The two of them had exchanged weapons, Nate realized. Why he had no idea, nor did it matter. He grabbed a pistol and leaned out to shoot as warning shouts from the band below alerted the young warrior to his plight.
Looking up, the brave saw Nate and jerked backwards in fright, which caused him to lose not only his grip on the drop-off but on the lance as well. He fell, tumbling end over end once he struck the slope, unable to arrest his fall until he had gone over twenty feet. No sooner did he come to a stop than he frantically dived behind a boulder.
Nate held his fire. He wasn’t about to shoot unless he was certain of hitting his target. And too, he was disinclined to kill an unarmed man.
Suddenly Nate remembered the vicious warrior with the bow. He whirled, hoping he hadn’t stupidly exposed himself. But he had. Standing on the far rim, taking aim, his face lit by a peculiar smile, was the other warrior.
~*~
The Rattler was smiling because he was about to make a kill, and because his ploy had worked so perfectly. Holds the Arrows had been flattered when The Rattler asked to trade weapons, and had been eager to distract Grizzly Killer so The Rattler could strike. The inexperienced fool hadn’t appreciated the risk he was taking. A lance was no match for a rifle or a pistol, as The Rattler was keenly aware. A bow, though, was the equal of a rifle any day.
Of course the white dog had fallen for the trick. Prone in a crack in the ground produced by some ancient upheaval, The Rattler had watched Grizzly Killer, and waited until the trapper was peering over the edge of the shelf before rising and drawing back the bowstring. He had sighted along the shaft, going for a heart shot, when Grizzly Killer had unexpectedly whirled.
Now The Rattler shifted the bow a few inches to compensate, took a fraction of time to steady the shaft, and let his fingers go slack. The arrow flew almost swifter than the eye could follow. As it did, The Rattler widened his smile in anticipation of seeing Grizzly Killer transfixed. Instead, he saw the trapper twist at the very last moment, saw the arrow point crease the white man’s buckskin shirt but spare the flesh underneath, and The Rattler’s smile changed into a howl of rage.
Then The Rattler saw Grizzly Killer raise a pistol. Spinning, he flattened just as the gun roared, and he heard the ball go by. He snaked into the crack, and kept on crawling until he was hidden by an earthen mound over thirty yards from the ravine. A cautious glance showed no trace of his hated enemy.
Supreme frustration made The Rattler clench his fists until his knuckles turned white. He had missed! And no doubt Leaping Wolf and the others were having a fine laugh at his expense. The only way he could redeem himself was by taking Grizzly Killer’s scalp.
How to go about it was the big question. The Rattler could not get anywhere near the rim except by means of the crack, and since the trapper must be expecting him to do just that, he’d be shot the instant he popped up. Nor was he about to go all the way back down the mountain so he could cross to the other side of the ravine and try to sneak within bow range from below. No, there had to be another way, and an examination of the slope above the shelf suggested one to him.
His stomach scraping the ground, The Rattler worked ever farther from the ravine. When he felt safe, he stood and picked his way higher, staying out of sight of the shelf. Once he paused to look, but saw only a stallion and a mare.
The sun was steadily climbing too. The Rattler remembered telling the others they could attack once it was directly overhead, and he wanted to pound a rock against his head for being so witless. Now he must hurry or Leaping Wolf and the rest might steal the glory from him.
Approximately fifty yards above the shelf, the ravine ended. Pines and abundant brush permitted The Rattler to pass undetected to the other side, and from there to stealthily creep lower and lower until he was perched behind a boulder affording a bird’s eye view of the whole shelf. Oddly enough, he saw no trace of Grizzly Killer.
~*~
Not five minutes earlier, the Ute would have.
Nate King had been on his stomach, the Hawken extended, impatiently waiting for either the vicious warrior or the young one to reappear. When time went on and neither did, it occurred to Nate that he was virtually asking to be killed by remaining there and doing nothing. Rather than let them carry the fight to him, he should take the initiative and turn the tables by becoming the aggressor.
Moving to the opposite end of the shelf from the ravine, Nate climbed higher through a maze of boulders and stunted trees. He had gone less than ten yards when he spotted movement, and shortly thereafter he saw the mean-looking Ute, the one who had rammed his horse into another brave’s mount, gliding toward the shelf.
Nate fixed a bead on the warrior’s head, and was about to cock the hammer when an idea hit him. He needed one of the Utes alive to take back to Mighty Thunder in Sky so the chief could unravel the truth about the death of Dog with Horns. Since to Nate’s utter surprise the rest of the war party was still down at the base of the mountain, making no attempt to kill him, and since the young brave was somewhere below and not likely to intervene, Nate knew he might never have a more ideal opportunity to take one of the Utes alive.
So as the warrior was taking up a position in the shadow of a boulder, Nate was bearing down on him with the skill of a stalking lynx. He deposited the Hawken in a patch of grass, drew his tomahawk, and flitted from cover to cover until he was above the warrior and slightly to the right.
Nate coiled his legs for his leap. A glancing blow should suffice to render the brave unconscious; then Nate would cut strips from the Ute’s buckskins to bind him.
The Rattler, meanwhile, was scouring every nook and cranny in an effort to locate the one man he detested more than any other. That Grizzly Killer had been able to resist the efforts of the Utes to drive him from the mountains was a source of deep anger and embarrassment. The Rattler took great pride in being a Ute, in being a noted member of a powerful tribe able to hold its own against the Comanches and the Blackfeet. Yet this lone white man stood firm against them!
Abruptly, something seemed to blot out the sunlight, and The Rattler twisted to see Grizzly Killer swooping down upon him like a mighty bird of prey. The Rattler had the bow and an arrow in his hands, but loosing the shaft before the trapper was on him would be impossible. He could do no more than hurl both at his foe while springing backward and clawing at his knife.
Nate barely felt the sting of the bow and arrow when they hit his chest, so intent was he on bringing the warrior down. He clipped the Ute on the shoulder, which sent the man flying, and smacked down beside the boulder.
The Rattler recovered quickly, his knife a blur as he took a stride and thrust.
In the act of rising, Nate parried the sweeping blade with his tomahawk, reversed direction, and drove the tomahawk at the Ute’s leg.
Had The Rattler been a shade slower, he would have been crippled. By a hair he yanked his leg from the path of his enemy’s weapon, then countered by spearing his knife at Grizzly Killer’s neck.
Nate blocked the swing, skipped to one side, and tried to slam the flat of his tomahawk into the warrior’s temple. The brave ducked, pivoted, struck. Sparks flew as the steel blade scraped the head of the tomahawk.
The Rattler moved in, weaving a glittering web of flashing light as he tried to pierce the white man’s guard and deliver a fatal stab.
Nate was hard pressed to keep the knife at bay. His tomahawk was heavier, slightly more difficult to wield. He had to keep his arm ceaselessly in motion, countering, deflecting, feinting. Another handicap under which he fought was his resolve to take the brave alive. It would have been so much simpler to kill the Ute outright. Still, he stuck by his decision. Legs rooted, he gave as good as he got for a seeming eternity.
Then The Rattler dropped under a stroke that would have had him seeing stars, and at the lowest point of his crouch he reached down and scooped up a handful of dirt.
Focused on the knife, Nate didn’t see the warrior’s left hand until it flicked at his face and di
rt was tossed at his eyes. He tried to bring his left hand up to protect himself, but wasn’t in time. Some of the dirt caught him right where the Ute wanted and suddenly everything was a blur. In desperation Nate backed away at full speed.
The Rattler smirked and charged. He could see tears pouring from the white man’s eyes, and knew victory was in his grasp. Whipping the knife on high, he dashed forward. His arm muscles hardened for the final plunge.
“He is mine, Uncle! I claim the coup!”
The Rattler heard the words, but they failed to register for the few heartbeats his brain needed to send an impulse along his nerves to his hand. His knife arced downward, biting deep into yielding tissue. But not the tissue of the trapper. For as The Rattler drove the knife home, another figure hurtled between Grizzly Killer and him, the figure of his simpleton of a nephew, who took the blade squarely between the shoulder blades.
Nate saw the second brave appear, but his vision was so murky because of his watering eyes that he could not quite tell what had happened. He heard the newcomer shout, distinguished the dark outline of a lance, and thinking the newcomer was about to plunge it into him, he darted to the left, ran smack into a boulder, and fell.
The Rattler was too incensed to notice, incensed at his nephew for being such an idiot and at himself for being so trusting. He should have known Holds the Arrows would not be content to stay out of the way while he dispatched Grizzly Killer. Whoever did so would earn glory such as few warriors ever achieved; the coup would be talked about whenever extraordinary deeds of valor were discussed for generations to come. And since warriors craved glory in battle above all else, the temptation had proved too much for Holds the Arrows to resist.
Nate had gotten to one knee and was frenetically blinking and rubbing his eyes in an effort to clear his vision. Although perplexed as to why the two Utes didn’t press their advantage, he was grateful for their negligence. A few more seconds and he would be able to defend himself again.
The Rattler stared at the blood oozing from the back of his nephew and grunted in disgust. With an indignant twist of his wrist he wrenched the blade free and gave the body a shove to one side. Then, rotating, he saw the trapper rising. Rabid wrath flooded through him as, uttering an inarticulate roar, he leaped.
At that precise second Nate’s tears washed the last of the gritty dirt from his eyes and he could see again. He managed to bring the tomahawk up to keep the knife from tearing into his neck, but the weight of the Ute bore him down. His left hand clamped on the other’s knife arm at the wrist even as the warrior seized his right wrist and, locked together, they rolled back and forth, both striving to wrest their arms loose so they could use their weapons.
The Rattler marveled at the white man’s strength. Long had he believed that whites were inferior in every respect to Indians. In his estimation all trappers were treacherous, cowardly, and weak, fitting and easy prey, to be disposed of at will. The only reason that Grizzly Killer had withstood his people for so long was because of the whites’ devious nature and more luck than any one person deserved. It had never occurred to him that Grizzly Killer might be his equal in man-to-man combat, and finding this to be true was a profound shock.
Nate’s shoulder hit a boulder and he winced. So far he was holding his own, but his injured wrist was weakening. The wound caused by the dog had not yet healed, and before long the wrist would give out completely. To prevail he must take drastic action and take it immediately. Suddenly he wound up on his back and the brave bore down even harder. Nate drove both knees up into the Ute’s stomach, then straightened his legs at the same time he rolled back on his shoulders. The result was as he intended.
The Rattler sailed over his foe and smashed face-first into the dust with a thud. Though he was dazed, his rage was such that it lent power to his sinews and he pushed to his hands and knees, determined to finish Grizzly Killer off in the next few moments or to perish in the attempt.
Nate beat the Ute off the ground. A single stride brought him next to his adversary. He planted his right foot in the warrior’s ribs, drew back his leg again, and kicked the brave on the chin.
Bursts of white light exploded before The Rattler. His senses swam. His arms buckled. He tried to heave erect and couldn’t. The trapper came closer, undoubtedly to finish him off, and in despair The Rattler did the only thing he could think of. He tackled the trapper around the ankles.
Just as Nate was raising his tomahawk for the decisive blow, his legs were swept out from under him. He saw the Ute’s knife being hoisted, and bent forward to ward off the blow. Anxious to triumph, he then followed through with a punch that rocked The Rattler backwards. But it wasn’t enough.
The Rattler refused to go down. He had not worked so strenuously to have it all be for nothing. The long ride from Ute country to Grizzly Killer’s lodge, the longer ride at reckless speed to the village of Dog with Horns, and again the trailing of Dog with Horns until a suitable ambush site appeared—all that work must not be in vain. It had taken a lot out of him, but not so much that he was unequal to the occasion. He absorbed the white man’s punch, rammed a fist into Grizzly Killer’s groin, and prepared to sink his knife into the man’s unprotected stomach.
Nate knew he was moments away from death. His groin was aflame with pain, his body battered and bruised. He could barely think, yet he realized his crazy notion to take the Ute alive had proven impossible and unless he switched his strategy fast he was going to leave Winona a widow. So as the Ute went to bury the knife in his gut, Nate drew a pistol, slanted the barrel upward, and fired.
~*~
Down at the base of the mountain, a warrior named Otter Foot heard and declared, “The white dog is still alive!”
“Perhaps he has killed The Rattler,” suggested Lone Elk.
“Or Holds the Arrows,” Leaping Wolf said. He glanced at the sun, which was close to being directly overhead. “It is not yet time, but I do not care. We have waited long enough. If The Rattler has not counted coup on Grizzly Killer yet, it is his own fault.” Waving his bow, he whooped several times, then asked, “Who is with me?”
“We all are!” Otter Foot answered, and the rest gave their assent.
In a ragged line the eight braves headed for the ravine.
~*~
Nate shoved the Ute off him and wearily stood. He had come as close as he ever had to giving up the ghost, and now he wanted nothing more than to rejoin his family. But as he walked to the Hawken a series of savage yells reminded him he was far from out of danger. Running to the rim, he was bewildered to find the Utes had vanished. A swirling cloud of dust at the mouth of the ravine told him where they had gone.
The moment of truth was at hand. If Nate could hold them off, if he could inflict high enough losses, the rest might see fit to leave him be. Reloading on the fly, he raced to the boulder that overlooked the bend and set all three guns out in front of him.
Echoes of hoofs clattering on rock rolled up the ravine like the sound of distant thunder.
Nate wiped his hands on his leggings and gazed out at the valley floor, wondering if this was the spot where he would finally join the ranks of the hundreds of trappers who had paid the ultimate price for their devotion to personal freedom and happiness. Movement in a clearing narrowed his gaze, and an intake of breath was his reaction to seeing more Utes, twenty warriors or better, galloping toward the mountain.
“This is it, I reckon,” Nate said aloud, and wistfully looked at his horses. A mad dash down the ravine seemed preferable to dying trapped on the shelf, but before he could do so the eight Utes surged into sight.
Tucking the Hawken to his shoulder, Nate sighted on the foremost rider, a lean brave carrying a bow. He steadied the rifle, mentally ticked off a three-count, and fired. The lead rider went down, to be trampled by some of the others.
Nate grabbed both pistols, sprinted to the edge, and aimed. The Utes had spotted him. They were trying to scatter, but in the confines of the ravine there was nowhere to go.
His first shot dropped a warrior sporting two feathers. His second shot hit a brave in the shoulder. The man reeled, somehow was able to hold on tight, and began to flee.
So did the others. The folly of attempting a frontal assault having been made clear, they retreated around the bend to regroup.
Nate was cramming powder and lead into his guns. The sound of hoofbeats died, which meant the remaining Utes had dismounted and would come after him on foot. He kept his eyes on the opposite rim and the boulders dotting the bottom.
Minutes went by and Nate saw no one. He figured they were tending to the man he had wounded, which gave him a chance to change position. With both pistols under his belt and the Hawken in hand, Nate edged lower. He stopped when the walls reverberated once more to the drum of hoofs. The reinforcements had arrived, and now the Utes would swarm up after him in force.
Rather abruptly a new element reached Nate’s ears, the harsh cries and bloodthirsty yips of warriors in battle. On and on it lasted. Confused, he saw a single Ute run around the bend, and brought the rifle to bear. But the Ute had not gone more than a few yards when he fell, revealing an arrow stuck in his back.
Then a warrior on horseback appeared, a powerful figure astride a magnificent war-horse the likes of which few braves ever owned. Wearing a smile, this warrior advanced until he was at the base of the wall on which Nate stood. “My heart is glad at finding you alive, Grizzly Killer.”
Nate was too astounded to do other than blurt out, “Mighty Thunder in Sky! What are you doing here?”
“Making sure you were not killed. You are too valuable a friend to the Shoshones to risk losing you.”
“But how—?” Nate said.
“How did we find you?” The chief laughed. “By following the signs Long Holy left for us. Do you remember the day you fled from our village? I told him to take the fastest horse, go on ahead, and see if you would let him join you. We did not want you facing those who slew my brother alone.”
“You didn’t think I was to blame?”
Wilderness Double Edition #8 Page 29
