Wilderness Double Edition 11 Read online

  “Don’t move, Nate,” Simon whispered. “It’s a bull, and it’s looking right at us.”

  Nate could hear the thump-thump-thump of the animal’s heavy hooves tearing into the soil. It gave him a fair idea of how close the monster was, of the peril they were in. “What about its head?” he whispered back.

  “Its head?” Simon repeated, perplexed. “The head is on its shoulders, right where it should be.”

  “No. I meant, does the bull have its head up or down?” Nate asked urgently.

  “Up.” Simon didn’t see what that had to do with anything. He sucked in a breath as the buffalo took a step toward them. If it came at them, he would shout to try and lure it away from the trapper.

  “Keep your eyes on it,” Nate said. “Buffalo lower their heads when they’re making ready to charge. We’ll have a second or two to act. Give a yell and I’ll draw it off while you head for the hills.”

  Simon stared at the trapper in amazement, ignoring King’s admonition. The man had been blinded and was virtually helpless. Yet he offered to divert the bull so Simon could get away! What manner of men were these mountaineers, as they liked to call themselves? he mused. Did they not know the meaning of fear?

  Then the bull rumbled loudly deep in his barrel chest. Simon swung around and saw its head dip. “Look out!” he bellowed. “It’s going to attack us!”

  Nate King promptly let out a yip while cutting the black stallion to the left and raking its flanks with his heels. He bent low as the horse erupted into a gallop. It was a calculated move on his part to lure the bull after him and not after the Bostonian.

  And while it might seem to be an act of rank madness, there was method to it.

  The black stallion was far superior to Ward’s city-bred bay. Nate had received it in trade from a Shoshone famous for the quality of his war stallions. This particular black was one of the fleetest in the entire Shoshone nation, with powers of endurance that far surpassed most others.

  Of the two horses, the stallion had the better chance of eluding the buffalo.

  Nate did not need to be told that his ploy had worked, that the bull was bearing down on him and not Ward. It snorted like a steam engine, its powerful legs pumping like pistons. He whipped the reins and bent forward, flowing with the driving rhythm of the stallion, adjusting to it rather than making it adjust to him as inexperienced riders were prone to do. He could not see a thing, but he did not need to. The stallion saw for both of them.

  Nate had the illusion of flying over the earth. The wind fanned his face, his hair, the whangs on his buckskins. He held the Hawken close to his left side so it would not slip loose.

  Behind the trapper thundered death on four hooves. The bull was incredibly fast for its size and bulk. It had a lumbering, awkward gait, which was oddly fluid at the same time. Over short distances, it was as fast as any animal alive.

  That was the key to Nate’s survival. The stallion had to outlast the monster. For if the horse could maintain its lead over the first few hundred yards, the bull would tire and give up.

  Simon Ward had also wheeled his mount as the buffalo surged toward them. He drew up, though, when he saw it veer after the trapper. “Try me!” he shouted without result. Thinking that he might be able to plant a ball in the creature if he could overtake it, he raced after them.

  Nate had to rely on his ears to gauge the gap between the stallion and onrushing doom. He could tell that the bull slowly gained. The stallion was already galloping flat out; there was nothing he could do but await the outcome.

  Suddenly Nate felt a change in the stallion’s gait, just such a change as he often felt when he made it hurtle an obstacle. It had to mean there was something in front of them. But what? Another buffalo? A whole herd?

  Nate almost succumbed to panic in that terrible moment of uncertainty. But he had faced worse moments before; the raging assault of a berserk grizzly, the frenzied onslaught of a hostile war party, the feral fury of a vicious painter. He composed himself and flattened close to the stallion’s neck. Whatever it was, he must trust in the stallion to do what had to be done.

  Anxious moments passed. Nate clamped his legs and thighs tight. The stallion launched into a series of rolling bounds, which culminated in a tremendous leap. Nate knew that whatever they were vaulting had to be big or wide or both. He tried not to think of what would happen should the stallion land off balance.

  Then the big black alighted. It stumbled, whinnied, and righted itself.

  Nate would have been unhorsed had he not been holding on for dear life. He heard a bellow and a crash behind him. The stallion raced on. Soon he realized that the bull was no longer after them so he slowed, puzzled.

  Simon Ward knew why. He had glimpsed a wide dry wash moments before the stallion leaped. It had seemed to him to be an impossible jump. He was certain that the horse would miss the far rim, fall to the bottom, and be attacked by the bull before it could rise.

  By some miracle, the stallion made it. Barely. Then the bull went over the edge in a headlong rush. It slipped and slid to the bottom in a spray of dust. There, it turned to the right instead of going up the steep side, and pounded eastward. The last Simon saw of it was as it disappeared around a sharp bend.

  At a hail from Simon, Nate turned and headed back. It was only then that he noticed that the gray veil which he had been seeing since being shot had brightened to a white haze. And when he glanced down at the stallion, he thought he detected a vague hint of motion and substance where before there had been nothing at all.

  “Be careful,” Simon called out. “You’re almost to the edge of that wash.”

  “So that’s what it was,” Nate responded. He let the stallion take it nice and slow to the bottom. The big black hesitated, then went up the opposite slope with its rear legs pumping.

  “That was too close for comfort, if you ask me,” Simon commented. “For a few seconds there, I thought that buffalo had you for sure.”

  Nate had already put the incident from his mind. It was just one of many such narrow escapes he’d had since taking up the life of a free trapper. He had reached the point where he took them in stride as a matter of course. They were normal, everyday affairs, hardly meriting a second thought.

  “What did you decide about making camp?” Nate asked.

  In all the excitement, Simon had forgotten about the question the mountain man had asked him earlier. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather push on. I wouldn’t be able to sleep much anyway.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll do,” Nate said. “Once it’s dark enough, you’ll have to keep your eyes skinned to the south for the glow of a camp fire.”

  As before, Simon assumed the lead. He couldn’t say why, but he had the feeling that their luck had changed, that it wouldn’t be long before he set eyes on his wife again. And he made himself a promise. Once she was safe, he was going to let her decide whether they went on up into the mountains or headed back for civilization.

  Ever since her abduction, Simon had been thinking about his decision to come live on the frontier. And the more he pondered, the more it seemed to him that he had been taking Felicity for granted. In his enthusiasm, he had failed to take her feelings into account.

  Back in Boston he had gone on and on about the wonderful life they would forge for themselves in the wilderness without once asking her whether she wanted to or not. He had waxed eloquent about the freedom they would enjoy without giving the dangers due attention. It had never occurred to him that she might prefer to live where she did not have to worry about being set upon by a wild beast every time she went out the front door. Or that she might actually want to buy her food at a market rather than grow it in the wild. He’d just assumed that she’d want to do the same thing he wanted to do.

  Well, no more, Simon reflected. In the future he would always ask her opinion and give her an equal voice in all their decisions. It was the least she deserved for giving him the greatest gift any man could ever receive: the love
of a good woman.

  Time passed. A myriad of stars sparkled overhead. The lingering heat of the day gave way to the brisk coolness of night. Coyotes and wolves were in full chorus, punctuated every now and then by the throaty coughs of grizzlies and the piercing caterwauling of cougars.

  Simon glued his gaze to the south, vibrant with anticipation, longing to spy the firefly glimmer of the slavers’ fire.

  Nate King, meanwhile, kept craning his neck skyward and squinting. His longing was to detect a faint gleam of starlight against the backdrop of inky ether. But try as he might, he could not do it. Apparently his vision was going to take much longer to restore itself than he would like, if it ever did.

  Much later, Simon Ward glanced to the west, toward the black sawtooth wall formed by the distant foothills and mountains. He began to stretch, idly turned to the east, and caught himself, mystified by what he saw. He reined up.

  Nate heard and did the same. “What is it?” he inquired. “Why did you stop?”

  “It’s a camp fire,” Simon reported.

  “Then we’ve done it. We’ve caught up.”

  “But it’s not to the south, as you figured it would be. It’s southeast of us. I’m not much of a judge, but I’d say it’s three or four miles off at the most.”

  Nate was picturing the lay of the land in his mind’s eye. He roughly calculated how many miles they had gone that day, and announced, “Black Squirrel Creek. That’s where they’ve stopped.”

  Simon lifted his reins. He couldn’t wait to see Felicity again, to hold her in his arms, to apologize for placing her in jeopardy with his insane dream. “Let’s go!” he exclaimed.

  “Hold on,” Nate said. He didn’t want a repeat of their last attempt to save Mrs. Ward. “Didn’t you learn anything at all last time?”

  “Don’t fret. I’m not about to go rushing in there and get us killed.”

  That was good for Nate to hear. He was about to detail his plan for saving the Bostonian’s wife when the night was rent by the far off blast of gunfire. Before Nate could say or do anything, Simon Ward cried out, “My wife!”, and took off like a bat out of hell toward the slaver camp.

  There were two shots, followed by loud whoops. That was all. But since they came from the strip of grass near the horse string, it was enough to send the startled animals into a panic. Some reared. Some kicked and plunged in an effort to break loose.

  The slavers forgot all else in their haste to safeguard their mounts. They rushed toward the animals with their rifles in hand. Someone shouted that they were under attack by Indians, and several of the cutthroats opened fire, adding to the uproar and confusion.

  The slaver leader, Gregor, had spun on hearing the first shots. “What the hell!” he declared. Shaking his head to clear it, he raced toward the string, leaving Felicity Ward alone under the blanket.

  She sat up, terrified of being pounced on by hostiles, and recoiled when a figure burst out of the grass toward her. She was all set to slash with the dagger. Then she saw that it was Julio Trijillo. “What—?” she blurted.

  The Mexican never slowed. Grabbing her hand, he hauled her to her feet, saying, “There is no time to explain, señora. You must come with me, pronto.”

  Felicity was in a whirl, she did not know what was going on. But since Julio had befriended her, she figured that he intended to save her from the hostiles. Nodding, she meekly let him lead her off into the grass. As soon as the blades closed around them, he ducked low and motioned for her to do the same.

  “What about the Indians?” Felicity asked while trying her utmost to stick to the swift pace the man had set.

  “There are none. That was me.”

  A feather could have floored Felicity. “Why did you do such a thing?”

  “Why else?” Julio paused to check behind them. “It was the only way I could get you away from them.”

  Felicity wanted to ask him a score of questions, but he motioned for her to be silent. Then he angled to the right, moving rapidly, parallel to the camp. Some of the horses had quieted, but the rest were still giving the slavers a hard time. She could hear their lusty curses. Over the din rose Gregor s roars.

  “It will not be long before they notice we are gone,” Julio said over a shoulder. “We must ride like the wind if we are to get you to safety.”

  Ride what? Felicity was about to inquire when a pair of horses materialized out of the gloom.

  Trijillo boosted her onto a chestnut, swung onto a buttermilk, and made off at a canter. He kept his eyes on the camp and his hand on one of the fancy silver inlaid pistols he wore.

  Unable to stifle her curiosity any longer, Felicity rode abreast of him and asked, “Why are you doing this? Why risk your life for someone you hardly know?” Deep down she dreaded that maybe, just maybe, the man had whisked her away from the slavers because he wanted her for himself. If so, he would find that she was going to be true to her husband at all costs. She still had the dagger, and she would use it if he forced her to.

  “You are a lady, señora,” Julio said. “I could not let them sell you to the Comanches, or worse.” He looked at her. “I must tell you in case something happens to me. We never found your husband’s body. There is a very good chance he is still alive.”

  Felicity’s hopes soared. Could it be? Could it really be?

  The Mexican rose in the stirrups for a few seconds to study the plain behind them. “As to why I do this, I am not one of those renegades, Señora Ward. Oh, I know what you are thinking. That I must be one because I rode with them. But I only joined to kill Gregor and as many of the others as I could take with me when the right time came along.”

  “Go on.”

  Trijillo faced northward. He spoke so softly that at times Felicity could barely understand him. “I had a sister, señora. Her name was Rosita. She was young and beautiful and had so much to look forward to. We lived on my father’s hacienda near Samalayuca.”

  Felicity leaned to the left so she would not miss a word.

  “One night Rosita turned in as she always did. The next morning the servants reported that she was missing. All the vaqueros on the hacienda joined in a great search. We found tracks leading to the northeast, toward the border, toward Comanche country.”

  “The slavers took your sister?” Felicity guessed, appalled.

  “Si. Boundaries mean nothing to bastardos like these. They raid in your country, they raid in mine, and then they flee into the wilderness so they will not be caught.” Julio bowed his head. “We lost their trail at the Rio Grande. Months went by and we gave up hope of ever seeing her again. Then we received word from a man who trades with the Comanches that she had been sold to a chief. She was one of his wives.”

  The yelling had died down behind them. Other than the drum of hooves, the night was still.

  “My padre, he sent word to this chief. He offered to pay a large ransom in horses and guns if the Comanches would see that she was safely returned to us. The chief agreed.” Julio passed a hand across his eyes. “The trader was to bring them to a certain spot in the hills where we were waiting. My sister became hysterical, saying that she never wanted to go back—”

  “Whatever for?” Felicity interjected.

  “Rosita was too ashamed. She did not want to have people staring at her the rest of her life, to have them pointing and whispering behind her back. She told the trader that she would not be able to bear the humiliation.” The brother took a breath. “But the chief would have none of it. He wanted the ransom. So he threw her on a horse and made her go along.”

  Felicity hung on every word.

  “Two days out from the Comanche village, they made camp for the night. Rosita had acted cheerful all day, as if she had accepted what was to happen.” Julio swallowed. “But she only did so to trick them, so they would not suspect what she really had in mind.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Si. She slit her wrists and bled to death.” A bitter sound, half laugh, half snarl, issued from the ma
n’s throat. “The chief felt he still deserved the ransom, so he brought the body to us. We killed him and the seven warriors with him.”

  There was nothing more to be said, so Felicity merely listened.

  “My parents were satisfied that justice had been served. But I was not. The Comanches were not the ones to blame for my sister’s death. It was the slavers who should pay. So for two years I roamed over northern Mexico and parts of Texas trying to find the band responsible. I changed my name. I made friends with anyone and everyone suspected of dealing with slavers. In time I learned who had taken my sister, and I spread the word that I wanted to join them.” Julio looked up. “Now here I am.”

  Profound sorrow welled up in Felicity. The man had spoiled his chance of getting revenge by saving her. “If you ask me, you were in the right place at the right time. If not for you, I’d soon share your sister s fate.”

  Julio did not say a thing for over a minute. “Perhaps you are right, senora. Perhaps it was meant for me to be with the slavers at just this time. Perhaps it was meant for me to balance the scales. They took an innocent life, and I save one.” He glanced at her, the upper half of his face hidden by the black sombrero. “Just do me a favor, señora.”

  “Anything.”

  “Make it count for something. Make something special of your life. Do not be one of those who wastes the gift they are given.”

  Abruptly, to the south, the collective thunder of many hooves rolled across the benighted prairie. “They are after us,” Julio announced.

  “But how did they know which way we went?” Felicity wondered. “They can’t track us in the dark.”

  “They do not need to,” the Mexican said. “Gregor is not stupid. He has never trusted me, that one. I think he has suspected all along and was just waiting for me to show my true colors.” He rode faster and she kept pace. “Gregor knows that I will take you to your husband.”