Wilderness: Vengeance Trail/ Death Hunt (A Wilderness Western Book 4)

by Robbins, David

  Vengeance Hunt

  In 1829, life west of the Mississippi was filled with constant peril and hardship. At any moment, a settler might find himself threatened by a murderous Indian or a deadly beast. Only rugged mountain men like Nathaniel King had the courage to challenge the unknown dangers for the freedom the wilderness offered. But when Nate and his mentor Shakespeare McNair made enemies of two Flathead Indians, their survival skills were tested as never before. If either man made one mistake, both would suffer merciless deaths.

  Death Hunt

  In 1829, a new life in the vast uncharted region beyond the Mississippi River was a cause for celebration-and fear. With wild beasts, lawless renegades, and hostile Indians enough there to threaten even the bravest of men, a newborn had little hope for survival. Upon the birth of their first child, trapper Nathaniel King and his Indian wife were overjoyed. But their delight turned to terror when Nathan accompanied the men of Winona’s tribe on a deadly buffalo hunt. If King didn’t return, his family was sure to perish.

  WILDERNESS DOUBLE EDITION

  7: VENGEANCE TRAIL

  8: DEATH HUNT

  By David Robbins Writing as David Thompson

  First Published by Leisure Books in 1991 and 1992

  Copyright © 1991, 1992, 2016 by David Robbins

  First Smashwords Edition: May 2016

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Our cover features The Run Down, painted by Andy Thomas, and used by permission.

  Andy Thomas Artist, Carthage Missouri

  Andy is known for his action westerns and storytelling paintings and documenting historical events through history.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  WILDERNESS 7: VENGEANCE TRAIL

  Dedicated to Judy, Joshua, and Shane.

  Chapter One

  The lone rider reined up on the crest of a rise and surveyed the pristine landscape below. He was a tall, muscular man, not yet twenty years of age, as hard as iron and radiating vitality. Buckskins and moccasins clothed his powerful frame. On his head perched a brown beaver hat. Jutting from under the hat, at the rear, was the tip of a white eagle feather securely tied to his shoulder-length black hair. His green eyes noted every detail of the terrain with delight.

  A February thaw had transformed the Rocky Mountains from a snow shrouded wilderness into a prematurely glorious, spring-like wonderland. Temperatures in the fifties and sixties over the past week and a half had melted most of the white mantle, causing the rivers and streams to run full and tinged the brown grass with a dash of green. A few deciduous trees, fooled by the unseasonal warmth, had started to bud. The perennial evergreens, smarter and hardier, had only to lose their heavy, hoary blankets of wet, packed flakes to present the illusion of springtime.

  Nodding in satisfaction, the young man urged his big black stallion down the slope. Had anyone been watching, they would have noticed that he appeared armed as if for a war. Slanted across his chest were a powder horn and a bullet pouch. Two flintlocks were nestled under his wide brown leather belt, one on each side of the buckle. A butcher knife with a twelve-inch blade rested in a beaded sheath on his right hip. Angled under his belt above his left hip was a tomahawk. And resting across his thighs, his left hand loosely holding it in place, was a Hawken rifle. A Mackinaw coat and a bedroll were positioned snugly behind the saddle, and dangling from the saddle horn was a water bag.

  He picked his way with care down the slippery slope and breathed a sigh of relief when he reached the valley floor below. Scanning the land ahead, he searched for any sign of smoke that might be drifting skyward from the cabin he’d traveled twenty-five miles to reach. The azure heavens, however, were crystal clear.

  Cradling the Hawken in the crook of his left elbow, he pressed onward. Although he saw no hint of habitation, he felt certain he was in the right valley. His best friend and mentor, Shakespeare McNair, lived in this remote nook of the world near the top of the Rockies. He was eager to find the grizzled mountaineer and ask his advice on two important matters.

  A gurgling stream bisected the valley and he took the west bank, riding northward, seeing wildlife or signs of wildlife everywhere. Sparrows and chickadees chirped and frolicked in the undergrowth. Ravens and jays occupied the tall trees. Rabbits bounded from his path. Once he flushed an elk, and twice he saw black-tailed deer in the distance. Along the stream, imprinted in the dark soil, were the tracks of countless creatures that had quenched their thirst at the water’s edge. There were tiny chipmunk tracks and huge bear tracks, panther tracks and bobcat tracks, wolf tracks and fox tracks. He saw them all as he traveled a half-mile, and then he saw the cabin.

  He almost missed it, so cleverly was the log structure blended into the surrounding forest. Shakespeare had constructed it at the base of a knoll fifty yards from the stream. Enormous pines ringed it, affording shade and protection from the elements. There was a pen for horses on the north side and a small shed to the south. A narrow strip of ground near the front door had been cleared of all brush, but otherwise the undergrowth was undisturbed. It was as if Shakespeare had deliberately built the cabin so it wouldn’t disrupt the natural flow of things, just like an Indian would do.

  Turning the stallion, he rode toward his friend’s home. He noticed that no smoke curled from the sturdy stone chimney. Either Shakespeare wasn’t in, he reasoned, or the grizzled mountaineer was forgoing a fire because of the warm weather. Suddenly he realized the front door was hanging open several inches and his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  Shakespeare would never go off and leave the door open knowing that a wandering bear or some other critter might waltz on in and help itself to the food supply and whatever else appeared tasty. He approached the cabin cautiously. Nothing stirred inside or out.

  When the stallion was only ten feet from the door, he stopped. Gripping the Hawken in both hands, he slid to the ground and cocked the hammer. The loud click made him frown. Anyone or anything inside was bound to have heard it.

  He advanced quickly and moved to the left of the doorway, leaning against the jamb so he could peer within. The sight he beheld chilled the blood in his veins.

  The interior of the cabin was in a shambles. Furniture had been upended, personal effects strewn about, and various items smashed to bits. Clothing lay in disarray. Broken dishes littered one corner.

  Stark fear coursed through the young man’s body. All he could think of was that his mentor had been slain, and in his mind’s eye he envisioned Shakespeare being tomahawked or scalped. His heart beat wildly and his temples pounded. For a moment he felt dizzy. “Get a grip on yourself, Nate King,” he said sternly.

  Somewhere nearby a bird chirped.

  The innocent sound served to snap Nate out of his anxious daze. He shook his head to clear his thoughts and stepped inside. Relief flared when he realized his friend’s body was nowhere in the cabin. Perhaps, he told himself hopefully, Shakespeare was still alive. But if so, who had done this to the cabin and where was McNair?

  He pivoted
, scouring the room. Abruptly, he spied the large book lying on the floor next to an overturned table and stepped over to it. The title was easily discernible, and he read it with acute trepidation: THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

  Nate’s stomach muscles constricted. His friend would never go anywhere without that book. The volume had been Shakespeare’s pride and joy, his constant companion on the trail or at home, going wherever he went to be read at any hour of the day or night. It was part of the reason McNair had long ago acquired the nickname ‘Shakespeare’; that, and the fact McNair could quote countless passages from memory and did so with a striking eloquence.

  If the book was there, Nate concluded, then his friend must be dead. He picked up the volume, righted the table, and gently placed the heavy book on top. Next he searched the cabin for traces of blood but found none. Mystified, he went outdoors and halted in consternation.

  There were signs of Indians all over the place, clearly marked in the spongy soil. If not for the melted snow, the ground would have been too hard to bear many prints. He examined them at length and concluded the Indians had visited the cabin within the previous twenty-four hours and departed within the past twelve.

  Chiding himself for not noticing the signs before, Nate bent at the waist and did the best he could reading the tracks. He wasn’t as skilled as his mentor—yet—but he knew enough to deduce that ten mounted warriors had ridden up and eleven men had departed. He saw footprints he felt certain had been made by Shakespeare, leading to the inescapable conclusion that his friend had ridden off with the warriors.

  Or been forced to accompany them.

  Why else was the cabin a shambles? Nate mused. He turned, more perplexed now than ever. If hostile Indians had been responsible, they would have burned the building to the ground. Then again, while some of Shakespeare’s things had been broken, most were undamaged. The clothes weren’t torn to ribbons and the furniture was still intact. Hostiles would have taken particular delight in totally destroying both.

  Nate let the hammer down on his rifle and thoughtfully scratched his chin. This made no sense, he noted. Friendly Indians wouldn’t have committed such an outrage and hostiles would have skinned Shakespeare alive on the spot.

  He began executing a wide circle around the dwelling, seeking more signs. The trail the Indians had taken was as clear as the nose on his face; they’d ridden northward. If they had been a band of bloodthirsty Utes, who frequented the territory regularly, they would have ridden south toward one of the Ute villages. Due north lay land frequented by several tribes, not all of them friendly.

  Now he had a decision to make, and he didn’t like it one bit. He could mount up and follow the trail while it was still fresh, or he could forget the notion and do nothing. But if he didn’t go after his friend, Shakespeare might well die and the death would be on his conscience for the rest of his born days.

  So he should go.

  But, Nate realized, if he rode off in pursuit, there was no way of determining when he would be able to return to his own cabin and his beloved wife. His beloved, pregnant wife who was due to deliver their baby in two moons. How could he desert her to go after Shakespeare?

  Damn. What a fine pickle this was.

  Maybe he should compromise, he decided. He could follow the trail for a short distance and try to ascertain if Shakespeare was with the Indians of his own free will or whether Shakespeare was a captive. The idea appealed to him. He swiftly closed the door to secure the cabin against animal invasion, then swung onto the stallion and took up the chase.

  Since the sun was only a few hours above the eastern horizon, he would have plenty of time for tracking the band and still be able to turn back well before dark. He could spend the night in the cabin and head for home in the morning. With his mind made up, he goaded the stallion into a canter, eager to learn more.

  The party had continued up the valley, then passed between two lofty mountains. Another verdant valley stretched before Nate’s admiring gaze, and he made a beeline across it as he stuck to the tracks. From the depth of the hoof prints and the long strides the horses had taken, he surmised the Indians were in a hurry to get somewhere. But where?

  The band had come on a game trail and promptly changed direction. They were now moving to the northwest, still pushing their mounts.

  Nate rode easily, his body flowing in rhythmic motion with the gait of his stallion. He tried not to think of the extra distance he was putting between his wife, Winona, and himself. Surely she would understand if for some reason he came back a day later than anticipated.

  Thick woodland hemmed him in on both sides. He idly listened to the cries of animals and the songs of birds, his concentration focused on the trail. Dimly, he recalled Shakespeare advising him time and again to always be aware of the surrounding countryside, to always be alert for movement in all directions. But in his concern and haste he dispelled the memory and simply kept going.

  The tracks climbed a gradual slope to a ridge, then went down the other side toward a small, shimmering lake. Nate spotted elk on the shore but they bolted as he drew closer. In the dank earth bordering the lake he found where the Indians had halted to allow their animals to drink. He did the same. Kneeling while the stallion gulped, he touched his fingers to several of the tracks, trying to gauge how far behind the band he was. The manner in which his fingers speared into the earth without making the dirt crumble convinced him he was not more than ten hours or so behind. Good. If he kept pushing, he could probably overtake them within the next day or so.

  Nate mounted and resumed the pursuit, traveling along the west shore of the lake, then entering a thick track of forest that seemed to stretch on forever. It was well past noon when he emerged from the vegetation into a high country meadow. A badger saw him and took flight. So did a doe.

  He barely paid any attention to them. Preoccupied with his quest, he soon left the meadow behind and found himself in a region dotted with boulders the size of wagons. The tracks beckoned him ever onward, tantalizing him with the mystery of what lay at the end of the trail. He saw no evidence to indicate Shakespeare had been harmed. Because the mountain man’s white mare, like Indian mounts, went unshod, it was difficult to tell which tracks had been made by Shakespeare’s horse. Difficult, but not impossible.

  The trail skirted another mountain. On the opposite side the direction of travel once more became northwest. Nate racked his brain, trying to remember which tribes dwelt in the land that lay ahead. The Shoshones, of course, the tribe into which he had been adopted by virtue of his marriage to Winona, herself a Shoshone. There were also Bannocks up that way, a tribe as ruthless in its extermination of whites as the widely dreaded Blackfeet. And, if he recollected Shakespeare’s teachings correctly, the Nez Percé and the Flathead Indians also staked a claim to some of the land farther to the northwest.

  He wound along a sparsely forested valley to a series of hills. The band had gone straight up one and he imitated their example. From the top a wondrous vista unfolded before his appreciative gaze. He could see for many miles no matter which way he turned. His pulse quickened when he spied a group of horsemen far, far to the northwest, crossing a plain. He squinted in the bright sunlight, striving to distinguish details, but the attempt was futile.

  Then he heard a faint drumming noise.

  For a moment Nate couldn’t identify the sound. He cocked his head, listening intently, and belatedly realized the drumming was caused by horses moving at a full gallop—to his rear. Twisting, he gasped in surprise at discovering three Indians several hundred yards away, riding hard to overtake him. He recognized their style of dress instantly and goaded the stallion down the hill at a reckless pace, aware that his life hung in the balance if he failed to elude his pursuers.

  They were Utes eager for his scalp.

  Chapter Two

  The big stallion’s muscles rippled as it raced to the bottom of the hill and galloped between two others. Nate glanced over his right shoulder at
the crest he had just vacated and saw the three Utes appear. One of them vented a savage whoop and the trio surged over the rim.

  Facing front, Nate surveyed the terrain, trying to think of a way to shake the warriors. All three carried bows, and he knew from bitter experience that most Indian men were exceptionally adept archers. Warriors were trained from childhood in the use of the bow, and by the time they reached adulthood many could hit a target the size of an apple at fifty yards with consummate ease.

  He held his body close to the stallion, trying to make as small a target of himself as possible. The feel of the Hawken in his left hand reassured him a bit. If he could get far enough ahead, he might be able to discourage the three warriors by slaying one.

  Beyond the hills lay a grassy meadow. He made a beeline for the forest on the other side, and he was halfway across when he glimpsed the network of earthen burrows in his path. With a start he realized they were prairie dog holes, dozens and dozens of them, and he vividly recalled all the terrible stories he’d heard about careless riders who ventured into prairie dog towns and wound up being unhorsed when their mounts broke a leg and went down.

  Nate’s mouth went dry at the prospect. He was already among the low mounds. To try to stop would court disaster since slowing the stallion would more likely cause him to step full into a hole. He saw scores of the white-tailed rodents diving for cover, vanishing into their burrows with a flick of their tails while uttering shrill barks.

  He did his best to avoid the larger mounds where the holes were obvious, but some holes were in flat ground where they were partially concealed by grass. A prairie dog abruptly darted in front of the stallion and the horse veered sharply to the left. A large mound lay right in their path.

  Nate hauled on the reins in a frantic bid to avert catastrophe, but his efforts were in vain. The stallion started to go over the mound when one of its front legs caught in a burrow and it toppled forward. Nate threw himself from the saddle, leaping to the right, clutching the Hawken for dear life. He landed hard on his right shoulder and rolled to his knees, fearing the worst.