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

by Robbins, David

  Looking over his shoulder, Nate was startled to find four of the Utes had pulled out well ahead of the rest and were closing the gap rapidly.

  Running Elk skirted a hill and, hemmed in on both sides by high rock walls, entered a ravine. The rest promptly followed.

  Nate didn’t like being boxed in. Should the Utes gain the rim, the Flatheads would be easy to pick off. So, for that matter, would Shakespeare and he. Nate avoided a boulder in his path and saw Running Elk bear to the right as the ravine curved. Seconds later he galloped around the turn and was stunned to discover the Flatheads bunched together at the base of another stone wall.

  The ravine was a dead end.

  Chapter Five

  Nate hauled sharply on the reins to avoid colliding with the Flatheads in front of him. The black stopped almost instantly, jerking its head up within inches of another animal’s rump. He heard thundering hooves to his rear and glanced back to see one of the warriors stop almost on top of him. For a few moments confusion reigned. The Flatheads were talking excitedly in their own tongue, some pointing at the high walls.

  All Nate could think of was the Ute war party rapidly drawing closer. He brought the stallion around, motioning for the nearest warriors to move their animals so he could accomplish the feat, and glanced at his friend.

  Shakespeare had done the same. “We’ve got to get out of here,” he stated somberly.

  Nate nodded. He felt the same sense of dire urgency. The Utes would reach the mouth of the ravine soon, if they hadn’t already, and he wasn’t too fond of the notion of fighting his way through them in the cramped confines of the rocky defile. Thank goodness he had the pistols; they would give him a slight edge. He started to move past the milling Flatheads, glancing over his shoulder at Buffalo Horn. “I’ll take the lead,” he offered. “Have your people ride hard on my heels.”

  “Wait for me,” Shakespeare said, and looked at the tall warrior. “I want my weapons, damn you, and I want them now.”

  Buffalo Horn frowned and hesitated.

  “I need a chance to defend myself, don’t I?” Shakespeare demanded angrily.

  Demonstrating marked reluctance, Buffalo Horn snapped instructions at another warrior, who then moved his horse over beside Shakespeare’s and handed over the mountain man’s rifle, pistol, and knife.

  Shakespeare beamed as he reclaimed his weapons. “I should thank the Utes for this,” he said in delight.

  “Ready?” Nate asked impatiently, eager to be off before the Utes had them trapped.

  Nodding, Shakespeare hefted his rifle and gripped his reins tightly. “Advance our standards, set upon our foes. Our ancient word of courage, fair Saint George, inspire us with the spleen of fiery dragons! Upon them! Victory sits on our helms,” he roared, and grinned. “King Richard III.”

  Nate shook his head and goaded the stallion into a gallop. Sometimes he wondered if his good friend had been struck on the head as a child. He discarded the train of thought to concentrate on the critical matter at hand. Behind him came Shakespeare and the Flatheads, the pounding of their horses echoing off the stone walls.

  Had the Utes reached the ravine? That was the crucial factor. Nate tensed as he came to the turn and raced around it to see his worst fears realized.

  The four Utes who had pulled ahead of their fellows were just entering the narrow chasm. They spied the onrushing frontiersman immediately and voiced strident cries. A hundred yards to their rear, coming on strong, was the rest of the war party.

  Nate never let the stallion break stride. He leaned forward, a fiery resolve fueling his being, and tucked the Hawken’s stock into his right shoulder. Aiming on horseback was difficult under the best of circumstances, and Nate found the task harder while weaving among the boulders scattered in his path. He saw the Utes stop as three of the warriors frantically tried to nock shafts to their bow strings and the fourth wagged a war club overhead. Good. The Flatheads would have momentum working in their favor when they crashed into their foes.

  He took a bouncing bead on the foremost Ute, a stocky man armed with a bow, and when only ten feet from the quartet he fired. His ball bored into the Ute’s face just as the warrior raised a bow, catapulting the stocky figure off his horse. Nate sped onward, holding the rifle and the reins in one hand while he drew a pistol with the other.

  From behind him came the blast of Shakespeare’s rifle and a second Ute toppled.

  Nate was on the remaining twosome before he could so much as blink. A war club swooped at his head and he ducked under the blow, extending his pistol at the same instant and sending a ball into the Ute’s forehead. And then he was past the ravine mouth, temporarily in the clear. Temporarily, because he was now hemmed in by hills on each side and charging toward him was the rest of the war party, in the same gap, not seventy yards away.

  Going straight would be certain suicide. Nate cut to the right, heading up the slope, his body held low over the stallion’s back as the animal’s powerful legs drove them upward. A backward glance showed Shakespeare and the Flatheads following his example. Lying in the ravine were the bodies of the four Utes. Not one Flathead had been slain … yet.

  Nate looked at the Utes. They were galloping up the hill on an intercept course, but the steep slope was slowing them down, just as it impeded his stallion. He wedged the spent pistol under his belt and kept going. The top of the hill was fifty feet off, yet seemed to be a mile. Focusing on the rim, he rode like a madman.

  The Utes were shrieking loud enough to be heard clear back in Missouri.

  In less than half a minute the black stallion attained the crest, and Nate paused to mark the progress of his friends and his foes. Shakespeare and the Flatheads were right behind him, the Utes thirty feet below. He whipped out the second pistol, tilted the barrel to compensate for the distance and the elevation, and fired, not really expecting to score a hit but to deter the war party.

  One of the foremost riders threw out his arms and fell with a scream.

  Five down, Nate mentally noted, but the Utes still outnumbered his allies. Jamming the flintlock underneath his belt, he spun the stallion and headed for the far side. Shakespeare and several of the Flatheads were ahead of him, and the mountain man sped over the rim a heartbeat later. He found himself riding beside Running Elk, and the two of them rode even with one another as they left the top and galloped down the opposite slope. Even steeper on this side, Nate had to dig his feet into his stirrups to keep from being unhorsed.

  At the bottom lay a plain, and Nate breathed a sigh of relief as the stallion hit the level ground and went all out, passing several of the Flatheads. In short order he was again next to his mentor.

  Shakespeare grinned at him, as if enjoying every second of their harrowing ordeal. “This is the life!” he shouted.

  Nate didn’t bother responding. As far as he was concerned, he much preferred a quiet evening home alone with Winona to racing pell-mell through the wilderness with bloodthirsty Utes on his tail.

  For minutes the chase continued, the Utes not more than thirty yards behind. The plain ended, replaced by verdant forest, which in turn gave way to an arid tract of dusty red earth marred by deep ruts.

  Twisting in his saddle, Nate was overjoyed to find the Utes had fallen even farther behind. He faced front as Shakespeare changed direction slightly, making to the northwest where high peaks dominated the landscape, and emulated him. The prospect of finding themselves in another ravine or box canyon caused his stomach muscles to tighten, and he prayed that Shakespeare knew what he was doing.

  They attained the mountains without mishap. By now all the animals were tiring and the pace had flagged considerably. Skirting the base of the first peak in the range, Shakespeare swung into a wide gully.

  Nate got the impression his friend was heading for a specific destination. Even so, he gazed nervously at the stone walls. To his relief, when only halfway into the gully the mountain man suddenly reined to the right toward a narrow opening. He was forced to ride di
rectly behind Shakespeare as they entered since there wasn’t room for both of them. A rocky trail led from the gully floor to the top of the north wall, and once up there he looked toward the entrance where the Utes had yet to appear.

  Shakespeare swung off his mount and motioned for Nate to do the same. “Don’t just sit there! Reload!”

  Insight dawned, and Nate promptly dismounted and hastily commenced reloading all three of his weapons.

  The Flatheads joined them, swinging down and moving to the lip of the wall where they crouched and nocked arrows in preparation for the ambush.

  As Buffalo Horn went to walk past Shakespeare, the mountain man grabbed the warrior’s arm. “Where the blazes are my powder horn and ammo pouch? I need to reload my rifle.”

  The tall Flathead pointed at another warrior, who had Shakespeare’s items slanted across his slim chest, and motioned for them to be returned to their rightful owner.

  All this Nate absently took in as he reloaded, his fingers flying. He finished with the Hawken and reached for a flintlock when the drumming hooves of their enemies heralded the arrival of the Utes in the gully. With no time to lose, he dashed to the lip and knelt, staying low to avoid detection.

  The Utes were pushing their mounts to the limit. Having lost ground during the last few miles, they were apparently trying to make it up. They galloped down the gully without once gazing up at the top of the walls.

  Nate tingled in nervous expectation. He cocked the hammer, his gaze glued to the war party, watching the lead riders. Dust kicked into the air by the Flatheads’ mounts still hung in small clouds, rendering it difficult for the Utes to see tracks. A few were trying to do just that, bending down as they rode.

  The Flatheads had their bows ready, except for two men who held fusees and Buffalo Horn with his rifle.

  When the Utes were almost to the side opening, a warrior in the lead glanced in that direction, saw it, and shouted. The Utes were now twenty feet away and fifteen feet below the rim.

  Rising, Buffalo Horn took aim and fired. It was the signal for the other Flatheads to do the same. A shower of arrows and lead poured down onto the hapless Utes, piercing torsos, spearing through necks, or striking limbs.

  Nate sighted on the Ute who appeared to be in charge of the war party, the one who had spotted the opening. He took his time, wanting to be sure, holding his breath so he could keep the rifle steady, and fired as the Ute went to turn. The man clutched at his face, then pitched to the ground.

  Eight of the Utes were lying in the dirt now. Shakespeare’s Hawken cracked and a ninth fell. The survivors were desperately striving to flee, bumping into one another, their mounts spooked by the gunfire, the bodies underfoot, and the dust rising to choke the gully.

  Shakespeare cackled in delight.

  More and more arrows streaked into the disorganized Utes, their razor barbs slicing through flesh as readily as a Bowie through butter. Three more warriors were sprawled in the dirt before the rest finally got underway, racing for the entrance to the gully in stark fear for their lives, jostling each other in their anxious haste to be the first to escape the slaughter.

  Nate didn’t fire again. He’d wanted to stop the Utes as much as anyone there, but the one-sided massacre disgusted him. Shakespeare’s rifle cracked almost in his very ear and yet another Ute hit the dirt. He shifted to see the Flatheads dashing to their mounts so they could give chase. Let them, he reflected. He had no craving for more killing. Instead, he reloaded the Hawken and both pistols, observing the next stage in the drama from where he knelt.

  He saw the Flatheads burst from the side opening and ride to the fallen Utes. To his surprise, the Flatheads stopped and jumped down. They weren’t going to chase the rest of the war party, after all. Aghast, he observed them draw their knives and tomahawks and set to work on the dead and injured with a vengeance. Every body was repeatedly stabbed or hacked. Fingers were chopped from hands; noses and ears from heads; abdomens were ripped open and the entrails strewn about; and scalps were taken with the most savage joy imaginable. The Flatheads became spattered with blood and gore from their own grisly handiwork. Nate felt his stomach flutter and feared he might be sick.

  “Not a pretty sight, is it?”

  Nate started and turned to find his mentor regarding him carefully. “Revolting is more like it,” he said, and stood, adjusting the flintlocks on either side of his belt buckle, the Hawken in his left hand.

  “I figured you would be accustomed to this by now,” Shakespeare said.

  “I doubt I ever will.”

  “Then there’s hope for you yet,” the mountain man said with a snicker.

  Nate wasn’t sure if he’d been insulted or not. “And what about you?” he retorted. “You seemed to think this was all great fun. Weren’t you in the least bit afraid for your life?”

  Shakespeare launched into another quote from his favorite author. “My lord, wise men ne’er sit and wail their woes, but presently prevent the ways to wail. To fear the foe, since fear oppresseth strength, gives in your weakness strength unto your foe, and so your follies fight against yourself. Fear, and be slain; no worse can come to fight. And fight and die is death destroying death; where fearing dying pays death servile breadth.”

  “I don’t have the foggiest notion what you’re babbling about,” Nate said testily.

  Sighing, Shakespeare stared at the butchery transpiring in the gully. “When you’ve lived as many years as I have, Nate, you’ll learn to take each moment as it comes and to fully appreciate whatever that moment brings.”

  “Oh? I seem to recall you’re not very appreciative of the fact the Flatheads want to take you to their village.”

  “That’s different.”

  “How so?”

  Shakespeare looked Nate in the eyes. “They’re taking me there to get married.”

  Chapter Six

  “Get married!” Nate blurted in amazement.

  A shadow seemed to descend over Shakespeare’s weathered features. He nodded and said softly, “Oh, I am fortune’s fool.”

  Bewildered, Nate idly gazed into the gully and saw Buffalo Horn decapitating one of the Utes. He watched the Flathead chop at the vanquished warrior’s neck for a moment, then looked at his mentor. “You have some explaining to do.”

  Shakespeare stared off into the distance, his lips compressed, his brow knit in contemplation.

  “When I found your cabin in a shambles, I figured you were in mortal danger,” Nate went on. “I came all this way just to rescue you. You have no idea what I went through, and now you tell me that you’re only going off to get married?”

  “Unless I mount up and run,” Shakespeare said, shifting to survey the mutilation taking place below them.

  Nate realized that his friend was serious, and it shocked him. He’d never imagined Shakespeare would run from anything. There must be more to the situation. He realized both of them could slip away if they wanted since the Flatheads were totally preoccupied. “I’ll go if you do,” he said.

  Shakespeare gazed at their horses, then back into the gully. He hefted his rifle, took a stride toward his mount, and abruptly halted. “Damn!” he snapped, and angrily slapped his thigh.

  “What is the matter with you?” Nate asked, completely mystified. He’d never seen the mountain man behave in such a peculiar fashion, never known McNair to be the least bit indecisive.

  “I can’t cut out,” Shakespeare said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because Buffalo Horn and Running Elk are right. A man must keep his word or he isn’t much of a man.”

  “And you gave your word to marry someone?”

  “About twenty years ago.”

  Nate cradled the Hawken in his arms and scrutinized his friend’s tormented countenance. “Why don’t you start at the beginning and tell me the whole story? The Flatheads will be busy for a while.”

  Sighing, Shakespeare stepped to a low boulder and sat down. He placed his rifle stock on the ground and gripp
ed the barrel with both hands, his shoulders slumped in dejection. “You know I was once married to a Flathead called Rainbow Woman.”

  “You never mentioned her name.”

  “I don’t like to talk about her much. Some memories are just too painful to bring out in the open,” Shakespeare said, his voice lowering. “She was the most beautiful woman who ever walked this earth and I loved her with all of my soul.”

  “The Blackfeet killed her, didn’t they?” Nate brought up, and promptly regretted his stupidity when he saw Shakespeare wince as if from a physical blow.

  “Yep. The stinking vermin hit the village one day at dawn. I told her to stay in our lodge while I went out to help the Flathead warriors fight them off.” Shakespeare paused, inner pain twisting his face. “But of course she didn’t listen. Women never do. She came out with a bow and was covering my back. I didn’t even know it until she shouted a warning when a Blackfoot came at me from behind.” He stopped and bowed his head, his shaggy mane of hair falling down over his eyes.

  “What happened next?” Nate asked.

  “I shot the Blackfoot, but while I was taking care of him another of the murdering sons of bitches put an arrow in Rainbow Woman.”

  Nate made no comment, his heart going out to the profoundly sad man seated in front of him, in perfect sympathy with his friend because he knew all too well how he would feel if the same fate were to befall his precious Winona.

  “I left the Flatheads shortly after that terrible day,” Shakespeare said.

  “But what does all this have to do with Buffalo Horn taking you back for another marriage?” Nate inquired, hoping the change of topic would cheer McNair up.

  Shakespeare straightened, the corners of his eyes slightly moist. “Rainbow Woman had two brothers, Buffalo Horn and Spotted Owl. I was good friends with them and spent a lot of time with Spotted Owl. One night, about a year before she was killed, we were sitting in his lodge and got around to discussing what would happen to our wives if either of us ever died. Indian men have a much shorter life expectancy than their women, you see. Well, we didn’t want our wives to be forced to fend for themselves, and we damn sure didn’t want them to take up with just any warrior who was interested in them so they’d have food to eat and a lodge to live in. So we took a vow.”