I must come with you.”
“Not on your life,” Nate said, refusing to concede this time. He glanced at the warrior, half-expecting Long Holy to offer to help, but the brave was gazing rather longingly toward the mouth of the valley. Why? Nate mused. What was behind the warrior’s increasingly strange behavior?
Zach had heard his mother and leaped right in. “I can lend a hand, Pa. I’m big enough now to know what I’m doing.”
“No.”
“But how am I supposed to learn how to be a warrior if you won’t let me do the things warriors do?”
“Don’t push it, son. I’m not—” Nate began, and completely forgot the rest of what he was about to say when a savage snarl erupted at the base of the hill and the horses went into a frenzy of fear. Shoving up, he dashed to the side, and was stupefied to see a young panther in the act of stalking the mare. Body low to the ground, tail flicking wildly, the big cat glided through the grass as if walking on air.
Nate raised the Hawken, then remembered the Utes. The sound of a shot might carry that far. So waving the rifle overhead and bellowing like an angry bull, he raced down the slope.
The panther spun, hissed, and stubbornly held its ground until Nate was nearly to the bottom. In a blur it was off, bounding ten feet at a stride, to vanish in the evergreens.
Nor was it alone. At the very moment the cat fled, so did Winona’s mare, in the other direction. The reins slipped off the low limb to which Winona had fastened them, and fearing for its life even though the panther was leaving, the horse sped southward, heading up the valley, heading toward the Utes.
“Damn it all! Can’t nothing go right anymore?” Nate muttered, running to the stallion. He had to stop the mare before the Utes spotted her. Mounting, he yelled, “Stay here until I get back!” and galloped on her heels.
Endowed with exceptional strength and speed, the mare had already covered close to fifty yards. Mane flowing, nostrils and eyes wide, she was rivaling the wind.
Nate knew the signs. The mare was so panic-stricken, she’d go for miles if not stopped, running until she was too tired to run another step. And if the Utes saw her, the fur would fly, as the trappers liked to say.
Unfortunately for Nate, wanting to catch the mare was a far cry from actually doing so. Despite the stallion’s best efforts, she was more than holding her own. Over long distances she was no match for the black, but over short stretches she was a regular hellion.
Nate cursed passionately when the mare broke from the trees and took to the open ground. Every foot she went now brought her that much closer to certain discovery by the Utes. He almost wished she would step into a prairie-dog hole and go down, busted leg or no. Keeping one eye on the column of smoke, he lashed the stallion furiously and rode, rode, rode.
Presently the mare showed signs of flagging. Nate gained swiftly, leaning far out so he could snatch her bridle when he was near" enough. Not thirty seconds later he was, and with a cry of elation he brought the mare to a pounding stop.
Overjoyed, Nate seized her reins, and was turning the stallion when he saw four warriors by the trees, all studies in consternation. Two bore armloads of wood for their fire, which they dropped at a word from one of their companions, and all four charged toward him, venting awful shrieks and whoops.
Nate didn’t dare go back to the hill; he’d lead the Utes right to his loved ones. Bearing eastward, he pushed the stallion to its limits, knowing full well there would be mounted Utes in pursuit at any second. He was closing on a tract of brush when his deduction was borne out.
Five Utes on horseback exploded from the trees, soon passing their fellows on foot.
Now Nate was in serious trouble. He crashed into the brush and altered course to the north, then the east again, using the maze of thickets to the best advantage. In a haphazard pattern he put hundreds of yards behind him. At length the brush ended at the rim of a gully, down which he shot at breakneck speed. On the bottom he turned to the right and gave the stallion its head. The tired mare resisted but Nate jerked on the reins, forcing her to keep up.
Several minutes had gone by, and Nate had left the gully for sheltering forest when it occurred to him that he should have seen some sign of the Utes by then. Stopping, he listened, and was disturbed to hear nothing but the wind where there should have been harsh yells and the drum of many hoofs.
What were the devils up to? Nate wondered. Evidently they were not even trying to stick to his trail. Why not? Had they fanned out instead? Was one of them already close enough to put an arrow into him?
Simultaneous with the thought, Nate saw a warrior materialize off to the left. They both spotted each other at the same time. The Ute lifted a bow. Nate snapped up the Hawken. By the merest fraction his rifle blasted first and the Ute pitched rearward, the arrow zipping into the earth.
“My fat’s in the fire!” Nate declared, making off to the south. The shot would draw every last Ute to the scene and they would be on him in no time. No matter, Nate had to stop and reload, which he did when he came on a wide hollow.
The proper amount of black powder had been poured into the barrel, and Nate was in the act of shoving the ball and patch down with the ramrod, when the crunch of something large moving through the underbrush rimming the hollow caused him to pause. Twisting, he saw the outline of a horse and rider, a Ute and a war-horse. The brave was gazing off in the distance, apparently seeking him.
Nate held his breath until the Ute had gone. Quickly he finished loading, inserted the ramrod into its housing, and headed for the shallow end of the hollow to leave. More crunching stopped him cold.
Three or four Utes were to the west, moving abreast. Nate ducked low over the saddle, relying on the rim to shield him. When the clump of hoofs died in the distance he straightened, jabbed his heels into the stallion’s flanks, and took the incline on the fly.
Nate had been doing such a fine job of losing the Utes that now he was disoriented himself. The hill, by his reckoning, should be to the north. Or was it the northeast? Since the war party had gone to the south, his options were the east and the west. Bearing west, however, would take him to the stream and open space. So eastward was his best bet.
Reins firmly clasped, the Hawken slanted across his thighs, Nate wound deeper into the trees. He intended to go a few miles, then when he was certain he had lost the Utes, swing around toward the hill. At the rate he was going, it would be well after dark before he was reunited with Winona and the others, and he hoped Winona didn’t become impatient and come looking for him. She might stumble on Utes herself.
Preoccupied with worry about his family, Nate skirted a rocky spine that appeared out of nowhere. He had gone a few dozen feet along its base when a twig snapped above him. Glancing up, he was shocked to behold a Ute at the very instant the warrior pounced.
Nate tried to bring the Hawken up, but he only had the rifle to chest height when the brave smashed into him, flinging him from the stallion. He felt the
Hawken leave his fingers before his back smacked down with so much force every bone in his body was jarred and the breath whooshed from his lungs.
In moments of extreme stress the human body is capable of extraordinary feats. When imperiled, a person can move faster, react faster, attack faster. So it was with Nate King as he saw the Ute lift a tomahawk on high to bury the blade in his torso. Like lightning he rolled to the right, the thud of the weapon telling him how close he had come to giving up the ghost.
Flipping back again, Nate drove his right foot into the Ute’s knee. There was a loud crack. Grimacing, the Ute swung the tomahawk, but this time Nate met it with his own. The blow rocked his shoulder.
Nate scrambled out of reach and pushed to his feet. The Ute came at him, limping but not out of the fight, features fixed in vicious determination. Nate ducked under a swipe that would have decapitated him, and retaliated by trying to take the Ute’s arm off at the elbow. He missed, leaving himself wide open. The Ute lunged, aiming at Nate’s throat. By whipping rearward Nate evaded the tomahawk.
Now they circled one another, seeking a weakness that could be exploited.
Suddenly the Ute tilted his head and voiced a piercing series of yips.
The meaning was obvious. Other warriors would hear and respond, and Nate would find himself hopelessly outnumbered. Nate had to end the fight, end it hastily, or suffer the consequences. With that goal in mind he shifted and swung, deliberately aiming a few inches wide to the right to drive the Ute to the left. His tactic worked, and as the Ute raised his tomahawk to deflect another attack, Nate stepped in close, on the left, and streaked his butcher knife from its sheath on his left hip into the Ute’s chest.
Not a single sound escaped the Ute’s lips. He staggered, gawked at the hilt, then toppled.
Not having a second to waste, Nate ripped the knife out, replaced it, slipped the tomahawk under his belt, and reclaimed the Hawken. The stallion and the mare had only gone a dozen yards, so in short order he was mounted and about to depart. Then he saw the Ute’s war-horse.
The animal stood atop the spine, reins dangling, patiently awaiting its lord and master.
To the south arose shouts and yips, signifying the rest of the band was on its way.
“Heeeeyah!” Nate said, urging the stallion upward. He was afraid the war-horse would run off but it stayed put, allowing him to stop, lift its reins, and cuff it on the rump. It bolted into the woods to the west, making enough noise for ten animals as it plowed through the brush. Nate continued eastward, grinning as he listened to the war party, which had changed direction and was now chasing the slain brave’s mount.
Good riddance, Nate reflected, although he knew they would be hotter than ever for his scalp once they realized they had been duped. The next ten minutes were spent galloping over hill and down dale in an effort to gain a wide lead. His flight brought him to the lower slope of a lofty mountain. By then the mare was so fatigued she was balking.
Nate decided to get higher, to attain a point where he could survey the surrounding countryside and see the Utes coming long before they saw him. A ravine afforded him the means of doing so without being spotted from below. Where a section of wall had buckled, Nate goaded his horses up onto a flat shelf carpeted with grass. Here he dismounted, ground-hitched both animals, and crept to the edge.
From so high up the valley was deceptively peaceful but undeniably lovely, with the blue stream like a colorful ribbon wrapped around a bright green package.
Lying down so he could prop his chin in his hands, Nate scoured the forest for his adversaries. He was confident he had eluded them, and concentrated on the vegetation to the west, where the fleeing horse would have lured them. Hunt as he might, he failed to see a single brave.
Nate was inclining to the opinion the Utes had given up and returned to their camp when his gaze strayed to the base of the mountain on which he roosted. Shock brought an oath from his lips.
Lined up in a row facing the slope were ten Utes, and each and every one was staring directly at the shelf—directly at Nate.
Chapter Twelve
The Rattler hefted his lance and declared gruffly, “If my own eyes had not seen him, I would not believe it! How can he be here when he should be back in the village of Mighty Thunder in Sky being put to death? Something has gone terribly wrong, and I do not know what it is.”
“Why are you upset?” Leaping Wolf asked.
“Did you not recognize the white dog? It is Grizzly Killer himself.”
“How can you be sure?” Leaping Wolf asked. “With all that hair they grow, all whites look alike to me.” He snickered. “Their faces remind me of the hind ends of bears. Only the bears are better-looking.”
Laughter greeted the insult. Holds the Arrows waved his bow and said, “Does it matter who this white man is? Let us count coup on him so our people will be even more impressed by the success of our raid.”
“Do not be so impetuous,” The Rattler declared. “He is mine. I claim the right to strike him down.”
“Why you?” one of the others demanded.
“Because twice I had it in my power to slay him and could not. Because somehow he has ruined my plan. And because I have promised myself that his hair belongs in my lodge, and mine alone.”
“Those are not reasons,” the dissenter said. “Each of us has as much right as you do to take his scalp.”
“Do you?” The Rattler hissed. “If those were not good enough for you, perhaps this reason will be better.” He slapped his quirt against the side of his horse and in a twinkling was upon the startled warrior. Before the man could defend himself, the two horses collided and the dissenter’s was sent tumbling. Had the warrior not thrown himself out from under the falling animal, he would have been pinned.
The Rattler whooped with glee and raked the rest with a hawkish stare. “Who else thinks I do not have the right to slay Grizzly Killer?”
None of the others spoke, although several shifted uneasily.
“As I thought,” The Rattler said. He jabbed his lance skyward. “If I have not come back by the time the sun is straight overhead, feel free to kill the white bastard yourselves.”
“Can I go with you, Uncle?” Holds the Arrows requested.
The Rattler was on the verge of refusing when he thought of how he might benefit. “Very well. But you are to stay back, observe, and learn. And when we reach our village, you can tell all of our people how you saw me kill the great Grizzly Killer. As the only witness, you will be one of the most sought-after men in the village.”
“You honor me,” Holds the Arrows said, and could not understand why Leaping Wolf had a fit of coughing.
“Come,” The Rattler directed. “My lance thirsts for white blood!”
~*~
Nate saw the warrior with the nasty disposition and the young one break away from the band and gallop into the ravine he had used in his ascent. He watched the others for a few seconds, figuring they would come at him from another direction, but all they did was move their mounts closer together and begin an animated conversation.
Drawing back, Nate rose and ran to the top of the collapsed section. He could see for over a hundred yards, to a bend. Confident picking the Utes off before they reached him would be child’s play, he took cover next to a shoulder-high boulder and aligned the Hawken on top.
Minutes dragged by with excruciating slowness. Nate shifted from foot to foot and nervously wrung his hands. By his calculations the pair should appear at any time, yet they didn’t. Puzzled, he moved to another boulder, one a score of feet closer to the bend.
They were up to something. That was Nate’s conclusion after five more minutes passed without incident. Cocking the Hawken, he advanced to the rim. Boulders littered the bottom of the ravine but nothing moved among them, not even chipmunks. A span of only thirty feet separated him from the other side, well within the range of a skilled archer, but there were no places for a man to conceal himself; it was bare of plant growth and bo
ulders.
Nate pondered whether he should try to escape up the mountain. The slopes were steep, but not so steep the stallion and mare couldn’t make it to the top. Getting down the other side before the Utes came around might pose some difficulty, leaving him no better off than he was right there.
Disgusted for having boxed himself in, Nate turned away from the rim, and as he moved an arrow zipped past his cheek so close to his skin he felt the feathers tickle his flesh. Instantly he dove behind a boulder.
No more shafts were fired. His head flush with the ground, Nate crawled to a different boulder. He knew the young warrior had shot at him because only the young one had a bow. The nasty Ute had carried a lance.
So where was the bowman? Nate asked himself. If not at the bottom or on the other rim, then where? He tried to remember which direction the arrow had come from and couldn’t.
The black stallion suddenly nickered.
Nate looked and saw the horse gazing across the ravine. Poking his head out, he sought in vain for the young Ute. It reminded him of the time he had fought Apaches, masters at camouflaging themselves in any type of terrain, at seemingly turning invisible right before a person’s eyes. A man could be staring right at one and not even realize it.
Utes were good, but they were not quite that good. Nate searched and searched, and so intent was he on locating the archer that he nearly missed hearing the whisper of falling dirt at the front of the shelf.
Rising into a crouch, Nate dashed to the edge and warily took a peek. There was a sheer drop-off of eight or nine feet from the top of the shelf to the slope below, and trying to climb it was the young warrior. The brave had scaled five feet but was stranded, unable to get a firm enough purchase with both hands to pull himself higher because he was carrying a lance in his right.
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