Gnawing on his lower lip, Kennedy looked at Nate and Winona. “I didn’t realize—”
“Of course you didn’t. You let us handle this situation our way,” Newton said.
Nate had listened to the exchange with an intense curiosity in the hope of learning the exact nature of their business with the Utes. Clearly they weren’t planning to trap beaver. He well recognized the fate Newton and Lambert had in store for Winona and him. Outnumbered and covered, there wasn’t much he could do. But he wasn’t about to roll over and be murdered without a fight. If he had to, he’d charge Lambert and try to grab the pistols from the table.
Kennedy placed his right hand over his eyes and bowed his head. “What have I gotten myself into?”
“Don’t fret yourself,” Newton said. “You were all for the enterprise back in Ohio when I first brought the idea up. You like the idea of having ten thousand dollars or more just as much as we do. Why don’t you take a stroll outside? Maybe walk down to the lake?”
Nodding, Kennedy lowered his hand and moved toward the door.
Suddenly Nate saw an opportunity to turn the tables. The portly merchant inadvertently walked between Lambert and him, momentarily screening him from Lambert’s view. Newton was staring at Winona. In that split-second Nate hurled himself forward, sweeping Kennedy aside with a powerful thrust of his arm and barreling into Lambert, grabbing the rifle barrel in one hand and Lambert’s throat in the other.
Nate’s momentum carried both of them into the table. Lambert recovered from his shock swiftly and tried to wrench the Kentucky free. They rolled to the right, off the table, and crashed onto the floor with Lambert on the bottom. Nate drove his right knee into the man’s groin and Lambert screeched and tried to double over.
“Nate! Behind you!”
Winona’s warning impelled Nate to let go of Lambert and roll again, to the right once more. It was well he did. The heavy stock of Newton’s rifle swished through the very space his head had occupied a heartbeat before. Twisting, he saw Newton towering above him and swept his legs into the bastard’s shins, knocking Newton backwards.
Newton stumbled against the table, waving his arms in an effort to retain his balance.
Surging erect, Nate felt a fleeting weakness induced by his many wounds but he disregarded the sensation and planted his left fist on the tip of Newton’s chin. His foe swayed and Nate followed through with a right that buckled Newton’s legs.
For a moment Nate had the upper hand.
Then Lambert rose, his face a beet red, and slammed his rifle barrel across the back of Nate’s head.
Propelled forward, staggered by the cowardly strike, his senses swimming, Nate tripped over Newton and fell onto the table. He felt Newton’s arms wrap around his legs and start to pull him down. Vigorously shaking his head to clear it, he glimpsed someone moving past him and shifted to find his wife brashly rushing Lambert with the ladle upraised to hit him in the face.
Snarling, Lambert struck her across the forehead with the rifle and Winona dropped on the spot.
“No!” Nate bellowed, his wife’s plight fanning his fury. He pushed off the table and tried to kick loose from Newton even as he twisted and swung wildly at Lambert.
Shuffling aside, still in pain from Nate’s kick, Lambert evaded the blow.
A fist rammed into Nate’s gut and he bent over to flail at Newton. He rained three punches before the stocky cutthroat yanked him off his feet and he fell face down.
Isaac Kennedy was prancing about frantically in the background yelling, “No! No! No!”
Nate tried to rise again but Lambert stepped in close and delivered a kick to his ribs. Excruciating agony flared in his chest. He sputtered, still game, and put both hands on the floor. Another kick sapped all of his strength. He went limp and barely heard Newton growl two words.
“Do it.”
Rough hands seized Nate’s shoulders and he was flipped onto his back to gaze up at Lambert’s feral features. The Kentucky rifle materialized above his face. He could see the barrel pointing at his forehead, could see the dark muzzle opening mere inches away, and he desperately jerked his head to the left at the very instant a tremendous explosion occurred, searing fire scorched his skin, and everything abruptly went black.
Chapter Seven
The bone numbing cold awakened him.
Nate opened his eyes and promptly wished he hadn’t. His head throbbed with waves of pain, his chest ached terribly, and the bites itched unbearably. He gazed at the ceiling, commingled relief and astonishment at being alive sweeping through him. Suddenly he thought about Winona and impulsively attempted to push off the floor.
A veritable avalanche of anguish rocked his head.
Involuntarily crying out, Nate lay still and waited for the agonizing pulsations to cease. He took stock. The dim light in the cabin convinced him the time must be close to evening. Either that, or he’d been unconscious for who knew how long. His mouth and throat were as dry as a desert.
Of all his discomforts the pervading cold became the most bothersome. His skin broke out in goose bumps and he shivered uncontrollably. What had happened to the fire?
Nate slowly twisted his head to gaze at the fireplace. Sure enough, the blaze had long since gone out. He looked toward the entrance and discovered the door hung wide open. No one else was in the cabin.
The sons of bitches had taken Winona!
Grunting, he tried once more to sit up. The pain overwhelmed him. He closed his eyes and waited it out. When he could think straight again he tentatively raised his right hand to his face. His skin was sore to the touch and his fingertips became smudged with black powder. He realized he’d sustained powder burns when the rifle went off.
Girding himself, Nate lightly ran his fingers over his forehead and temples. On his right side, level with his eye, he found the start of a quarter-inch deep furrow that ran the length of his head. Merely touching it made him flinch. Apparently the ball had gouged him severely, then passed into the floorboards. A fraction deeper and he wouldn’t have survived.
Nate slowly endeavored to sit yet again. His head rose several inches but jerked up short, his long hair seeming to be caught on something. He reached behind him and his palm pressed onto a sticky puddle. Blood, no doubt. His blood. Tracing its outline, he found a wide pool that had nearly dried.
Exercising care, he grasped his hair and proceeded to tug it loose. The movement aggravated his gunshot wound but couldn’t be helped. Gradually the strands came free and he could sit upright.
Vertigo attacked him as he straightened. He rested, gazing right and left, enraged at seeing the pantry had been ransacked. Scanning the interior, he made another distressing discovery.
The Hawken was gone.
Nate scowled and got onto his knees, his head shrieking in protest the entire time. Taking a few deep breaths, he then stood, reaching out to the table for support.
Both flintlocks were also gone.
He stayed put for several minutes, noting all the items missing besides the guns and food. The powder he normally kept in a far corner had been stolen, as had his supply of lead. Several spare blankets stored on a shelf not far from the bed were gone. His traps still hung on the wall and the pots and pans he’d purchased for Winona hadn’t appealed to the killers.
Nate took a cautious step, then a second. Snail-like, he crossed to the fireplace and picked up the wooden stick that substituted as a poker. Jabbing an end into the embers, he probed and poked until he located a hot spot. He took a handful of tinder from the small pile Winona stockpiled to the left of the fireplace and dropped the dry twigs in. Leaning down, his left arm braced on the wall, he huffed and puffed until the tinder caught. Adding a few small logs, he soon had the fire going again.
He admired his accomplishment for a minute, enjoying the warmth the flames radiated. Dizziness struck him once more and he moved haltingly to a chair to sit down until the uncomfortable feeling dissipated. How long would the attacks persist? he wo
ndered. He couldn’t afford any delays, not when Winona was in the clutches of hardened killers.
Or was she?
A shocking thought occurred to him. What if Newton and Lambert hadn’t abducted her? What if—and a ripple of stark fear flowed along his spine—she was lying outside in the snow, dead?
Nate straightened and walked to the entrance. A gust of wind chilled him as he surveyed the ground and a fine spray of white mist hit his face. Practically everything was white; the trees, the boulders, the logs, the undergrowth, and the ground. The mantle of snow was two and a half feet deep and made finding tracks ridiculously easy.
There they were, right in front of him. Nate readily distinguished Winona’s slender moccasin prints from those of the men. All four sets bore to the right. He did the same, neglecting to take his coat in his anxiety.
The trail led to the pen, which was empty. Nate found where Winona had mounted her brown mare and where his other animals had been added to a string the cutthroats possessed, bringing the grand total of animals being led to ten.
Why so many?
Deciding he didn’t have the time to waste in idle speculation, Nate went into the cabin and closed the door. He scoured the room for weapons, finding only his knife and tomahawk lying under the bed. Either Winona had hidden them there or the killers had not needed them. Probably the latter, he figured, since Winona must have believed he was dead.
Nate strapped the knife around his waist and tucked the tomahawk handle under the belt. He slipped into his Mackinaw, found his hat, and moved to the door. Common sense told him to wait until he’d recovered his strength, but every minute he took to recuperate meant Winona got that much further away.
He reached for the latch when a peculiar thing happened. The door began swirling around him, going faster and faster, and his body started tingling all over. He tottered rearward, swinging his arms about to find support of any sort.
A veil of darkness abruptly enveloped him and he felt himself crashing to the floor.
~*~
“I don’t see why you had to bring her along,” Isaac Kennedy groused for the umpteenth time since leaving the King homestead.
Newton, riding ahead of the portly merchant and the Indian woman, glanced back in irritation. “Would you rather we shot her?”
“No.”
“Then shut your trap,” Newton advised, and gazed past the woman to where Lambert led the pack string. He faced due west, seeking the easiest passage through the forest, avoiding dense thickets and clusters of boulders.
“What do you plan to do with her, Ike?” Kennedy inquired.
“I’m fixing to make a present of her.”
“Who would—” Kennedy began, then blurted out, “you wouldn’t!”
“Why not? Two Owls will be right pleased.”
“Damn you, man, she’s pregnant.”
“Noticed, did you?” Newton responded, grinning. “That only makes it better.”
“How do you figure?”
“First of all, she’s a Shoshone. The Utes are always raiding the Shoshones to steal horses and women. They think highly of Shoshone bitches,” Newton detailed.
Kennedy frowned.
“Second of all, even if Two Owls doesn’t want to keep her for himself he can always swap her for a few horses or other goods. She’s the perfect gift.”
“It’s not civilized, I tell you.”
Newton gestured at the rugged countryside. “This isn’t civilization, storekeeper. Out here a man does what he has to do to get by.”
His cheeks flushing with anger, Kennedy dropped back to ride alongside their prisoner. He stared at her, admiring her beautiful features and the manner in which she nobly held her chin high. “I’m truly sorry,” he said.
Winona gazed straight ahead.
“If I’d known this was going to happen, I never would have stopped at your cabin,” Kennedy assured her.
She didn’t answer.
“I know you can speak English,” Kennedy said. “I heard you call out to your husband. Why won’t you talk to me?”
Deigning to cast a reproachful glance at him, Winona stated curtly, “Your heart is small.”
Confused, Kennedy did a double take. “As far as I know my heart is perfectly normal.”
Winona gave him a look that left no doubt she equated him with horse dung. She wrapped her robe tighter around her body and rode a shade faster to get ahead of him.
Undeterred, Kennedy caught up with her mare. “What do you mean by my heart is small?”
From Newton came a contemptuous translation. “She means you’re a coward, Isaac. Shoshones, and most other Indians for that matter, look down their noses at cowards.”
Lambert, overhearing, laughed heartily.
Kennedy bowed his head in shame and rode in silence for a while. Every breath he expelled formed a small white cloud before him and his lungs tingled from the frigid air. The tips of his fingers, although well covered by thick gloves, became cold. He glanced at the Shoshone woman, marveling at the fact she wasn’t in the least bothered by the inclement weather even though her face and hands were fully exposed to the elements.
Their party crossed a rise and wound into a narrow valley below.
“I guess I can’t blame you for thinking poorly of me,” Kennedy said softly, trying to come to grips with his conscience. “I would too if I was in your shoes.”
“She doesn’t care how you feel, Isaac,” Newton interjected without bothering to look around. “If she had the chance she’d gut you wide open.”
“Would you?” Kennedy bluntly asked.
Winona looked at him, her spiteful expression confirming Newton’s statement.
“I’ve never had anyone hate me before,” Kennedy commented, hurt by her eloquent rebuke.
“You’ll grow accustomed to it out here,” Newton declared. “Folks hate Lambert and me all the time.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Kennedy said.
Twisting, Newton’s eyes narrowed as he regarded the merchant. “Watch it, partner. No man insults me and lives to brag of the deed.
“I meant no offense,” Kennedy replied quickly.
“No, you never do,” Newton taunted him, swinging about again.
Isaac Kennedy clenched his left hand and almost made a remark he would surely regret. He checked his temper and gazed at the woman again. Newton was undoubtedly correct. She had no interest in anything he wanted to say, but say it he must if only to make her understand that he deeply regretted her husband’s death. He’d never been party to a killing before and the guilt weighed heavily on his soul. “Winona?”
Predictably, she ignored him.
“Fine, then. Suit yourself. But I’m going to speak my piece whether you like it or not,” Kennedy stated, and paused. “I had no idea what I was getting myself into when I agreed to Newton’s proposal. You see, I’m not a man of violence. I’ve made my living as a merchant, which is about as peaceful a life as one can find. All I wanted out of this venture was to make a sizeable profit. Do you understand?”
Winona rode onward, her lips compressed.
“I was tending my store and minding my own business back in Ohio when Newton came in one day. He was on his way from New York City, where he’d just visited his sister, back to the frontier. He saw the beaver hats I was selling and happened to mention that he knew a way to become rich off beaver pelts if he could only find a financial backer for the goods he needed. Well, I decided to provide the money.”
A clump of snow fell from a nearby tree with a swish and a thud.
“You see, I’d been working for years in the mercantile profession and never really gotten ahead. Oh, I had a thousand squirreled away for a rainy day or old age, but like any man I wanted more. Newton’s proposal intrigued me. Here was a way to reap a thirty thousand dollar profit from one trip into the Rockies. That’s ten thousand apiece. And if this trip is successful, there’s a chance we can do the same thing next year.”
“You’re
wasting your breath, Isaac,” Newton stated, sounding annoyed.
“She deserves to know.”
“Like hell she does. She speaks English, savvy?”
“What?”
“If you tell her everything, we’ll have to do the same to her as we did to her husband.”
“Oh,” Kennedy said. He hadn’t considered that.
On all sides lay a great quiet, as if every creature in the mountains had found a convenient shelter during the blizzard and was still deep in slumber. Half the sky had cleared of clouds and bright sunlight lent the snow a brilliant luster.
Newton abruptly halted, staring to the southwest.
“Why have you stopped?” Kennedy asked as he reined up. “Do you see some game we can shoot for our supper?”
“All you ever think about is food,” Newton said.
Kennedy gazed to the southwest in casual curiosity and immediately stiffened in alarm. Perhaps a quarter of a mile away, on a hill, were two riders. “Are those Indians?”
“They sure are,” Newton answered.
“Do you know what kind?”
“Utes.”
Chapter Eight
Nate awoke with a start and sat up, the movement racking his head with torment. He seemed to be making a habit of this. He gazed at the window, shocked to see evening was descending. Rising, he glanced at the fire. Tiny flames were all that remained of the blaze he’d started earlier.
Now what should he do?
Perturbed, he opened the door and gazed out over the hoary landscape. Already long shadows crisscrossed the snow. In another hour darkness would claim the Rockies.
Damn.
Nate slammed the door. Sudden pounding in his right temple emphasized his foolishness. He staggered to a chair and sat down. As much as the very thought upset him, leaving now was out of the question. Tracking Winona’s captors at night would be difficult, even with the tracks in the snow to aid him. The bitter cold alone would severely aggravate his condition.
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