Wilderness Double Edition 26 Read online

  Shipley’s eyes snapped open. He started to rise. “Unhand her!” he bellowed, and received the blunt end of a lance in the ribs. Clutching his side, he rolled about in agony and hissed through clenched teeth.

  “This one is weak,” Sargento said, hefting his lance. “He will scream when we cut him.”

  Pahkah and Howeah were studying the woman they held.

  “I like her hair,” the latter said. “It gleams like the yellow metal whites love so much.”

  “She is tiny,” Pahkah said. “Her nose is like a ferret’s and her teeth are like a badger’s.”

  Nocona had stood to one side, ready to loose a shaft if the man or the woman sought to flee. Cupping a hand to his mouth, he shouted, “We have them, Soko. Bring the horses.”

  From out of the thick brush on the other side came the older warrior, leading their mounts.

  “Oh God, oh God, oh God.” Shipley gaped in horror. “These must be the Comanches Nate King warned us about!”

  “Be brave,” Cynthia said, looking from one warrior to the other. In only one painted face was there any hint of friendliness.

  “Be brave?” Shipley uttered a shrill laugh that ended in a gurgle of raw panic. “Don’t you understand? We are as good as dead.”

  Sargento could only take so much whining and trembling. He struck out with the blunt end of the lance at the white man’s temple, stunning him. “First I will cut out his tongue.”

  “The woman shows courage,” Pahkah said.

  “Yes, she does,” Howeah agreed. “She reminds me of a golden eagle, this one. Look at how she holds her head, high and proud.”

  Sargento glanced over sharply. “She is all of ours. Not yours. Remember that if you are thinking what I think you are thinking.”

  “It might prove interesting to tame this golden eagle,” Howeah said.

  “Faugh!” Sargento signaled his disapproval. “Talk to this elk in rut, Nocona. The white woman is not his. She belongs to all of us.”

  “There are no spoils to share,” Pahkah said. “They have no horses, no weapons. Her dress is too small for any of my women.”

  Howeah touched the woman’s hair and she did not flinch. “It is a fitting name. I will call her Golden Eagle.”

  “Are your ears plugged with wax?” Sargento asked.

  Cynthia stood quietly, smothering her fear through force of will. She had never been so afraid in her life, but she knew she must not show it. She listened closely to what her captors were saying. Not that she could understand it. To her, the Comanche tongue was so much gibberish. But their tone, their inflection, indicated how they might feel about her.

  “You want this woman?” Nocona asked Howeah.

  “The idea appeals to me, brother.”

  “Our father might approve, but our mother will not. Your other wives will not, either.”

  Sargento was growing angry. “Put an end to this talk of keeping her. Nocona led this war party but we have a say. And I say both the man and the woman should die.”

  “Perhaps a trade can be struck,” Pahkah suggested. “Howeah keeps the woman if he agrees to give each of us a horse.”

  “Four horses for a white woman is too many,” Sargento scoffed. “Why give so much for something so worthless?”

  Cynthia thought she had a fair understanding of their sentiments. The dark one hated her. The handsome one liked her. The tall one seemed to take the handsome one’s side. The one with the crooked nose was neutral. A slightly older warrior was coming toward them leading horses and so far had not taken part.

  “I decide what has worth to me and what does not,” Howeah said.

  “It is wrong of Nocona to take sides,” Sargento said. “He must treat us all fairly.”

  Suddenly Shipley Beecher leaped to his feet and bolted. He had recovered and had been listening to their guttural jabber. Whatever they were arguing about, they had forgotten about him, which suited him fine. But they might remember him any moment, and bind him. He could not let that happen. Once he was tied up, he was a goner. So he gambled, pushed to his feet, and ran for his life.

  “What does he think he is doing?” Pahkah asked.

  “He is trying to escape,” Nocona guessed.

  “On foot? When we have horses?” Howeah marveled. “How far does he think he will get?”

  “Not far,” Sargento said. “He runs like my sister, and she is as slow as tree sap.” He threw back his arm to cast his lance.

  “Hold,” Nocona said. “A lance wound sometimes kills even when we do not want it to.” He gestured. “You bring him down, brother.”

  Howeah calmly raised his bow and sighted along the arrow. At the twang of the sinew string, the shaft streaked true to its target.

  Pain seared Shipley’s left thigh. Stumbling, he grabbed at his leg and tore his hand on the barbed tip of the arrow. He tried to keep running but his leg would not cooperate. The upshot was that he went another five yards and pitched to his face. Frantic, he gripped the arrow and sought to snap the tip off so he could pull the arrow out and keep going. But he was weaker than he figured. The best he could do was bend the arrow slightly.

  “He is about as strong as my sister, too,” Sargento said.

  Pahkah took the other side, and together they half-carried, half-dragged their captive and shoved him flat on his belly.

  Shipley howled in torment. He grabbed at his leg and accidentally jarred the arrow, which compounded the pain tenfold. He bit his lower lip to stifle another outcry, bit it so hard, blood flowed. He stifled the outcry but he did whimper.

  “He is worse than my dog,” Pahkah muttered.

  Of the five Wasps only Soko had a war club. He stepped up behind their captive and rapped him over the back of the head. He did not strike to kill or maim, but to render the white man unconscious.

  “At last he is quiet,” Sargento said.

  The Nemene made camp. Each of them saw to his own horse. Pahkah gathered firewood. Soko kindled a fire. Nocona and Sargento went off to hunt. That left Howeah to guard the whites.

  Cynthia Beecher wanted to tend Shipley, but she was unsure how the Comanches would react. She decided to find out. She took a tentative step toward him, watching the handsome Comanche for a sign of anger. When he did not do anything, she took another, longer step. Then she was on her knees, rolling Shipley over. He had a bump and a gash on his temple from where he had been struck by the lance. The blow from the war club, surprisingly, had not broken the scalp. The worst wound was the one in his thigh. Thankfully, it was not bleeding much.

  Cynthia wanted to take the arrow out. She gripped it near the feathers, intending to break it.

  Howeah pushed her. He did not push her roughly but it was sufficient to cause her to fall on her side.

  Fearing she was about to be attacked, Cynthia flung her arms protectively over her head and face. When the attack did not materialize, she looked up at the handsome Comanche. “Why?” she asked, knowing he could not understand her, but desperate to understand herself. “Why won’t you let me take the arrow out?”

  Howeah tilted his head. Her sounds were so many bird chirps to him, but he had some idea of what she was saying. She was upset because he had not let her break the arrow. But fashioning arrows required much time, much effort. Warriors always took special care of them. They did not use one unless they were sure of hitting what they wanted to hit. Afterward, whenever possible, they reclaimed the arrows to use again. To break one was a mild calamity.

  Howeah slung his bow over his shoulder. Bending over the white man, he grasped the shaft with both hands, below the tip. Then, pulling slowly but forcefully, he extracted it. The arrow had not lodged against a bone so it came out with little difficulty. The feathers were wet with blood but would dry. He slid the shaft into his quiver and stepped back.

  “Thank you,” Cynthia said.

  Her tone suggested some form of gratitude, which amused Howeah. He did not care about the white man, only about his arrow.

  Pahkah
returned bearing broken tree limbs. “I saw the tracks of many animals,” he mentioned. “We can stay here many sleeps if we want.”

  Soko produced two items greatly prized by his people, a steel and flint, which he had found on a dead white two winters ago. Before the coming of the whites, starting fires had taken much time and effort. Steels and flints made it ridiculously easy.

  Cynthia sat and cradled Shipley’s head in her lap. She was surprised her fear was fading. She knew what the Comanches were going to do. Or thought she knew. She would spend the rest of her days in a Comanche lodge, perhaps as the wife of the handsome warrior who had taken a shine to her. Her only consolation, such as it was, was that alive was better than dead. Deep inside her crawled the hope that one day she might escape. Or that other whites would find out she was a captive and arrange a trade. It had happened before.

  Nocona and Sargento carried a doe strung on a limb when they came through the trees. A small doe, not much more than a fawn, but enough meat for all.

  Nocona did the butchering, Soko the cooking. The older warrior had a knack for taking a haunch from the fire when the meat was at its juicy, tastiest best. They ate with relish, their first deer meat in days, licking their fingers between pieces.

  Cynthia’s stomach growled, embarrassing her. The handsome warrior heard, and slicing a piece of meat from the chunk he was eating, tossed it to her. She caught it, then nearly dropped it, it was so hot and slippery with grease. Her nose wrinkled in distaste but her empty stomach overrode her nose. She was ravenous. She forced herself to eat slowly and savor each chew.

  Toward the end of the meal Shipley groaned and opened his eyes. They were as blank as empty slates. Gradually, recognition dawned, and he said, “Cyn?”

  “Stay still. The Comanches are eating.”

  “They have food?” Shipley sniffed, and rose on his elbows. He stared longingly at the roasting haunch. “What I wouldn’t give for a bite.”

  Guilt spiked Cynthia. She had not saved any of her piece for him. “Let me try.” She caught the handsome warrior’s eye and pointed at the spit and then at her husband. The warrior motioned sharply. “I think that means no.”

  “Damn them!” Ship spat. “It’s not enough they put an arrow in me. It’s not enough they plan to torture and kill me. They can’t extend the common courtesy of some food.”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  Shipley was working himself into a fit. “Savages! That’s all they are! Andrew Jackson was right. They deserve to be exterminated, every last stinking one of them!”

  “Hush, consarn it,” Cynthia cautioned. “Or would you rather be shot with another arrow?”

  Shipley grit his teeth and hissed. “If only I had a brace of pistols. I would show these devils.”

  “I think that one likes me,” Cynthia said, pointing at the handsome warrior.

  “What?”

  “He’s taken a shine to me, unless I miss my guess.” Cynthia figured it would give Shipley a chuckle. She was mistaken.

  “Dear God, woman. First the mountain man and now this smelly heathen! Is there no bottom to the depths to which you will sink?”

  “How dare you!” Cynthia fumed. “And how many times must I tell you that nothing happened between Nate King and me?”

  Before Shipley could answer, all five Comanches stood and surrounded them. The dark one drew his knife.

  “I’m in for it now,” Shipley said.

  Ten

  It sounded, on first hearing it, like the keen of the wind over rocky crags. But as Nate King listened longer, it became more the cry of an animal in the throes of agony. Longer yet, and Nate realized the wail came from human lips. His skin crawling, he glided swiftly but cautiously around the base of the next hill. A welcome splash of blue greeted him, a pond where he would never have guessed there was one.

  The smell of water, after so long without, made him yearn for a taste to relieve the torment of having gone so long without. But Nate did not rush blindly forward. Not with Comanches in the vicinity. He picked his way through the thick growth bordering the pond and beheld that which he had suspected he would find but fervently hoped he would not.

  Shipley Beecher had been stripped naked and staked out. This time Nate had not been there to effect an escape, and what was left of Beecher brought to mind a mule deer after the hide had been stripped but before the hunter who shot it began carving the meat. A hideous ruin of the creature it had once been.

  The farmer’s chest rose and fell in great, labored breaths. The flame of life that animated Beecher had burned low and would soon be extinguished.

  Of the Comanches, hoofprints revealed they had ridden south toward Comanche territory.

  Nate edged closer. He did not want to look but he had to. The things the Comanches had done were the sorts of things white people talked about when atrocities were mentioned. Those same white people tended to forget or overlook the undeniable historical fact that whites had their share of atrocities to their dubious credit.

  Nate’s stomach churned. He had to look away. He could not endure the sight of Beecher’s face for more than a few seconds. The ghastly dark sockets, the cavity where the nose had been, and the awful travesty of a mouth, were sights he would never forget.

  On the other side of Beecher was a pile Nate could not quite identify. Something pink and wrinkled and seeped in blood. Nate leaned over Beecher for a better view and his stomach churned anew. The pile was skin.

  Swallowing bitter bile, Nate hunkered. “Shipley?” he said softly.

  The travesty of a mouth moved but produced inarticulate noises.

  “Shipley, it’s Nate King. There is nothing I can do for you. If you understand, nod?”

  The farmer’s head moved.

  “Did they take your wife?”

  Again the skinless chin bobbed.

  “They have horses and I don’t,” Nate said. “You know what that means, don’t you?” He paused, and when Shipley nodded, he went on. “I’m sorry, truly sorry. But you brought this on yourself by being so pigheaded.” Perhaps that was cruel. But it was also honest.

  The flesh where Beecher’s lips had been moved. The sounds, though, were not words.

  “I can’t understand you,” Nate said. “Take your time. Speak slowly.” He bent down. Close enough to see into Beecher’s mouth. To see that the man no longer had a tongue. “Never mind.”

  Shipley lay still awhile. Then he uttered more sounds and his right hand moved.

  “Do you want me to cut you loose?” Nate asked. A sharp rock would have to suffice since One-Eye Jackson had taken his bowie and tomahawk.

  Shipley feebly shook his head. Again his hand moved, his finger and thumb describing the same motions.

  “Are you sure?”

  The chin dipped.

  “I don’t have a gun, remember?” Nate mentioned. “All I have is the picket stake.”

  Once again Shipley’s finger pointed at his head and his thumb curled as if squeezing a trigger.

  “It will hurt like the dickens,” Nate said. A stupid thing to say, he thought, in light of the circumstances.

  For the third time the finger and thumb mimicked the firing of a gun.

  Palming the stake, Nate hesitated. As much as the man had annoyed him, he bore Beecher no ill will. He would rather there was a more humane way. Just then a dragonfly streaked past his head and out over the pond.

  Beecher gurgled and blubbered.

  “I’ve had a brainstorm,” Nate remarked. He explained, and when he was done, the farmer nodded.

  Untying the ropes took some doing. The knots were not only tight, they were slick with blood. At length Nate succeeded, and slipping his hands under Beecher’s shoulders, dragged him toward the spring. At the contact of his fingers with the skinless flesh, Nate flinched.

  Holding Beecher’s head above the water, Nate waded out. It rose over his feet, his ankles, his shins. Soon he was waist-deep. Beecher was in up to his chest, his legs much too weak to suppo
rt him.

  Nate felt he should say something. “So help me God, I never laid a finger on your wife.” He was going to say Cynthia never made advances, but the words caught in his throat.

  The ghastly apparition mewed.

  “Folks say it’s painless,” Nate said. “But the people who say it wouldn’t rightly know.”

  The dragonfly whisked within inches of Shipley Beecher and darted away again.

  “I wish there was another way,” Nate said. He could not put it off any longer. He let go. He stepped back until the bubbles and the ripples stopped, then groped and hauled the limp figure onto dry ground. He avoided looking at the face. The more he did, the more it would haunt him later.

  Nate dragged the body a score of feet from the pond. He had nothing to dig with so he roved in search of a suitable rock or stout tree limb. Suddenly the brush crackled. Nate raised the stake, holding it as he would a knife. He feared the Comanches had doubled back, or that a grizzly had caught his scent. But when the undergrowth parted, it revealed something else entirely.

  “You!” Walking over, Nate threw an arm over the bay and pressed his forehead to its neck. Nearly overcome, he couldn’t speak for the lump in in his throat, not for a spell, anyhow.

  Dust caked the animal’s coat. Scratch marks bore mute testimony to the hardships it had been through.

  While the bay drank, Nate pondered. It was too late in the day to give chase to the war party. Night would fall within an hour, forcing him to stop. Better off, he reasoned, to wait out the night at the pond and go after them at dawn.

  It was almost dark when Nate finished burying Shipley Beecher. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” was all Nate said.

  The beaded parfleches crafted by Winona were still on the bay. From one Nate slid a folding knife he had used in his trapping days. The blade was five inches long and razor sharp. He stuck the knife in a pocket. A spare shirt was in the other parfleche. Nate shrugged into it and ran his hands over the buckskin. Unfortunately, he did not carry a spare set of moccasins. He solved that by cutting strips from a blanket and wrapping the strips around his feet.