Nate squared his shoulders and girded himself.
Drinks Blood came up to him. The others moved to each side. They were holding their knives close to their chests, the blades pointed at the heavens.
Staring at the moon, Drinks Blood spread his arms and gave voice to a singsong chant that went on and on. Now and then the other two chimed in, in unison. Like Shoshone ceremonies, this one had to be conducted in a certain way, at a certain pace. They would not rush things.
Take as long as you want, Nate thought. He would gather his strength and be ready.
The chant ended. Drinks Blood held the Bowie over Nate and turned the blade from side to side so that it gleamed in the moonlight, while he intoned words that must have special meaning. The other two stood with their knives aloft and pointed at the spectral moon.
Then came the moment Nate had been waiting for.
Raising his voice, Drinks Blood sank to his knees. A look of near ecstasy came over him as he held the Bowie with its tip on Nate’s chest, above the heart. He did not look at Nate. He stared fixedly at the knife, at the spot he would open to reach the heart. His dark eyes glittered with inhuman hunger.
None of the Heart Eaters noticed Nate grip the right stake and then grip the left. None of the three seemed to think it strange he showed not the least bit of fear. Frozen with fright, they probably assumed. They were about to learn differently.
Drinks Blood raised the Bowie, his voice rising higher as he raised the knife. When the Bowie was at its apex, Drinks Blood stared at the moon and uttered a piercing shriek echoed by the other two.
With a mighty heave of Nate’s powerful frame, both stakes came out of the ground. He twisted at the waist. The Bowie nicked his back but sank into the earth instead of into his body. Astonishment held the Heart Eaters in momentary paralysis, enabling Nate to slam the stake in his right hand against Drinks Blood’s head. Drinks Blood folded, and the next instant, Nate had replaced the stake with the Bowie.
Nate had to end it quickly, before the warriors thought to skip back out of reach and slay him with arrows. He spun, slicing deep into the legs of the warrior on his right. Almost in the same breath he spun the other way, arcing the Bowie at the abdomen of the man on his other side. The warrior had started to throw himself backward and his body was bent like a bow. The blade bit into his groin instead.
All three were down but they were alive.
Lunging, Nate slashed at the rope binding his right ankle. The hemp parted like strands of wax. He turned to do the same to the rope around his left ankle but had to parry a stab by the warrior he had cut in the groin. Steel rang on iron. Hissing like a serpent, the warrior stabbed again. Nate parried, feinted, and opened the warrior’s arm from wrist to elbow.
Not once had any of the Heart Eaters cried out in pain.
The warrior on Nate’s right turned to crawl to the packs—and a bow and quiver. Nate could not let him reach them. He drove his Bowie into the man’s leg. The big blade went all the way through, glancing off bone. Stiffening, the warrior opened his mouth wide, but made no sound. The force of will it took impressed Nate tremendously.
Drinks Blood lay dazed. The third warrior had drawn back and was bent over, clutching his forearm to his waist, striving to stanch the blood that showered the grass like red rain.
A swift slice, and Nate had freed his other ankle. He pushed up off the ground, or tried to as much as he could with his stiffened legs. The Heart Eater on the right sliced at his chest. Nate blocked the stroke. Then, before the man could recover his balance, Nate grabbed his wrist and pulled so hard, the warrior tumbled forward. A lightning swing, and one of the Heart Eaters was disposed of.
The warrior on Nate’s left had risen. Although severely wounded, he struck again, aiming a terrific blow that, had it landed, would have cleaved Nate from his shoulder to his sternum. But Nate got the Bowie up in time. Their blades met and locked. The warrior seized Nate’s other wrist. Straining, each sought to unbalance the other. The Heart Eater was shorter, but his muscles were as hard as rock, and for a span of some seconds the outcome was undecided. Then Nate shifted and kicked out a sore leg. The warrior stumbled to one knee. Before he could straighten, Nate swung, half severing the man’s neck so that the head flopped and blood gouted in a torrent.
Sucking in deep breaths, Nate stared at his fallen foes. They were formidable fighters, these Heart Eaters. Once again they reminded him of Apaches, and he wondered if there might be a link between the tribes. But no, that couldn’t be, he told himself. Apaches did not scar their faces, or eat human hearts.
A slight sound was Nate’s first inkling he had blundered. He spun, and beheld Drinks Blood almost at the packs. Almost to the bows. Nate could not possibly reach him before Drinks Blood grabbed one. He whirled and raced for the forest. To his horror, he discovered the circulation in his legs had been cut off for too long. The best he could do was lurch woodenly, like a puppet with its strings severed.
Nate willed his legs to go faster and shot a glance over his shoulder. Drinks Blood had notched an arrow to a bow. Even as Nate looked, Drinks Blood loosed the shaft. It was a blur in the night.
Bending, Nate heard the arrow whiz past his ear. It motivated his reluctant legs into doing what they needed to do. He looked back again. Drinks Blood was notching another arrow. This time the warrior wanted to be sure, and took his time.
Nate began weaving as best he could. His legs were regaining their strength but not quickly enough. He looked back, wanting to be ready when Drinks Blood released the shaft.
Drinks Blood already had.
The arrow was nigh invisible in the gloom. Nate threw himself to one side in the hope it would miss. It didn’t. Searing pain racked his side. He nearly fell. A few more loping strides brought him to the timber, and he was in among tall firs. Stopping, he leaned against one.
Burning waves of pain assailed him. Nate reached down, expecting to find the barbed tip of the arrow sticking out of his body. But all it had done was graze him, leaving a furrow above his hip. He was bleeding, but only slightly.
Movement in the moonlight gave Nate a few moments of forewarning that Drinks Blood was after him.
Nate had three choices: stand and fight, knife against bow; run; or do what he did, namely, bound to a cluster of close firs, squirm in among them, and curl into a ball with his arms wrapped around his legs and his cheek tucked to his chest. He acted not a moment too soon.
An onrushing shadow acquired form and substance. Drinks Blood came to a stop near where Nate had leaned against the tree. He raised his head, listening intently, and sniffed several times like a bloodhound seeking fresh scent. He turned left, then right. Moon glow showed his scarred features scrunched in puzzlement. He peered about him, then seemed to come to a decision and sped off into the woods, evidently convinced his quarry was somewhere up ahead.
Nate stayed where he was. He had been lucky. Damned lucky. Winona would never learn how close she came to being a widow. Thus it ever was in the wild. A man never knew from one minute to the next when a new threat would abruptly bring him to the brink of oblivion, or beyond.
Nate slowly raised his head. He hoped to hear a sound, any sound, that would confirm Drinks Blood was still moving east, but except for the wind, the forest was unnaturally still. He must take a chance.
Slowly rising, but staying low, Nate eased from between the firs and glided toward the meadow. The Hawken and his flintlocks should be somewhere near his packs and saddle.
A slight rustle to his rear caused Nate to spin. He thought Drinks Blood was sneaking up on him but the warrior was nowhere to be seen. Hurrying on, he paused just long enough to establish that the two he thought he had killed were lying where he had left them. Then he flew on Mercury’s wings, his back prickling at the prospect of taking an arrow. He passed one body and then the other, spied his shirt, ammo pouch and powder-horn, and hunkered. Give me a little more time, he prayed.
Nate felt like a target painted on a wall. At
any moment Drinks Blood might return. He groped about, sure his weapons were there, but he could not find them. Acutely conscious he was squandering precious time, he searched among the contents of his upended parfleches.
Where could his guns be? Nate fumed. Surely, the Heart Eaters had not destroyed them. He looked under a parfleche. It was then he noticed that his saddle was on its side and not propped up as he had left it. He lifted it and came close to whooping for joy. The flintlocks were underneath.
Never in his whole life had Nate reloaded so fast. It was with an elation akin to pure joy that he held a pistol in each hand and wished Drinks Blood would show himself. Placing the saddle as he had found it, Nate sank to his knees behind it. It was not big enough to hide him, but in the dark Drinks Blood might not notice he was there.
Nerves tingling, Nate watched the tree line to the east. That was where Drinks Blood would appear. Nate would let him get close, so close he could not possibly miss, and squeeze off both pistols.
To the south a wolf howled in lonesome lament and was answered by a kindred spirit to the southwest.
The stars in their celestial orbits moved faster than the passage of time in the meadow. It was taking Drinks Blood much longer than Nate reckoned. He did not understand it. Drinks Blood would not blunder about in the dark forever. The warrior would guess he had been tricked and come on the run.
Nate’s wounds and fatigue began to tell. His eyelids grew leaden. He could scarcely hold up his head. It was possible, just possible, that Drinks Blood had been watching him the whole time and was waiting for him to pass out. The chilling notion erased Nate’s fatigue as effectively as an eraser did chalk on a slate.
Going by the position of the Big Dipper, it was two in the morning when Nate first entertained the thought that Drinks Blood was not going to show. He stayed behind the saddle a while longer, though, because he refused to believe Drinks Blood had given up. There had to be a reason Drinks Blood had not reappeared, but for the life of him, Nate could not imagine what it was.
Finally Nate stood. His legs were stiff again but not as bad as before. The first thing he did was don his shirt against the biting wind. Then he slid his powderhorn and ammunition pouch across his chest.
Taking a blanket, Nate entered the woods to the west. As soon as the foliage closed about him he bore to the left until he came to a thicket. With it at his back and the blanket draped over his shoulders, he sat and watched the meadow until the first pink flush of dawn painted the eastern horizon. Not once was there the slightest suggestion, by sound or movement, that Drinks Blood was anywhere near.
More mystified than ever, Nate tried to put himself in the Heart Eater’s moccasins. He worried that Drinks Blood had gone down the mountain to the valley floor. If so, he must warn Winona and the others. Or was that merely what Drinks Blood wanted him to think? Nate remembered Drinks Blood signing that more warriors were on their way. Could it be that Drinks Blood had gone to hurry them along?
The possibility brought Nate to his feet. He went to the center of the meadow and in the growing light of the new dawn conducted another search. The Hawken had been there the whole time, partially covered by one of the packs the three warriors had opened and emptied, and by trampled grass. He hugged it to him as if it were Winona.
His natural impulse was to gather everything up, but as soon as he found his moccasins and possibles bag, he saddled the bay, climbed on, and made for the pass at a trot. The rising sun was warm on his back.
Since the pass ran from west to east, it was aglow in sunshine. When he came to the body and the boulder, he dismounted and advanced on foot. At the west end the wind was stronger.
The valley below was plunged in shadow. Out of it rose gray wisps from a campfire.
The Heart Eater war party was less than a mile away. As soon as the valley flooded with sunlight they would be on the move.
Nate had an hour, probably less. He retraced his steps to the bay and led it to the east end of the pass. A game trail revealed how Drinks Blood and the other two had climbed to the top. Nate swiftly gained the summit.
Boulders were strewn in a chaotic jumble. Threading through them, Nate came to where the warriors had stood on the rim. Only a few of the boulders were small enough to lift. Nate’s hope of rolling down enough to block the pass was dashed.
Nate turned to continue to the west end. His foot bumped something that moved. He looked down, and was thunderstruck.
Drinks Blood and his friends had done Nate a favor. Not knowing what the keg of black powder was, they had left it lying there instead of breaking it open and scattering the powder. He had a chance now. Tucking the keg under his left arm, he prowled the rim, seeking a crack or crevice. He came to the west overlook.
The sun had banished the shadows to the undergrowth. Smoke no longer rose skyward. The campfire had been extinguished. The Heart Eaters were on their way.
Nate considered dropping the keg on the warriors when they reached the pass. But some might survive the explosion.
It was tempting, oh-so-tempting, to get on the bay and fly to his loved ones so he could be by their side when the war party arrived.
Then Nate came to a boulder about the size of the bay, perched an arm’s-length from the edge. He walked around it, noting how it tilted toward the gap. The angle and proximity suggested an idea. On the side opposite the defile, he knelt and dug in the dirt until he had a hole wide enough and deep enough for the keg. He wedged it tight against the boulder and sat back. If he calculated right, the blast should send the boulder over the side and perhaps bring down part of the wall, as well. All he had to do was light it.
Consternation coursed through Nate with the jolt of a physical blow. He had not brought the fuse! In the time it would take to run to the bay and gallop to the meadow to find it, the war party would be there.
Nate had one recourse, and one only. Removing the keg from the hole, he set the keg upright and drew his Bowie. The thunk of the tip biting into the wood was much too loud for his liking but he kept at it, slivers flying, until he had a hole about the size of his middle finger. Replacing the Bowie in its sheath, he rose partway, carefully cradled the keg, and tilted it so that black powder trickled out. Backing away from the boulder, he created a trail of powder some fifteen feet in length. Longer would be safer, but he sensed he was running out of time.
Quickly, Nate wedged the keg back in the hole. Grabbing the Hawken, he retreated to the end of the powder trail, opened his possibles bag, and took out his fire steel and flint. Hunching over the powder, he struck the steel against the flint. Sparks flew, but none landed on the powder. He tried again. A spark fell where he wanted it to, but the powder did not ignite.
Was it Nate’s imagination or did he hear voices? Harsh gutturals were borne on the breeze. The war party was almost to the pass. Or maybe advance scouts. Either way, he must stop them from making it through.
Beads of sweat broke out on Nate’s brow. From his possibles bag he slid his tinder box and placed a wedge of tinder on top of the black powder. The tinder consisted of a piece of bird’s nest. He held the flint and steel over it. A few sharp strokes, and an ember alighted atop the dry material. A wisp of smoke blossomed. Bending, Nate puffed lightly. The wisp grew, fed by a red ember.
Someone was shouting.
Nate raised up. The shouts were coming from the east end of the pass, not the west. It sounded like Drinks Blood. Was he urging the others to hurry?
Bending low again, Nate puffed a few more times and the ember became a tiny flame. Licking higher, the flame devoured the kindling, giving off more heat in the process. Suddenly the black powder hissed and crackled. Fingers of flame leaped along the trail of black grains toward the keg.
Nate ran. The press of boulders slowed him. He did not look back. A misstep now courted disaster. He covered twenty feet. Thirty. He had put several boulders between him and the one he hoped would plug the pass when the keg exploded. Twin sledgehammers buffeted his ears. The ground heaved
and the pass walls shook.
Nate stumbled, recovered, stumbled again. Careening off a boulder, he pitched onto his side. He saw it.
A great roiling column of smoke and dust and earth and rocks had mushroomed skyward and outward. In the blink of an eye it engulfed him, the dust swirling into his eyes and nose and mouth. Coughing and sputtering and blinking, he tried to rise. Stones and bits of stone pelted him like hail, stinging his head and face and shoulders. He covered his head with his arms.
A tremendous crash shook the pass. More dust and dirt and bits of rock filled the air. There followed a series of gradually smaller crashes, each adding to the choking cloud. Last came a loud clattering and rattling that faded to a sound that reminded Nate of sand being poured from a bucket.
The cloud began to settle. Slapping dust from his buckskins, Nate stood and edged to the rim for a look. Not only had the blast propelled the giant boulder into the pass, but the section of wall below the boulder had shattered and caved in, filling the defile with tons and tons of debris.
The pass was effectively blocked. To clear it would take months of back-breaking labor.
Of Drinks Blood there was no sign.
Within the hour Nate was leading the pack horse down the mountain, anxious for hearth and home. He had done it. His valley, and those he most cared for, were safe.
But as subsequent events were to prove, he could not have been more wrong.
Eleven
A motley collection of hovels that called itself Boomburg had sprouted on the east bank of the Mississippi River well south of St. Louis. Shabby cabins, poorly constructed shacks that looked fit to blow away in the next strong wind, and a few tattered tents and leaky lean-tos fleshed out the scarecrow community of misfits, malcontents, and cutthroats.
Boomburg was a nest of vipers. Decent citizens avoided it like the plague. In a sense, its inhabitants spread a plague of a different order, the social disease of crime and all its many ills. Indeed, it was Boomburg’s reputation as a haven for those who lived outside the law that accounted for the presence of so many two-legged vipers.
Wilderness Double Edition 25 Page 27
