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  Winterkill

  Savage and dangerous, the unexplored Rockies hid threats that could kill even the most experienced mountain men. And any greenhorn unlucky enough to get stranded in a wilderness blizzard faced a brutal death. Settlers like Nathaniel King had the survival skills needed to live through the fierce winter storms, and they willingly helped any stranded traveler. But when Nate took in a pair of strangers who had lost their way in the snow, their kindness was repaid with vile treachery. If King wasn’t careful, he and his young family would not live to see another spring.

  Blood Truce

  Under constant threat of Indian attack, a handful of white trappers and traders lived short, violent lives, painfully aware that their next breath could be their last. With only raw courage to aid them, Nathaniel King and other pioneers braved the savage Rockies to claim the freedom they found there. But when a deadly dispute among rival tribes blew up into a bloody war, Nate had to make peace between the enemies—or he and his young family would be the first to lose their scalps.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  WILDERNESS 15: WINTERKILL

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  WILDERNESS 16: BLOOD TRUCE

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue

  Piccadilly Publishing

  Copyright

  WILDERNESS DOUBLE EDITION

  15: WINTERKILL

  16: BLOOD TRUCE

  By David Robbins Writing as David Thompson

  First Published by Leisure Books in 1993

  Copyright © 1993, 2017 by David Robbins

  First Smashwords Edition: May 2017

  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 Company Men, painted by Don Stivers, and used by permission.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Mike Stotter

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  WILDERNESS 15:

  WINTERKILL

  To Judy, Joshua, and Shane

  Chapter One

  The regal Rocky Mountains were cloaked in a thick mantle of gleaming snow. Every boulder, every tree, was covered by the white blanket. From out of the northwest blew a gusty wind that stirred the surface of this pristine natural wonderland, creating swirling sprays of fine white mist. Other than the subdued whispering of the wind and the rustling of the whipping snow, there was no sound. Gone were the scampering chipmunks and chattering squirrels, the chirping birds and the yipping coyotes. The animals knew better than to be abroad when winter had the Rockies in its fierce icy grip.

  Nate King also knew better, but he had no choice. He was a free trapper by trade, and he lived in a remote corner of the vast mountains with his Shoshone wife, Winona, his young son, Zach, and his infant daughter, Evelyn. Because of them he was braving the cold and the formidable terrain in search of large game; their supply of food was critically low. Unless he brought back fresh meat soon, they would be in dire straits before another week went by.

  Buckskins covered Nate’s muscular form. A beaver hat and a heavy buffalo robe insulated him from the worst of the biting chill. Moccasins, wrapped round with strips from an old blanket, protected his feet.

  Nate idly reached up and scratched his thick beard, which he always allowed to grow longer and thicker during the colder months. Below him stretched a meandering valley. The only sign of movement was in the sluggish stream that cut the valley floor into two halves. If there were black-tailed deer or elk down below, they were keeping well hidden.

  Moving with extreme care, Nate descended the slope he had been traversing, the reins held firmly in his right hand. Clasped in the crook of his left elbow was his trusty Hawken. Under his robe, lodged under his wide brown leather belt, were two flintlock pistols. On his right hip rested a tomahawk, on his left a large butcher knife. A powder horn, an ammo pouch, and a possibles bag completed the inventory of articles he usually carried on his person. The rest of his meager provisions were stored in the twin parfleches that hung over the back of his sturdy black stallion, right behind the saddle.

  Nate was two days out from his cabin, to the north of his ordinary haunts. He knew there were many secluded valleys to be found here, and in one of them he hoped to bag the meat his family needed. Consequently, as he neared the base of the mountain, he worked his fingers back and forth inside the bulky fur mittens covering them to insure his hands would be warm and limber when it came time to use his rifle.

  The almost total lack of noise proved unsettling. Nate was accustomed to the myriad calls and cries of the abundant wildlife, to the constant sighing of the trees and the grass. The absence of familiar sounds lent the sea of snow an alien aspect. Underneath, locked in frozen slumber, was the vibrant land he loved so much, the land that had claimed his soul just as the lovely Winona had claimed his heart.

  Although no one would know it to look at him, Nate King was New York born and bred. A product of the bustling city, he had learned to cherish the savage wilderness. He had also done what few other white men had been able to accomplish; he had adapted to the harsh demands of life in the Rockies as superbly as the Indians whose ways he so admired.

  Grizzly Killer was the name the Indians called him, courtesy of a noted Cheyenne warrior who had once seen him slay a huge silvertip with just a knife. Few men, white or Indian, could boast of such a feat. So now the friendly tribes, the Shoshones, Flatheads, Nez Percé, and the Crows, all knew him by that name, as did the hostile tribes, those devoted to the extermination of all whites, namely the Blackfeet, the Piegans, the Utes, and others.

  Nate reached the valley floor and made toward the stream. The stallion’s hoofs clumped dully in the deep snow and its breath formed small puffy clouds in the crisp air. His own breath did likewise, and occasionally, if he carelessly left his lips parted for too long, it felt as if his mouth had been frozen solid. He had to repeatedly open and close it and rub his lips with his mittens to restore sensation.

  A low gurgling came from the gently bubbling stream. Only the water in the center flowed freely. Along both borders hung strips of ice that would gradually widen with each passing day. Eventually, the stream would become covered with a thick sheet if a spell of warm weather didn’t provide relief from the frigid arctic weather first.

  Nate moved along the west bank, his keen green eyes roving over both sides, seeking sign that deer or elk had come to drink. Once he found fresh tracks, he would follow them, and with a little luck he’d have the meat he needed before nightfa
ll.

  Half a mile into the valley, as Nate drew abreast of a thick stand of pines, he spotted a disturbed area in the snow ahead. Jabbing his heels into the stallion’s flanks, he trotted closer, then reined up in consternation.

  The snow had been torn up by the passage of a dozen horses that had emerged from the pines, stopped at the stream to drink, and then turned up the valley, heading for the far end. Two of the horses, as the hoofprints clearly indicated, had been shod; the rest had not.

  Nate scanned the gleaming expanse of snow but saw no sign of the large party. His mind was racing as he pondered the implications. Since there were no other free trappers living in the region, and the company men were all down in the low country wintering over at Fort Laramie, the tracks must have been made by Indians. Yet if so, Nate mused, what were two white men doing in the party, as the shod hoofs showed was the case? Were they trappers who preferred to live with Indians? That was possible but unlikely since few of the trappers bothered to have their horses shod. They rode unshod mounts, Indian fashion.

  Moving on, Nate studied the trail. Another possibility occurred to him and made him grip the Hawken a little tighter. There was a chance the band was composed of hostiles, and they might have stolen the two shod horses from white men they’d slain. Should they spot him, he’d be in danger of suffering the same fate. But Nate pressed on anyway. If he had any common sense, he wryly told himself, he’d go elsewhere and leave the mysterious riders to mind their own affairs. His curiosity, though, wouldn’t let him. He had to find out who these riders were and what they were doing in that particular area.

  The tracks wound into high hills beyond the valley. Here Nate slowed, every nerve tingling, alert to the slightest sounds and vaguest smells. The hills were heavily forested, many of the trees stooped under the heavy weight of the snow. West of them reared a towering peak. All appeared tranquil, yet Nate knew how deceptive appearance could be.

  It was the stallion that forewarned him. They were skirting the base of a hill dotted with massive boulders when the horse jerked its head up, nostrils flaring. Nate sniffed loudly, testing the wind. Seconds later he detected the faint, acrid scent of wood smoke. He stopped and dismounted, then tied the reins to the branch of a handy evergreen and advanced up a short incline. At the rim he hunkered down to peer over.

  The band had camped in a sheltered nook several hundred yards away. Flanked by sheer slopes on two sides, it afforded excellent protection from the wind. Nate could see the twelve horses tied in a row to the north of the fire. Bustling about were a number of warriors, while others huddled near the dancing flames. The Indians were too far off for him to identify so, moving into the trees to his right, Nate crept closer.

  Soon voices and laughter could be heard. The warriors were relaxed, no doubt feeling secure in their sheltered hideaway, which worked in Nate’s favor. They wouldn’t be as vigilant as usual, enabling him to get close without being seen.

  The snow also helped immensely. Nate’s measured footfalls were totally silent, and the many drifts offered plenty of concealment. His main worry was inadvertently exposing himself for even a few seconds since his dark robe would stand out in stark contrast to the surrounding background of shimmering white. Overhead the sun blazed, yet the day might as well have been overcast for all the warming effect it had.

  By exercising stealth an Apache would have envied, Nate drew within fifteen yards of the encampment. Lying on his stomach behind a mound of snow, he removed his beaver hat and warily eased his head out far enough to see what was going on. The Indians, he now realized, were Bloods, staunch allies of the dreaded Blackfeet. He counted ten braves all told, and wondered where the last two might be. Then he heard a new voice raised in anger.

  “Give us something to eat and drink, for God’s sake! It’s been two days now!”

  Startled, Nate glanced to the north and was shocked to see a pair of people lying bound on the exposed ground, two whites, no less, and one of them was a woman! He gaped, not because of the color of their skin, but because they wore clothes typical of those who lived in cities and towns back in the States. The woman had on a dress under an ankle-length coat, the man a suit and a coat sporting a fur collar. None of their garments were practical for wilderness travel. The two were as out of place there as a grizzly would have been strolling the streets of New York City or Philadelphia.

  A score of questions filtered through Nate’s mind: Who were they? What were they doing in the mountains in the dead of winter? How had they managed to get themselves caught by the Bloods?

  Nate saw a burly warrior stand and walk from the fire to the captives. The brave barked angry words in the Blood tongue, then hauled off and kicked the male captive in the ribs, doubling the man over in agony.

  “Leave him alone!” the woman screamed defiantly. “Why must you insist on tormenting us so? We’ve done nothing to you.”

  The warrior stepped to her side and raised a hand as if to slap her. Instead of cringing in fear, the woman held her head higher and met his glare with one of her own. After several seconds the Blood merely grunted, lowered his arm, and returned to the fire.

  Nate, taking his hat in his left hand, worked his way northward. He wasn’t quite sure what he could do to help the pair, but he must do something. The Bloods were probably heading to their village. Once there, the white woman would be taken in by one of the warriors and forced to be his wife whether she liked the notion or not. The man faced a worse end; he’d be tortured until he died, made to endure a horrible, lingering death.

  A log piled high with snow lay near the captives. Behind this Nate halted to listen.

  “Elden? Elden? How bad is it?” the woman was asking.

  “The damn devil nearly broke my ribs,” responded the man hoarsely. “My stomach is queasy too. I fear I might be sick at any minute.”

  “I’d like to get my hands on a pistol! I’d teach these red barbarians not to abuse us!”

  “Don’t do anything else to antagonize them, Selena. You can see how they are.”

  “Are we supposed to give up hope then? Let them have their dirty way with us?” Selena muttered something under her breath, concluding with, “I’ll be damned if I’ll give up without a fight! With my dying breath I’ll resist them if need be.”

  Nate found himself admiring the woman’s gumption. He risked lifting his head high enough to peek over the log. Thankfully, none of the warriors were paying the least bit attention to the captives. Some were collecting wood, others were intent on one of their number who was skinning a rabbit. Nate glanced at the captives, taking their measure.

  Up close, the woman was quite attractive. Shoulder-length brown hair framed an oval face distinguished by full rosy lips and sparkling blue eyes. The man had black hair and lackluster dark eyes. His face was tinged by a hint of corpulence, his chin fleshy and bulging, and his suit swelled around the waist.

  “I’ve been working on these cords,” Elden now commented, “but it’s useless. If only I could get to my knife.”

  Nate saw that their arms had been bent behind them and their wrists lashed to their ankles with cord made from buckskin. He thought of slipping them his knife, but suddenly a warrior by the fire stood, so Nate dropped below the log again. Soft footsteps came nearer. Then the warrior spoke gruffly and there was an odd sort of sound, a muffled plop, followed by hearty laughter as the Blood moved off.

  “He can’t mean what I think he means,” Elden said forlornly.

  “You wanted something to eat. Help yourself.”

  Propping his elbows under him, Nate took a quick look-see. Lying in a small pile beside Elden was the rabbit’s bloody hide, its four severed feet, and several raw strips of stringy flesh. Since it was doubtful any of the Bloods understood English, he figured the warriors must have guessed why Elden had been squawking and shown their contempt for his display of weakness in this manner. Elden now had his thick lips scrunched up distastefully, while Selena was staring at the pile in simmering indigna
tion. She abruptly looked up, straight at the log, and her mouth went slack in astonishment. Instantly Nate flattened, fearing she would cry out and give his presence away. But there was only silence for perhaps ten seconds. Then Elden spoke.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” Selena mumbled. “Why?”

  “You had the most peculiar look there for a few moments, as if you were the one who was going to be violently ill, not I. Try eating some snow. It might help settle your stomach.”

  “What do we do?”

  “I don’t understand. Do in relation to what?” Elden sighed. “There’s nothing we can do unless we get free, and we can’t do that with these damn savages watching us like hawks all the time.”

  “I wasn’t talking to you,” Selena said softly.

  “What? Then who?”

  “The man behind the log.”

  Nate heard the sound of someone moving.

  “Don’t turn, you dunderhead!” Selena said. “Do you want the Indians to know someone is out there?”

  “But—” Elden began excitedly.

  “Don’t talk. Just lie there and act as if nothing is happening,” Selena advised. Her voice acquired an insistent tone, and Nate knew she was addressing him. “I’ll ask you again, sir. What do we do? I saw part of your beard, so I know you’re white, like us. Surely you’ll help us escape from these fiends, won’t you?”

  Nate edged to the end of the log and cupped a hand to his mouth. “I’ll be back after dark,” he whispered. “Be ready.”

  There was a gasp, apparently from Elden. “I thought you were imagining things, Selena!” He paused. “Who are you, mister? Are you alone? Please save us. Please. I don’t think I can take much more of this brutal treatment. I—”

  “Stop blubbering,” Selena said sharply. “Bite your lip if you have to, but keep your mouth shut. We mustn’t do anything to attract those Indians over here.”