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  Mountain Manhunt

  Before there were laws, taxes and the pollution of so-called civilization, a free man could go to breathe the pure air of liberty in the vast, untamed Rockies. There, Nathaniel King and other rugged mountain men were always willing to lend struggling settlers a helping hand. But when Nate freed Solomon Cain from an Indian death trap, the apparently innocent man repaid his kindness by leaving him stranded in the wilds. Only with the help of a Ute brave who sought vengeance against Cain could Nate set right the mistake he had made. Cain deserved more than death. He deserved wilderness justice!

  Tenderfoot

  Rugged and independent, the mountain men who lived in the savage Rockies needed great courage just to survive. Not a day passed without wild animals, deadly cutthroats or hostile elements threatening to destroy them. To protect their homes and families, Nathaniel King and other settlers taught their sons the skills that would help them battle their enemies. But young Zach King was still a tenderfoot when vicious Indians captured his father. If Zach hadn’t learned his lessons well enough to save him, then Nate’s only hope would be a quick death.

  WILDERNESS DOUBLE EDITION

  13: MOUNTAIN MANHUNT

  14: TENDERFOOT

  By David Robbins Writing as David Thompson

  First Published by Leisure Books in 1993

  Copyright © 1993, 2017 by David Robbins

  First Smashwords Edition: February 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 Narrow Escape, painted by Andy Thomas, and used by permission.

  Andy Thomas Artist, Carthage Missouri

  Andy is known for his action westerns and storytelling paintings and documenting historical events through history.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  WILDERNESS 13 – MOUNTAIN MANHUNT

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  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 14 – TENDERFOOT

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  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

  About Piccadilly Publishing

  Copyright

  About the Author

  WILDERNESS 13

  MOUNTAIN MANHUNT

  To Judy, Joshua, and Shane.

  One

  Nathaniel King was warily descending a gradual slope when he heard a low, wavering moan from somewhere below him. All around him branches were being rustled and bent by strong northwesterly gusts, so he assumed the sound he heard was nothing more than the wind howling among the pines that covered the lower half of the mountain. When the sound was repeated, though, he reined up and cocked his head, listening intently. There had been an odd quality about the noise, and a free trapper abroad in hostile Indian territory could ill afford to ignore any strange sounds. When the moan was repeated for the third time, he became certain it was a human voice and not the wind.

  Squaring his broad shoulders, Nate hefted his Hawken rifle and guided his Palouse in the direction the moan came from. The wind whipped the fringe on his buckskins and stirred his shoulder-length black hair and beard. If he read the signs right, a storm was brewing. By nightfall it would strike.

  Since he was in the heart of Ute country and the Utes had long been after his hair, he checked his many weapons as he advanced. Wedged under his wide brown leather belt, one on either side of the large buckle, were two flintlocks. On his left hip hung a butcher knife, on his right a tomahawk. Crisscrossing his broad chest was a powder horn and an ammo pouch. He was ready for trouble should it come, but he preferred to avoid fighting the Utes if he could.

  Near the bottom he spied a clearing, and at its center the smoldering remains of a campfire. Halting, he surveyed the valley beyond, then focused once more on the clearing. There was no sign of anyone. If the Utes had been there, they must be gone. But who, then, had moaned?

  Yet another pitiable wail drew his attention to a tall fir bordering the east side of the clearing. For a few seconds he saw nothing except deep shadows. Then, with a start, he realized there was a naked man hanging upside down from a rope. This man, who was facing the other way, dangled a good fifteen feet above the ground.

  Nate looked around again for others but saw no one. Half convinced the man was alone, he touched his thumb to the hammer of his rifle and slowly advanced until he reached the edge of the clearing. Fresh tracks told him part of the story. There had been Indians here, seven or eight of them, and not long ago. After stringing up their victim they had ridden off to the southwest.

  Turning to the right, Nate rode around the clearing until he could see the man’s face. Then he stopped. It was a white man, forty or so, lean of build but muscular, his eyes closed, his arms dangling limply, blood dripping from a nasty gash on his forehead. Otherwise he appeared unhurt. “Hello,” Nate ventured softly.

  The man’s eyes snapped open and he looked right and left until he spotted Nate. He blinked, licked his thin lips, and said, “You ain’t no damn Ute.”

  “Luckily for you. I’m surprised they left you alive. Usually they’re not so charitable.” Nate moved closer while constantly scouring the vegetation, not relaxing his guard for an instant.

  “They wanted this coon to hang here for a spell while they went off to tend to some business. They’re fixin’ to come back and finish the job shortly.”

  “They told you this?”

  “I overhead ’em jawin’. Couldn’t make out every word but I know a little of their tongue.” The man gingerly touched his brow. “After one of the bastards walloped me I played possum. I was hopin’ they’d get careless and give me a chance to escape, but they stripped me down and strung me up here with my own rope.” He sadly shook his head. “Hell of a note.”

  “I’ll climb that tree and cut you down.”

  “No need, friend. Just toss me your pigsticker and I’ll take care of it.”

  Nate rode directly under the limb from which the man hung, then introduced himself as he drew his knife.

  “I’m Solomon Cain,” the man revealed, and added with a lopsided grin. “My folks were real Biblical when it came to namin’ their young’uns.”

  “Here,” Nate said, tossing his knife, hilt first, straight up. With a jab of his heels he moved the Palouse to one side in case Cain should miss and the knife should fall back down, but Cain deftly caught it by the dull side of the blade. />
  “I admire a man who knows how to keep his knives sharp,” Cain commented after lightly pressing his thumb to the keen edge. “Scalped many Injuns with this?”

  “A few,” Nate admitted, displeased by the question. Scalping was not a practice he believed in or practiced regularly, even if he was an adopted Shoshone.

  “I never have,” Cain said, and began to slowly ease his torso upward. “Too savage for my tastes.”

  Nate’s estimation of the man rose a notch. He kept one eye on Cain and the other on the valley on the chance the Utes might return ahead of schedule.

  Cain gritted his teeth and raised his hands level with his knees. His face turned beet red, his stomach muscles quivered violently, and suddenly, with a gasp, he sank back down again. “Damned noggin’,” he muttered. “Poundin’ worse than a cannon.”

  “Sure you don’t need my help?”

  “No, thanks. I got myself into this fix, I’ll get myself out,” Cain replied. Again clamping his teeth together, he tilted his head to gaze at his bound ankles, then surged upward with all the strength he could muster. This time his left hand touched his left ankle before the tremendous strain and the irresistible pull of gravity caused him to fall back. “Damn. Damn. Damn,” he mumbled. “If I ever get my hands on Flying Hawk, I’m goin’ to skin him alive.”

  “You know the Ute who did this to you?”

  “Sort of.”

  “How do you ‘sort of’ know someone?”

  “He’s sort of my brother-in-law since I sort of stole his sister for my wife,” Cain said. “Ever since then he’s had it in for me.”

  “I can’t imagine why,” Nate said dryly, amazed by the disclosure. So far as he knew, no other white man had ever taken a Ute woman for his wife simply because the Utes either drove off or killed any whites they found in their territory. While not as bloodthirsty as the widely feared Blackfeet, the Utes were a proud, independent tribe who fiercely prevented any attempts by outsiders to penetrate their domain, and they had been doing this for more years than anyone could remember. During the last century, when the Spanish were spreading their dominion over the southwest and often venturing into the rugged Rockies, the Utes had repeatedly raided Spanish settlements, driving off large numbers of horses in the process. There were some old-timers who claimed the Utes had been among the very first Indians to own the animals that wound up totally changing the Indian way of life, at least for those tribes dependent on the buffalo for their existence.

  Cain had ignored the sarcasm. Tensing his body, he abruptly surged upward and succeeded in grabbing hold of his left ankle. Then, holding fast, he sawed at the knots, parting strand after strand.

  “You’d better. ..” Nate began, about to warn Cain to grab onto the length of rope secured to the tree limb, but before he could complete his sentence the loops around Cain’s ankles parted and the man plummeted earthward.

  Cain tried to flip in midair so he would land on his feet, but he was only halfway around when he struck, hitting hard on his buttocks and rolling end over end until he slammed into the base of a tree.

  Quickly sliding off his gelding, Nate ran over. “Solomon? How badly are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine,” Cain said, grunting as he uncoiled and stood. There was a dark circle on his left shoulder and pine needles were caked to his skin. “Just bruised, is all.” He leaned against the tree and frowned. “It hasn’t been a good day.”

  “So I gather,” Nate responded, gauging the other’s size. “I have a spare pair of leggins you’re welcome to use if you want. They’ll be a little big on you but we can tie them up with some rope.” He spotted his knife on the ground and retrieved it.

  “I don’t want to be a bother.”

  “You’d rather go around naked?”

  “I reckon I wouldn’t,” Cain conceded. He stared out over the verdant valley. “And you’d best hurry. I know my brain’s been addled by the fall, but I swear that’s a dust cloud I see yonder.”

  A glance confirmed there was a party of riders descending a barren hill to the southwest. They were better than half a mile off, yet there was no mistaking the way some of them were energetically using quirts on their mounts and the fact that a few of the riders weren’t wearing shirts.

  “The Utes,” Nate said, and dashed to his horse. It took but a moment to open the proper parfleche and remove his extra leggins, which he immediately carried to his new companion.

  “The devils are comin’ back sooner than I figured,” Cain commented as he stuck first his right leg, then his left into the buckskin britches. “I knew they would! Nothin’ is going the way it should lately.” Swiftly he pulled the leggins all the way up and bunched the waistband in his right fist. “Flying Hawk probably couldn’t wait to roast me alive.”

  “Can you ride?” Nate asked.

  “If I can’t I’ll sprout wings.”

  “Climb on behind me,” Nate directed as he stepped to the Palouse and swung up. “Pegasus can bear both of us for quite a spell. With luck, we’ll lose those Utes.”

  “Pegasus?” Cain repeated. “You gave your horse a name?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “No reason. But I make it a practice never to give a name to something I might have to eat one day.”

  Nate gave the Palouse a pat, then lowered his right arm. “I’d never eat this horse. It was a gift from the Nez Perce, and I’ve never known a finer animal anywhere.”

  “A man who is hungry enough will eat anything,” Cain asserted, taking hold of Nate’s hand. “I should know. I got myself lost once, ran out of food, couldn’t find so much as a chipmunk to shoot, and I wound up eating some bugs I found under a log.”

  The mere thought of swallowing a mouthful of crunchy insects made Nate’s stomach churn. He hauled Cain up behind him, then clucked Pegasus into a trot, bearing to the northeast, out across the valley. There were plenty of trees and thickets to afford cover, enabling him to cross to a stark mountain on the other side without being seen by the Utes. Angling upward, he climbed high enough to clearly view their back trail, and beheld a sight that made his blood race. A quarter of a mile off were the seven Utes, coming on fast. “One of them must be a good tracker,” he commented.

  “Flying Hawk is. His sister claims he can track an ant over solid rock.”

  “Let’s hope she’s mistaken,” Nate said. “Hang on!” They were galloping to beat the wind when they reached the bottom and cut sharply to the right. Nate wisely hugged the mountain until a curve hid most of the valley from sight. Then he veered to the right to scale a ridge. In a stand of aspens at the top he drew rein and twisted in the saddle. “Sit tight while I’ll discourage them.”

  Cain glanced at the Hawken. “I’d rather keep ridin’ if it’s all the same to you.”

  “If I kill one or two the rest might give up.”

  “You said your horse can outrun them.”

  “For a while. But why run Pegasus into the ground when a few shots might end this right here and now?” Nate said.

  “You might hit Flying Hawk.”

  “So?”

  “So his sister would never forgive me.”

  Annoyed and baffled, Nate reluctantly resumed their flight. He didn’t know what to make of Cain. One minute the man wanted to kill Flying Hawk. The next he wanted to spare the Ute from harm. Any sane man would want Flying Hawk dead, particularly if the Ute was after Cain’s scalp as Cain contended. Then there was this business of the sister. Why was Cain so concerned about the feelings of a woman who must despise him terribly for spiriting her away from her people? None of it made any sense to him, and he speculated on whether or not Solomon Cain might be touched in the head.

  It wasn’t a common condition, but it wasn’t all that rare either. Quite a few trappers had been overwhelmed by the devastating hardships of life in the Rockies and succumbed to the secret terrors that fester in men’s souls. He remembered one trapper in particular who had sunk to the depths of depravity, going so far as to become
a cannibal when during the middle of an especially severe winter the man and his Flathead wife ran out of food and they were unable to hunt because of snow over ten feet deep outside their isolated cabin. The trapper had done the only thing he could to survive, and forever after he had borne the mental scars. Crazy George, they’d all called him. Not until much later did the other members of the trapping fraternity learn why he had gone over the edge.

  Such gruesome thoughts disturbed Nate greatly. He didn’t like the notion of riding with someone who might see fit to yank out his own knife and slit his throat at any moment. Then he reminded himself that he had no proof that Cain was crazy. And there might well be a perfectly logical explanation for Cain’s behavior. Still, he rode with his elbows tucked close to his body so that Cain couldn’t grab for his knife or tomahawk without him being aware of it.

  For half an hour he pushed Pegasus as hard as he dared, deliberately sticking to the roughest terrain and the hardest ground. When he saw rocky tracts, he crossed them. When he came to a narrow stream he entered it and rode downstream for a mile before riding out onto the bank. Always he stayed shy of the skyline. During his time with the Shoshones he had learned to ride as they did, and he now employed every trick they had taught him.

  Presently he climbed a ridge for a bird’s-eye panoramic view of the countryside. He was elated to discover there was no sign of the Utes. Yet, anyway. “Maybe we’ve lost them,” he mentioned hopefully.

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” Cain said. “They want Smoky Woman back in the worst way. But I’ll never let ’em get her.” He paused. “I love her, King, with all my heart.”

  Nate was tempted to ask if the Ute woman felt the same about Cain, but he decided not to. One of the first lessons a trapper learned was to never, ever meddle in the personal affairs of others. Then too, he knew how he would feel if anyone had the audacity to question his love for his own wife, Winona, a lovely Shoshone.

  “We should keep goin’,” Cain advised. “Once I know for sure we’ve given ’em the slip, I’ll guide you to where Smoky Woman and I are livin’. It’s not all that far. She’ll be worried sick if I don’t make it back soon.”