The lords of the Rockies were awe-inspiring beasts. Standing four and a half feet high at the front shoulders when on all fours, their bulk was accented by the prominent bulge between their shoulder blades. With a length of over seven feet, grizzly bears were the undisputed masters of their domain. Not even the formidable wolverine could match a grizzly in combat. Whites and Indians alike feared them and gave them a wide berth whenever possible.
Now, as the grizzly swung its massive head to stare at Nate, his previous encounters with the fierce beasts flashed before him. The first time was when he was en route to the Rockies with his Uncle Zeke. At the Republican River a grizzly had charged him, and only by the grace of God had he survived. Weeks later, on the way to the rendezvous, another one had attacked him. Finally, while trapping beaver with Shakespeare, a third grizzly had charged him with the combined ferocity of all three.
He curled his thumb around the hammer and hoped this time would be different. Shakespeare had advised him to always stand completely still when confronted by a grizzly. Any movement might draw the mighty beast closer, and running was an engraved invitation to attack. So he stood his ground and waited for the bear to make the next move.
Nate knew that many mountaineers believed that no wild animal, no matter how savage, would dare attack the face of man. That was why most trappers, when charged by a grizzly, stood and faced the onrushing bruin with their gun at the ready. Nine times out of ten the tactic worked, the charging grizzly halting within yards of the human, only to wheel and race off. But there was always that tenth time when the grizzly didn’t stop, and then the bear made short work of the trapper even if wounded first.
But Nate held little stock in this theory.
None other than Meriwether Lewis, of Lewis and Clark fame, had described the grizzly bear as extremely hard to die and the most fierce of all the wild creatures in existence. In THE HISTORY OF THE EXPEDITION OF CAPTAINS LEWIS AND CLARK, published in 1814, numerous spine-tingling encounters with grizzly bears were related.
The grizzly watching Nate suddenly advanced straight toward him. He held his breath, bracing for an attack, wondering if he might be able to reach the forest and clamber up a tree before being mauled to death.
Grunting, the bear halted. It cocked its head and regarded the buckskin-clad figure intently, as if trying to determine whether the man was edible.
For his part, Nate suppressed the stark terror that threatened to engulf him. He could see the bear’s sides heaving as it breathed, see the brute’s nose flaring as it sniffed the air for his scent. His mouth went dry and he nearly bolted.
The grizzly bear glanced at the horses for a moment, then nonchalantly turned and went into the woods, making little noise despite its bulk. Seconds later the shaggy beast was swallowed up by the forest.
Nate waited, scanning the perimeter of the clearing, dreading that the bear would circle around and come at him from another direction. After a minute he realized the grizzly had indeed departed and exhaled, only then realizing he had been holding his breath.
He walked to the horses and comforted them. Since the sun had already risen, he opted to forego breakfast and instead saddled Lambert’s horse. He put out the fire by dumping a mound of snow on the flickering embers, took a long draught of ice-cold water from the stream, and mounted up.
Eager to reach Winona, Nate pushed the horses hard, sticking to the telltale trail made by her abductors and their animals. His body still ached and his head still hurt, but the pain had diminished considerably. Of more concern was the bright snow. He didn’t want a repeat of yesterday so he avoided staring directly at the shimmering cover when possible. By constantly looking down at the horse, then only briefly surveying the terrain ahead, he found that the glare didn’t bother his eyes nearly as much as before.
He had to estimate the miles he covered. Two. Three. Five. There was still no sign of where Newton and company had camped for the night.
And then he saw the buzzards.
There were seven of the big black birds in all, swinging in wide, lazy circles hundreds of feet above the ground perhaps a quarter of a mile to the west. Their wings outspread, they soared on the uplifting air currents, their attention focused on something below.
Puzzled and not a little anxious, Nate urged his mount to go faster through the deep snow while hauling on the lead to pull the Indian stallion along. When at last he glimpsed a clearing, he slowed and held the Kentucky ready to fire. There were buzzards near the center, four of five of them clustered around a body lying in the snow.
What if it was Winona?
The unthinkable spurred Nate to lash his horse into a gallop. He burst from the trees in a spray of snow. Immediately the buzzards took to the air, noisily flapping their powerful wings, gaining altitude rapidly. He rode over to the corpse and reined up, elated to discover it was a man lying there, not a woman. Sliding down, he crouched and inspected the body.
Logic told Nate the dead man must be Ike Newton. The figure was the same size and wearing the same clothes the rogue mountaineer had worn when last Nate saw him. But identifying the man by his facial features was out of the question, simply because the face no longer existed. Judging from the powder burns on the shreds of forehead and chin remaining, the scoundrel had been shot in the face at a range of less than an inch. Then the buzzards had feasted on the exposed portions of Newton’s body, pecking away at the fingers and consuming both eyes, the nose, and the soft areas of the mouth and cheeks. Between the ball and the birds there wasn’t anything left but a few pieces of pinkish flesh and exposed bone.
The sight made Nate feel queasy. He stood and stepped away to catch his breath, glad that another foe had fallen but at a loss to explain the reason. Obviously the single shot he’d heard the night before had been the one that killed Newton. But who pulled the trigger? Isaac Kennedy? He grinned at the ludicrous notion. The storekeeper couldn’t harm a fly, let alone kill in cold blood.
But if Kennedy hadn’t committed the deed, then who? Certainly not Winona. Had she succeeded in slaying Newton, she would have headed in haste toward the cabin and he would have met her on the trail. Could it have been Indians, then? If so, the Utes were the likeliest candidates. And if his supposition was correct, it meant the Utes now had his wife and Kennedy and were taking them to a village.
He scanned the clearing, seeking signs of the Indians. If the Utes did attack the camp, there were bound to be plenty of tracks to confirm it. He saw where the string of horses had been tethered and the footprints of Newton, Kennedy, and Winona in the snow, but no others. Confused, he looked at the line of trees beyond where the pack animals had been tied and saw a sight that made him stiffen and his mouth go slack in utter bewilderment.
Chapter Fifteen
Isaac Kennedy was ready to keel over. He’d never felt so tired in all his life. It took tremendous effort to stay upright in the saddle, the Kentucky cradled in his right arm, and his eyes on the Shoshone woman riding a few feet in front of him. He yawned and glanced over his shoulder at the pack of horses he was leading, watching them plod wearily along.
Perhaps he’d made a mistake in traveling at night. Not only didn’t they find Two Owls’ village, but now all of them, including the animals, were exhausted. Having to contend with the cold and forging through the deep snow had taken a heavy toll.
They were nearing a point where the valley temporarily narrowed, with high hills to both the right and left. On their right the stream bubbled and gurgled over a stretch of rocks.
“Winona,” Kennedy said.
She responded without looking at him. “Yes?”
“I figure we should take a break. What do you think?”
“You have the gun.”
Kennedy hefted the rifle, his forehead creasing. “So? What are you trying to say?”
“You have the gun,” Winona reiterated. “The decision is yours.”
“But I want your opinion. What do you think we should do?”
“I thi
nk you should go back to the white man’s land as fast as your horse will carry you. And I think you should let me go to find my husband.”
“I’m not giving up now, not when I’m so close.” Kennedy declared. “As far as your husband is concerned, you’ll see him after we conclude our business with Two Owls.”
“What business is that?”
“You’ll know soon enough.”
They rode on in a strained silence. Kennedy wished there was something he could say to dispel her resentment toward him. He sensed she despised his very presence. But her attitude would change once he took her back to the States. Once she became dependent on him for her well-being and grew to appreciate the value of a dollar, she’d change her tune. Or, in this case, thirty thousand dollars. The thought made him chuckle.
Kennedy gazed to the south and saw several elk moving in the trees. He toyed with the notion of trying to shoot one, but since Winona would undoubtedly take off the second he squeezed the trigger and he would no longer have a loaded gun to keep her in line, he refrained. Besides, he knew he was a lousy shot and might well waste the ball.
Sighing, Kennedy let his eyes rove over the hills. To his joy, on the hill to the north, in a clearing halfway up, were seven mounted Indians who were watching Winona and him intently. Grinning, he reined up and waved.
The warriors simply stared.
“Winona,” Kennedy said excitedly. “Look! Utes!”
She halted, turning her horse sideways. Gazing in the direction he was, she saw the seven men, her grip on her reins tightening. “We are in trouble.”
“Why? Two Owls’ warriors won’t hurt us.”
“Those men are not Utes.”
“Which tribe are they from?” Kennedy inquired, amused by her nervousness. He felt confident he could talk his way out of any difficulty. If not, he could scare the seven off with a shot; surely the Indians weren’t about to go up against a white man armed with a rifle since none of the band carried a gun.
“Those are Arapahos,” Winona disclosed. “They live on the plains east of the mountains.”
“What are they doing here?”
“Either they are hunting or on a raid,” Winona speculated. “The Utes and the Arapahos fight all the time. We must take cover right away.”
“And let them think we’re afraid? Nonsense,” Kennedy stated emphatically.
The seven warriors rode into the woods bordering the clearing, heading toward the valley floor.
Winona looked at the storekeeper, her expression grave. “Listen to me. We must run and find somewhere we can defend ourselves or soon you will lose your hair and I will be on my way to an Arapaho village.”
The earnest appeal impressed Kennedy. She rarely displayed any emotion, yet here she was genuinely frightened. Undoubtedly she didn’t fully appreciate the change that had taken place inside him. Now that he could stand on his own feet, now that he had proven his manhood by slaying Ike Newton, he could protect her from anyone and anything. Still, to humor her, he nodded and said, “All right. Lead the way.”
She expertly spun her horse and took off into the woods to the south, her hair flying, her robe flapping.
Tugging on the pack string lead, Kennedy followed. He was afraid she might try to pull far ahead and lose him. A check back failed to disclose the exact whereabouts of the seven warriors. They could be anywhere, approaching from any direction. He goaded his mount to go faster.
Winona made for the base of the southern hill. When she reached it, she turned to the left.
“Hold up!” Kennedy commanded, stopping. “You’re going the wrong way. We want to go west, not east.”
Halting abruptly, Winona swung toward him, her annoyance obvious. “If we go west the Arapahos will catch us easily.”
“West is where Two Owls’ village lies,” Kennedy noted. “Are you trying to pull the wool over my eyes? Going east will only take us back toward your cabin.” He jabbed a finger westward. “We go that way. Head out.”
Hesitating, Winona gazed in the direction she wanted to go, then toward the hill the Arapahos were descending.
“I won’t take no for an answer,” Kennedy warned her, hefting the Kentucky rifle.
“You are a fool,” Winona snapped, and reined her horse around. She rode past him without another glance, staying close to the slope.
Chuckling to himself, Kennedy trailed her. His newfound resolve amazed even him. To think that he had wasted so many years being a mouse when deep down he was a veritable tiger. For the very first time in his life he felt in control; he was the master of his own destiny instead of the slave of circumstances.
They rode for almost ten minutes without mishap, leaving both hills behind. All around them the forest lay deathly still. Even the birds had ceased to chirp.
Kennedy noticed the lack of wildlife and the quiet but attached no special significance to either. He noticed Winona constantly scanning the woods and grinned at her anxiety. As he had expected, those Arapahos hadn’t given chase. He recalled all the gory tales Newton and Lambert had told him about Indians in general and was astonished at how gullible he’d been. Those illiterate trappers had exaggerated their stories, embellishing the yarns with outlandish claims of rampant Indian savagery. Well, now he knew better. Now he knew that he didn’t have anything to be worried about so long as he kept his wits about him and didn’t give in to mindless fear.
They passed through a stand of saplings, crossed a clearing, and entered a tract of tall pines.
Kennedy let his eyes dwell on the Shoshone’s back. He tried to imagine her naked and tingled at the thought of lying abed with her. How unfortunate that she was heavy with child. He’d have to wait until after she delivered before he could—
Something streaked out of the vegetation on the right and thudded into the storekeeper’s right calf.
Startled, lanced with pain, Kennedy glanced down and was stunned to behold the feathered end of an arrow jutting from his leg. Suddenly his horse whinnied and tried to buck him. He realized the arrow point and several inches of the thin shaft were imbedded in the animal’s flesh. Clasping the reins firmly, he brought the horse under control. Only then did he look up and see Winona riding as fast as she could away from him.
“Wait!” Kennedy cried, and goaded his horse onward, retaining his grip on the string lead. The pain, surprisingly, subsided, although blood poured from the wound. He functioned mechanically, his mind unable to come to terms with the reality of being shot with an arrow. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw no sign of the war party.
With his right leg pinned to his mount’s side, riding was awkward. Kennedy tried to wrench his leg loose, but couldn’t. He heard a swishing sound and felt a sharp twinge in his lower left side. Peering down, he discovered the bloody tip of an arrow protruding from his abdomen.
He’d been hit again! Shot in the back, no less!
Kennedy rode harder. He didn’t understand why there wasn’t more pain. He’d never liked pain much and trembled at the idea of suffering intense agony. Skirting a pine, he tugged on the rope lead, listening to the muffled drumming of the many hooves to his rear. If he released the rope he could ride as fast as Winona. But doing so meant abandoning the pack animals, meant leaving the crates for the Arapahos. And he’d rather die than give up the merchandise that would bring him thirty thousand dollars or more.
A hammer seemed to strike him between the shoulder blades and his body was knocked forward over the saddle by the impact. Straightening, an odd burning sensation in his chest, Kennedy gasped at finding another crimson-coated arrow tip and two inches of wooden shaft sticking from his torso.
They were skewering him at will!
He twisted, extended the Kentucky backwards, and, using just his right hand, fired. The shot had two consequences that took him unawares. First the recoil wrenched the rifle from his grip and it fell into the snow. Then the lead pack animals, frightened by the blast, the spurt of flame, and the cloud of gunpowder, went into a panicked frenz
y, pulling at the lead rope in an effort to break free.
Kennedy lost his hold on the lead. He went ten more yards before he could bring the horse to a stop.
Chapter Sixteen
Nate ran to the trees and halted in front of a pine, not quite able to believe his eyes. There, propped against the trunk, was his Hawken. He scooped the rifle up, afraid it had been damaged somehow and that was the reason it had been left behind. To his amazement, the rifle was in perfect working order, the stock, barrel, and trigger mechanism intact. Confused, he walked to the horses.
None of this made any sense. Had Utes been responsible for slaying Ike Newton and taking Winona and the storekeeper, they would surely have taken the Hawken as well. Even if Indians weren’t to blame—which he thought unlikely—no one in their right mind would ride off and leave an excellent Hawken rifle in the middle of nowhere.
No, it was as if someone had deliberately left the Hawken there for him to find. But who? Certainly not Newton, who lay there dead. Kennedy, perhaps. The storekeeper had seemed to be the sort who would help others in need. Or could his wife have done it? Not very likely. He couldn’t see any of the scoundrels letting her get her hands on a gun.
Not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, Nate reloaded his prized rifle, then slid the Kentucky into a scabbard on Lambert’s horse. With two rifles, the flintlock, his tomahawk and knife at his disposal, he felt ready to take on the entire Ute nation, if need be, to rescue Winona.
Nate mounted and resumed his search. He gazed skyward and saw the buzzards still circling. The big birds would make short work of Ike Newton’s remains. Between them and the varmints, in a day or two all that remained of Newton would be bleached bones.
He stayed with the tracks, pushing the horses, eager to close the gap. Then, from far ahead, came the distinct crack of a single shot. He reined in, listening, waiting for more. When none sounded, he lashed his mount into a gallop. So far luck had been on his side. As far as he knew, Winona was still alive. But the longer he took to reach her, the greater the likelihood he would find her dead.
Tomahawk Revenge/ Black Powder Justice (A Wilderness Double Western Book 3) Page 25
