Wilderness Double Edition 11 Page 12

  Onward they galloped, Felicity a few yards behind her savior. Repeatedly she glanced back, seeking some sign of their pursuers. Not that she was very worried. It was so dark that she believed it would be child’s play to elude the slavers.

  Then a horse and rider appeared as if out of nowhere. Only he was in front of them, not behind them. He pointed a pistol at Julio Trijillo and called out, “For what you did to my wife, you’re going to die!”

  Eleven

  Winona King was not one to let circumstances dictate the course of her life. When they ran contrary to the best interests of her welfare and those of her family, she opposed them with every ounce of strength in her body. And when her physical prowess was not equal to the task, she relied on her wits.

  Circumstances had forced Winona to try to persuade Ricket that she wouldn’t escape. She had even offered to give her solemn word as proof of her certainty – and been turned down.

  Chipota had then interfered and claimed possession of her. For the past few hours she had ridden along docilely enough, but she had no intention of doing so forever. She hadn’t given her word to the Lipan. There was nothing keeping her there, except herself.

  As the small band wound down out of the foothills with darkness all around them, Winona was constantly on the alert for a means of gaining her freedom. She hoped that they’d pass close to extensive thickets, or else possibly a dense tract of woodland. Anywhere the brush would serve to slow the slavers down while she made good her escape.

  Ricket was too wily for her. He avoided exactly the areas she looked for, as if he knew what was on her mind and he was determined to foil her. When they stopped briefly to rest their mounts, he made it a point to hover nearby, his rifle in the crook of his left elbow. She was not going to give them the slip if he could help it.

  If the Lipan observed Ricket’s behavior, he did not let on. He also did not appear to pay much attention to Winona, although several times she felt his eyes on her when he thought that she would not notice.

  The hothead, Owens, gave Chipota a wide berth. But he was not above glaring at Winona every chance he got.

  As for the others, they generally ignored her.

  Which was just as well. Twice Winona had been on the verge of making a break for it even though the vegetation was too thin to screen her. In each instance, just as she went to make her move, she realized that either Ricket or Owens or Chipota was watching her on the sly.

  Then they came to the top of a high ridge and Winona saw the prairie just over the next hill. The high grass offered her a ready haven if she could reach it well ahead of the slavers.

  To that end, Winona shifted slightly forward on the mare without being obvious. Pretending to be more tired than she was, she yawned and stretched. As she lowered her arms, she placed both hands on the pinto’s neck.

  Chipota stared straight ahead. Ricket was guiding his animal down a short incline. Owens glanced her way, then went to follow Ricket.

  This was the moment. There might not be another. Winona knew that they would punish her if they caught her, that she would be beaten, or worse, and trussed up whether the Lipan liked it or not.

  The stakes justified the risk.

  Whipping forward, Winona snatched the reins and yanked with all her might, tearing them out of the warriors grasp even as she slapped her legs against the mare’s sides and let out with a Shoshone war whoop.

  The pinto took off as if its tail were on fire. Its first bound brought it alongside the Lipan. Chipota twisted and grabbed at her, but she was ready and ducked under his arms. Her left leg flicked out, catching the warrior in the side. The blow sent him flying. He tried to clutch the back of his horse as he fell, but his fingers found no purchase on its sweaty hide.

  In a flash Winona bore down on Owens. He had already jerked around and brought his rifle up. By all rights he should have put a ball into her. But in the fraction of a second it took him to fix a hasty bead, Winona did the last thing he would ever expect her to do. She deliberately rode her mare right into his horse.

  Shoulder against shoulder, the two animals collided. The mare was smaller but it had more momentum and was going downhill.

  Owens cried out as his animal went over the edge of the incline. He let go of his rifle to seize his reins, but it was too late. His horse whinnied as it lost its footing and toppled.

  Ricket was only six feet lower down. He yelled something, but the words were lost in the frantic squeals of the two horses as the hothead’s mount rammed into his. Both slavers and their horses crashed to the ground, then slid toward the bottom in a jumbled heap.

  It was just as Winona had planned. She came to the top of the incline but did not slow down. Leaning as far back as she could, she took the slope on the fly. She heard Owens curse as she whisked on by.

  The mare came to a level stretch, and Winona cut to the right to a switchback, which would take her to the base of the ridge. A shot rang out above her. The slaver missed.

  “Don’t shoot, damn you!” Ricket yelled. “We want her alive!”

  Winona had other ideas. The only way they would lay their hands on her again was if she were dead. Staying in the middle of the switchback where the footing was firmest, she swept around the first bend and made for the next lower down. She thought that she glimpsed a pinpoint of light off to the southeast. It was most likely a camp fire, but she was not about to slow down to confirm the fact.

  One of the slavers was hard on her heels. Winona enjoyed a lead, but it was not big enough to suit her. She flicked the reins, urging the dependable mare to go even faster. It was a grave gamble on her part, since a single misstep would send them both tumbling down the ridge.

  “Stop her!” Ricket was bellowing. “Damn it, somebody stop that squaw bitch!”

  The switchback leveled off at the bottom, and Winona streaked around the low hill. Ahead rippled the sea of grass. She looked back and saw only one slaver. He was a beefy, bearded man whose buckskins were as greasy as the bottom of a cooking pot. Simpson was his name, and he had hardly spoken two words to her since her capture.

  Winona smiled on reaching the edge of the prairie. The mare plunged in. The grass closed around them. Winona hugged the pinto so she would be harder to spot, but it did no good. The slaver had excellent eyesight. He didn’t lose track of her.

  It soon became apparent to Winona that she was not going to shake him. Simpson would chase her until his horse played out, or hers did.

  The mare had superb stamina, but was it enough? Winona dared not fall into their clutches again. They would guard her every minute of every day until they sold her or did whatever else pleasured their vile minds. She would never have another chance to escape.

  Desperate straits called for desperate measures. Once Winona took care of Simpson, she would be in the clear. How to go about it was the big question. An idea blossomed but she balked at carrying it out. It just might get her killed. Or, even worse, put her right back where she started.

  Winona raced on. It quickly became evident that the mare was tiring sooner than she had counted on. She could hold off no longer. Either she put her plan into effect, or she might as well rein up and wait for Simpson. The thought hardened her features.

  The wife of Grizzly Killer would never surrender her life or her dignity without doing all in her power to preserve both.

  Hooking an arm over the pinto’s neck and her foot over its back, Winona swung onto its right side. It was a feat Shoshone warriors often relied on in the heat of battle. So adept were some, that they could shoot a rifle or lose an arrow while at a full gallop.

  Shoshone women, as a general rule, seldom practiced the trick. They had no reason to, since they rarely engaged in warfare from horseback. When enemies raided their villages, their duty was to protect their offspring and safeguard their lodges. Both were best done on foot.

  When Shoshone warriors went on raids of their own, though, there were times when women went along. Mainly they were there to hold the hors
es while the men crept off into an enemy camp. Sometimes the raids would go all wrong. Their enemies would rally and chase after them. It was then that a woman had to be as good a rider as any man or suffer the fate of never seeing her people again.

  Winona had gone on a few raids with her father and cousins when she was much younger. Beforehand, she had insisted that Touch The Clouds teach her the tricks of horsemanship at which he was so skilled. Consequently, she was one of the better women riders in her tribe.

  She proved it now by traveling scores of yards while clinging to the side of the pounding mare as if she were a human fly. She counted on it being too dark for the slaver to notice that she had changed position.

  The smooth tops of the grasses brushed her back, her legs. A constant loud swishing sounded in her ears.

  Winona willed her tense muscles to relax. She needed her body limp or she might break a bone. A quick check showed Simpson well over fifty feet away. She stared eastward, waited a few more seconds, then pushed off from the mare.

  The grass cushioned the brunt of the fall. Winona landed on her left shoulder and rolled a half-dozen feet. The instant she stopped, she rose up into a crouch and glided back to where she had landed.

  Timing now became critical. Winona coiled her legs, her every nerve stretched taut. The grass hid Simpson and his mount. She had to rely on her hearing alone to gauge his approach. Louder and louder grew the drumming of his animals hooves. Suddenly it reared up out of the night just a few feet away to her left.

  Winona was in motion the moment it appeared. A pair of lithe bounds brought her to the steed’s side. Simpson was so intent on keeping track of the mare that he didn’t realize she was there until her hands closed on his leg. She heaved upward.

  The slaver uttered a startled squawk as he was sent flying. He attempted to grab hold of his saddle, but it all happened so fast that he was in midair before he knew it. His rifle went sailing. His horse kept on running.

  Winona saw where he crashed down and bounded forward. She had but moments before he recovered and confronted her. Clasping her hands together, she balled them into a knot and raised her arms to strike the slaver before he could stand. Everything depended on her being able to knock him senseless quickly.

  It wasn’t meant to be.

  A heavy foot speared out of the stems and caught Winona on the shins. The blow knocked her legs right out from under her. She came down on her hands and knees and immediately scrambled to her feet again.

  Simpson stood, too, but much more slowly. A mocking grin curled his thick lips. He made no attempt to draw either of the pistols at his waist, nor the knife on his right hip. Brushing at a sleeve, he regarded her closely and said, “Damn, but you’re a sly one. I never would have figured you to pull a trick like that in a million years.”

  Winona did not respond. Shoshone warriors believed it was the height of folly to talk while in the heat of battle. And she was in a battle for her very life, whether the slaver appreciated the fact or not.

  “Well, you’ve had your fun,” Simpson said. “Now we’ll just wait here for my horse to come back. And it will, in a little bit. I trained it myself in case I was ever clipped by a tree limb or some such.”

  The man was too sure of himself for his own good. He stood there talking down to her when he should have been acting. Winona was close enough that all she had to do was lunge and fling her hands at his waist. She wanted either pistol. She got neither.

  Simpson pivoted and slammed the flat of his right hand into her shoulder even as he whipped a leg in front of her.

  Unable to stop in time, Winona was upended into the grass. Pain lanced her thigh as she hit the ground, but she suppressed it and leaped to her feet before the slaver could close in. To her surprise, Simpson merely stood there, smirking.

  “You’re a feisty squaw, ain’t you? I admire that. I truly do. But you’d better behave yourself now. I don’t cotton to red devils actin’ up around their betters.”

  At last Winona understood. His scorn did not stem from the fact that she was a woman. No, it stemmed from his disdain for anyone who happened to be Indian. In a word, he was prejudiced, as were many of his kind who believed that the only good Indian was a dead Indian. He rated her as beneath contempt. He was about to learn differently.

  Winona bowed her head as if he had her cowed. She let her shoulders droop and took a step backward.

  “That’s more like it,” Simpson said, placing his hands on his wide hips. “I knew you’d get it through your thick red head sooner or later that it wasn’t worth your while to try anything.” He started to glance over his shoulder. “Now where in tarnation is that blamed horse of mine?”

  The slaver played right into Winona’s hands. She launched herself at him, low down this time, and heard his fiery oath as her arms looped around his legs. Although Simpson was far too heavy for her to lift, she could and did get enough leverage to jerk his legs right out from under him. The man cursed again as he tottered and fell.

  Winona rolled once to the right to avoid being pinned. Reversing herself, she snatched one of the flintlocks as Simpson struggled to stand. The barrel was not quite clear of the slaver’s belt when he caught hold of the pistol and tried to wrest it from her grasp. For a few tense moments they struggled. There was a loud click. Winona looked down just as the flintlock went off.

  It was only by accident that neither of them was struck. The ball smacked into the ground within a finger’s width of the slaver’s foot and made him madder than ever. Calling her every vile name Winona had ever heard white men use and some she had not, Simpson resorted to sheer brute force, tore the pistol from her grasp, and snapped it overhead to bash her in the head.

  Winona could not possibly evade the blow. Trying to block it would only result in her being battered to her knees. So instead of doing either, she went on the offensive. She kicked Simpson in the right knee.

  The roar of mixed torment and rage that the slaver vented would have done justice to a rampaging grizzly. Simpson staggered backward, sputtering and snarling. “You bitch! You filthy red bitch! You broke my damn knee!” He swung the pistol in a vicious backhand.

  The swing was ill-timed and awkward. Winona skipped aside, closed in before he could regain his balance, and kicked him in the other knee. Simpson went down, tripping over his own feet and landing on his backside. His features screwed in agony, he hissed at her as might a furious serpent. Then he did something she did not expect. He flung the spent flintlock at her face.

  Winona easily dodged it. The gesture seemed futile until she felt his calloused palms close on her ankles. He had hurled the pistol to distract her. His real intent had been to get his hands on her, to yank her down beside him as he now did.

  “You’re going to regret hurting me, squaw!” Simpson growled while in the act of throwing himself on top of her. His left hand held her right wrist in a vise. His legs pinned hers. His free hand touched her waist, then slid higher. “Guess how?”

  Winona fought with a savagery born of desperation. She bucked. She kicked. She thrashed and pushed. But it was as if he weighed tons. All her effort, and she could hardly budge him. His hot, foul breath fanned her face. His sweaty skin was so close to hers that she could feel its warmth. He leered and raised his free hand to touch her breasts.

  Never! Winona mentally shrieked.

  Her plight seemed hopeless. Other women might have given up then and there and submitted to what they deemed inevitable. But Winona King refused to give in.

  Long ago Nate had taught her a valuable lesson. It had been on a sunny summer afternoon when he was teaching her how to shoot a rifle. Their talk had gotten around to personal combat, and what she should do if she were ever beset by a stronger foe when no gun or knife was handy.

  “Do whatever it takes,” Nate had told her. “When your life is at stake, there are no rules. There’s no right way and wrong way to defend yourself. Bite, scratch, claw, kick, do whatever it takes to come out on top.”


  Winona had grinned at the image of her biting someone.

  “I’m serious,” Nate insisted. “Anything goes. Tear a nose off, or an ear. Gouge an eye out. Do whatever it takes to preserve your life. Nothing else matters.” He had taken her into his arms and gently kissed her. “Not where I’m concerned. Without you, my life would be empty.”

  Whatever it takes, her husband had said. Winona applied that philosophy now by bending her neck and sinking her teeth into the soft flesh on the left side of the slaver’s neck. The ease with which her teeth sheared through the skin was amazing. Crinkly hairs got into her mouth. So did a bitter taste, then the salty tang of blood.

  A feral howl was torn from Simpson’s throat. In a reflex action he lunged backward, and in doing so caused more flesh to be torn wide. Her teeth lost their grip.

  “Damn your bones!”

  The slaver glared down at her, raw hatred seeming to crackle around him like a physical force. He let go of her wrist and streaked both hands to her throat.

  “You’re going to die, bitch! Do you hear me? I don’t care what Gregor wants. You’re mine!”

  His spittle dripped onto Winona’s cheek. She hardly noticed as she clawed impotently at his locked fingers. She did notice, however, the berserk gleam animating his features. In a very few moments he would make good on his threat unless she could think of a way to stop him. In vain she punched his face and neck.

  Simpson was bleeding profusely but he didn’t care. All that mattered to him was strangling the life from the captive who had brought him so much suffering. “Die, squaw! Die!” he cried, and squeezed even harder.

  ~*~

  Felicity Ward was so shocked by the unexpected appearance of the rider that she did not think to rein up, as Julio Trijillo automatically did. It was just as well, because she rode directly between the pair just as her husband was about to fire. “Simon!” she exclaimed, and halted. Intense joy vied with amazed disbelief. “Don’t shoot! He’s a friend!”