He realized he had no choice. He must stay overnight at the cabin and begin the pursuit at first light. In a way, perhaps, the delay would be a blessing. A night of sleep would do wonders to invigorate him for the ordeal he must face in the morning.
Nate’s stomach growled, reminding him he needed food. Since the pantry had been emptied, he must find it elsewhere. But he was in no condition to do any hunting.
Wait a second.
What about the buffalo stew?
He rose and hurried to the pot hanging above the embers, a smile his reaction at finding the pot a third full. The rotten cutthroats hadn’t been as thorough as they figured. He stirred the contents with the ladle, finding the stew almost hard. But that was okay. Once he got the fire roaring and added handfuls of snow, the stew would be fit for a king.
Nate set about preparing his meal. In due course he had the fire crackling, the snow in the pot, the Mackinaw hanging on a hook, and he was standing next to the fireplace inhaling the delicious aroma of the boiling meat and vegetables.
Although he tried not to dwell on Winona, she filled his mind every second. He knew there were men vile enough to force themselves on even a pregnant woman, and he frequently shuddered as his imagination conjured the most horrible scenes conceivable. Each time he got a grip on himself and attempted to carry on, but a profound sorrow gripped his soul.
Snug and warm by the fire, he ate three bowls of stew, ate to the point where his stomach seemed ready to burst at the seams. He sat afterwards for hours staring morosely into the flickering red and yellow fingers, reviewing all the joyous experiences he’d shared with Winona. She’d brought him more happiness than he’d ever expected to know. If anything happened to her, he’d track those three bastards down to the far ends of the earth if need be to satisfy his thirst for vengeance.
He thought about tracking them, about the monumental difficulties entailed, and frowned. On foot he stood little chance of overtaking them any time soon. Somehow, he must acquire a mount.
The weather would help him, though, by slowing their party down. Horses tended to move much slower than otherwise in two to three feet of snow and the severe cold would hamper the animals as well.
Nate sagged in the chair, his chin dropping to his chest. His eyelids fluttered as sleep tried to claim him. Rising, he shuffled to the bed and collapsed on his back with a relieved sigh.
Soon slumber overcame him, and his last mental image before drifting off was of Winona.
~*~
“If only those Utes had bothered to speak to us,” Isaac Kennedy mentioned while hunkered beside the campfire and rubbing his hands together near the flames.
“I told you before,” Newton mentioned from where he sat on Kennedy’s right, “we were lucky they up and vanished into the forest. For all we know, they might not have been from Two Owls’ village.”
“Is that bad?”
“How many times must I tell you the same thing?” Newton snapped. “Our deal is with Two Owls. If Utes from any other village catch us, they’ll stake us out for the buzzards.”
“How can we avoid these other Indians?”
“We can’t.”
“Can’t one of you ride ahead, find Two Owls, and bring him here? That would solve all our problems.”
From the other side of the fire Lambert vented an oath, then said angrily, “The only problem around here is you, storekeeper. You flap your gums more than a bird flaps its wings.”
Kennedy glared at the tall man. “I don’t like it when you talk to me like that.”
“And I don’t give a damn what you like,” Lambert growled.
“That’s enough out of both of you,” Newton declared. “I’m sick and tired of listening to all this bellyaching.”
“It’s not my fault,” Kennedy said.
“You should never have come along,” Newton responded. “In these mountains you’re like a fish out of water. We could have handled the trade just fine without you.”
“I couldn’t stay in Ohio after all I invested in this enterprise.”
“You would have been a lot more comfortable right now, and a hell of a lot safer, if you had.”
Kennedy couldn’t argue the point. Despite the roaring fire his backside and shoulders were chilly and the jerky they’d consumed for supper had barely whetted his appetite. Staying in Ohio would have been the smart thing to do. He didn’t want to tell his partners, but the main reason he came along was because he didn’t trust them as far as he could throw them.
He glanced to his left at the Shoshone woman, admiring her profile. She hadn’t taken a bite to eat and refused a cup of coffee. Now she sat over a yard from the flames, her buffalo robe draped loosely over her slender shoulders, apparently unaffected by the freezing temperature.
“Hey, quit making cow eyes at that woman,” Newton said jokingly. “She has no interest in you.”
“I beg your pardon,” Kennedy replied indignantly. “I wasn’t making cow eyes.”
“Sure you weren’t. Hell, man, you’ve been eyeing her ever since we left the cabin. But if you even so much as touch her, she’ll kill you.”
Embarrassed by the accusation, Kennedy looked at the fire, feeling his cheeks flush crimson. “Why must you always be so crude?”
“You call it crude. I call it telling the truth. You’re smitten with her, Isaac. It’s as plain as the nose on your face. Don’t feel bad about it, though. Happens to a lot of whites. They take one look at an Indian gal, at all that long, dark hair and those full lips, and they can’t wait to dip their pork in the barrel.”
Lambert cackled.
“Please. Stop,” Kennedy said. “You’ll hurt her feelings.”
“She’s a lousy squaw,” Newton said. “She doesn’t have feelings, not like white folks do. Indians aren’t quite human.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Of course not. You have mush for brains.”
Both Newton and Lambert laughed merrily.
Kennedy waited until they were done before commenting. “Nate King didn’t believe Indians are less than human.”
“Nate King was a jack—” Newton began, then abruptly tensed and snapped his fingers. “Son of a bitch! I remember now.”
“Remember what?” Lambert asked.
“Don’t you recollect when we were in St. Louis? We went to a tavern while Isaac tucked himself in early at the hotel.”
“Yeah. So?”
“So we got to chatting with that old fart, that trapper who had been to the rendezvous last year.”
“I remember,” Lambert said.
“Then think, stupid. What did he tell us?”
Lambert shrugged. “Oh, he went on about all the drinking and whoring he did. And he bragged about the money he made from his furs.”
“What else?”
After pondering for a bit, Lambert continued, “He told us about a fight that took place between that voyageur from Canada called the Giant and some guy the Indians called Grizzly Killer, a free trapper named—” He stopped, then blurted, “Son of a bitch! That was him!”
“Must of been,” Newton said, nodding. “Geez, from all we heard, we were lucky to get the jump on him or we’d be pushing up flowers come Spring.”
“He was a tough bastard,” Lambert begrudgingly admitted.
“Was King someone famous?” Kennedy inquired.
“In these mountains he was,” Newton answered. “That old-timer claimed King killed a grizzly bear with just a knife.”
“Is such a feat possible?”
“No,” Lambert said. “That old trapper was just spouting his mouth off.”
At that moment all three men were surprised when their prisoner spoke up.
“My husband did kill a grizzly with a knife,” Winona stated softly.
Newton glanced at her and chuckled. “Well, look who decided to join the conversation. I take it you don’t much appreciate us speaking poorly of your husband?”
“Since all of you will soon be
dead, your words don’t matter.”
Kennedy arched his back. “Why will we all soon be dead?”
“Because my husband will catch you and kill you.”
Her statement provoked laughter from Lambert and a nervous titter from Kennedy, but Newton studied her face closely.
‘‘Your husband is dead, squaw.”
“Not true. You only think he is. But neither of you bothered to examine him. I did while you were busy stealing our food and guns. He was still alive.”
“You’re lying,” Lambert said.
“Believe what you want,” Winona said, her gaze on the fire. “You will learn the truth soon enough.”
Kennedy saw his partners exchange startled looks and realized they both believed her. Inexplicably, a tingle ran down his spine.
“Even if you are telling the truth, woman,” Lambert said, “your husband was on his last legs. He’ll never come after us.”
“He will.”
“How can you be so damn certain?”
“Because he is my husband. Because he is Grizzly Killer,” Winona said proudly, her eyes sparkling.
Newton suddenly stood and stalked over to her. He grabbed the front of her robe and peered into her eyes as if trying to see into the depths of her being. Finally he gave her a hard shove and shook a fist in her face. “Damn you, squaw. Damn you all to hell.”
Winona sat perfectly still and composed.
Now Lambert also rose and stared along their back trail. “You really reckon he’ll come?”
“If he’s as good as they say he is, he will,” Newton stated. “And our tracks in the snow will lead him right to us.”
“But he’s on foot.”
“For how long? What if he had other horses loose somewhere, out foraging?”
Moving around the fire, Lambert glowered at Winona. “Were there other horses?”
She didn’t respond.
“Answer me, bitch!” Lambert barked, and raised his right hand to slap her.
“No!” Kennedy cried, rising. “Don’t hurt her.”
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t bust her head,” Lambert said.
“Would Two Owls like your gift if she’s all battered and bruised?”
Hesitating, Lambert hissed and reluctantly lowered his arm. “Smart, storekeeper. Real smart. You said the one thing that will keep her in one piece.”
Kennedy sighed in relief.
“What do we do, Ike?” Lambert queried his stocky friend. “Let it pass and hope he doesn’t show?”
“You know we can’t,” Newton said solemnly. He scratched his chin while stepping to the east, the breeze whipping his wolf tail. “We got a late start today and only traveled about seven miles, I figure. One of us could ride back to that cabin at dawn, check on Grizzly Killer, and catch up with the string by tomorrow night.”
“It’s the only way,” Lambert said, nodding.
“I’ll go,” Kennedy volunteered.
“Will you put a ball in King when you see him?” Newton asked scornfully.
“No.”
“Then don’t be dumb. One of us has to take care of him.” Newton walked to where his bedroll lay and rummaged in the blanket. “Low card goes?”
“Fine by me,” Lambert said.
“Here are the cards,” Newton announced, rising with a worn deck in his right hand. He placed them on top of the bedroll, backs up, and made a fan of the deck. “Do you want to pick first?”
“You can.”
Without hesitation Newton scooped a card up and held it out for all to see.
“The ten of spades,” Lambert said, and grinned. “Hell, that should be easy to beat.” He stepped to the bedroll and leaned down, his hand poised to pick, then paused uncertainly.
“We don’t have all night,” Newton prompted.
Lambert selected a card and turned it over. The dancing flames revealed it to be a two of clubs. “You always did have all the luck,” he muttered, dropping the card on the blanket.
“Look at the bright side,” Newton said. “You’re the one who gets to kill King if he’s still kicking.”
“Yeah,” Lambert said. He chuckled. “And this time I’ll do the job right.”
Chapter Nine
The rosy rim of the sun had just risen above the eastern horizon when Nate emerged from the cabin, shut the door behind him, and began his pursuit. The frigid air pierced deep into his lungs, invigorating him. With the snow halfway up his thighs, every step required extra effort, aggravating the bites and the temple wound. He’d bandaged the nasty furrow using strips of cloth from an old store-bought shirt he’d brought from New York City. His beaver hat helped keep the bandage in place.
A pair of ravens glided overhead, one of them uttering a raucous cry. Sparrows flitted in a nearby tree chirping contentedly.
Nate walked to one side of the trail left by the vermin who’d taken Winona. His entire body ached and he could have used another week in bed to heal.
But now he had no intention of resting for more than a few hours at a stretch until his beloved wife was safe in his arms again. A grim smile touched his lips at the thought of what he would do when he found the men.
He rounded the cabin and pressed westward. Thankfully, the wind had died down as it often did in the morning. He wouldn’t need to worry too much about frostbite.
Nate always liked the aftermath of a heavy snow, when the mighty Rockies were transformed into a strange, pillowy landscape straight out of a fairy tale. The sagging trees, laden with snow on every branch, resembled white mushrooms. Boulders normally stark and angular became smooth white mounds. And the hard ground, draped in its soft covering of white fluff, appeared inviting enough to dive into.
He touched the hilt of the knife and the tomahawk handle, wishing he had a gun. Perhaps, if he had the time later, he would make a lance or even a bow. Anything to even the odds.
The golden orb in the east climbed steadily higher as Nate trudged onward. The bright glare reflected by the snow caused him to constantly squint to prevent snow blindness. He went half a mile. A mile. The farther he went, the better he felt as his muscles limbered up. The exercise did wonders for his constitution.
Nate kept his hands in his pockets and his chin low, concentrating on the clearly defined tracks. Knowing Newton and company had quite a head start, he only occasionally glanced up at the trail ahead. So it was with considerable surprise that at one such point he spied a solitary rider approaching from the opposite direction.
He halted in astonishment and automatically moved to the north behind a tree. Had they sent someone back? Why? He shielded his eyes with his left hand so he could see better and studied the oncoming figure, who was several hundred yards off. With a start he realized the man was an Indian.
A Ute.
Nate flattened against the trunk and peeked at the warrior, who rode parallel with the tracks in the snow. For some reason the Ute was following the back trail, his eyes on the prints and not the terrain surrounding him. That’s what comes from overconfidence, Nate reflected. Since the Utes tended to view this territory as their own, they could be a mite careless at times.
He slowly drew the tomahawk and eased from sight. If he could get the Ute’s horse, he could rescue Winona before the sun set. But taking the mount would be next to impossible. The Ute wouldn’t relinquish the animal without a fight, and Nate had observed a bow in the man’s hand and a quiver slung over the warrior’s back. Together they gave the Ute a nearly insurmountable advantage. A tomahawk was no match for a bow and arrows.
Nate knew Indian youths were taught at an early age how to properly use a bow, and by the time they were full grown they could hit a target the size of a pumpkin ten times out of ten while firing from the back of a galloping horse.
The trail lay only ten feet away, but in the time it would take Nate to reach the warrior with the tomahawk, the Ute would be able to unleash two or three arrows. The trick, then, was to attack the warrior before the man nocked a s
haft.
Nate racked his brain for a way of prevailing and finally an idea struck him that promised success if he was lucky. Squatting, he held the tomahawk under his left arm while he packed together a large snowball. The simplistic trick he would employ was as old as the hills, yet sometimes the old ways were the best.
Straightening, he pressed his back to the trunk and waited. He wouldn’t throw until the Ute was abreast of the tree, and then he must move like lightning to bring the warrior down.
An upsetting thought suddenly occurred to him.
The Ute was bound to spot the tracks he’d made moving from the trail to the tree. The warrior would instantly put two and two together and perceive there was someone behind the trunk. As soon as he popped out, he’d be changed into a porcupine with feathers jutting out of his body every which way.
That wouldn’t do.
Nate had to launch his snowball well before the Ute spotted his tracks. Yet to do so increased the risk of being seen. He risked a look-see and found the warrior approximately two hundred yards away.
There wasn’t much time.
The seconds seemed to crawl by.
At last Nate heard the soft thud of hooves as the Indian’s stallion approached. He gripped the snowball tightly. Now came the moment of truth. Should he kill the warrior or try to take the man alive?
An unbidden thought abruptly bothered him.
What if the Ute was a member of Two Owls’ village? He owed a lot to the chief, after all, and didn’t want to do anything to antagonize him. But when he weighed Winona’s life in the balance, his obligation to Two Owls must rate as secondary.
The warrior’s stallion snorted.
Nate tensed. Had the horse detected his scent? No, there wasn’t a sufficient breeze. Taking a deep breath, he eased his eyes to the edge of the trunk.
Riding casually along fifty yards distant, humming softly, clad in buckskins and moccasins, the Ute was alternately gazing at the trail and surveying the forest. The bow rested on his thighs. On his left hip was a knife. He held the reins loosely in his left hand.
Tomahawk Revenge/ Black Powder Justice (A Wilderness Double Western Book 3) Page 20
