Wilderness Double Edition 11 Page 13

  Simon Ward came so close to accidentally shooting his beloved that forever after when he recalled this night, he would shudder and grow as cold as ice. His trigger finger was applying pressure when she filled his sights. For the life of him, he would never know how he managed to keep from firing. But he did, and with a jab of his heels he was beside her horse and holding her in his arms.

  For a few precious seconds the husband and wife embraced, each overwhelmed by happiness so profound that their hearts felt near to bursting. There were so many things they wanted to say to one another. Fate did not give them the chance.

  “Señora Ward,” Julio said urgently. “We must ride on. Gregor and the rest will catch us if we do not.”

  Simon glanced at the Mexican. He wanted to learn who the man was, to discover why a slaver had befriended Felicity. But the rumble of approaching horses alerted him to the new danger they faced.

  “Lead the way, friend,” he said. “We’ll be right behind you.”

  Now that Simon had been reunited with the woman who meant more to him than life itself, he was not going to let her out of his sight. Had speed not been essential, he would have insisted that she ride double with him just so he could relish the feel of her body being close to his and know that he wasn’t dreaming, that they really and truly were together again.

  Julio took the lead as requested. His sombrero slipped off his tousled hair and hung by a chin strap. He headed to the northeast instead of due north in the hope that it would throw the slavers off their scent.

  Felicity galloped beside her husband. Again and again she glanced at him to reassure herself that he was actually there. Ever since Julio had told her that Simon might be alive, she had hoped against hope that he would find her. But she had been racked by troubling doubts. The prairie was vast, after all, and Simon was no Daniel Boone.

  Yet there he was, grinning at her as he used to do when they were courting and they would go for long rides in the countryside surrounding Boston, his teeth a pale half-moon in the darkness.

  Felicity smiled to show her own happiness, then knuckled down to the task of keeping up with Julio. He was going faster than ever, as if it were crucial that they put a lot of ground behind them in a very short time. She would have thought it more important for them to pace their mounts so the horses would last longer. But he knew best, she reasoned.

  The bay Simon Ward was riding had been pushed so hard for the past two days that it gave signs of flagging. Simon spurred it on anyway. He was not about to slow the others down and have his wife fall into the clutches of the vile slavers a second time.

  So overjoyed was Simon at finding Felicity that several more minutes went by before he awakened to the terrible mistake he had made. In his haste to save his wife, he had gone off and left the man who had been willing to risk all on their behalf. He had abandoned the one person he had met since leaving Boston whom he would rate as a true friend.

  But the worst part, the thought that made Simon feel sick inside, was not that Nate King was all alone, nor that the trapper was as blind as the proverbial bat. No, what upset Simon the most was that it appeared the slavers were heading right for him.

  Twelve

  “Simon, wait!” Nate King called out as the Bostonian sped off into the night. It was useless. The younger man was not to be denied. Nate might as well try to stop a twister or a raging hailstorm. Love was as powerful a force as Nature itself; some would say it was more powerful.

  The frontiersman poked the black stallion and set out to follow Ward. He wanted to keep Simon out of trouble, to be there in case he was needed. But he had not gone more than ten yards when the stallion suddenly dug in its front hooves and slid to a stop. A distinct rattling told him why. He cut to the right to keep the horse from being bitten just as the snake’s rattles sounded again.

  To Nate’s consternation, the stallion reared. He made a grab for its neck, but he had been taken unawares. The next thing he knew, he was on his back on the ground and the big black was racing to the southwest. Nate went to rise but changed his mind on hearing the rattlesnake. It was so close that he could have reached out and picked it up.

  Few city-bred folks were aware that rattlers liked to do most of their hunting at night. Fewer still knew that the deadly reptiles thrived on the plains. Small wonder, since the prairie was where prairie dog towns were found, and prairie dogs were a rattlesnake staple.

  Nate King knew, of course. The knowledge afforded scant comfort as he lay there in the sweet-smelling grass listening to the brittle harbinger of impending death.

  Nate did not twitch a muscle. He did not even blink. Any movement, however slight, might provoke the snake into striking. Rigid as a log, he prayed the reptile would wander elsewhere, and do it soon. But a minute went by. Two.

  Then, to compound Nate’s predicament, the black stallion’s familiar whinny carried to him across the prairie. The stallion had recovered from its fright and was heading back.

  Most other horses would have fled until exhaustion brought them to a stop. Not the big black. It was made of firmer stuff, yet another reason the trapper valued it so highly.

  The rattling ceased. The grass close to Nate’s arm rustled. The scrape of scales was loud enough for him to tell that the rattler was leaving. Moments later the stallion trotted up. Rising, he stepped toward it, one arm outstretched. As soon as he touched its sweaty side, he swung up.

  The delay had proven costly. Simon was long gone. Nate listened and thought he heard hoofbeats. Taking it for granted that Simon’s bay was the source, he headed out, riding slowly, a sitting duck if ever there had been one.

  It troubled Nate to think that he might be wrong, that maybe he had gotten turned around when he fell and he was now going in the wrong direction. But it was a chance he had to take, for the Wards’ sake.

  The fall seemed to have had an unforeseen effect. Nate was gratified to note that he could now make out the motion of the stallions head, although the horse was no more than a great fuzzy blur. To test himself, he held the Hawken within six inches of his face and moved the barrel back and forth. Again he could distinguish the motion, although the barrel itself was a dark smudge against the backdrop of night sky.

  Encouraged, Nate ventured on. Given the time that had elapsed, he figured that Simon couldn’t be more than half a mile ahead of him at the very most.

  Then a shot rang out. Nate drew rein, puzzled. The retort came from off to the west, not the southeast, and it was much closer than he had assumed Simon would be. Had the younger man strayed off course? he wondered. That seemed highly unlikely, since Simon had the slaver camp fire to serve as a beacon. The only possible explanation was that he was the one who had strayed.

  Nate promptly worked the reins and rode westward. He held the stallion to a brisk walk and bent at the waist with an ear cocked to the breeze. There might not be much warning when he ran into the slavers. He hung on every noise, no matter how faint.

  So it was that Nate detected the sounds of a scuffle long before he might have done so otherwise. The loud grunt of a man was mixed with the rustling of grass. Dreading that Simon had been jumped by slavers, he hastened closer. A lusty bellow helped him pinpoint the exact spot.

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

  Nate stiffened. It had to be Mrs. Ward in the clutches of one of the cutthroats! He fingered the Hawken, his thumb on the hammer. The struggle grew louder. Again the man bellowed.

  “Die, squaw! Die!”

  So it wasn’t Felicity Ward, Nate realized, relieved. He had no time to ponder the mystery, for moments later he heard the crackle of grass and a bestial growl only a few yards ahead. Instantly he reined up. By narrowing his eyes he could make out a vague pair of clenched figures. But he could not tell which was the woman and which was her assailant.

  A choking sob prompted Nate to act before the woman was slain. Since he couldn’t determine which one to shoot, he decided t
o try a bluff. Leveling the Hawken, he declared in a flinty tone, “That’s enough! Get up with your hands in the air, mister! And be quick about it!”

  Winona King had seen a rider appear out of the gloom. At first, she did not recognize him. Her lungs were close to bursting from lack of air; her vision danced in circles. Then, for a few heartbeats, it cleared. Winona was so astounded at seeing her mate that she went limp with shock, certain that she must be seeing things, that her eyes were deceiving her.

  It was fitting, she mused, that in her final fevered moments of life she should imagine the man who had claimed her love was right there in front of her.

  The vision spoke. The voice was her husband’s, but he did not say the things she wanted to hear. He did not tell her that he cared and would go on caring forever. He did not say how much he would miss her, or how wrong it was that she had been snatched from him when they both were in the prime of their lives. Instead, her vision barked an order. And to her bewilderment, the slaver heard, too, because he let go of her as if her neck were a red hot ember and leaped to his feet.

  But that could only mean one thing! Winona told herself. She propped her hands on the ground and attempted to sit up, but she was too weak, her mind too sluggish. She saw Simpson elevate his arms and her Nate cover him.

  Something was wrong, though. Winona sensed it in the core of her being. And she was sure that whatever it was had to do with Nate.

  In a rush, clarity returned. Winona started to rise. She noticed that Nate was holding the Hawken at the wrong angle, that the barrel pointed at her instead of the slaver. Simpson had noticed, also, because his left hand was slowly dipping toward his other flintlock. Strangely, Nate seemed not to realize it.

  Winona could not call out a warning. Her throat was too raw. She could barely croak, let alone speak. Yet if she did not do something – and swiftly – she would lose her man. Planting both moccasins, she marshaled all the strength she had left and launched herself upward. Her right hand closed on the hilt of Simpson’s long butcher knife as the slaver drew the pistol. He was extending the flintlock when the blade sank into his side below the ribs.

  Simpson arched his spine, threw back his head, and opened his mouth as if to scream. No sound came out. He staggered a few steps. Winona kept pace, holding the knife in place. The slaver twisted his head to glare at her. “You lousy squaw! You’ve done kilt me!” So saying, his arm sagged and his whole body deflated as might a punctured water skin. He twitched for a bit once he curled onto the grass, then stopped breathing.

  Nate had seen the blur of movement but had no idea what was going on until the man spoke. Filled with anxiety, he dismounted to help the woman. “Ma’am? Are you all right? I—”

  The trapper never got to finish his statement. A warm form flew into his arms and suddenly words of ardent love and tender endearments were being whispered in his ear. The shock of recognition made his legs go weak. “Winona?” Her lips confirmed it and smothered his with tiny hot kisses. For the longest while after that they stood there in a quiet embrace.

  Winona was the first to break the spell. Looking up, she said, “My heart sings with joy at seeing you again, husband. But how did you know the slavers had taken me captive?”

  Briefly, Nate sketched his encounter with the Bostonian and the events since. Even as he talked, his vision cleared a little more. By the time he was done, he could make out her eyes, nose and mouth although they were not crystal-clear as yet. She reached up and brushed her fingertips over the skin below his eyes.

  “You take too many risks, husband. Take no more until you can see again.”

  “I don’t have much choice in the matter,” Nate responded. “We have to help those greenhorns if we can.” He stepped into the stirrups, lowered his arm to give her a boost, and wheeled the stallion. “Can you see any sign of a camp fire?”

  “Yes,” Winona said. “I will guide you.”

  Nate smiled as one of her arms looped around his waist. It flabbergasted him that they were together again. By the same token, inwardly he quaked to think of the grisly fate that would have been her lot had he not stumbled on her at just the right moment. It was almost as if a higher power had a hand in her salvation.

  Presently Nate could see the fire too. No voices came from the camp, which disturbed him. It was much too early for all the slavers to have turned in.

  The night itself was much too tranquil, reminding Nate of the lull before a storm. He slowed to be on the safe side. Since he had given the Hawken to his wife, he drew a pistol.

  “The camp is deserted except for four horses,” Winona whispered. “We can go right on in.”

  “Unless it’s a trap,” Nate said. It made no sense for the slavers to have gone off and left their camp unattended. He stayed where he was for several minutes until convinced that it would be safe.

  The tethered horses displayed no alarm. Nate rode to where packs, parfleches and a few saddles were piled near the crackling flames.

  “It looks as if they left in a hurry,” Winona commented, reading the tracks by the firelight. “Perhaps they are after your friend.”

  “And they took his wife along?” Nate shook his head. “They would have left her behind, under guard. No, I reckon Simon got her away from them somehow, and the whole kit and caboodle lit a shuck after him. See if you can tell which direction they went.”

  Winona slid off and walked to the edge of the clearing. She made a circuit of the perimeter, stooping every so often to examine the soil. Freshly overturned clods of dirt showed her exactly where the slavers had entered the grass. “Over here,” she said.

  Nate had been keeping an eye out for slavers. His vision was almost back to normal. A little while more and he would be able to give the renegades a taste of their own medicine.

  Holding the pistol in his left hand, Nate rode toward his wife. It seemed to him that she had never been as lovely as she was at that exact moment, with the dancing firelight playing off her smooth features and the shadows at her back.

  Then one of those shadows moved. Nate went to shout a warning, but the shadow pounced before he could. A brawny Indian in a breechcloth seized Winona from behind, pinned her arms to her sides, and started to drag her toward the grass. She resisted by digging in her heels and slamming her head backward.

  Nate raised the flintlock and charged to her aid. He had to get a lot closer before he dared fire. Suddenly another figure popped up out of the grass, pointed a rifle at him, and fired. In the slaver’s haste, the man missed. Nate swiveled, fixed as steady a bead as he could, held it, and stroked the trigger.

  The cutthroat screeched as he flung his hands up and keeled over.

  The black stallion was almost to the grass. Winona heard it coming. She knew that Nate would leap down to help her, and the thought filled her with dread. With his eyesight dimmed, he would be no match for the Lipan.

  Fear lent added strength to Winona’s limbs. She had tried to butt the Lipan in the face, but he always turned his cheek to her. She had tried kicking his legs out from under him, but he planted himself so firmly that an avalanche would not have budged him. Now Winona took a new tack. She still had the Hawken clutched in her right hand. Glancing down, she saw the Lipan’s left foot next to her leg. Without hesitation she drove the stock down onto his toes.

  Something cracked. The warrior took a hopping step backward, pulling her after him. Winona swung the rifle around behind the two of them and tried to snare his legs to trip him. She succeeded, but she could not hold on. The Hawken fell.

  Nate saw all this as he vaulted from the stallion. He rushed to help her when yet another slaver reared up off to the right. Nate dropped as a rifle cracked. The ball whizzed overhead like a riled hummingbird. Straightening, Nate saw the slaver barrel toward him while unlimbering a pistol.

  Somewhere, a gruff voice yelled, “Owens! Don’t be a jackass! Stay down until we nail him!”

  The onrushing slaver paid no heed.

  The Hawken was only a f
ew yards away, but Nate could not hope to reach it before Owens reached him. He needed to slow the man down for just a second or two. To that end, Nate pointed his spent pistol as if he were going to shoot.

  Owens ducked and veered a few feet to one side.

  Which was just what Nate wanted him to do. Taking a single long stride, Nate dived. He released the pistol in midair so he could scoop up the Hawken as he hit the ground. In a smooth roll he rose to his knees and leveled the rifle at his waist at the selfsame moment that the slaver crashed out of the grass right in front of him.

  Owens had his pistol up, but as he burst into full view his attention was drawn to the fierce struggle between Chipota and Winona. Belatedly, he spied the crouched figure in the shadows in front of him.

  At a range of no more than a yard, Nate fired. The Hawken boomed and kicked. The heavy caliber slug caught the slaver in the stomach and lifted him off his feet.

  Owens was hurled back into the grass. He screamed as he crashed down. Rolling into a ball, he clutched the large hole in his gut and wailed in torment.

  Nate moved in quickly, eager to help Winona. He drew his butcher knife as he stood over the squalling cutthroat. Owens glanced up, foresaw his impending doom, and uttered a high-pitched scream.

  “Nooooooooooo!”

  A short thrust silenced the wavering cry. Nate turned and saw the man’s pistol lying on the ground. He picked it up, then ran toward his wife. More concerned for her welfare than his own, he almost missed spotting the grizzled slaver who swooped toward him.

  Nate twisted, thereby saving his life. The newcomer already had a rifle pressed to a shoulder, and fired. The lead ball creased Nate’s side, digging a shallow furrow low down on his ribs. It provoked an intense spasm of raw pain and drew blood, but it did not stop Nate from extending the pistol he had just snatched off the ground, curling back the hammer, and squeezing.