Wilderness Double Edition 11 Page 14

The slaver called Ricket had not lived as long as he had by being reckless. He truly thought that he had the big stranger dead to rights. He’d seen the man shoot Williams with the only pistol the man had on him. Then he’d seen Owens go down. Figuring that the stranger’s guns were all empty, Ricket had closed in to do the job right.

  The crack of the pistol was the last sound Earl Ricket ever heard.

  While all this had been going on, Winona King had drawn the knife she had taken from Simpson and turned on the Lipan. She slashed at his torso as he grabbed at her neck. The blade sliced in smoothly but was deflected by a rib. Chipota grunted, seized her knife arm, and flung her to the ground.

  As she came down, Winona kicked. She clipped the Lipan on the thigh. It was not a forceful blow, but it did prevent him from pouncing on her.

  Chipota skirted to the left. His war club lay nearby but he did not retrieve it. Nor did he draw the knife at his hip. Evidently he planned to take her alive, or else he was going to throttle the life from her with his bare hands.

  Winona was not about to submit to either. Swiveling on her back like an overturned turtle, she held him at bay with the point of the butcher knife. His bronzed hand flicked at her wrist. She parried and nearly took off a few fingers. An odd smile lit his face as he skipped to the right, tensed, and sprang.

  Winona was a hair too slow. She winced when a rock-hard fist batted her arm aside and knees as stout as tree trunks rammed into her stomach. The stars swirled. Her knife was plucked from her fingers. She blinked and looked up. Chipota was on top of her, but he did not stay there.

  A human battering ram clad in buckskins hurtled out of nowhere and slammed into the Lipan’s chest. Both men catapulted into the grass. Winona sat up, her heart in her throat at the sight of the muscular warrior and her husband locked in mortal combat. Chipota had the knife raised to strike, but Nate held the warrior’s arm back.

  They rolled first one way, then another. Nate put all he had into pinning his foe so he could finish the warrior off, but the slaver twisted and shifted like a greased snake. For some reason it reminded Nate of the time he had fought an Apache down in New Mexico. Why that should be, he didn’t know.

  Chipota was highly skilled at close-quarters combat. All the warriors in his tribe were. Like their Apache brethren, they lived for war, and had been doing so for so many generations that they had few equals.

  Chipota, in particular, had always preferred to slay his enemies up close. It gave him pleasure to see the life fade from their eyes and feel their limbs grow weak. It was why he liked to use a war club instead of a bow or lance or gun.

  The Lipan’s passion for dispensing death was in part to blame for his being banished from the tribe. When another warrior had made light of him once too many times, he’d leaped on the man and strangled him right there in front of half the village.

  Now Chipota intended to add to his long string of victims. Muscles rippling, he sought to bury his knife in the white-eye who had rashly attacked him. He did not expect much resistance since it had been his experience that whites, by and large, were weaklings. In his previous clashes with them, he had never so much as worked up a sweat.

  This white-eye proved to be the exception. Chipota strained, but was met by equal strength. He tried to tear his arm free so he could stab but was held fast by a grip that rivaled his own. He resorted to every trick he knew in order to break the white-eye’s hold but was balked at every turn.

  Even as Chipota fought, in the back of his mind he wondered about the white man’s identity. When he had come on the pair shortly after finding Simpson’s body, he had assumed the white man to be a stray trapper. But while trailing them to the camp, the warrior had seen how the Shoshone pressed herself against the white-eye, how she held him and touched him. She would not do that to just any man. No, not her.

  It had to be the woman’s mate, Chipota had concluded. The Shoshone had been telling them all along that her man would come to free her. The white slavers had laughed at her, having heard many women make the same claim in the past.

  For once, their captive had been telling the truth.

  Now Chipota was fighting for his life against an adversary every bit as formidable as any he had ever faced. As they continued to grapple, he drove a knee at the white-eye s groin.

  The Shoshone s husband blocked it by shifting so that his hip absorbed the blow. Then the white-eye pivoted, hooked a leg behind Chipota s, and flipped the Lipan onto his back.

  Rather abruptly, Chipota found himself staring up at the tip of his own knife as it was forced inexorably downward toward his throat. He exerted every ounce of strength he had to keep the blade from penetrating his flesh, but it was not enough.

  The wily warrior worked his legs to the right and managed to bend them at the knees. All he had to do was sweep his feet up and around and he would dislodge the white-eye. But as he coiled to do so, the unexpected occurred. Hands took hold of his ankles and yanked his legs straight. Before he quite comprehended what was going on, someone sat on his shins. In desperation he attempted to tug loose, but the weight pinned his legs in place.

  Insight brought a rare smile of resignation to the Lipan’s lips. It was over. He had done his best but it was not good enough, not against the both of them. As the butcher knife slowly sheared into his jugular, he regretted that he had not met the Shoshone many winters ago when they were both young. It would have been nice to make her into his woman – whether she wanted to be it or not.

  Nate King gave a final wrench. The blade sank to the hilt. He stayed on top of the warrior, blood splattering him on the cheeks and chin, until a hand tapped him on the shoulder.

  “It is over, husband. He is dead.”

  Straightening, Nate slid his damp hand off the slick hilt. He was taken aback to find his wife perched on the warrior’s shins. His other hand covered her knee as he surveyed the bodies lying nearby.

  “I’m afraid it’s not over yet. We still have to find the Wards.”

  At that very moment, Simon and Felicity Ward and their Mexican ally were fleeing for their lives. Julio was in the lead. Simon and his wife rode abreast of one another. Ahead of them lay countless miles of swaying grass. Behind them, hot on their trail, were Gregor and the band of cutthroats.

  It had all gone so well there for a while. Simon had been convinced that they had given the slavers the slip. Then he had remembered Nate King, alone and defenseless, and he had turned the bay while yelling for the others to go on.

  What possessed him to think they’d obey, Simon would never know. Almost immediately Felicity had wheeled to follow him, so of course Julio had done the same. Simon had reined up and gestured for them to turn around but they ignored him.

  “Where are you going?” Felicity had demanded.

  “The man who helped me find you is in trouble. I have to go help him,” Simon had quickly explained. “The two of you should go on. We’ll catch up by daylight, I would imagine.”

  Felicity looked at him as if he were insane. “You can’t be serious. After all we’ve been through, do you really think I would stand for being separated again? Where you go, dearest, I go.”

  Simon had appealed to Julio. “Talk some sense into her. You know what will happen if the slavers get their hands on us. She has to go with you.”

  To the young man’s annoyance, the Mexican had said, “So sorry, señor, but this is between the two of you. I will abide by whatever you two decide.”

  “Then it’s settled. We’ll search for your friend,” Felicity declared, and made as if to ride back the way they had come.

  “No!” Simon had objected, barring her path. “I want you out of here, now! Get to safety and don’t fret about me!”

  A retort had been on the tip of Felicity’s tongue. But it was never voiced. For from out of the night to the west rose a cry of triumph.

  “Did you hear that, boys? We’re closer than we thought. After the bastards!”

  It had been Gregor. The slavers had thu
ndered toward them with yips and howls. Simon had no choice but to forget about the mountain man for the time being.

  That had been half an hour ago. All three of their horses now showed signs of fatigue. Simon knew it was just a matter of time before they had to make a stand, and he was not about to delude himself over the outcome. Even with Julio’s help, it was preordained.

  A minor godsend of sorts in the shape of a low knoll rose before them. Julio raced to the top, hauled on his reins, and was out of the saddle before his animal stopped moving. Rushing a few yards down the slope, he knelt and aimed his rifle.

  Simon was only a few steps behind. He tucked his rifle to his shoulder as a ragged cluster of slavers materialized, bearing down on the knoll like a pack of frenzied Cossacks.

  The cutthroats had not expected their quarry to turn. Gregor was the first to spot the kneeling figures and bellowed, “Scatter! We’re in their sights!” Suiting action to words, he swung onto the off side of his mount, Indian fashion, and angled to the north. Some of the others did the same.

  Julio and Simon fired at the same moment. Two of the slavers were knocked from their mounts, never to rise again. A third was downed by Julio, who drew one of his fancy pistols in a blur and banged off the shot just as the rider was about to shoot the Bostonian. Simon whipped out his own pistol, but by then the slavers had scattered into the high grass.

  “We must ride, señor, before they think to cut us off,” the Mexican urged.

  Nodding, Simon started back up the knoll. Felicity had climbed down and held the reins of all three animals. He had almost reached her when several shots rang out. One struck Trijillo’s mount in the neck. The horse whinnied and reared, throwing the bay and Felicity’s animal into a panic. She tried to hold on, but several more shots were all it took to send the three horses racing off in different directions.

  Julio made a frantic bid to catch his. He chased it partway down the far side and only stopped when another rifle cracked and a ball cored his right thigh.

  Simon saw their newfound friend jerk to the impact and fall. He sprinted to Julio’s side. Propping an arm under the Mexican’s shoulder, Simon began to haul him to the top when to his dismay Felicity appeared on the other side of Julio to take his other arm. “Get down in the grass,” Simon directed. “They can’t hit what they can’t see.”

  “He helped me when I needed it.”

  And that was all she would say. They regained the crown without another shot being fired. Sinking low, Simon eased Julio onto his back. The thigh was bleeding badly and Trijillo had his teeth clenched. “Hang on,” Simon said. “I’ll cut my shirt to make a tourniquet.”

  “No time, señor!” Julio said, clutching Simon’s wrist. “They will come soon. They will wipe us out.”

  Simon did it anyway. There had been a time not all that long ago when he would have broken down in tears at the setback they had suffered. He would have been devastated. But that was the old Simon Ward. This was the new. He calmly accepted the inevitable. Sliding his knife from its leather sheath, he shrugged out of his shirt and bent to his task.

  Felicity had her head turned into the wind. “They’re moving around down there,” she reported. “I can hear a lot of whispering. They must be up to something.”

  “They are surrounding us,” Julio said. “There is no way out now. I am sorry, señora.”

  “For what? Trying to save my life?” Felicity took his hand in hers. “Be still now. You’ll only make the bleeding worse.”

  The next fifteen minutes were the worst of Simon’s whole life. Not because he knew that in a very short while he would die, but because of what he had to do when the slavers overran them. He glanced at his wife and prayed he would find the courage.

  Julio insisted on sitting up after he was bandaged. He reloaded his guns and gave one of his expensive pistols to Felicity.

  The rustling and whispering stopped, but it was not quiet for long. To the north, Gregor bellowed, “The jig is up, Ward. I don’t know how you survived being shot, but it doesn’t hardly matter. Your wife is ours whether you like it or not. So make it easy on yourself and turn her over to us, pronto.”

  The words seemed to rise from Simon’s throat of their own accord. “Go to hell, you son of a bitch! You’ll never get your hands on her again!”

  “That’s what you think!”

  A pistol cracked. Simon ducked, thinking he was the target, but the shot was only the signal for all the slavers to rise up at once and rush the knoll. He fired his rifle and one dropped, fired his pistol and a second toppled. Beside him Julio brought down two more. Felicity’s pistol banged, but Simon did not see whether she hit anyone.

  The onrushing line slowed but did not break. Slavers cut loose all around the knoll. Felicity gasped as a burning sensation seared her arm. She heard a bullet thud into Julio, as did a second, and a third.

  Both men reloaded frantically. Simon had his rifle primed but not the pistol when several slavers loomed in front of him. He planted a ball in the forehead of the foremost. Julio’s pistol took an added toll.

  Then their guns were empty and the slavers were on them. Simon streaked out his knife and pivoted to plunge it into Felicity as he had promised himself he would do. He froze.

  Gregor was a few feet away. The giant slaver had the barrel of his rifle centered on Simon’s head. “You should have listened, boy!”

  Simon would never forget the sight of the top of Gregor’s head exploding in a shower of brains and gore. He thought that Julio had fired, but when he glanced around he discovered their friend was on the ground, riddled with holes.

  The answer came in the form of two riders who tore into the startled slavers as if they were chaff before a storm. In savage fury the pair slew cutthroats right and left. Many of the slavers had emptied their guns and had not had time to reload. They were easy prey.

  Six slavers fell in twice as many seconds, and then the man sprang from his black stallion and was among them, wielding a butcher knife. Three more lay wheezing in puddles of their own blood before the few who lived fled down the knoll and vanished in the grass.

  Just like that, it was over.

  ~*~

  Felicity Ward turned from the mound of earth at the top of the knoll and walked with bowed head to her horse. She looked at the others. “He saved my life and I never even knew his real name.”

  Nate King patted a parfleche tied behind his saddle. “I’ll take his possibles to Bent’s Fort. There’s a letter, written in Spanish. I think it’s to his folks. William Bent will see that everything goes south on the next wagon train to Santa Fe. From there, it can be sent to his family. They’ll learn what he did. I expect they’ll be right proud.”

  “I hope so,” Felicity said sincerely.

  Nate faced the younger man. “What about the two of you? What have you decided?”

  Simon exchanged glances with his wife. “We talked it over most of the night and all of this morning. You’ll probably think we’re out of our minds, but we want to stick it out. We can’t let all that has happened be for nothing.”

  “Well, I’ll be,” Nate said, genuinely surprised. “Whereabouts do you want to settle?”

  “We were hoping you could help us out in that regard.”

  Winona King laughed. “I have always wanted neighbors. How would you like to live in the next valley over from ours? There is plenty of water and game. And I would have someone to visit with when my husband is gone weeks at a time trapping.”

  “Oh, could we?” Felicity beamed, clapping her hands.

  Simon was just as delighted. “This means that Nate can teach me all I need to know about surviving in the wilderness. Let’s get going! I can hardly wait to see this valley.” Prodding the bay, he took the lead, but he had only gone a few feet when the trapper called his name. “What is it?” he asked, reining up.

  “Your first lesson. You’re going in the wrong direction.”

  WILDERNESS 22: TRAIL’S END

  Dedicated
to Judy, Joshua, and Shane.

  One

  Nate King reined up the instant the forest fell silent.

  A moment before, the big free trapper had been winding up a steep switchback toward a jagged ridge. He rode easily in the saddle, as befitted a man who spent so much of his time on horseback.

  Like many of his hardy breed, the mountain man favored an Indian style of dress. Buckskins covered his powerful frame. Moccasins protected his feet. On his head rested a dark beaver hat crowned by a single eagle feather.

  Whenever Nate ventured from his family’s cabin nestled high in the majestic Rocky Mountains, he went armed for bear, as the saying had it. In this instance a brace of flintlock pistols were wedged under his wide brown leather belt. On his right hip hung a long butcher knife in a beaded sheath. On his left side was a Shoshone tomahawk. An ammo pouch, powder horn, and possibles bag were all slanted across his broad chest. And held firmly in his left hand with the polished stock braced on his thigh was a Hawken rifle.

  Moments ago the surrounding slopes had been alive with sounds: the gay chirping of sparrows, the strident squawk of jays, the chattering of squirrels, and more. Then, as abruptly as if a gigantic invisible hand had smothered every living creature, the sounds had died.

  Now the air lay deathly still. Nate King cocked his ruggedly handsome head from side to side, but detected no hint of noise other than the fluttering whisper of the northwesterly breeze. Yet there had to be something—or someone—out there.

  Small animals were notoriously skittish. The cough of a roving grizzly, the throaty growl of a prowling painter, or the passage of a large body of men would quiet all wildlife within earshot.

  Nate, though, had not heard a thing, and years of living in the high country had heightened his senses to where they were keener than those of most men.

  The big trapper shifted to scan a tract of firs above him and dense pines to his right. Not so much as a chickadee stirred, that he could see. Which in itself meant little.