Nate ran to the middle fort and stood to the right of the doorway, waiting. His body tingled in expectation. Soon. They had to notice the flames soon.
They did. Loud screeches arose in the west fort, followed moments later by shouts in the east one. A warrior in the middle fort shouted something in the Blackfeet language.
Bracing his legs, Nate gripped the Hawken by the barrel and focused on the waist-high doorway. What’s taking them so long? he wondered in amazement. They should be bolting out of there like frightened rabbits. He detected motion out of the corner of his eye and looked up.
A Blackfoot was emerging from the west fort, a war club clutched in his right hand. He glanced around, spied the youth, and vented a war whoop as he sprang erect. No sooner did he stand, however, than an arrow flashed out of the night and thudded into his chest, the impact spinning him to the left. He blinked, stared mutely at the feathers jutting from his body, and pitched over.
Distracted by the man’s death, Nate didn’t realize someone was scrambling from the fort at his very feet until he heard a feral hiss and glanced down in consternation to see a burly Blackfoot about to bury a tomahawk in his legs. He threw himself backward, barely evading the blow, then swung the heavy Hawken like a club and clipped the Indian on the jaw.
The Blackfoot sagged, still conscious but dazed.
Nate kicked him, delivering the tip of his right moccasin to the point of the warrior’s chin. Teeth crunched and the Blackfoot collapsed. Bending forward, Nate grabbed the man by the shoulders and heaved, pulling the warrior all the way out.
More and more yells of alarm were voiced as the rest of the war party awakened. A second Blackfoot exited the fort to the west, and promptly received a shaft in his jugular for the effort.
From Nate’s rear arose a ghastly shriek, and he twisted to observe yet another warrior who had just stepped outside and been greeted by the lethal flight of an arrow into his left eye. The Blackfoot grabbed at the shaft, sagged against the poles, and toppled over.
Grayish-white smoke billowed upward from the pair of burning forts. Already poles were ablaze.
Another warrior started to crawl from the middle fort.
Nate looked down, intending to club this one as he had the other, saving his balls for when they would really be needed. He found himself staring down the barrel of a fusee angled awkwardly in the direction of his head, and his immediate reaction was to jerk to the right, diving for the ground.
The fusee went off, booming like a cannon, narrowly missing him. Fusees were trade guns distributed by the Hudson’s Bay Company and others, inferior smooth-bored flintlocks that were no match for the rifled arms of the trappers at long range but were decidedly deadly close up.
Nate returned the favor the moment his shoulder struck the earth, leveling the Hawken at the warrior’s enraged face and sending a ball boring into the man’s brain. He pushed to his feet and quickly dragged the Indian aside, then dropped to one knee and peered into the gloomy interior. “Shakespeare?”
“We’re here, son. Hurry. Our arms and legs are tied.”
Hastening inside, Nate dimly perceived the prone forms of his friends. He drew his butcher knife and set to work while listening to the bellows of the Blackfeet as they communicated back and forth. Had any more tried to escape the burning forts and been transfixed by arrows?
“Thank God you’ve come!” Baxter declared. “I’d about given us up for dead.”
“Don’t dawdle,” Shakespeare advised. “I speak a little of the Blackfoot tongue. They’re frantic because every warrior who has stepped outside has been killed, and they’re getting set to pour out all at once before it’s too late.”
Nate appreciated the warning. Two Owls could not possibly cover both forts simultaneously and prevent all the Blackfeet from reaching cover. He sliced off the leather strips binding Shakespeare’s wrists and ankles, then turned to Baxter.
“Please hurry,” the Ohioan pleaded.
“Who is out there doing the killing?” Shakespeare asked, moving to the doorway. “Did you meet another trapper?”
“No. It’s a friend of mine. A Ute.”
“A Ute!” Baxter exclaimed. “They’re as bad as the Blackfeet.”
“I’ll be damned,” Shakespeare said, and chuckled.
Baxter went on in a rush. “Where did you meet a Ute? How do we know he can be trusted? They’re heathen like all the rest.”
With a final slash of his knife Nate freed the Ohioan and slid the knife in its sheath. He ignored the questions and moved to the doorway. “This is no time for talking. Stay close to me and we’ll get out of this alive.” He gave each of them one of his flintlocks even though his rifle was unloaded.
“The Blackfeet are awful quiet all of a sudden,” Shakespeare noted.
Nate realized the band had stopped shouting. They must be about to make their bid, he deduced, and gambled on beating them to the high grass. “Follow me!” he cried, and darted through the doorway. He angled to the right, planning to skirt the pond and plunge into the field. He had to go past the west fort to do so, which was now fully ablaze on the side nearest the forest. As he came abreast of the doorway he glanced down.
Suddenly Blackfeet poured from the fort, four all told, one after the other in a mad scramble to flee the flames. The first one saw Nate, voiced a fierce roar, and lunged.
The warrior’s fingers just touched Nate’s right leg as he went by and spurred him to go faster. Nate cast a hasty glance over his shoulder and saw Baxter fire at close range into the warrior’s head. Then all three of them were past the forts and racing for their lives.
More Blackfeet emerged from the east fort. One of them was hit squarely in the neck by an arrow, but the rest were on their feet in a heartbeat and gave chase, uttering savage whoops.
Where was Two Owls? Nate wondered, his legs pumping. Only ten feet separated him from the tall grass, ten feet to possible safety, when a Blackfoot arrow struck him.
Chapter Thirteen
The shaft caught Nate in the back, in the right side just below the ribs, lancing his body with sheer torment and causing him to stumble and almost fall. If Shakespeare and Baxter hadn’t paused to assist him, he would have gone down and been at the mercy of the Blackfeet. But sturdy hands seized him by the upper arms and propelled him the remaining distance to the field.
Shock made Nate dizzy and he nearly dropped his rifle. Only vaguely was he conscious of doing his best to keep up, running mechanically, struggling to recover his composure. If he didn’t, he’d die. Think! Use your brain and think!
“Keep going, son,” Shakespeare said.
“We won’t let go of you,” Baxter added.
But Nate knew they must. The Blackfeet would overtake them easily otherwise. He lowered his right hand and felt the bloody stone tip of the arrow protruding two or three inches from his flesh. Had it punctured a vital organ? He couldn’t tell, and he couldn’t stop to examine the wound until the three of them eluded the Blackfeet.
“They’re gaining,” Baxter said.
Clarity abruptly returned. Nate was conscious of his driving legs and his thudding heart. He suppressed the pain and declared, “Let go.”
“Not yet,” the mountain man replied.
“Let go of me,” Nate insisted. “I can manage. I’m only slowing you down.”
“No,” Shakespeare said.
“Are you sure?” Baxter asked.
“Let go,” Nate reiterated, and twisted to wrench himself from their grasp. His brashness threw all three of them off stride, but they stayed erect and sprinted on into the night in a weaving pattern. Gritting his teeth, he looked back once more and spotted the warriors fanning out, the nearest twenty feet away.
“Which way?” Baxter asked.
“South,” Nate answered in a raspy tone. “Our horses are below the rim.”
For another minute the marathon of death continued. Nate fell a few feet behind his companions. His buckskin shirt became drenched with his blood, and the rubbin
g motion of the shaft inside his body produced intense nausea. It felt as if someone had their finger inside of him, poking around carelessly, and he wanted so badly to scream in anguish. But he couldn’t. Not now. He must be strong. He must have the stamina of a bull or be slaughtered like a cow.
“They’re still gaining,” Baxter said anxiously.
Again Nate glanced at their pursuers and made an impulsive decision. Perhaps they would have a better chance if they didn’t stay together. If each one of them only had two or three Blackfeet after them, the odds were better they would escape. In his agony the idea seemed logical and he told the others, “Split up!”
“No!” Shakespeare responded.
But Nate had already slanted to the right, his right hand grasping the arrow to hold it steady, the grass swishing as the blades parted before him. His right side hurt terribly and grew worse the farther he fled. In his excruciating torment he lost all sense of direction, all sense of the distance he traveled. He simply ran and weaved, ran and weaved, and when he finally drew up short it was to gape in astonishment at a wall of trees blocking his path.
The forest?
It couldn’t be the forest! He should be at the southern rim with the horses waiting below. Unless—and the insight chilled his soul—unless he had gone the wrong way.
He looked to the east and, sure enough, there were the blazing forts. He was forty yards from them, confounded by his own stupidity. Turning, grimacing as he did, he spied a bounding figure thirty feet off.
A Blackfoot!
In a panic he spun and dashed among the trees, afraid of crashing into a trunk and aggravating his wound. He ran until his breath came in ragged gasps and the pain in his side had spread to his chest and abdomen. He ran until he could run no more, and then he collapsed onto his knees and doubled over, biting his lips to suppress a groan.
Lord, he hurt!
Nate tried to quiet his breathing and listened, hearing nothing to indicate the Blackfeet were still after him. Sweat caked his skin from head to toe. Even his hair was soaked. He gingerly felt the arrow, and pushed a finger through the tear in his buckskin shirt to gingerly touch the surprisingly neat edge of the hole. To his immense relief the blood flow seemed to have ceased. Perhaps he wouldn’t bleed to death after all.
He straightened with much difficulty and pondered his next move. First and foremost the arrow must come out. If he kept running with the shaft inside, the friction might tear open a crucial vein or rupture an untouched organ. But how could he remove it without assistance?
A means occurred to him, but he balked at attempting so grueling a task. Successive waves of agony convinced him to try, and he placed his Hawken at his side and reached his right arm behind his back. His fingers contacted the smooth feathers and he closed his hand around the thin shaft. Did he dare go through with it? Taking a deep breath, he steeled his sinews, then snapped his arm upward, trying to break the arrow.
Exquisite torture racked his entire being. His spine arched and he opened his mouth to scream, choking the cry in his throat, venting a gurgling whine. He thought for a moment he might pass out, but didn’t. Don’t give up! he chided himself. Try again.
Nate tightened his grip, tensed, fought off a brief attack of vertigo, and duplicated the snapping motion, putting all of his strength into the act. Through pounding waves of soul-wrenching misery he distinctly heard the crack, and his hand came around holding the broken section. He stared at the feathers, waiting for his head to clear, marveling that he had succeeded halfway. The worst was yet to come.
Tossing the piece to the ground, Nate clutched the front of the arrow just below the point with both hands and girded himself for the second phase. Please let me make it, he prayed. Slowly, so as not to tear his insides more than they already were, he pulled on the shaft, drawing it from the hole, the sickening sensation making him shudder violently. He had to pause and catch his breath, composing his nerves, then tried again. A revolting squishing noise accompanied the extraction, and it took all of his self-control to keep going. When at last the shaft came clear, he closed his eyes and doubled over.
Now what should he do? Think, Nate! Think. The wisest course seemed to be to head back to the rim and find his friends. They would treat the wound and bandage him. He was certainly in no condition to take care of himself, and he didn’t want to wander around in the forest with bloodthirsty Blackfeet hunting his scalp.
Nate waited for his strength to return, breathing shallowly, leery of passing out. He envisioned Winona’s beautiful features, and recalled the gentle feel of her loving hands on his naked body. More than anything else in the world he wanted to see her again, to hold her in his arms and taste her lips on his own. Thinking about her soothed him, made him appreciate the fact he was still alive, still able to fight, to escape.
At length he roused from his reflection and shoved to his feet. His sides protested the movement, and he pressed his right elbow on the hole as he shuffled back toward the field. He must be careful. The Blackfeet were around somewhere.
Perhaps he should find a hiding place and stay there until daylight? The idea appealed to him, but his desire to rejoin Shakespeare and Baxter overrode his common sense.
Nate walked unsteadily toward the field. He could see the forts over a hundred yards away, burning so brightly they were undoubtedly visible for many miles. With them to orient him, he had no difficulty determining in which direction to travel. Unfortunately, his legs were endowed with a mind of their own. They longed to rest. For that matter, his entire body wanted to curl into a ball and not move for a year. Annoyed at his weakness, he branded his body a traitor and willed it to keep going.
He checked the wound as he walked. The exit hole exuded a trickle of blood but the entry hole wasn’t bleeding at all. Perhaps he wouldn’t need to cauterize.
Off in the distance a shot sounded.
Nate halted, listening for additional discharges. Had that been a rifle, a flintlock, or a fusee? He guessed it came from the end of the plateau. Maybe the Blackfeet were trying to take the horses! He hurried, or attempted to, but his body stubbornly refused to obey his mental commands. He mopped his brow with his left hand, and stopped in mid-stride when his negligence dawned.
He’d forgotten the Hawken!
Stunned by his stupidity, Nate turned and headed back. How could he forget the most essential piece of equipment a mountaineer owned? Sure, he was hurting, but pain was no excuse for being recklessly careless.
He came to the spot where he thought he’d extracted the arrow but saw no sign of the pieces or his rifle. Confused, he searched in an ever-widening circle. Every second of delay made him increasingly impatient.
After a minute Nate decided he was wrong, that he’d pulled out the arrow farther north, and trudged a dozen yards to search again. Still nothing. Exasperated, he went another dozen yards, and another, and each time he failed to locate the Hawken.
Fatigue and the stress to his system caused him to trip twice. He became intermittently dizzy, and worried he would pass out. His right foot bumped into a log. Sighing, he sat down and clutched his side.
Another shot cracked to the south.
Nate looked up. The damn Blackfeet must still be after his companions or Two Owls. He longed desperately to help them, and the motivation sufficed to bring him to his feet. To give up while breath remained was inconceivable. He’d continue on until he dropped from exhaustion.
Five minutes later he had yet to locate the rifle. His resolve evaporated like dew under the morning sun. Doubt plagued him. Doubt he could recover the Hawken. Doubt he would see Shakespeare again. Doubt he would ever again experience Winona’s tender caress. His mental and emotional states fluctuated as rapidly as the breeze.
On the verge of collapsing, moving each foot with supreme effort, his eyes downcast, Nate was stepping over the rifle before he realized it was indeed there. Grinning, he grunted and bent down to reclaim his weapon. Vertigo assailed him and he sank to his knees.
Somewhere nearby a twig snapped.
Nate’s head snapped up and he froze, his ears straining to their limit, expecting to hear the muffled tread of moccasin-covered feet or a whispered phrase in the Blackfoot tongue. He shifted position quietly to grab the rifle. The gun was empty but he could still employ it as a club, and if Fate granted him the time he could reload.
A heavy silence hung over the forest.
Were there Blackfeet close at hand or were his frayed nerves playing a trick on him? Nate surveyed the woods and saw nothing to alarm him. He had begun to believe he was exaggerating the danger when the soft crunch of a footstep off to his left confirmed he wasn’t alone.
Nate eased down on his left side, wincing at the discomfort, and glued his unblinking eyes on the forest. He instinctively knew it wasn’t his friends come looking for him. The Blackfeet, true to their persistent natures, had not stopped searching for him.
Something moved, a shadow among shadows.
He perceived the outline of a man, an Indian, fifteen yards off and heading cautiously northward. Whether the warrior carried a bow, lance, club, or fusee was irrelevant. In his state Nate was no match for an infant let alone a robust scalper of white men.
Nate scarcely breathed, watching the Blackfoot cross his line of vision and disappear in the trees. He halfheartedly wished he had not given his pistols to the others. Several times the warrior glanced in his direction but failed to spot him.
Full comprehension of his predicament hit him with the force of an avalanche. Although he’d always known in the back of his mind that he could die at any time, he was now closer to death than he’d ever been. If the wound didn’t kill him, the Blackfeet would. The reality sank into the core of his being and chilled his blood.
Nate listened for the longest time, wanting to make certain the Indian had departed before trying to flee. To rise required a herculean exertion. He tottered, mulling whether to reload the rifle, and realized the chore would take more time than he could afford to spare. Using the Hawken as a crutch to prevent him from falling, he turned and hiked toward the field.
Tomahawk Revenge/ Black Powder Justice (A Wilderness Double Western Book 3) Page 10
