Wilderness Double Edition #7 Page 3

  ~*~

  He awoke to the sensation of small drops of moisture striking his face. Disoriented, he sat with his eyes closed, trying to recall where he was and what had happened. In a rush of memories he recalled everything just as thunder boomed in the distance.

  Nate blinked and looked all around him. He was amazed to see twilight shrouded the Rocky Mountains because it meant he’d slept for hours. Miraculously, the Utes hadn’t found him. More drops struck his cheeks and he stared up at the roiling clouds sweeping past overhead. The storm he had expected was almost upon him.

  Lightning lanced the sky to the west, emphasizing how exposed he was to the elements. The last place he wanted to be was out in the open when the storm unleashed its full fury. Wounded and weak as he was, a thorough soaking might be all that was needed to render him helplessly ill.

  Bracing his left hand on the boulder, he shoved to his feet. The Utes, evidently, were long gone since their horses were no longer to be seen. He headed for an isolated stand of trees to the east, and just reached them when the rain changed from tiny drops into great big ones and the heavens rumbled mightily.

  Finding a patch of undergrowth, he dropped to his hands and knees and crawled into the brush, parting branches with his rifle so they wouldn’t catch on the arrow. There, partially sheltered, he lay flat and listened to the howling wind.

  He would be going nowhere for a while. Resting his chin on his left forearm, he contemplated the folly that had led him into the fix he was in. His never-ending search for beaver had taken him far from his usual haunts, where the beaver were harder to find with each passing trapping season. He needed somewhere new to trap, somewhere where the animals hadn’t been depleted. And since few whites had ever ventured into Ute country, he’d figured he should be able to find an ideal locale there.

  If he’d had any brains he would have listened to Winona and gone into the remote country to the northwest of their cabin, not to the southwest into Ute land. Now the harm was done, in more ways than one.

  The rain was pouring down, the wind curling the saplings and shaking the branches of the taller trees. Some of the drops got through to him, but not enough to make him uncomfortable. A dank scent filled his nostrils. Drowsiness returned but he resisted an urge to sleep.

  Since he was stuck there, he might as well make the best of it, he decided. Drawing his knees up under him, he lowered his forehead to the ground, then reached back with both hands and grasped the arrow. His right shoulder pulsed with exquisite anguish, which he shut from his mind. The arrow had to come out. To leave it in much longer invited infection.

  Grunting, he pulled on the shaft with all of his strength. The arrow stubbornly budged a fraction of an inch but no more. Again he tried, working the shaft from side to side to loosen it, and felt fresh blood trickle down his chest. He broke out in perspiration from head to toe.

  Repeatedly he pulled on the arrow, and gradually it began to slide out. After each strenuous exertion he had to rest for a few minutes. Then he had another go at it. His buckskin shirt around the entry and exit wounds was soaked with blood when, to his joy, the shaft slid free.

  Exhausted again, he slumped down and stared at the bloody arrow. He hadn’t thought to examine the barbed point earlier to see if it had been coated with poison, which could prove a fatal oversight. Sometimes Indians dipped the heads of their shafts in rattlesnake venom or dead animals. Contact with warm blood released the poison into the system and death was a slow, agonizing affair.

  Nate put the arrow down and sat up. Beyond the thicket the storm was in full swing. Lightning lit the sky again and again. More rain was reaching him, yet so far he had avoided being drenched. He quickly collected a handful of small, dry twigs and dry weeds. Forming them into a compact pile with a depression in the middle, he leaned over the pile to further protect it from the rain, then opened his bullet pouch and took out his oval fire steel, his flint, and punk. Placing the punk in the depression, he set about producing sparks by striking the flint with slicing blows of the fire steel. Soon he had the punk burning. The tiny flames spread to the grass. By adding larger branches he got a small fire going in no time.

  Now came the hard part. Replacing the steel and flint in his pouch, he removed his shirt. Then he pulled the Hawken’s ramrod out and held the ramrod over the flames until the heated end practically glowed red-hot. He was ready. Aligning the hot end with the exit wound in his shoulder, he bit down on a thick piece of branch, held his breath, and shoved the ramrod into the hole. Searing pain shot through him. He could smell his own burning flesh. His courage faltered and he almost released the ramrod, but didn’t. The wound had to be cauterized. If the point of the arrow had been poisoned this was the only way of saving himself.

  The ramrod went halfway and became stuck. Yanking it out, he once more applied the end to the fire. A job half-finished was no job at all. Shortly, the ramrod was hot enough and he stuck it into the hole. This time the task was easier and he poked the ramrod all the way through, unable to resist a shudder at the uncomfortable sensation.

  Once he had the ramrod out, he sank down onto his left side, limp and weak, drained of all energy. He lay still, hearing the crackling fire and the intermittent crash of thunder. If he survived until morning, he would be out of danger. His next priority would be to regain his strength. Then what?

  There could be only one answer. He was going after Solomon Cain. He would get Pegasus back. And he would insure that Cain never stole another horse from anyone else.

  ~*~

  A cold breeze gave him gooseflesh and revived him. His fire had died. Sluggishly, he sat up, realizing the rain had stopped. The sky was silent. Craning his head, he peered through the branches and spotted twinkling stars.

  He’d slept again! Yet he was far from being refreshed. Donning his shirt, he curled up into a ball, his hands between his legs for warmth, and permitted sleep to claim him once more.

  When next Nate opened his eyes the sun ruled the heavens. He rose to his knees to gingerly inspect his shoulder. There was no trace of bleeding, no evidence of swelling or discoloration. Apparently the cauterization had been successful.

  He checked the Hawken because he couldn’t remember if he’d reloaded it or not, and found he had. The pistol, though, needed loading, so he did so before he turned and crawled from his hiding place. Squinting in the bright light, he slowly rose and adjusted his knife and his tomahawk so they hung properly.

  Although he could hardly wait to pursue Cain, he knew he needed nourishment first. His jerked venison, pemmican, and the other food Winona had packed for him were all in a parfleche on Pegasus. To eat he had to find game.

  Cocking the Hawken and touching the stock to his left shoulder, he hiked toward the bottom of the hill, deliberately making as much noise as he could as he went from brush patch to brush patch. When, minutes later, a rabbit bolted to the west, he was ready. Or thought he was. For he found that holding the Hawken in exactly the opposite way as he normally did and sighting along the barrel with his left eye instead of his right was an ungainly experience. He couldn’t seem to get a bead on his breakfast, and was about to lower the rifle when the rabbit helped him out by stopping to stare at him. A second later a ball ripped through its brain.

  Nate dashed over to the twitching animal, then scoured the hill and the surrounding countryside. If the Utes were still in the area they might have heard the shot. It would be wise to head elsewhere to cook his meal. Accordingly, he reloaded the rifle as fast as he could with his right arm being so stiff and sore, then picked up the rabbit and made for the crest.

  At the top he halted in dismay on finding the barren earth a blank slate. The storm had washed out every last hoof print. Now he had no way of tracking Cain, of reclaiming Pegasus.

  Simmering with frustration, Nate hiked down into dense woodland. For over a mile he pressed on until he came to a clearing flanked by a gurgling stream. There he slaked his parched throat, then built a small fire directly under ov
erspreading tree limbs so the branches would disperse what little smoke the fire gave off.

  Gutting and skinning the rabbit was easily accomplished. He sharpened a stick, jabbed the pointed end through several pieces of raw meat, and held the makeshift spit over the low flames. The tantalizing aroma the rabbit soon gave off made his mouth water in anticipation.

  Presently the meat was cooked enough to suit him and he took a bite, savoring the delicious taste. Closing his eyes, he chewed slowly, knowing he might become sick if he bolted his food. While he had often enjoyed rabbit in the past, it had never ranked as one of his favorites. He much preferred deer and panther meat, especially the latter, which was the most flavorful meat in all creation according to those privileged to eat some. But this rabbit, he mused, had to be about the best meat he’d ever had.

  Suddenly Nate froze. He thought he’d heard the soft pad of stealthy footfall. Gulping down his mouthful of meat, he opened his eyes and swiveled around to find a lone Ute stalking toward him with an arrow already trained on his back.

  Three

  Nate King was certain he was going to die, certain he would momentarily feel the warrior’s shaft tear through his torso. He’d left the Hawken propped against the nearby tree, perhaps five feet away, so near, yet not near enough to grab before the Ute let the arrow fly. But he still had a flintlock. He started to rise, his left hand falling to the pistol, when the Ute barked a single word. The warrior now had the arrow aimed at his face and was advancing swiftly. There was no way the man could miss at such close range, even if Nate tried to leap aside.

  The Ute spoke a string of words and motioned with the bow, indicating Nate should lift his hand away from the pistol.

  Nate hesitated. Evidently the Ute intended to take him alive, which might buy him time to turn the tables. One thing was for sure; he’d rather chance being able to catch the warrior unawares later than the right then and there.

  Reluctantly he raised his hands to shoulder height. The Ute halted eight feet off and again addressed him.

  “I don’t savvy,” Nate said in English. Then, in Shoshone, “I do not understand.”

  By the warrior’s expression it was obvious he had no idea what Nate had said. The Ute gestured with the bow and bobbed it up and down.

  At first Nate failed to comprehend. Then the man made a jabbing motion at his waist, and the meaning became all too clear. He was being instructed to dispose of the flintlock and his other weapons. Using two fingers and exaggerated, slow movements so the Ute could see he was not about to do anything rash, Nate pulled the pistol out and gently placed it on the ground. He did likewise with his butcher knife and the tomahawk, then stepped back when the Ute indicated he should do so, and kept on stepping until the Ute signified he should stop.

  The warrior appeared to relax slightly.

  Nate held himself perfectly still and waited for the Ute to make the next move. He expected the warrior to either give a yell to attract the rest of the band or else force him to turn and kneel so the Ute could bind him, although what the man would use he had no idea since the only other article the warrior had was a knife. To his amazement, the man abruptly lowered the bow to the ground and straightened with his palms held outward to show he had peaceful intention.

  “Where is he?” the Ute then inquired, using sign language. “If you can talk with your hands, tell me.”

  So surprised was Nate that he simply stood there until the warrior repeated the question. Collecting his wits, Nate finally signed in response, “Who do you mean?”

  “The white devil whose tongue knows no truth,” the Ute elaborated.

  “Solomon Cain,” Nate muttered in English. His hands flowed in flawless sign. “If I knew where he was I would cut out his tongue and feed it to coyotes.”

  Now it was the warrior’s turn to seem dumbfounded. “He is not your friend?”

  “No.”

  “But you cut him down and rode off with him.”

  “That was my mistake. If I had known he would try to split my skull and steal my horse I never would have helped the dog,” Nate signed, and was mystified when the Ute’s features hardened.

  “He does it to his own people too. Truly he is a man without honor.”

  “Would you care to explain?”

  The Ute’s hands moved. “I am Flying Hawk,” he began.

  “You are the brother of the woman the dog took as his wife,” Nate interrupted, and tensed when the Ute suddenly rushed toward him. He thought the man was about to attack, but the warrior halted a yard away.

  “You saw her? You saw Smoky Woman?”

  “No. He told me about her.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “That he stole her and made her his wife, and that you have been after him ever since.”

  Flying Hawk had the look of a man who wanted to kill something. Or someone. “False Tongue has told the truth for once. My sister was out with other women gathering berries when he took her against her will. All the men in our village went after them but he was too clever for us. That was when I took a vow to find him and save Smoky Woman no matter how long it takes. Some of my friends agreed to go with me. We have been hunting him for a long time.”

  “And you finally found him,” Nate signed when the warrior stopped and bowed his head.

  “Yes. We took him by surprise and hung him from a tree while we decided what to do with him. Some of my friends wanted to cut off his fingers and gouge out his eyes unless he told us where Smoky Woman was. I was afraid he would die before he told us and then we would never find her. He heard us talking. He claimed she was at his camp, over the next hill. So we rode off to see, leaving him there since we expected to quickly return.”

  Nate didn’t need to hear the rest. That was when he had happened along and set Cain free, ruining any hope Flying Hawk had of rescuing his sister. “I am sorry,” he signed. “Had I known, I never would have helped him.”

  Flying Hawk studied Nate for a moment. “I do not blame you, white man. False Tongue is as clever as a fox.”

  “False Tongue? Is that the name your people have given him?”

  “It is the name I gave him after he lied to me.”

  “How long has he had your sister?”

  “Four moons.”

  Four months! Nate could well imagine the emotional misery the warrior must have gone through since the abduction. “How old is your sister?”

  There was a haunted aspect to the Ute’s dark eyes when he answered. “She has lived sixteen winters.”

  Nate’s initial reaction was to think, “She’s so young.” Then he reminded himself that Indian maidens often married at that age or even younger. Sometimes the marriages were forced on them by parents eager to have their daughters marry prominent warriors or chiefs for the prestige involved. Frequently the young brides found themselves marrying men who already had one or two wives, which was a perfectly acceptable practice in many tribes since there was a chronic shortage of men. And now and then a maiden would be captured by enemy warriors in a raid, taken back to their village, and made a bride whether she liked the idea or not.

  “I hoped you could tell me where she is,” Flying Hawk signed forlornly. “That is why I spared you when I should have killed you for shooting two of my friends. I should still kill you, but you impress me as being an upright man. So you may go in peace. But should we ever meet again, know that I will slay you on the spot.”

  The man’s acute desperation was almost contagious. Nate pondered for several seconds, then signed, “Where are your friends? What will you do now?”

  “My friends took the bodies of those you killed back to our village. I refuse to go back until I find Smoky Woman.” Flying Hawk paused. “While I was searching for sign of False Tongue I came on your tracks and followed them. Now I will continue my hunt.”

  “All by yourself?”

  “My friends will be back in nine or ten sleeps.”

  “How would you like some help until they return?”<
br />
  “You?”

  “Me.”

  “Why would you help me, white man? My people and yours have long been enemies.”

  Nate glanced past the Ute, into the trees, where the warrior’s horse was tied. If he was to convince Flying Hawk, he must be completely honest. “I have two reasons. First, False Tongue stole my horse and I want to get it back. On foot I would stand little chance. Riding double with you means we can cover much more ground faster.”

  “And your other reason?”

  “I am a white man, true. But I am also an adopted Shoshone. My wife is Shoshone. I have great respect for the Indian ways.” Nate paused to arrange in his head how he would phrase the next sequence of signs. “I do not like to see any man—white or Indian—do evil. What False Tongue did to your sister was very wrong. He deserves to pay for his wickedness and she must be freed.”

  In the protracted silence that ensued, Nate heard sparrows chirping gaily and the chattering of a squirrel. He couldn’t tell by the Ute’s impassive features whether his argument had prevailed.

  “Your words show you to be a good man,” Flying Hawk signed after a bit. “But I do not know if it would be wise for us to join forces.”

  “Do you happen to know a Ute named Two Owls?”

  Flying Hawk blinked. “Yes. He is chief in another village and an important man among my people. Why?”

  “He and I joined forces once some moons ago against the Blackfeet. I did not betray his trust. I would not betray yours.”

  “You are Grizzly Killer?”

  “I am.”

  The warrior came a stride nearer and examined Nate closely. “Two Owls told us about you at a gathering of all our people. He said you are the only white he has ever known whose tongue always speaks the truth. He said you have the body of a white man but the spirit of an Indian.”

  Nate made no comment. He was recalling how Two Owls had helped him save Shakespeare McNair and another man from a war party of Blackfeet that had penetrated deep into Ute territory.