Wilderness Double Edition 14 Page 14

  Zach was unarmed, but that didn’t deter him. In the heat of combat a warrior often had to make do with what was available. Already Zach was on the lookout for a certain type of rock and long, straight limbs. The stone he needed seemed to leap up at him. It was about seven inches long, triangular in shape, with a rough, serrated edge.

  Now Zach needed a limb. But he was still searching when the crash of brush heralded the whites.

  “Spread out! Keep your eyes peeled! The nit can’t have gotten far!” Vince Kendrick bellowed.

  Zach’s blood boiled. Kendrick was the kind of white he’d always despised, the kind who hated for hatred’s sake, the kind who thought all Indians were beneath contempt. To a fiend like Kendrick, Indians were less than human. Less than wild beasts. They were vermin, to be exterminated as whites saw fit. It was men like Kendrick who ensured the red race and the white race could never live in peace.

  Darting behind a bole, Zach marked the positions of the horsemen. Two were off to the right, three to the left. Kendrick and Johnson were in the middle.

  “Shoot to kill!” the former commanded. “I don’t care if his father has been shadowing us. We’ll kill the father, too, when the time comes.”

  Ed Stark tittered. “I was hoping to have some fun first. Maybe poke out his eyes, chop off his fingers and toes. I love it when they beg for mercy.”

  “Pay attention to what you’re doing, damn you,” Kendrick said. “Even nits can bite. He might be unarmed, but that doesn’t make him any less dangerous.”

  For once the hatemonger was right. Zach turned and ran low to the ground, taking advantage of all available cover. He couldn’t hope to outrun horses, but if he could stay ahead of them long enough to find a hiding place, the whites were in for a nasty surprise.

  Unfortunately, the cover wasn’t as thick as Zach had hoped. Some of the brush was dense, but not dense enough to hide him should any of the greenhorns pass within a dozen feet of where he lay.

  The whites were conducting a thorough search. Ira Sanders was well to the north, Frank Batson well to the south, so Zach couldn’t outflank them. Spaced as they were, about thirty feet apart, Zach couldn’t try to slip between them, either.

  Circling a cluster of trees, Zach came to a depression about eight feet long and two feet wide. Long ago a tree had fallen and had lain there for years, until time, the elements, and rot had reduced it to splintered fragments.

  The soil underneath had settled under its weight, leaving a depression a foot deep. Which wasn’t as deep as Zach would like, but it would have to do. Bending, he quickly scooped out the debris and piled it at the edge. Then he slid in, on his side, and swiftly pulled the pieces of wood and bark over him. There wasn’t enough to cover him completely. The largest piece went over his midsection. A small piece of bark he balanced on his cheek, leaving enough space to peer out.

  No sooner was Zach done than a rider appeared. It was Elden Johnson, and he was poking into every clump of high weeds, every and all tangled growth.

  Zach held his breath. The human anvil’s gaze drifted toward the depression. Zach swore he could feel the force of those dark eyes as they swept over him, and it took all his willpower not to leap up and bolt.

  Johnson’s gaze shifted to the north. He was not quite abreast of the hole and fifteen feet from it when he twisted and scanned the ground around it. His features grew intent, his forehead bunched.

  Zach could tell the man suspected something was not as it should be, and it was equally obvious Johnson couldn’t figure out exactly what was out of place. Suddenly Johnson focused on one spot, his saddle creaking as he leaned farther down.

  Zach had been careful not to leave footprints, but he couldn’t completely avoid bending blades of grass and weeds. Had the man noticed some bent stems? Maybe the partial smudge of a heel print? Grasping the stone, Zach prepared to rush Frazier’s killer. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it was sharp enough to pierce flesh. A blow to the throat or the eye should do the job if Johnson didn’t shoot him first.

  The marksman moved closer. Just when Zach was on the verge of bursting upward and attacking him, Ed Stark called out.

  “Hey! Over here! I think I’ve found something!”

  Elden Johnson straightened and trotted off. Everyone other than the flankers bustled to where the rat-faced man knelt and climbed down to inspect what he had discovered.

  Zach raised himself up high enough to watch. “See? It’s a footprint, as sure as I’m breathing,” Stark declared. “The ’breed is heading that way.” He pointed to the northeast.

  Vince Kendrick took one look and cuffed the smaller man on the back of the head. “You idiot. It’s a bear print. I’m no tracker, but even I can tell that.” Stooping, he touched the ground. “See here? The outline of its claws?”

  “The track is five or six days old,” Ira Sanders said. “That’s why the claw marks aren’t very clear.”

  “Sorry,” Stark said sheepishly. “How was I to know?”

  “You could use your pitiful excuse for a brain,” Kendrick retorted. “The ’breed has gained ground on us, thanks to you. From now on don’t holler unless you’re absolutely sure you’ve found something.”

  “Don’t holler at all,” Elden Johnson amended. “It will give away where we are. If any of you find sign, flap your arms.”

  “Good idea,” Kendrick said.

  Again they spread out, again they advanced. Johnson rode on with the rest. Soon they were out of sight, and Zach sprang erect, scattering the wood and bark. He roamed among the pines, scouring the carpet of pine needles for a downed limb that would suit his purpose. A live limb would be too supple, too hard to break off. What he needed was one that had been dead awhile, that had hardened and could be trimmed. He found a branch he thought was right, but when he tried to sharpen it, the end shattered.

  Zach never gave any thought to fleeing. He could have. There was no one to stop him. But running would be an admission the whites had beaten him. They would live. They would go back up the mountain and help themselves to all the gold they could carry. They might even find Ben Frazier’s cache. So rank an injustice must never come to pass!

  For long minutes Zach hunted. Two other branches proved to have flaws. He wondered if he would ever locate a suitable one, and then there it was, over five feet long with little to trim off.

  Kneeling, Zach set to work. The stone was crude, but it worked. After the offshoots were stripped, he sawed at the end, peeling thin strips until his makeshift lance was ready. Then he hefted it, testing the balance.

  The greenhorns were well to the east. Zach trailed them; the hunted had become the hunter. He needed a rifle and an ammo pouch and powder horn, and then he would show them why even the mighty Sioux respected the prowess of the Shoshones.

  Quiet shrouded the woods. Unnatural quiet, as when predators were on the prowl. Or humans were abroad.

  To gauge how far ahead the whites were, Zach lowered onto his stomach and pressed an ear to the ground, a trick his Shoshone grandfather had taught him. The earth carried sound quite well. Faintly, but distinctly, Zach heard the muted drum of heavy hooves, a clomp-clomp-clomp like the slow beat of a tom-tom.

  Zach began to rise, then placed his ear to the ground again. Were his ears deceiving him, or did some of the sounds come from behind him? That couldn’t be, unless several of the whites had circled to the rear without him being aware, which was unlikely. He listened closely but now heard only sounds from in front. Evidently he had been mistaken.

  Standing, Zach stalked his foes. He glided rapidly along until movement pegged where Vince Kendrick and Elden Johnson were. The pair were consulting. Zach also spied Cyrus Walton and Ed Stark. He selected the rodent and crept toward him.

  Zach knew that once he threw the lance, he must move like a greased rattler. He must arm himself with a rifle before the others stopped him. If he could claim Stark’s horse without it acting up, so much the better.

  Zach was halfway to the unsuspecting S
tark when something—a premonition, perhaps—compelled him to glance over his shoulder. He was startled to discover a line of riders moving slowly toward him. So he had heard something, after all!

  Even more startling was who they were.

  The Utes were closing in.

  Louisa May Clark’s mother once mentioned that the worst experience any woman could ever have was for a man to force himself on her. “It’s a vile violation of all we are,” Mary Clark had said. “Any man who would do such a thing is the lowest of the low, a brute who deserves to have his manhood hacked off. If anyone ever tries to do that to you, resist with all your being. Even if it means your life. Better to sacrifice yourself than bear a horrid emotional scar for the rest of your days.”

  Her mother had been so bitter, so vehement, that Lou speculated maybe her mother had been a victim of molestation. But Lou could never bring herself to ask. Some matters were too intensely personal. And she had no real desire to know, anyway.

  Lou never forgot those words, though. Especially when the family headed west, and Lou heard scary tales of women who had suffered the proverbial fate worse than death. Such stories were legion, bandied about much as the men spent hours recounting clashes between whites and the red man. Frequently, the accounts had no basis in fact. They were the product of tavern gossip. Yet that didn’t stop everyone from endlessly repeating them.

  Now, as Bartholomew Dunne hitched at his belt while leering at her as if she were the main course at a banquet, all of Louisa’s fear welled up. A tidal wave of fright and loathing and resentment that any man could think to do so horrible a deed to any woman.

  Lou was proud of having saved herself for marriage. It was normal in her day and age for girls to do so. But there were some who surrendered their virtue before being joined in wedlock, and paid a dreadful toll. Her mother had told her that most girls who gave in to temptation wound up walking the streets at night, or paraded their wares in houses of ill repute. Lou had been so scared on hearing it, she’d vowed no male would ever touch her—there—unless it was her husband.

  Bartholomew Dunne had other ideas. He was starting to undo his belt buckle. “You’ll like this so much, girly, you’ll never want me to stop.”

  Lou responded by drawing her knees to her chest and thrusting both feet at the trapper’s shins. That she smashed his legs out from under him surprised her even more than it did him.

  As Dunne fell, Lou rolled. She was upright in the blink of an eye and took a bound, but callused fingers closed around her left ankle and she was yanked off balance. She tried to right herself, and had almost succeeded when another hand clamped onto her other leg and down she went.

  “Struggle all you want, gal. I like it when they do.”

  Revulsion lent Lou strength. Tearing a leg free, she kicked him. Once, twice, three times, full in the face, and the third time his lower lip split, spurting crimson. Dunne snarled like a panther and clawed higher, seeking to wrap his arms around her waist. Lou wasn’t going to let him. She rammed her heel into his shoulder, into his neck.

  “Hold still, damn you!” Dunne hissed.

  The man couldn’t be serious. Lou was supposed to just lie there while he abused her? Her next lack connected with an ear. Howling, Dunne recoiled, and Lou surged to her knees.

  “You rotten bitch!”

  A backhand caught Lou across the face. Not hard enough to split her skin or break her teeth, but enough to knock her over. Before she could scramble onto her hands and knees, Bartholomew Dunne was on top of her, ripping at her clothes like a wild beast. But where a beast’s razor claws would slice her buckskin shirt apart, Dunne’s couldn’t do more than tear off a few whangs.

  “Enough!” he raged, placing his hands on her shoulders and slamming her flat. “You’re slippier than an eel!”

  Dunne had no idea how slippery she could really be. Wrenching to the left, Lou drove her knee into his stomach. The would-be rapist gurgled and folded like a book. She pushed out from under, rose, and ran like a panicked doe.

  “Stop, or I’ll shoot!”

  Lou would rather be slain than ravaged. She looked back and saw him leveling a flintlock. Or trying to, for he couldn’t quite hold it steady.

  “I meant it!” was Dunne’s final warning.

  Cutting to the left, Lou was a footstep ahead of the lead that sought her heart. She ran faster, winding like a doe among the trees, until her lungs were fit to explode. Heaving for breath, she slowed, a deep pain in her ribs compounding the torment. She had done it, though! She had given him the slip and now all she need do was stay shy of him until he tired of hunting for her and wandered elsewhere.

  Lou sank to her knees, holding her side.

  Brittle brush crackled. Dunne was after her, blundering from growth to growth like a bull that had drunk tainted water. He cursed nonstop, more swearwords in one minute than Lou had heard her pa say in all the years he lived.

  “I’ll get you!” Dunne panted. “If it takes the rest of the day, I’m not quitting until you’re mine!”

  Lou didn’t have that long. Stalking Coyote needed her. Somehow she must slink off, obtain a horse, and ride like a chinook wind to her betrothed’s aid.

  “Make it easy on yourself, girly! The longer I have to look, the more you’ll regret it! Where are you?”

  The man had been in the mountains too long. He thought everyone was as stupid as he was. Lou spotted his legs moving past a small tree, so she rose and staggered off, gaining energy with every step. Unbidden tears dampened her eyes and she blinked them away. She refused to be weak. She refused to give in to despair.

  It dawned on her that Dunne had fallen silent. Halting, she cocked her head but couldn’t hear him blundering about. Why not?

  There could be only one answer.

  The lecher was doing the same thing she was! Louisa stood stock-still, hoping to wait Wm out. He was bound to be impatient and would move before she did. But the seconds became a minute and the minutes followed one after another until over five had gone by and she hadn’t heard so much as a leaf rustle.

  Where was he? Worried, now, that he knew where she was and he was creeping toward her, Lou rotated a full three hundred and sixty degrees. Her anxiety climbed, and she beat down an urge to run pell-mell in any direction. She must be calm. She mustn’t lost control. She could beat him if she didn’t lose her head.

  Like a tiny mouse slinking from a ravenous cat, Lou tiptoed to the southeast. She prayed the dim hadn’t strayed, prayed for once luck would favor her.

  The patter of onrushing feet proved to the contrary. A savage whoop of exultation sent a shiver down her spine as Lou spun. Bartholomew Dunne was almost upon her, his arms outflung, demonic joy lighting his craggy features. He tackled her. Against someone his size and weight she was helpless to resist.

  Smashed to the earth, Lou nearly blacked out. Her wrists were seized. When her vision cleared, she was staring up into the contorted mask of a satyr. He laughed, wriggled his knees on her chest, and lowered his mouth close to hers.

  “Comfortable, girly?”

  Lou attempted to bite him, but Dunne pulled back.

  “No you don’t! For such a small fry, you sure are feisty.”

  “Do this, and so help me I’ll kill you.”

  “When I’m done you’ll be in no shape to lift a finger, let alone harm anyone,” Dunne gloated. Puckering his lips, he rimmed them with his tongue. “I’ve never had one as young as you. And I hear the younger they are, the sweeter they taste. What say I find out?”

  Lou desperately jerked her face away, but Dunne chortled and tried to mold his mouth to hers. “No!” she screamed, fear eclipsing all else. She bucked and heaved, but she couldn’t gain enough leverage to throw him off. “No! No! No!”

  Bartholomew Dunne’s face was a whisker’s width from her own. Abruptly, he pulled back and shot to his feet.

  Then Lou saw that he hadn’t risen on his own. Someone had hauled him off her and was holding him as she might hold a do
ll. Her heart swelled. Speechless with disbelief, she was convinced she must be dreaming.

  But it was real.

  “What the hell—?” Dunne blurted, and turned to gape at the much bigger man who held him, a wide shouldered mountain of muscle whose bearded face was terrible to behold. “Let go of me, you bastard.”

  The newcomer made no answer. His left hand was locked on Dunne’s shoulder. Now his right hand flashed, wrapped around Dunne’s wrist, and commenced to bend the wrist backward as lesser men might bend a twig.

  Dunne shrieked. He sought to break loose, but his strength paled in comparison to that of the other. Inexorably, his wrist kept bending, bending, bending, until the whole arm was at an unnatural angle. Something had to give, and it did. The crack of bone was as loud as a gunshot.

  Wailing, Dunne flapped like a stricken raven. Without ceremony he was flung to the earth. A foot crashed into his ribs, and again the snap of bone was ghastly clear. He howled and convulsed as if having a fit.

  Louisa’s rescuer gazed down at her. “He can’t be allowed to hurt anyone ever again. Do you understand?”

  At a loss for words, Lou nodded.

  “Please, please!” Dunne mewed. His appeal was wasted. Immensely strong hands gripped him by the front of his shirt and effortlessly lifted him. One hand closed on his neck, one took firm hold of his jaw. Comprehension left Dunne momentarily horror-struck. Then he rained his fists in a frenzy.

  The man began to twist Dunne’s neck in one direction—and Dunne’s jaw in the other.

  Lou was riveted to the spectacle. She felt no sympathy for her molester, none whatsoever.

  Spittle flecked Bartholomew Dunne’s lips and chin as he fought maniacally for his life. Wheezing like a steam engine about to rupture, he punched and kicked, but he might as well have hit solid marble for all the effect it had. His arms gradually weakened. Whining pathetically, he pried at the bigger man’s hands with his fingernails. “Who are you?” he managed to shriek.

  The mountain man paused. The look he bestowed on Louisa was filled with the same love her own father had shown her. “I’m Nate King. This young lady is going to marry my son. That makes her my daughter.” And at that, Nate twisted his arms in a tremendous, grinding wrench.