Wilderness Double Edition 11 Read online

  Zach felt like talking to take his mind off his worries, so he mentioned, “I’ve always sort of liked the plains. But to be honest, Ma, I don’t think I could ever live out here.”

  “Why not?” Winona prompted.

  “Take a gander. It’s too darned flat. And boring. What good does it do for a body to be able to see as far as the eye can see if there’s not a blamed thing worth looking at?” Zach shook his head. “No, ma’am. Give me the high country, where there are peaks that nearly touch the clouds and snow pretty near all year long and a person never knows what is over the next ridge.”

  Up ahead, Two Humps had slowed. Winona saw him straighten and stare toward He Dog’s bunch.

  “Do you feel that way, too?” Zach asked.

  Absently, Winona said, “Where I live is not so important to me. What is important is that I be with my man and my children. I could be happy anywhere if Nate were happy too.”

  “You do like our cabin, though, don’t you? And where it is and all?”

  Winona reined up. It was difficult for her to distinguish details, but there seemed to be a commotion among the foremost Crows. Her nerves jangled when she realized He Dog, Runs Against, Bear Ears and Yellow Owl were racing back toward Two Humps and company. “No!” she said softly.

  “What is it?” Zach asked, following her gaze. He saw Two Humps. He saw He Dog. And he saw a large band of warriors bearing down on them. At that distance they were no more than a blur, but he didn’t need to see them clearly to know who they were.

  Lakotas.

  Ten

  Darkness seemed to take forever to descend. The afternoon dragged by as if every minute were weighted down by two-ton boulders.

  Nate King did not waste a single one of them. Within moments after discovering a guard had been posted, he moved back into the deepest patch of shadow at the rear of the lodge and commenced striving his utmost to slip free of the thongs binding his wrists. He strained. He yanked and tugged. He worked his hands back and forth.

  The pain became excruciating. At length Nate’s muscles ached clear up to his shoulders. Worst of all was the agony in both wrists, compounded when the skin split, making them slick with blood.

  Thunder Hoop had done his job well. Hours of effort hardly loosened the loops. Yet he refused to concede defeat. Teeth grit, perspiration beading his brow, blood dripping from his fingers, he rubbed and chafed and heaved without cease.

  It was about an hour before sunset when low voices right outside the flap drew Nate to the entrance. A peek showed that another warrior was taking the place of the first man. They were talking and joking. In a little while the first man departed and his lean replacement stepped to the right of the flap and stood there with the butt of a slender lance propped at his feet.

  Nate noted the lengths of the shadows of the nearest tepees, then crept back to the rear. He was running out of time. At the rate he was going, it would be morning before he freed himself, and his wrists would be in such bad shape it would be a miracle if he didn’t bleed to death first.

  Inspiration born of desperation came to him. Nate sat on his haunches and tucked his knees as tightly to his chest as he could. Then, exerting every ounce of strength his powerful frame possessed, he attempted to slide his hands down over his buttocks.

  It appeared to be an impossible challenge. More precious minutes went by as Nate pushed and wriggled and hiked his backside off the ground again and again. Yet he barely moved his hands an inch and a half.

  His sense of urgency mounting, Nate eased onto his left side and reapplied himself. He shimmied like a snake while hunching his posterior and extending his arms as far as he could. A fraction at a time his wrists dipped lower. He had to bow his elbows outward to get his forearms past his thighs, and even then it did not seem to be enough to do the trick.

  Nate could never say what suddenly made him stop and glance at the entrance. Call it gut instinct. Call it a premonition. Whichever, as he looked up the flap parted and the head of the Oglala poked inside.

  The warrior was still a few seconds as his eyes adjusted. Then he spied the trapper and nodded to himself that all was well. The flap closed behind him.

  Nate took up where he had left off. He found that by repeatedly lifting his rump while simultaneously hunching his shoulders until they throbbed, he could work his wrists downward by partial degrees. Again and again and again he did it, his arms screaming at him to stop.

  Then came the moment Nate had worked so hard toward, the exhilarating instant when his bloody hands worked loose and were under his legs. The strain on his arms evaporated. He took but a second to gird himself, then snaked his arms up and around his legs and feet.

  Nate sat up. Wiping his hands on his pants, he bent and applied his teeth to the thongs. The salty taste of blood filled his mouth. He chewed as if he were starved and this were his last meal. The leather was tough but had been softened somewhat by the blood and all his tugging. Like an oversized beaver, he gnawed through loop after loop.

  His joy was unbounded when his hands fell free. They ached abominably and he had to move his fingers a while to relieve the stiffness. When they were back to normal, he rose in a crouch and stalked to the flap.

  Twilight claimed the Lakota encampment. It was a tranquil time of day, when families were gathered together to eat and few people were abroad. Even the dogs were inside, awaiting their nightly scraps. Smoke from scores of cooking fires wafted from as many lodges. Horses stood quietly or grazed on sweet grass.

  The warrior standing guard had moved a few more steps to the right and was leaning on the lance. If his expression were any indication, he was bored half to death.

  A few pebbles lay near the flap. Nate inched his hands out far enough to retrieve one. He checked to verify there were no Lakotas in the immediate area, then flicked the pebble high into the air, between the guard and the lodge. When it hit about ten feet away, the warrior idly gazed in that direction, seeking the cause.

  Nate silently pushed the flap outward and uncoiled. Careful to stay close to the tepee, he placed each foot down silently. He was almost within arm’s length of the Oglala when the man yawned and pivoted toward him.

  It was hard to say which of them was more surprised. The Sioux opened his mouth to alert the camp but Nate stifled the shout with a quick jab to the chin that staggered the warrior. Stunned, the Lakota speared the lance tip at him. Nate parried the thrust with a forearm and delivered another punch, this one an uppercut that rocked the Sioux on his heels. The warrior’s legs crumpled, and as he fell Nate connected a third time.

  The Oglala was unconscious when he slumped prone. Swiftly Nate stooped, hooked his hands under the man’s arms, and dragged the warrior inside before anyone could notice.

  No outcries were raised. The village lay undisturbed under the darkening sky.

  Nate hastily stripped the Lakota of his knife and lance. He cut strips from the warrior’s leggings and used them to tie the man’s limbs and fit a gag in place.

  Time was growing short. It would not be long before the headmen of the tribe converged on the big lodge for the council Ant had mentioned.

  Nate emerged, then hesitated. The stallion and the pinto were twenty yards off. It would be child’s play for him to escape. All he had to do was dash over to them, mount up, and slip into the darkness.

  But he couldn’t. Not yet.

  Somewhere to the south a dog barked as Nate hurried toward the lodge bearing the painted emblem of the circular lightning bolt. Murmuring forewarned him that others besides the tall warrior were inside.

  Crouching beside the closed flap, Nate lightly pried at the edge and parted it a crack. A fire crackled softly. Hovering over a buffalo paunch in which boiled the family’s supper was a woman Thunder Hoop’s age. The warrior himself sat toward the back of the lodge, facing the entrance. He was engaged in conversation with a man half his years, perhaps a son. Two younger women were over by the left wall, preparing food.

  Fetches Water
was also there. The different style of her long dress and her braided hair marked her as not being Lakota. Huddled next to a pile of folded robes, her pretty features downcast, the Crow avoided looking at her captors.

  Nate backed off before he was spotted. How could he get her out of there without raising a ruckus? he asked himself.

  To the west a flap opened and an older woman stepped out. She went off toward the Platte, a water skin in hand.

  Rising, Nate strolled to his horses. It was a test of his nerves to walk along as if he didn’t have a care in the world so that he would not arouse suspicion if seen from a distance. Darting behind them, he drew the butcher knife and cut the hobbles on both animals.

  The flap to the council lodge was open. Within glowed a small fire, and someone chanted in a singsong voice.

  Nate snuck to the opening and risked a look. Ant sat cross-legged, his arms on his knees, his wrinkled face upraised, his eyes closed. Placing the lance down, Nate slipped inside and circled to the left, staying in shadows. The old warrior droned on.

  To the southeast a horse whinnied. Voices sounded. Nate halted and listened, dreading that the Lakotas had found the bound warrior. But the voices were much too distant.

  Ant abruptly stopped chanting and cocked his head as if he were listening also. When he had satisfied himself that all was well, he lifted his head and resumed.

  Nate cat-footed up behind the ancient warrior. At the touch of his blade to the side of Ant’s neck, the Lakota stiffened and fell silent. Nate warily moved to the right without relaxing the pressure so the chief could see him.

  Ant’s dark eyes sparkled with mirth. He actually smiled and spoke a few words in his tongue. Slowly lifting his arms, he signed, in so many words, “It is good to see you again, Snake Who Is White. But I did not think it would be so soon.”

  Lowering the blade, Nate wedged it under the front of his belt so it was within ready reach, and responded, “I do not desire to harm you. I do not want to hurt any of your people. With your help, I will not have to.”

  “How kind. I will be sure to tell all one hundred and twenty-nine warriors in our village when they surround you.”

  Nate stood and motioned for the Oglala to do the same. “Even the loss of one man is one too many. Whether anyone dies will be up to you.”

  “How can that be? I am not the one who has a weapon.”

  “You are the one whom your people look up to the most, the one they will listen to if things do not go as I have planned.”

  “And what would you have me tell them?” Ant asked as he reached for his staff.

  “That is for you to decide.”

  Nate helped the aged warrior rise, then steered him to the opening. He left the lance where it was, took Ant’s elbow, and walked toward Thunder Hoop’s lodge.

  Suddenly a large dog appeared and padded toward them. He slowed to sniff noisily and studied Nate as if he could not quite make up his mind whether Nate was supposed to be there or not.

  Ant spoke sharply, waving the staff. The dog veered to the north and was soon gone. “That is Crow Rising’s animal,” he signed. “He lets it wander as it pleases. It is always sticking its nose where it does not belong.” He sighed. “In the old days, someone would have carved it up long before this to teach Crow Rising a lesson.”

  Nate used sign to say, “When we get there, announce yourself. I will be behind you, so do not try anything. Only take four steps inside, no more.”

  “If I take five will you cut off my ears? I know that is what I would do if I were in your place. Chopping off an ear is always a good way to get another man’s attention. It hurts, but it does not kill him.”

  It was hard for Nate to tell whether the Lakota was serious or not. As they neared the lodge he slid to the rear and drew the knife.

  Ant gave the hide flap a whack. Thunder Hoop called out and Ant replied. At a single word from Thunder Hoop, Ant pushed the flap aside with his long stick, then bent to go in.

  All the occupants had shifted toward the entrance. Nate made it a point to keep the chief between himself and the others until Ant had taken the required four steps. Then he showed himself, the blade resting against Ant’s neck.

  One of the women gasped. Another dropped the parfleche she had been rummaging in. The young man barked something and started to lunge toward a lance which had been propped against the wall. Thunder Hoop stopped him with a single word.

  Nate knew that every second was critical. He jabbed a thumb at Fetches Water and beckoned. She gawked, not knowing what to make of him, and made no move to comply. Again Nate beckoned, yet she sat there like a proverbial bump on a log.

  During the long ride from the remote Rockies, Nate had heard the other Crows call Bull Standing With Cow by his name many times. He repeated that name now and was rewarded by having the girl leap to her feet with a hand clutched to her throat. She repeated her father’s name, her lilt framing a question. Once more Nate said it, smiling to show he was on her side. He smiled and nodded at the flap.

  The young Crow had to have her doubts. A white man she had never met had burst into the lodge of Lakotas who were holding her against her will and acted as if he wanted to help her. So Nate didn’t hold it against her when she moved with all the speed of a turtle toward the opening.

  Thunder Hoop made no move to interfere. His eyes betrayed keen resentment but he did not go for the knife at his side nor for the bow lying nearby. His hands on his legs, he watched with the eyes of a hawk, awaiting an opening he could exploit.

  The warrior’s son, though, was another matter. He couldn’t sit still and kept glancing at the lance. Had his father not been there, he would have grabbed it and attacked.

  Nate never took his eyes off the younger one. When Fetches Water went on by and he heard the flap move, he backed up, gently pulling the chief with him as a shield. At the entrance he put his free hand on the Lakota’s shoulder and pressed. Ant got the idea. Together they backed on out and Nate threw the flap shut.

  The young Crow was waiting, poised like a terrified fawn to bolt at the first threat.

  Pointing at the horses, Nate hustled Ant toward them. He saw Thunder Hoop and the son look out of the lodge, but neither raised an alarm. They wouldn’t, not so long as they feared that he would slay Ant.

  Fetches Water went to climb on the stallion, but Nate snapped his fingers to get her attention and indicated the pinto. She was on its back in a twinkling, raring to go. Nate stepped to the stallion, gripped its mane, and vaulted up.

  Ant stepped close so that only Nate could see his hands move. “Your bluff worked, Snake Who Is White. It does my heart good to know that there is one white man left who is not a weakling.”

  The girl’s impatience was growing but Nate had to ask, “If you knew I was bluffing, why did you do as I wanted?”

  “I am fond of my ears,” Ant said, grinning as he moved closer to his lodge.

  Wheeling the stallion to the east, Nate brought it to a gallop. Fetches Water did not leave his side, her walnut-sized eyes casting to the right and the left as if she thought the very shadows would spring out at them.

  They had covered ten feet when Thunder Hoop’s bellow boomed loud and clear. More shouts ensued, and soon the cries were being spread on all sides as here and there Lakotas scrambled from their dwellings.

  Nate had picked eastward because there were fewer tepees to pass before reaching the prairie. They rushed on by four of them without incident. Then, from the next, a warrior holding a bow spilled out. The man spotted them and tried to notch a shaft. Without missing a beat, Nate cut the stallion and slammed into the Lakota, sending him flying.

  A rifle cracked. Maybe Nate’s own Hawken. But the shooter was aiming at moving objects in the dark, and missed. Before another shot rang out or any arrows could be unleashed, they sped out onto the plain and were embraced by the inky veil of night.

  Nate wasn’t fooled. They had escaped from the village, but they were still in mortal danger. The uproar in
their wake was all the proof needed that within a span of minutes every last warrior would be on their trail.

  All 129 of them.

  Miles to the south lay a dry wash littered with small stones and bits of wood and grass. Ages ago it had been a robust stream fed by runoff from a majestic mountain to the west. But a landslide on a barren slope had altered the course of the runoff forever, and in practically no time at all the stream had withered and dried up and was now home to isolated pockets of weeds and an occasional snake.

  At that exact moment it also sheltered a Shoshone woman and her two children.

  Winona King had spotted the wash shortly after turning and fleeing southward at sight of the Lakotas. It ran from west to east but turned to the north at the spot where she glimpsed its outline. Had it not been for a break in the high grass, she would never have noticed it at all.

  Without hesitation, Winona had reined sharply and trotted down to the bottom. Its banks had proven high enough to hide the horses, so she had quickly traveled a stone’s throw to the first bend and on around. Drawing rein, she had slid off, then ran as fast as she could with the heavy cradleboard on her back to the point where the horses had descended.

  Zach was with her every step of the way. He divined her plan the moment he saw the wash and prayed the ruse would work.

  Winona started to arrange the grass they had trampled so the wash would not be visible unless someone was right next to it. But the clatter of hooves gave her pause.

  “What’s wrong, Ma?” Zach asked.

  “Two Humps and those with him. We must signal them so they can join us.”

  Zach didn’t like the idea one bit. Since they had been the farthest south when He Dog blundered onto the Lakotas, it was entirely possible the Oglalas hadn’t seen them. But the Sioux were bound to have noticed the second group of Crows. Attracting Two Humps to the wash might give their location away. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” he wondered.

  “No, but we must do it,” Winona said. The safe thing to do would be to let the three Crows go on by. And the other Crows, too. Then the Lakotas would sweep on past their sanctuary without a sideways glance. But that meant denying aid to friends who needed it.