Frowning distastefully, Nate moved behind him and gingerly grasped the arrow below the point, the blood coating his palms. He feared his hands would be too slippery to maintain a firm purchase, but when he gave the shaft a sharp wrench, it slid right out.
Shakespeare gasped and arched his back, then exhaled loudly and said, “Thanks. You’d better check on Wind In The Grass and the bastards we fought before we finish up with me.”
“Be right back,” Nate promised, and sprinted toward their Flathead friend, dreading what he would find.
The arrow had transfixed Wind In The Grass from back to front, evidently puncturing the heart. A pool of blood rimmed the warrior’s body, spreading outward. His eyes were open, lifelessly fixed on the grass that had been his namesake.
Profound sadness formed a lump in Nate’s throat. Why had Standing Bear and Bad Face gone after Wind In The Grass? he wondered, and reached an obvious conclusion; they hadn’t wanted any witnesses. He thought of Flower Woman and Roaring Mountain and tears moistened his eyes.
Not now! he chided himself, gazing out over the field at the bodies dotting the ground. He must make certain all of their enemies were dead. Quickly reloading the flintlocks, he went from corpse to corpse. Not a flicker of life among them.
“Wind In The Grass?” Shakespeare inquired as he walked back.
Nate simply shook his head.
“Damn. That’s a shame,” Shakespeare said morosely, his hand pressed over the blood stain on his shirt.
“What will happen to his wife and son?”
“Flower Woman is a fine woman. Most likely another warrior will take her into his lodge and raise the boy as his own. Don’t worry. Indian women are tough. They know all about making do.”
Making do? Yes, maybe that was the best way to describe the life of someone who had lost the person they loved most in all creation. Nate headed for the woods. “Don’t move. I’ll have a fire started in no time.”
He set about collecting broken limbs, preoccupied with thoughts of life and death, love and emptiness, happiness and sorrow, and Winona. Of all the worst possible fates that could befall him, being deprived of her company for the rest of his life would be the ultimate injustice. She had become as much a part of him as the air he breathed and the water he drank. Her love was more priceless than all the gold ever mined and the most expensive diamonds ever produced.
Unbidden, memories of New York filled his mind. He recalled married friends who had often neglected their wives and families to go off with their chums, carousing or gambling to all hours. Back then, he’d admired their independence and laughed at their antics. Now, he saw them for what they had been.
Soon he had enough limbs and hastened to Shakespeare’s side. “How are you holding up?”
The mountain man was sitting quietly, staring at a distant majestic mountain. “Just fine. How about you?”
“Me? I wasn’t hit,” Nate said, depositing the branches at his feet.
“No, but I saw the look on your face a while ago. Were you thinking about Winona?”
Nate glanced at him in surprise. “Do you read thoughts now?”
Shakespeare shook his head. “I would be thinking of her if I was in your shoes. As soon as I’m patched up, head for home.”
“First I’ll drop you off at the village,” Nate said. “Blue Water Woman should have you as fit as a fiddle in no time. Bring her for a visit when you can. I’m sure Winona will be delighted to have the company.”
“I bet she will,” Shakespeare agreed. “The poor woman must be bored to death sitting around that cabin with nothing to do but talk to you.”
Chapter Nineteen
Her husband was on his way home!
Winona stood on the west shore of the lake, an empty bucket in her left hand, and gazed northward. She couldn’t explain exactly how she knew, but she knew. In her bones she felt she would soon be holding her man in her arms once again, and she was ecstatic. The baby reacted to her joy by giving her a good, solid kick.
She knelt at the water’s edge and dipped in the bucket. Since the incident with the wolverine two days ago, the tranquility of her life at their humble cabin had been undisturbed. She had finished sewing the pants for Nate and was trying to decide what to make him next. A new hat would be nice. The one he occasionally wore had been taken from a dead Blackfoot warrior named Mad Dog, the same warrior who was directly responsible for the deaths of her mother and father. She disliked seeing it on her husband’s head; it brought back too many acutely painful memories. If she made him a new one, they could get rid of Mad Dog’s.
Nate had caught hundreds of beaver during the last trapping season, and the pelts were now safely cached out behind the cabin. He intended to take them to the next rendezvous and sell them for the highest dollar they could command, but she knew he wouldn’t mind if she took a few to make the hat.
Using both hands, she lifted the almost full bucket from the cold lake and stood. Nearby floated a flock of ducks, eyeing her hungrily. Sometimes she brought them food and they would gather within an arm’s length of her legs to quack incessantly in the hope of getting a morsel. “Not today, little ones,” she told them, grinning, and headed for the cabin.
Soon darkness would descend. Half of the sun had already disappeared, and the lengthening shadows of early evening were spreading out over more and more ground, shrouding the undergrowth in gloom.
Winona hummed as she retraced her steps. The horses had been fed, the cabin cleaned, and she had a fresh supply of water to last through the night. She looked forward to relaxing and getting a good night’s sleep.
Once inside she locked the door, placed the bucket on the table, and went to the window. A little air would be delightful, she reasoned, and rolled the flap all the way up, securing it with the strips of rawhide tacked to the top.
She busied herself making supper, boiling a grouse she had killed with an accurately aimed stone that very morning. After pouring more water into the big pot above the fire, she stirred the meat and herbs she had mixed together before going to the lake. The tantalizing aroma made her mouth water.
Winona pulled the chair closer to the fireplace and took a seat, glad to be off her feet. Her stamina wasn’t what it used to be, a condition that would remedy itself after the baby was born. She placed her hands on her tummy, waiting for the infant to squirm, and closed her eyes. Lassitude pervaded her body. The soft crackling of the fire, the light bubbling of the water, and the faint breeze stroking her hair lulled her into dreamland.
Moments later she opened her eyes. Or so she believed until she noticed the fire had diminished considerably. Even so, the room was much darker than it should be during daylight hours. Twisting, she gazed out the window and was startled to see night had claimed the land while she slept. How long had she been out?
She rose and inspected the cooking pot. Half of the water in it had evaporated, indicating she had been asleep for hours. Chuckling, she went to the door and reached for the latch. An armful of branches would have the fire roaring again in no time.
From the horse pen there suddenly arose a series of frightened whinnies as first one animal, then another, expressed building fear.
Winona hesitated, her intuition blaring a warning in her brain. “It cannot be,” she said softly, and then felt her blood become icy as a chilling, all too familiar snarl came from outside.
The wolverine was back.
She scooped the flintlock into her hands and backed up a few paces. Some creatures, it seemed, were too persistent for their own good. Once it began tearing at the door, she’d fire another ball into its stocky body. This time, perhaps, she would end the threat once and for all.
Seconds later the wolverine obliged her by slashing at the door in a frenzy, growling the whole time. The door trembled but held.
Winona inched closer. She knelt and lowered her right eye to the hole made by the ball the other night. Through it she glimpsed the animal’s furry form in perpetual motion as its claw
s raked deep grooves in the wood.
The wolverine stopped. She could see a shoulder—or was it a leg?—until the beast shifted position. One of its beady eyes appeared at the other end of the hole, balefully regarding her, and she recoiled in surprise.
Snarling, the wolverine renewed its attempt to get inside.
She leveled the rifle, holding the barrel at the height she estimated the beast’s head would be, and braced herself to fire. From the din the wolverine created, it sounded as if the door was being reduced to kindling. If she didn’t shoot soon, the bloodthirsty killer might get inside.
Winona fired, putting a hole inches to the left of the previous one. The blast hurt her ears, the pungent gunsmoke stung her eyes and nostrils. On its heels came absolute quiet as both the wolverine and the horses fell silent. She pushed to her feet and moved toward the table to reload.
Had she done it? Was the beast dead?
She picked up the powder horn, her eyes on the door, unable to detect any movement beyond. Out of the corner of her left eye, however, she did register motion and heard a thud. She pivoted to find the source and nearly dropped the powder horn as consternation gripped her soul.
Framed in the window, its shoulders partly through, its front legs dangling over the sill, was the living embodiment of primal ferocity. Exercising agility that rivaled a mountain lion’s, the wolverine had leaped to the window and was now clinging fast. The moment she saw it, the beast growled and began pumping its rear legs to get a firmer purchase so it could push inside.
Winona knew she must stop it at all costs. If she could knock it off the sill and fasten the flap, she’d gain the time she needed to reload the flintlock. Placing the powder horn on the table, she dashed toward the window, firming her hold on the rifle and lifting it overhead to use as a club.
The wolverine went into a frenzy, snapping and snarling as it eased its body higher, close to gaining entry.
In three strides Winona was there and driving the rifle’s stock into the beast’s forehead. The wolverine recoiled but didn’t lose its grip. She smashed it again, narrowly missing having her forearms torn open.
More of the glutton squeezed inside.
No! Winona mentally shrieked, and swung the rifle overhand like a club, the stock crunching into the wolverine’s face. Blood sprayed from above its right eye, but it never flagged. If anything, its rear legs worked harder.
She realized the skull was simply too thick to damage and ran to the table. Another shot was her only hope. She started reloading, glancing countless times at the window as her fingers flew.
The wolverine had half of its body over the sill and was striving to get a purchase with its rear legs. Blood seeped from the gash above its eye and saliva dribbled from its open mouth. Its tapered teeth glistened in the firelight.
Winona fed the powder into the flintlock and went to put in the ball and patch. The futility of her act hit home. In moments the thing would be inside, well before she could get the gun loaded, and she would be completely at its mercy. She spun, casting about for something to use as a weapon. On a peg above the bed hung her knife, but she would have to cross the room to reach it and by then the wolverine would gain entry. Much closer was the fireplace.
In desperation she tossed the flintlock onto the table and dashed over, stooping so she could grab the unlit end of a burning branch and yank it from the fire. She whirled, horrified to see the wolverine’s haunches were almost through. Holding the firebrand out from her body, she charged.
The wolverine, intent on the floor below as it went to jump, looked up upon hearing her footfalls.
Winona voiced an inarticulate cry of rage and rammed the firebrand into its left eye, the flames searing the orb and scorching the hair on contact. Hissing, the wolverine recoiled, and she promptly speared the firebrand into the other eye. The smell of burning flesh filled the air.
With a violent jerk of its hips, the wolverine tore loose of the window and dropped to the floor. Its vision blurred by the searing flames, it tried to focus while snarling its defiance and swinging its front paws.
Winona barely jumped back in time. The wolverine somehow pinpointed her position and closed in, snapping at her legs. Again she evaded those razor teeth, but in doing so she tripped and fell onto her back directly in its path. The impact jarred her body, making the baby kick.
The baby!
She grit her teeth, determined to defend the infant with her last breath, and scrambled to her knees. The wolverine opened its mouth wide and sprang. In a sheer reflex action, she drove the firebrand into the beast’s mouth, driving the branch in as far as it would go, and then frantically threw herself to the rear to avoid the wolverine’s claws.
The glutton went berserk, thrashing and spinning as it tried to pry the branch from its mouth, its claws unable to get a grip. Blood cascaded over its lips.
Gagging and sputtering, the wolverine smacked into the wall and halted, its side heaving, shaking its head vigorously.
Winona was afraid it would attack again. While it wouldn’t be able to bite her, those wicked claws could tear her to ribbons. She backed up until she bumped into something, and glancing over her shoulder she saw the chair she had sat in. Pivoting, she grabbed the arms, then faced the wheezing predator, just as the wolverine mustered its strength and bounded across the floor toward her. She swung the chair with all her might at the very instant the beast sprang.
~*~
The big black stallion was flecked with sweat when Nate reached the top of a rise to the north of his cabin and broke into a broad smile. Home, at last! He’d ridden like a madman to reach Winona, pushing the stallion to its limits, and in ten minutes he would be hugging her tight.
He goaded the stallion down the rise, and once he hit level ground broke into a gallop again. No smoke wafted from the chimney, which struck him as odd. Normally, Winona liked to keep a fire going on chilly days and the February thaw was about over. The temperature last night had dipped into the low twenties, at least, and not warmed much during the day.
Anxiety gnawed at his mind like a beaver on a tree, bringing all of his worries to the forefront. What if something had happened to her? he speculated, and felt a twinge of terror.
Please, no.
He threaded among the trees at a rash speed, angling at the front of the cabin, and he was still a couple of dozen yards off when he noticed the door didn’t seem quite right. It took him a few seconds to realize the reason, and when he saw the distinct claw marks and the deep grooves in the wood he felt lightheaded.
Something had tried to get in.
The stallion was still in motion when Nate vaulted out of the saddle, the Hawken clenched in his right hand, and sprinted madly to the door. He hesitated when his fingers touched the latch, fearful of what he might find within. Swallowing hard, he threw the door wide and leaped inside.
All appeared in order, but the cabin was empty. The bed had been made, the chairs neatly arranged around the table, and leaning against the wall was her flintlock.
Where was she?
Confused, he took a step, then heard light laughter to his rear.
“Welcome home, husband.”
Nate spun, rejoicing at the sight of his beloved standing in the doorway, her eyes aglow with affection, an impish grin creasing her full lips, her hands held behind her back. He reached her in two long strides and swept her into his arms, choked with emotion at their reunion. “Winona,” he said breathlessly.
“It is nice of you to remember my name,” she responded playfully. “You were gone so long, I thought you might have forgotten.”
“Never,” Nate stated, and tenderly kissed her. “I never stopped thinking about you for a minute.”
“How is Shakespeare?” Winona asked, trying to maintain a casual conversation with moisture rimming her eyes and her voice quavering.
“He’s taking a Flathead woman as his wife,” Nate disclosed, “just as soon as he mends. A Blackfoot arrow caught him in the side.”
“You fought the Blackfeet?”
“A couple of times,” Nate said. “I’ll tell you all about it later.” He nodded at the door. “First tell me what happened here. Why is that door in the shape it’s in?”
Winona grinned. “Mice.”
“Be serious.”
“Big mice.”
“Why won’t you tell me?” Nate inquired. “What are you trying to hide?”
“Nothing,” Winona said. “But I know you. I know how upset you can become over things. I will tell you after you have had a chance to rest and eat.”
Knowing better than to buck her when she had made her mind up, Nate sighed and touched her belly. “How is our baby?”
“Fine. He kicks all the time now.”
Nate beamed. “I can hardly wait.”
“Me too,” Winona said, and gave him an ardent kiss that lingered on and on. At last she drew her head back and said, “I have a surprise for you.”
“What kind of surprise?”
“A gift.”
“When do I get it?”
In response, Winona brought her hands from behind her back and held out the hat she had worked on every waking moment since the chair had saved her life. “Here.”
“Well, I’ll be,” Nate said, delighted. He leaned the Hawken against the wall and took her present, running his fingers through the soft, dark brown fur. “You’ve done a marvelous job,” he complimented her, wishing he’d had the foresight to bring her something.
Winona brightened. “Thank you. I worked very hard to make it the best hat I have ever made.”
“It’s not beaver,” Nate commented, examining the fur carefully, his brow creasing in contemplation. “In fact, it’s not like any other fur I’ve seen close up. What exactly is this made of?”
“Carcajou.”
“Carca—” Nate began, and glanced down at the door. He blanched, his mouth going slack, and then embraced her. For the longest time they simply stood there, cheek to cheek, each aware of the other’s heart pounding rapidly, oblivious to the world around them. He finally broke the silence by saying, ever so softly, “Never again.”
Wilderness: Vengeance Trail/ Death Hunt (A Wilderness Western Book 4) Page 14
