Wilderness Double Edition 11 Page 27

  There was a hitch, however. Now they were heading in the same direction the fleeing Crows and the Lakotas had gone. If the former had eluded the latter, they might encounter the returning Oglalas or stumble on their camp at any time.

  So Zach rode with one hand always on his rifle and never lowered his eyes from the surrounding plain. He stayed close to his mother so if trouble did crop up, he would be right there to defend her and his sister.

  Winona, on the other hand, entertained no worries about the Sioux. She was sure that she would hear them long before they spotted her. And, too, her mare was as reliable as a dog in that the animal would prick its ears at the sound of voices or other horses.

  By traveling at night they reduced the risk. For hours the prairie had been deceptively tranquil. So much so that Winona wanted to hold Blue Flower in her lap, but she needed to keep her hands free, just in case.

  “Say, what’s that?” Zach asked when a pinpoint of light flared in the distance. “A camp fire?”

  “Yes. We must get closer,” Winona said.

  “It might be the Lakotas.”

  “It could be the Crows.”

  Unwillingly Zach let himself be guided in a horseshoe loop that brought them up on the site from the west. When they spied a number of figures hunched close to the fire, Winona reined up and whispered, “From here we go on foot.”

  “Why don’t I go by myself?” Zach suggested. “One of us has to watch that the horses don’t stray off, anyway.”

  Winona had to grin at his not so subtle tactic. “Our horses are well trained,” she reminded him quietly. “We will stick together.”

  Neither of them were surprised to find that the warriors were Lakotas. Some were asleep, others swapping tales around the fire. Zach figured his mother would turn around once she had seen who they were, but to his astonishment she crawled closer. It seemed pointless to him until he saw the three bodies lying in a row.

  Winona had spotted them from a long way off. Their identities were of no real consequence since they were beyond all help. But she had to know. Something deep within compelled her to get close enough to see their faces.

  To do that, Winona had to skirt the camp to the north. Creeping along at the edge of the grass, she froze when one of the Oglala mounts raised its head and looked right at her. In her preoccupation with the corpses, she had forgotten that the wind would carry her scent toward the camp if she were not vigilant.

  Zach imitated his mother. When a warrior glanced at the horses, he braced for a shout to ring out and expected to see the entire war party swarm toward them. The warrior didn’t give the animals a second look, however, and turned back to his fellows. Presently the horse also lost interest.

  Winona disregarded the tiny voice advising her to turn around before it was too late. Advancing, she soon saw the downturned face of one of the dead men.

  It was Bear Ears. He had been stripped of all his clothes, so his wounds stood out like dark sores on his skin. In addition to the arrow that still jutted from his back, he had a large jagged hole in his side where a lance had sliced between his ribs. Where his throat had been was a gaping slit. And his scalp had been lifted.

  Winona had to go farther to see the next Crow.

  Runs Against had put up a terrific fight. Seven wounds marked his chest, several of them gashes left by knives or tomahawks. The fingers of his right hand were missing, as was his hair.

  To go on invited discovery. Yet Winona couldn’t stop herself. It was as if an invisible hand moved her along against her will.

  The body nearest the fire was that of He Dog. Oddly, his clothes were still on him and there were no visible blood stains on them. Unlike the others, he was on his back, not his side, and his wrists were tied in front of him.

  Winona assumed the Sioux had not yet gotten around to taking his scalp and whatever else struck their fancy, which in itself was unusual but not worth lingering over. Twisting, she signaled for her son to start back.

  At that exact moment two of the Lakotas rose, walked over to He Dog, and jerked him off the ground. The Crow’s eyes snapped wide. In blatant defiance he glowered at them.

  “Goodness gracious! He’s alive!” Zach whispered.

  Winona could not believe it, either. She bore no affection for the man, but it bothered her to see him in the clutches of his merciless enemies. Far better for He Dog if he had died outright as Bear Ears and Runs Against did.

  The Oglalas made the Crow kneel and then took turns heaping abuse on him. He was cuffed and kicked until he could barely hold himself up. A stocky Lakota drew a knife, seized He Dog by the hair, and jabbed the point under his skin at the hairline. The Lakota made a swift motion, as if he were slicing off the scalp, but he was only pretending. His friends laughed. He Dog endured their mirth stoically.

  Winona had seen enough. It was time she got Stalking Coyote and Blue Flower out of there. Turning, she said to her son, “Lead the way. Remember not to move the grass.”

  “I know what to do,” Zach declared, piqued that she would see fit to remind him. He wasn’t a boy any longer. His parents had no call to remind him how to do things every chance they got.

  Mother and son made slow progress. Many of the sleeping warriors had awakened, so now there were twice as many up as before. Some moved about, stretching their legs. As yet, none were near the west side of the camp, but that might change if one of them had to heed Nature’s call.

  Suddenly a roar of rage rent the night. An Oglala had picked up a burning brand and applied it to He Dog’s arm. The Crow caught them all off guard by lunging up off the ground and barreling into his tormentor. The Oglala staggered into the fire and let out a yelp. It elicited hearty laughter which changed to irate bellows when their captive spun on a heel and sprinted toward the high grass.

  And toward Winona and her children.

  Twelve

  Nate King’s legs were looped together by the Lakota’s buffalo hide rope, but that did not prevent him from arching them to his chest and then ramming them outward.

  The warrior was in midair, his knife arm cocked. Caught in the chest, he was catapulted onto the remains of the fire. Amid a shower of glowing embers and flaming limbs, he roared and bounded upright.

  Rather than spend vital moments unwinding the rope, Nate severed it. He was almost to his knees when the Oglala came at him like a human whirlwind. The man’s knife weaved a glittering web of gleaming steel which Nate barely parried.

  The roper was beside himself. He took gambles no one with a shred of sense would take. Time and again he overextended himself or left himself wide open. Nate attempted to capitalize, but the man’s lightning reflexes compensated for the mistakes.

  The Lakota showed no signs of tiring. If anything, he appeared to be growing stronger. And wilder. Skipping out of reach of Nate’s knife, he took one long step and leaped.

  His blade streaked upward.

  Nate was just starting to shift to the left. By a fluke, the warrior’s stroke missed his torso and the man’s arm came up under his own. Automatically Nate clamped his arm down, pinning the Oglala’s at the wrist. The roper tugged, then clawed at Nate’s neck with his other hand. It did not stop Nate from snapping his head forward and smashing his forehead onto the Sioux’s nose. Warm blood spurted over them both. The Lakota jerked back but could go nowhere with his knife arm trapped.

  It was the moment Nate had been waiting for. A short stab, and his blade sank to the hilt in his adversary’s stomach. The Lakota stiffened and gurgled. Nate bunched his shoulder, twisted the knife, and sheared down and to the right, ripping the abdomen wide. As the Oglala sucked in a long breath, he swiftly retreated several steps.

  The roper was in shock. He gaped down at himself and feebly attempted to stem the loss of his organs by placing both hands over the rupture. It was hopeless. Groaning, he sank to his knees. His knife fell to the grass. He looked up and spoke, his expression pleading.

  The tongue was unfamiliar but the meaning was clear.
Nate knew the warrior wanted to be put out of his misery. A belly wound like that was not always fatal right away. The Lakota might linger for hours in agony that defied belief. Nodding once, Nate moved closer. Executing an expert thrust to the heart, he did as the man wanted.

  The Lakota closed his eyes and pitched over.

  Suddenly something moved behind Nate. Whirling, he prepared to defend himself a second time, but the other four warriors were still unconscious.

  Fetches Water had led the horses down into the basin. “I could not wait any longer, Grizzly Killer,” she signed. Seeing the blood that speckled his features and clothes, she urgently added, “Are you hurt? I can tend your wound.”

  “I am fine,” Nate wearily signed. The fight had taken a lot out of him, and he wanted nothing more than to curl into a ball and sleep for a week, but that was not meant to be. Hurrying from Lakota to Lakota, he retrieved his hat and pistol, as well as his ammo pouch and powder horn.

  The girl helped herself to a knife and a bow. “I will not let them take me again,” she explained.

  Nate climbed onto the stallion. There was no trace of the horses he had driven off. With any luck, he mused, they either were on their way back to the village or had scattered to the four winds. It would take the better part of a day for the men he had knocked out to reach the Platte on foot.

  Side by side, the pair trotted southward. Nate never relaxed his guard, and it was well he didn’t. About two hours after the clash, a large knot of riders hove into sight to the west. Nate and Fetches Water reined up and held their breaths in anxious anticipation. The band was heading to the northeast. The warriors must have passed within seventy feet but failed to spot them.

  The moment the hoofbeats faded, Nate went on. His companion impressed him with her composure. For one so young, she had all the qualities of a mature woman. And she was lovely. Small wonder that He Dog fancied her.

  Dawn found them well over halfway to the area where Nate expected to find his family and the Crows. He debated whether to lay low until sunset and elected to forge on. The sooner he reunited the girl with her father, the safer she would be.

  Fetches Water agreed. Her fatigue showed, but she did not give in to it.

  Twice before noon, bands of Lakotas appeared in the distance.

  In the first instance, Nate promptly dismounted and made both horses lie down. While the girl held her hands over the pinto’s muzzle, he did the same with the stallion.

  The band contained nine warriors strung out in single file, bearing northward. They never came near enough to spot the trapper or Fetches Water.

  The second instance was a closer call. Again Nate resorted to his trick of having their mounts lay in the grass. Pistol in hand, he watched as the band drew within thirty feet of their position. A heated discussion occupied the Lakotas, otherwise they would have seen him and the girl for certain.

  Toward evening a belt of trees reared above the prairie like an island in the middle of a vast ocean. The belt widened, becoming a telltale band of lush vegetation of the sort that always flanked waterways.

  Presently the horses were slaking their thirst at a bubbling creek while Nate scoured the nearby woods. In a small clearing he discovered the remains of a fire, which he pegged as no more than three or four days old.

  Plenty of tracks had been left, and Nate was bending to inspect them when he heard something that sent him flying back toward the creek with his pistol drawn and cocked.

  Fetches Water had uttered a shrill cry.

  ~*~

  Winona King was rooted in place by the unforeseen sight of He Dog sprinting for his very life toward her and her children. They dared not leap erect and flee, or the Lakotas would see them. Yet if they just laid there, the Crow was bound to trip over one or the other and give their presence away.

  “What do we do?” Zach hissed in alarm. There were so many Oglalas, they would be overwhelmed in moments if they were spotted. He might be able to drop one or two—before the rest were on them like a pack of ravenous wolves.

  “Roll out of his way,” Winona proposed, “and hope they do not notice the grass move.”

  He Dog was almost there. The beating he had suffered had taken a toll and he slowed, wheezing in pain. It was a mistake. Four fleet Sioux had given chase and were almost upon him. Hearing them, the Crow turned like a bull at bay and shrieked a challenge. They laughed, believing him to be helpless with his arms bound. They were wrong.

  No one who knew him would ever deny that He Dog had many faults. But cowardice was not among them. Lowering his head, he charged the foremost Lakota and bowled the man over. He Dog spun and kicked another in the knee. The crack of bone must have been music to his ears, because he howled with glee and hurled himself at a third opponent.

  This Sioux was more savvy. Dropping flat, he whipped his legs into the Crow’s, upending He Dog, who landed hard on his shoulders. Before the Crow could rise, two of his enemies were on him. Try as they might, they couldn’t pin his shoulders or legs. He Dog kicked and butted them with his head, knocking one man over and bloodying the other’s mouth.

  More Lakotas streamed from the fire. The Crow didn’t stand a chance. He was buried under a half-dozen flying forms. A swirling melee broke out, attended by grunts and sharp cries and yelps of pain.

  Then the warrior with the broken knee lurched upright, his features contorted in rage. He glared at the tangle of flying arms and legs while slowly drawing his long knife.

  Winona knew what was going to happen next, but she was powerless to stop it. If she shot the Lakota with the rifle, the rest would be on her and her children before they took two steps. Clutching the Hawken in impotent dismay, she watched the inevitable outcome.

  He Dog had still not given up. He thrashed. He snapped his legs right and left. He heaved his broad shoulders.

  The warrior with the broken knee was watching intently, waiting for an instant when the press of bodies parted and he could see the Crow clearly. Suddenly that instant arrived. He Dog had shaken three men off his chest and was struggling to stand. In a flash the Oglala struck, lancing his blade into the Crow just under the sternum.

  He Dog never uttered a sound. His body deflated like a punctured water skin and he melted to the ground.

  One of the warriors checked and confirmed that the Crow was dead. It sparked an argument between the man who had killed him and several of the others, who apparently had wanted to take He Dog on to their village.

  Winona wished they would go back to the fire. The nearest ones were less than ten feet away, and she feared they would glimpse Stalking Coyote or her if they turned toward the grass. Her heartbeat quickened when a burly specimen wearing eagle feathers did just that. He shifted and peered into the dark with narrowed eyes as if he sensed that he was being watched.

  Winona’s whole body broke out in goosebumps. She did not move a muscle, not even to blink. The Lakota scanned the grass and took a half step forward.|

  Just at that juncture, Evelyn squirmed. Winona felt her back move as the child shifted in the cradleboard. Should Evelyn cry out or so much as coo, the Sioux would hear her.

  The burly warrior took another pace. He might have taken more except that a companion called out to him. The burly one hesitated a few moments, then gave a toss of his shoulders and rejoined his fellows. He helped tote the body.

  Winona lost no time. The second their backs were to the grass, she snaked to the rear, whispering, “Quickly, son to the horses.”

  Zach needed no prompting. His heart had about leaped into his mouth When the Lakota came toward them. He had been dead certain his days on earth were over, and he had been set to sell his life dearly. His belly scraping the ground, he crawled on his mother’s heels.

  They moved swiftly, Winona spurred on by an inner urgency, a foreboding that unless they got out of there something terrible would happen. And it did. At the selfsame second she laid eyes on the silhouettes of their horses, her daughter did the unthinkable: Blue Flower crie
d out in her sleep, a short, high-pitched wail.

  From the camp rose an answering shout. At least one of the Lakotas had heard.

  Throwing caution aside, Winona rose and ran. Her son could have gone on ahead, but he did not leave her side and did not mount his horse until she had mounted hers.

  More yells issued from the camp. Figures were moving into the grass. One was on horseback.

  “Ride!” Winona said, and did so, flying southward, gouging her horse with the stock of the Hawken to get it to go faster.

  Young Zach glanced back. Several of the warriors had seen them and were gesturing excitedly. Soon the entire war party would be in pursuit.

  The Sioux who was already astride a horse whooped and gave chase, waving his lance overhead.

  Zach looked at his mother, then at the Sioux. On purpose, he slowed, keeping his mother in sight but allowing the warrior to gain on him. The man was sixty feet off. Then forty. At thirty feet, Zach sighted down his rifle. At twenty feet, as the warrior threw back his arm, Zach King fired.

  The shot flipped the Lakota from his steed as the booming retort rolled off across the plain.

  Winona twisted in surprise. She slowed until her son caught up, and chided half-heartedly, “You should have told me what you were going to do.”

  “No time,” Zach said. “I couldn’t let him get close enough to hurt you or sissy.”

  Her chest swelling with affection, Winona buckled down to the task of outdistancing the Oglalas. Their horses were tired but flowed smoothly across the prairie. When the sounds of pursuit grew in volume, she altered course to the southwest.

  Zach could no longer see the Lakotas. He laughed lightly at their narrow escape, thinking of the tale he would get to tell his Shoshone friends. It would make them green with envy.

  All of a sudden the grass thinned and before them lay a long stretch dotted with low dirt mounds. Winona realized the peril first and called out, “Prairie dog dens!” She jerked on the reins and swung to the left to go around the colony.