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

by Robbins, David

  “Yep. He volunteered to sneak over there and see who it is,” Shakespeare said.

  “What can we do?”

  Shakespeare sank onto his buttocks and rested his rifle across his thighs. “Sit here and twiddle our thumbs until he gets back.”

  If he gets back, Nate reflected.

  ~*~

  At the booming discharge of the flintlock the wolverine emitted a tremendous, raspy snarl, and Winona heard it thrashing wildly about, its body smacking against the door over and over. She shoved to her feet and dashed to the table on which she had placed the ammunition pouch and powder horn Nate had given her. Reloading, due to her lack of proficiency, was a slow, meticulous process. She had to be careful not to put too much black powder into the rifle or she ran the risk of the barrel bursting. Breathing heavily from the excitement, she managed to complete the task and hurried to the door.

  The thrashing and snarling had stopped.

  She listened, but heard only the wind. Had she killed it? Squatting, she found the hole in the door made by the ball as it bored through the wood. She figured the beast was wounded at the very least, hopefully fatally. It might drag itself off to die, ending her problem.

  Kneeling, Winona placed an eye to the hole and gazed out. She could see a narrow strip of ground in front of the door, and there was no sign of the wolverine. Which didn’t mean all that much. The creature might be lurking nearby, waiting for her to emerge, craving vengeance.

  She went to rise and grab the latch, then thought better of the idea. As long as she stayed in the cabin, she was safe. Once outside, she was in the wolverine’s element. The beast’s acute senses would give it a decided advantage over her, but only while night lingered. Once daylight arrived, she would be on an equal footing.

  Moving to the right of the door, she sat down and leaned her shoulder against the wall. She would wait until morning before venturing out. Perhaps the wolverine would be gone by then if it wasn’t already dead.

  Fatigued, she closed her eyes and felt the baby move, a tickling sensation that brought a smile to her sagging lips. The baby. Above all else she must not endanger the baby’s life.

  One of the horses neighed.

  Winona’s eyes snapped open and she straightened in consternation. If the beast went after their animals, she must protect them. Surely though, she hoped, a wounded wolverine would not risk entering a pen of terrified horses where it could be trampled to death if they went into a frenzy. But there was no predicting the behavior of such volatile beasts.

  There were no other sounds from the pen.

  She leaned against the wall again, relieved. Her thoughts drifted to Nate, and she prayed to the Everywhere Spirit that he would return soon. All would be well if only he would come home.

  The great Grizzly Killer.

  Winona grinned, thinking of how awkward he had been when first they met, afraid to touch her or kiss her, as if their romance had been so fragile it would shatter at the slightest expression of affection. She chuckled. Her darling husband had exhibited undeniable courage when battling the scourge of the Rockies, but he had also exhibited the timidity of a little rabbit during the early months of their acquaintance, which had made for a peculiar combination of personality traits. And he still hadn’t completely overcome his awkwardness. In a way, she hoped he never did. There was a sparkling boyish quality about him she found appealing, a quality rarely found in grown Indian men who learned at an early age the cruel realities of life and matured accordingly. Perhaps Nate’s background accounted for the difference. In any event, it hardly mattered. She loved him as he was.

  Time passed.

  Her eyelids drooped against her will and she found her mind tottering on the brink of sleep. Sweet sleep. She needed more rest recently than in days past, no doubt due to the baby. When Nate had broached the subject of visiting McNair, she’d almost protested because she knew she would not get as much sleep while he was gone. Dutifully, she’d suppressed the impulse and agreed going to see Shakespeare was a good idea. So, in a sense, she had only herself to blame for being alone now when she knew very well Nate would have stayed had she but voiced the slightest objection.

  Love, she decided, made people do things they would never do otherwise. In the name of love they were more considerate, more tolerant, more compassionate. And more stubborn.

  Winona’s shoulders slumped as she drifted off, and her last thought before falling asleep was for her husband’s safety.

  ~*~

  “What’s taking him so long?” Nate inquired, gazing at the boulders. The campfire had gone out an hour ago, plunging the base of the cliff into darkness.

  “When sneaking up on Blackfeet, it’s not very smart to advertise your presence,” Shakespeare responded, his back propped against a tree. “Not unless you like the notion of going around bald the rest of your life.”

  “I know that.”

  “Then relax, Nate. Wind In The Grass knows what he’s doing. He’ll be back soon.”

  “Speaking of getting back, what are your plans once we return to the village?”

  “To dazzle Blue Water Woman with my charm and handsome features, then get her drunk and trick her into marrying me.”

  Nate nearly laughed. “But she already wants you to be her man.”

  “I know,” Shakespeare said. “If we were back in the civilized world, she’d be a prime candidate for admittance to one of those sanitariums.”

  “You’re in an awfully good mood,” Nate noted.

  “Why shouldn’t I be? One of the prettiest women alive wants to cuddle with my cold feet at night, which qualifies an old cuss like me as one of the luckiest men alive.”

  About to make a comment about Blue Water Woman’s taste in men, Nate spied a vague figure rising out of the grass and brought his rifle to bear.

  “It’s Wind In The Grass,” Shakespeare said.

  The Flathead came up to them and sank to one knee, then addressed Shakespeare.

  All Nate could do was listen in suspense while the pair discussed whatever the warrior had found. When, a minute later, there was a pause in the conversation, he looked at the mountain man and said, “Well?”

  “There are four Blackfeet encamped at the bottom of that cliff, under a rock overhang. None of the four have horses, and none appeared to have any scalps. Wind In The Grass believes they stuck around because they failed to count coup during the battle and intend raiding the Flathead village. They probably came to this spot to camp because they felt the Flatheads might return to Still Lake in greater force.”

  “Just the four of them will tangle with the entire village?”

  “It would be real easy for them to slip in at night, grab a few horses and maybe a woman or two, and light out before the Flatheads knew what hit them,” Shakespeare explained.

  “So what do we do?” Nate asked. “Sneak on in there and kill them while they sleep?”

  “We could, but it wouldn’t be the honorable thing to do.”

  “What, then?”

  “We wait here until daybreak, and when they show their faces we stand up and challenge them to a fight.”

  “Just like that?” Nate said sarcastically. He would much rather shoot them and be done with it. Fighting for personal honor and glory was fine, but not when he had a pregnant wife many miles away who needed him at home.

  “Unless you have a better way,” Shakespeare said.

  “No,” Nate confessed.

  “If you’d rather sit this out, we’ll understand,” Shakespeare remarked.

  “Count me in,” Nate said, and moved over to the next tree. He propped the Hawken against the bole, then sat with his forearms draped over his bent knees. Melancholy set in, and he found himself feeling sorry he had ever set off after McNair. All he could think of was Winona, in the cabin alone, easy prey for any wild animal that might catch her outside or any hostile Indians who stumbled on their remote valley.

  Days ago, when he’d found Shakespeare’s cabin in such disarray
, his obligation to his friend had seemed so clear-cut, so absolute. Now, he perceived he’d made a major mistake. He should have gone home to his wife. By virtue of having taken him as her mate for the rest of her born days, she deserved his unstinting devotion.

  Loyalty to friends was all well and good, but when he got down to the crux of the matter, to the morality of his act, he now knew with granite certainty that a husband should always—always—be loyal first and foremost to his wife. All other obligations were secondary.

  Nate gazed at the myriad stars sparkling in the firmament and imagined Winona snug in their bed, sleeping peacefully, as safe as could be. He hoped.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The screech of a jay brought Winona out of her slumber. She sat up, saw the sunlight streaming in the gap below the window flap, and beamed. Daylight. Now she could check on her nocturnal visitor. Rising, she almost toppled over before discovering both of her legs had also fallen asleep during the night. She leaned on the wall for support, feeling a tingling sensation in both limbs, then shook them to fully restore the circulation.

  Once satisfied her legs were back to normal, she gripped the rifle and cautiously opened the door a crack. The bright light made her blink, compelling her to wait until she could see clearly before pulling the door all the way open and stepping into the brisk morning air.

  She saw the blood right away, a large dark crimson puddle to the left of the doorway, congealed into an irregular mass from which a few blades of brown grass protruded. So she had hit the beast! She scanned the ground in front of the cabin but saw neither the wolverine nor any more patches of blood.

  Encouraged, confident the animal was somewhere off in the brush dying in private as most animals preferred to do, Winona moved to the south and stared at the horse pen. The animals were fine, standing at ease, a few nibbling on bits of feed left over from yesterday.

  The danger had passed.

  In the brilliant sunshine her fears of the night before seemed childish, more the result of the stress she was under and an overactive imagination than any threat the wolverine had posed. Why had she let herself become so distraught when the beast could never get inside to harm her?

  Winona laughed, spun on her heels, and walked back into the cabin to begin her daily routine. Now if only her husband would get back, everything would be perfect.

  On the way inside she paused to stare once more at the puddle. The amount of blood convinced her the wolverine was most certainly dead or very close to it.

  Most certainly.

  ~*~

  Nate didn’t sleep all night. As the sun crowned the eastern horizon he took hold of the Hawken and stood. Shakespeare and Wind In The Grass were already on their feet and advancing into the field. He moved between them and lightly touched the stock to his shoulder.

  “Wind In The Grass wants to be the one to challenge them,” Shakespeare said. “We’ll follow his lead.”

  Nate nodded. If the young warrior could count coup and take scalps, particularly Blackfeet scalps, it would elevate his status as a warrior immeasurably. The Flathead had proven his courage and reliability by bringing the horses during the battle at the lake; now, Wind In The Grass would go one step farther, would join the ranks of those privileged warriors who had counted coup on their most dreaded enemies. Either that, or he would die trying.

  They advanced twenty yards, spreading out, their weapons ready.

  Nate scanned the huge boulders, his thumb glued to the hammer. Suddenly he saw movement and halted. Four buckskin clad warriors walked into view, all young, all armed with bows and knives and tomahawks, all conversing animatedly, perhaps about their plans for raiding the village.

  The tallest of the Blackfeet gazed out over the grassy tract and halted, barking words to his fellow warriors. Every one stopped, their features betraying their astonishment. Arrows were hastily yanked from quivers.

  Wind In The Grass walked ten more feet. He hefted his bow and hailed them in a mocking tone.

  “What’s he saying?” Nate asked.

  Shakespeare snorted. “He’s telling them he wants to learn whether the Blackfeet are as brave as everyone says, or whether they are all cowards who only attack from ambush or fight women and children.”

  The tall Blackfoot shouted a reply.

  “He just told Wind In The Grass his mother was suckled by a mongrel and his father was afraid of his own shadow,” Shakespeare translated.

  At a gesture from the tall warrior, the Blackfeet started toward them.

  “When will they get to fighting?” Nate asked, every nerve on edge, wishing they would conclude the fight instead of wasting time by shouting insults back and forth.

  “Be patient,” Shakespeare said. “Indians aren’t always in a godforsaken rush like most white men. They take their time and do things right. After the challenges are out of the way, you’ll have all the bloodshed you can handle.”

  Wind In The Grass and the tall Blackfoot exchanged further insults. All the while, the four Blackfeet came nearer and nearer, negating any range advantage the two Hawkens possessed.

  Nate cocked his rifle, his palms feeling clammy, sweat breaking out on his brow. He concentrated on the warrior directly across from him, watching the man’s hands. To his rear a loud fluttering and chirping occurred as a flock of birds took panicky wing from the forest. He thought little of it. Maybe an animal had spooked them, he reasoned.

  Suddenly Wind In The Grass vented a fluttering shriek, his personal war cry, and whipped his bow up.

  The Blackfeet reacted instantly, elevating their own bows.

  At last! Nate took a bead on his target, held the barrel rigid, and fired, the Hawken blasting and bucking in his hands. The warrior had his bow string all the way back when the ball took him in the mouth, twirled him around where he stood, and dropped him in a heap.

  Then everything happened incredibly fast. Nate glimpsed three shafts streaking toward them, heard Shakespeare’s rifle crack and saw a second Blackfoot fall, and pivoted to avoid the shaft whizzing at his chest. To his amazement, another arrow flashed out of nowhere first, narrowly missing his torso. It came from behind them!

  The arrow fired by the Blackfoot flew past a fraction of a second later and Nate glanced at the tree line, not knowing what to expect but certainly not expecting to find Standing Bear and Bad Face, each nocking arrows to their bow strings. In a rush of insight he realized the awful truth. The duo had trailed them from the village and had chosen this most vulnerable of moments to strike, while their backs were turned and they were preoccupied, to eliminate Standing Bear’s rival and achieve their vengeance for the insults Nate had handed them. Conveniently, the deaths would be attributed to the Blackfeet. “Shakespeare! Wind In The Grass!” he bellowed, aware the Flathead wouldn’t be able to understand but hoping Wind In The Grass would look anyway. “Behind us!”

  He began reloading, trying to look every which way at once, appalled by the sight in each direction. One of the Blackfeet was still alive and charging toward them. Shakespeare had seen Standing Bear and Bad Face and was frantically feeding black powder into his rifle. And as he glanced at Wind In The Grass, the young warrior was hit squarely between the shoulder blades by an arrow from the rear.

  Nate dropped to his knees, giving his adversaries less of a profile to aim at, and crammed a ball and patch into the rifle. Looking up, he saw his newfound friend pitch into the grass. The Blackfoot was coming on strong, another shaft ready to fly. So were Standing Bear and Bad Face.

  Shakespeare’s Hawken spoke, and Standing Bear’s malevolent face developed a new hole in the center of the forehead. The Flathead tripped over his own feet and toppled.

  Leaving two foes, Bad Face and the sole remaining Blackfoot.

  Nate raised his rifle, about to fire when Shakespeare cried out in pain and he shifted to see his mentor going down, an arrow sticking from the grizzled mountain man’s chest.

  Shakespeare!

  Livid rage brought Nate to his feet,
whirling as he stood, the Hawken tucked tight to his right shoulder. The bead settled on the Blackfoot’s head and he squeezed off the shot. Not even bothering to verify the result, he whirled again, letting go of the Hawken to claw at both flintlocks, the patter of Bad Face’s moccasins in his ears.

  The hateful Flathead was eight yards away, an arrow drawn back to his cheek, grinning in triumph.

  Nate was a blur. He extended and cocked the pistols, his blood boiling as he fired both at the same instant Bad Face loosed the shaft. His twin balls cored the Flathead’s chest, lifting Bad Face from his feet and hurling him to the ground. Nate felt something tug at his hair, and then the fight was over as abruptly as it had begun. He was the only one standing, shrouded by acrid gunsmoke.

  For a moment he stood there, dazed by the savagery and the toll. He thought of Shakespeare and turned, shocked to discover the mountain man sitting up and glaring at the arrow in his body. “Shakespeare!” he cried, running over. “How bad is it?”

  “It tickles like hell.”

  “Tickles?” Nate repeated in disbelief.

  Shakespeare nodded and twisted to afford a clear view. The arrow had actually struck him on the right side of his chest, penetrating at an angle through the flesh covering the ribs. The barbed point, coated with blood, protruded four or five inches from the back of his buckskin shirt, about level with his shoulder blade. “Give me a hand,” he said, gripping the feathered end of the shaft with both hands.

  “What do you want me to do?” Nate asked.

  “We can’t leave this in,” Shakespeare said, his features flushed. Unexpectedly, he tensed and exerted pressure on the arrow, snapping it off close to his body, gritting his teeth to keep from calling out. The effort weakened him and he sagged.

  “You should have let me do that,” Nate chided him, tucking the pistols under his belt. He squatted and placed a hand on Shakespeare’s shoulder.

  “Pull out the other half,” the mountain man directed.

  “Now?”

  “We could wait for spring, but I might not last that long,” Shakespeare said, mustering a grin. “Do it, please. The sooner it’s out, the sooner we can clean and cauterize the hole.”