Tomahawk Revenge/ Black Powder Justice (A Wilderness Double Western Book 3)

by Robbins, David

  A few gruff words were spoken mockingly.

  Nate recognized the cold voice and tensed. His vision cleared. He flicked his eyes to the left and looked up at the malevolent face of White Bear.

  The Blackfoot addressed him scornfully, then stepped back, withdrawing the tip of his sword. He motioned for Nate to stand.

  Slowly, his arms at his sides, Nate rose and glared at the warrior. He’d been outfoxed, plain and simple, by that smirking bastard. An urge to clamp his hands around the Blackfoot’s throat seized him, and it was all he could do to stay still as White Bear wagged the sword and laughed.

  Again the warrior motioned, this time indicating Nate should walk lower down the slope.

  Reluctantly Nate complied, halting when the Blackfoot barked a word in the tribal tongue, then turned.

  White Bear had not budged. He was twelve feet away, grinning, and he now did a most surprising thing; he slid his sword under the cord around his waist.

  Nate waited, suspecting a trick.

  “At last it is just the two of us, white dog, man to man,” the Blackfoot signed.

  Nate didn’t bother to respond.

  “You are more resourceful than I gave you credit for being,” White Bear went on. “Only two men out of ten survive the gauntlet.”

  The Hawken was lying near the Blackfoot’s feet. Nate glanced at it, wishing it was closer.

  “Your friend Red Elk did not survive,” White Bear taunted him. “He received the fate he deserved.”

  The slur against the young warrior prompted Nate to reply. “Why did he deserve to die? Because he felt whites and Blackfeet can live together in peace?”

  “Yes. He was a fool.”

  “He was an honorable man, which is more than I can say for you.”

  White Bear placed his right hand on the sword’s hilt. “I have enjoyed slaying few men as much as I will enjoy slaying you.”

  “My people have a saying,” Nate related, and was about to go into detail about unborn chickens when he realized the warrior had probably never seen one. He adjusted the axiom accordingly. “Never count your birds before they are hatched.”

  “What birds?”

  “Ravens. Jays. Sparrows. Any kind you want.”

  White Bear nodded. “As I suspected. All whites are crazy.” He drew the sword. “Soon there will be one less crazy white in the mountains, one less white to destroy the beaver and kill all the buffalo.”

  Nate drew the tomahawk.

  “I could have killed you at any time, dog,” White Bear signed, and pointed at his bow and quiver lying beside a boulder eight feet away. “But that would have been the easy way, the way of a coward. No, I want to kill you in man-to-man combat. I want to see the fear in your eyes and feel my sword cut through your body. When you are dead I will chop your body into pieces for the vultures and the coyotes. All except your hair. Your scalp will hang on my lodge for all my brothers to see.”

  “First you must take it,” Nate countered, “and it will take more than words to do that.”

  Raising the sword, White Bear sprang to the attack.

  Nate barely got the tomahawk up in time to deflect a vicious swipe that would have split his skull like an overripe melon. He quickly backpedaled, blocking blow after blow, the sword biting into the tomahawk’s wooden handle again and again, sending chips flying.

  White Bear vented a roar of rage and redoubled his efforts.

  Dodging to the right, Nate swung at the Blackfoot’s legs, only to have the swing expertly countered. The sword point arced at his throat, and he skipped rearward to avoid being impaled. More strikes rained down on him and he staved off each one, but his right arm was rapidly tiring. After all he had been through his body couldn’t sustain such a brutal pace indefinitely. He needed to win soon or he would tire and fall easy prey to the gloating warrior.

  The Blackfoot sneered as he fought, his face conveying unmitigated contempt, and wielded the sword with remarkable agility. His glittering sword was constantly in motion, slashing and stabbing, a blur of golden light.

  Nate was forced to retreat down the slope. He worried about tripping over an unseen obstacle and exposing himself to his enemy. Once he almost did go down when his left heel bumped into a rock and he lost his balance and nearly fell.

  White Bear took instant advantage, lancing the point at Nate’s throat.

  Only by jerking his head to the right did Nate evade the tip. He batted the blade aside with the tomahawk and righted himself, his mind racing, seeking to somehow achieve victory before another such inadvertent blunder cost him his life.

  The warrior seemed angered by the miss. He swung with berserk abandon.

  Under the savage onslaught Nate felt his arm tiring even faster. Fingernail-sized bits of wood had been hacked from the tomahawk’s handle. All other factors being equal, a tomahawk was simply no match for a sword; it was shorter and possessed a smaller cutting edge. The best he could hope to do was block all the Blackfoot’s blows.

  White Bear evidently realized the tomahawk was all that stood between him and triumph. He concentrated on the handle, repeatedly slicing into the wood in an attempt to chip the tomahawk in half.

  Nate knew it was only a matter of time before the Blackfoot would succeed. Once the tomahawk was rendered useless, what did he have left to fight with? The knife?

  The knife!

  The new surge of vigor coursed through Nate’s veins as inspiration provided him with a means of prevailing over his adversary. The hunting knife still hung in its beaded sheath on his left hip. Ever so slowly, his left hand moving at a snail’s pace, he inched toward the hilt. He suddenly turned sideways and swung the tomahawk furiously. If he could keep the Blackfoot’s attention exclusively on the light axe, his plan would succeed.

  Displaying surprise at the unexpected, renewed resistance, White Bear backed up a yard, then held his ground. For the first time since their fight began he was on the defensive.

  Nate maintained the pressure, his right arm flashing while his left crept to the knife. His hand wrapped around the hilt. Now all he had to do was find an opening.

  White Bear parried yet another blow and speared the sword at the youth’s abdomen.

  Sliding to the left, Nate stumbled when his foot encountered a shallow depression. He fell onto his left knee, the tomahawk upraised to deflect the sword.

  The warrior delivered a terrific blow backed by all the power in his body, and the keen edge bit clear through the wooden handle and swept downward.

  There was no time to react. Nate felt the Spanish sword bite into his right shoulder and threw himself to the rear, landing on his back. A moist sensation indicated the Blackfoot had drawn blood. Nate placed his right palm on the grass and tried to shove erect, but already the tall Blackfoot towered above him with the sword held high for the killing stroke.

  White Bear grinned and swung.

  Chapter Eighteen

  In desperation Nate twisted to the left and the sword struck the ground, missing his ear by a hair. For a moment White Bear’s face was close to his and he stared into the warrior’s hate-filled eyes. Then he whipped the hunting knife out and around, driving the blade up and into the Blackfoot’s chest, all the way in, and twisting.

  White Bear’s mouth slackened and he uttered a gurgling wheeze. He blinked rapidly and grimaced, then tore himself loose and staggered a few feet, the sword dangling from his right hand.

  Nate surged erect and crouched, ready to resist another attack, blood dripping from his knife.

  The Blackfoot tried to lift the sword again, but his arm refused to cooperate. He looked down at the blood pumping from the hole in his chest and groaned. His eyes closed for a second and he swallowed hard, then he glanced around and shuffled unsteadily to the right until he collided with a waist-high boulder. The sword fell. He sank to the ground with his back to the boulder and looked at Nate. “You have won, white dog,” he signed sluggishly.

  Nate lowered the knife.

  �
��I am bleeding badly inside. I can feel it,” White Bear said.

  Squatting, Nate wiped the hunting knife clean on a small bush.

  “Finish me off.”

  Nate replaced the knife in its sheath and straightened.

  “Finish me off.”

  “Why should I?” Nate asked, walking over to pick up the sword.

  “I am too weak to fight, to even stand. All I can do is sit here and bleed to death. This is no way for a warrior to die. Kill me so I can go to the next world with dignity.”

  “No.”

  White Bear attempted to lift his arms. Suddenly he coughed and blood trickled from the left corner of his mouth. “See? This is a horrible way to die. Kill me, now, or I will curse you. I will call on the spirits of the air and the land to destroy you.”

  Nate started to turn.

  The warrior scowled and lightly smacked the earth at his side. “White dog! I knew you had no honor the first time I laid eyes on you. All whites are the same. None of you know anything about the ways of the Great Mystery, about the proper ways to live and die. You do not treat your enemies with respect because you do not know how to respect yourselves. You are cowards, all of you. You do not deserve to be called men!” Further weakened by moving his arms and hands, White Bear sagged, a crimson streak now issuing from the right side of his mouth also.

  Pivoting, Nate studied the warrior’s countenance, studied the almost palpable animosity, and came to a decision.

  White Bear grinned and raised his hands one last time. “Do you have any honor, white dog? If so, prove it.”

  Nate did.

  ~*~

  The sun hung an hour above the western horizon when he emerged from a stretch of forest and began hiking across a wide meadow. His entire body ached, and many lacerations stung terribly, and both the arrow and sword wounds hurt intensely. He suppressed the pain and marched onward.

  A pair of elk were grazing to the east. They calmly watched him approach, their gums rising and falling as they chewed.

  Nate gazed at them, debating whether to shoot one for his supper, then glanced to the south and halted.

  A large body of riders was heading directly toward him. They were Indians.

  Since they would be on him before he could hope to reach the shelter of the trees, and suspecting they would turn out to be hostile, he raised the Hawken and took a bead on one of those in the lead, realizing as he did that two of those riders were white men. He lowered the rifle and waited.

  One of the white men waved.

  Amazement washed over Nate as he recognized Shakespeare and Baxter. Sweet relief flooded his soul and he returned the wave.

  The mountain man was astride his white horse and leading Nate’s mare. Baxter had their other animals on a string.

  Not until the riders were thirty yards off did Nate recognize the warrior riding on Baxter’s right as Two Owls. He placed the stock of his rifle on the grass and leaned on the barrel, grinning happily.

  There were over fifty Indians in all, and they formed into a semicircle around him as they drew to a halt.

  “Nate!” Shakespeare bellowed, and vaulted from his mount to dash up and embrace the younger man. He stopped with his arms outstretched, gazing at the wounds, cuts, and bruises, and snorted. “Lord, son, you’re a mess. Have you been playing in the briar patch again?”

  Chuckling, Nate gave his mentor a hug, then stepped back and asked in a suddenly raspy voice, “Are you all right? I was worried sick about you.”

  “Never felt better.” Shakespeare looked to the north. “Where are the Blackfeet? We saw them take you, but there wasn’t a thing we could do about it.”

  “The war party met up with another one at a lake north of here. They might still be there.”

  “They just upped and let you go, did they?”

  “I escaped,” Nate said, and left it at that. He glanced at Two Owls and signed, “It is good to see you again.”

  “I am glad you still live, Grizzly Killer,” the Ute replied. He gestured proudly at the other warriors. “My people came to help us after the village was safely moved.”

  “Did you know Two Owls is their chief?” Shakespeare mentioned.

  Nate’s surprise showed. “Why did you keep it a secret?” he asked the Ute.

  “What difference does it make? Chiefs are only ordinary men. When they start thinking they are special they deserve to be smeared with buffalo manure and made to eat grass.” Two Owls stared northward. “We are going to punish the Blackfeet for trying to raid our village. Would you like to come?”

  “Another time,” Nate answered. He walked to the mare, stroked her neck, and swung into the saddle.

  “I guess now we can tend to our beaver trapping,” Shakespeare said. “We recovered all the traps so we can start whenever you want.”

  “Next month, maybe.”

  “What?”

  “You wanted some time to yourself, as I recall. Well, you can have it. If you’re of a mind, swing by my cabin in a month and you can teach me more about trapping then.”

  “You’re going home?”

  “As fast as I can.” Nate glanced at Baxter. “Would you be so kind as to remove my two pack animals from the string.”

  “Sure. Glad to.” The Ohioan climbed down to do as he was requested.

  “What happened to you?” Shakespeare inquired.

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why are you in such an all-fired hurry to get home?”

  Nate touched the hole in his side. “The best woman in the world is back there anxiously waiting for me to return. I don’t want to keep her waiting.”

  “What harm would another few weeks do?”

  Nate looked at the mountain man. “Didn’t you once tell me that a long time ago you were deeply in love with a Flathead woman?”

  “Yes,” Shakespeare said softly.

  “And I know you have almost met your Maker a time or two.”

  “I have,” Shakespeare conceded.

  “Then you should be able to understand,” Nate said, and moved over to take the leads to his pack animals from Baxter. “Thank you.”

  “Sorry to see you go. Take care of yourself.”

  “You too. Don’t keep your family waiting,” Nate said, and turned to the Ute chief. “May the Great Mystery guide your every footstep.”

  “And yours, Grizzly Killer.”

  Finally Nate stared at the mountain man, his eyes conveying the depth of his affection. “Do you understand now?”

  “I believe I do.”

  “No hard feelings?”

  “You know better.”

  Smiling gratefully, Nate faced eastward and galloped off.

  For a minute no one spoke or signed a word.

  Baxter broke the silence. “Now what was all that about?” he wondered aloud.

  The frontiersman sighed. “Would you like some advice, Thaddeus?” he asked while watching the youth recede in the distance.

  “I’m always open to reasonable suggestions.”

  “Good. Then do that wife of yours a favor and either go back to Ohio or divorce her.”

  “I don’t believe in divorce.”

  Shakespeare glanced at him and beamed. “Then you shouldn’t have any trouble making up your mind.”

  Epilogue

  She was seated on a log near the cabin, her head bowed, her long, raven hair hanging down past her knees. A sleeveless leather dress clung to her slender figure and moccasins adorned her small feet. Leaning down, she used a finger to draw the likeness of a cradleboard in the dirt, humming as she etched the lines.

  Intuition made her stiffen and stand. She sensed the presence of someone else and spun in alarm, her incipient fear changing to dominating joy when she spied the man on horseback and the pair of pack animals he led. Her eyes brightened and she ran to meet him, voicing one of the few English words she knew. “Nate! Nate!”

  He galloped the rest of the way and jumped from the mare before the animal had stopped. In a ru
sh he swept her into his arms and held her tight, savoring the feel of her and the scent of her hair and never wanting to let her go. “Winona,” he said, nearly choking on the word.

  After a time she pushed back and stared in shock at his battered body. “What happened?” she signed. “Where is Shakespeare?”

  “We ran into some Blackfeet,” Nate revealed, and quickly added, “Shakespeare is fine. He will stop to see us during the next moon.”

  “Where is your shirt?” Winona asked, and looked at his legs. “And where are the pants you wore when you left?”

  “It is a long story and I will tell you the details later,” Nate pledged. He tenderly kissed her. “I have ridden hard to get here, and now all I want to do is lie in bed with you for a week.”

  Winona grinned. “What do you have in mind?”

  “We can try to make that baby you have been talking about?”

  “There is no need.”

  “Why?” Nate asked.

  As she placed her hands on her abdomen, Winona’s grin widened. Then she signed, “Because we have already made our baby.”

  “We have?” Nate responded, and her meaning sank home. “We have!” he repeated, joyously, impulsively taking her in his arms and whirling her about. Suddenly he stopped and set her down. “Sorry. I should not be so rough,” he signed.

  “I will not break.”

  “So you say. But until the baby is born I will handle all the difficult chores. You just take it easy.”

  Winona giggled. “Perhaps I should be with child more often.”

  Nate embraced her, and for that sweet moment in time and eternity they shared a supreme bliss and their souls soared on the uplifting currents of mutual abiding love.

  WILDERNESS 6: BLACK POWDER JUSTICE

  Dedicated to Judy, Joshua, and Shane.

  And to Melinda, Michelle, and Jennifer, who could all give Annie Oakley a run for her money.

  “Ride until you drop.”