Wilderness Double Edition 11 Page 5

  One of those girls Winona had known, a distant cousin named Falling Star, a favorite of hers. One summer they had spent fourteen whole sleeps together, playing and laughing and having a grand visit.

  Her father and the other men had been gone a long time. When they came back, they hung their heads, and their shoulders were bowed. She could still remember the shock on her mother s face.

  The warriors returned with just one of the captives. They had tried to save them all but the slavers had put up a bitter fight. Five of the warriors had been killed. The slavers had escaped, taking the rest of the women and girls with them.

  Falling Star had been the only one rescued. Winona had dashed over to her friend to embrace her and tell her how happy she was that Falling Star was safe and well. But she had stopped short, horrified by the blank look on her cousin’s face, by the dead eyes staring back at her.

  Her cousin had never been the same afterward. It was the talk of the tribe for quite some time. Falling Star lived another two winters, refusing to eat or drink or tend to herself. Her parents had done the best they could, but in the end she had wasted away to mere skin and bones, and perished.

  Ever after that, whenever Winona heard the slavers being mentioned, her insides would knot into a ball and she would clench her fists in impotent rage. She hated them with a passion more intense than any emotion she had ever felt except for her love for Nate and her children. If it were up to her, every slaver alive would be rounded up and thrown alive into a den of rattlesnakes.

  And now four of the vilest creatures who ever lived were after her.

  Winona dispelled her memories with a toss of her head as she came to the top of the slope. The three men with rifles had reached the sorrel and were in the act of freeing the scrawny man with the bullwhip. She was tempted to use her last shot to bring one of them down but she ran on, saving the ball in case she needed it later on.

  Spruce trees and brush closed around her. Winona went a short distance westward, then bore to the north. She made a point of sticking to rocky ground. In the hard soil she left virtually no tracks. When she had been running for quite some time, she halted and crouched.

  No sounds of pursuit fell on her ears. Winona felt some of the tension drain from her limbs. The slavers would never find her now. In two days she would reach the village if she held to a brisk pace and traveled half the night.

  Winona went on. She avoided dry twigs and limbs which might snag on her dress. Repeatedly, she looked back. So focused was she on the woodland she had covered that it was a while before she woke up to the fact that the forest ahead of her was unnaturally quiet. There should have been birds chirping, squirrels chattering, chipmunks darting about here and there. But it was as if the wildlife had vanished.

  Or been cowed into silence.

  The thought brought Winona to an abrupt halt. Only three things that she knew of would cause all the animals to go completely quiet. One was a roving grizzly. Another was a cougar, or painter, as the whites called them. The third occasion was when humans clashed in noisy battle.

  Winona had seen no sign of a bear or a big cat. And the talus slope was so far behind her that the two shots and the shouting should not have had any effect on the wildlife.

  Why, then, were the woods as still as a burial ground?

  The flintlock clasped in her left hand, Winona warily advanced. She went around a wide pine, passed a cluster of boulders, and entered a clearing. About to cross, she glanced down and beheld a single footprint lightly etched in the dirt.

  Winona would be the first to admit that she was not a seasoned tracker. She did know a fresh track when she saw one, though, and the print in front of her was new. It had been made by a heavy man wearing moccasins unlike any she had ever seen.

  Few white men knew that no two Indian tribes made their moccasins the same way. Designs varied widely. Soles were shaped differently. Stitching patterns were also unique.

  The Pawnees, for instance, preferred moccasins that were wider in the middle, while the Arapahos liked their moccasins to have wider toes. The Crows sewed their footwear in the shape of a half-moon. The Shoshones made theirs straight.

  Winona did not know what to make of the strange footprint. She went to step over it and go on when an odd creaking noise drew her gaze up and to the right. In the time it took her to register the fact that a warrior in a breechcloth had been perched on a low limb and had just sprung, he was on her. She did not see the war club he held until a fraction of an instant before it slammed into the side of her head.

  Then the world faded to black.

  Five

  Nate King leaped to his feet and ran after the young Bostonian to keep the man from getting them both killed. By all rights he should have caught hold of Simon Ward in just a few seconds. But fate conspired against him, for on his second step his left foot became entangled in grass that Ward had bent down, and before he could help himself, he pitched onto his face. “Wait!” he called out quietly enough not to be heard in the slaver camp. But he might as well have been addressing the wind.

  Simon Ward heard. He just had no intention of stopping. His wife was in jeopardy. That was all that mattered. He did not care how many cutthroats he was up against. He was going to save her if it was the last thing he ever did.

  The flickering flames of the fire served as a beacon. Simon cocked his new Hawken as he ran and held it close to his chest so it would not become caught in the grass. He spotted Felicity in the grip of a huge slaver in a coonskin cap who held the tip of a knife to her throat. A red veil seemed to shroud his vision. His blood raged in his veins. He hardly heard the words the man growled.

  “If I tell you to eat, you’ll eat! Don’t pick at your stinking food like a damn bird! We want you healthy, woman. Not half starved.”

  Simon was almost to the edge of the trampled area. Some of the slavers had heard him and swung toward the grass, but he paid them no heed. Bellowing at the top of his lungs, “Let go of her, you scum!” he hurtled into the open and raised the Hawken to shoot the man in the coonskin cap.

  Simultaneously, a breed near the fire stroked the trigger of his own rifle.

  Everything happened so fast after that, Simon could not keep track. He heard the boom of the gun at the very same moment he felt a stunning blow to the ribs that knocked all the breath from his lungs. As if he were a feather, he was lifted into the air and hurled back into the grass. He came down head first and was too stunned to do more than feebly lift an arm. Then an iron clamp closed on the scruff of his neck and he was hoisted aloft again. Dimly, he was aware of grass parting in front of his face. It was a shock to realize that he was being carried, and he guessed by whom.

  “Let go of me!”

  “Shut up!” Nate King hissed. “They’re after us, you fool”

  “I’ve got to save her!” Simon protested. “They were going to stab her!” He fought to break loose, flailing his arms and legs.

  “Idiot!”

  That was the last Simon heard. An anvil smashed into his chin, snapping his head backward. He saw the stars cavort in a dazzling display of pinwheeling lights which lasted only a few seconds. Then something seemed to swallow him whole.

  Nate had no choice but to knock the greenhorn out. The slavers were closing on them like a pack of wolves on stricken prey. So far, they had not seen him, only Ward, and he wanted to keep it that way. He had a ten yard lead, but it taxed his muscles to run at full speed while lugging a grown man under one arm who weighed in excess of 160 pounds.

  Risking a glance back, Nate could see eight or nine bobbing heads. They were spread out in an uneven line, some closer to him than others. The rest of the band had stayed behind to safeguard their captive, as he had predicted.

  Cutting to the right, Nate bent as low as he could and still go on running, burdened as he was by Ward. It would have been easier on him if he used both hands to hold the unconscious hothead, but he was not about to let go of his rifle.

  Abruptly, Nate s
topped and squatted. He sucked in a breath and held it. Motionless, silent, he listened to the crash of bodies all around him. A slaver passed within a few yards to his rear. Another went by directly ahead, so close that Nate could have swung his rifle and clipped the man on the head. But he did not budge.

  Nate’s plan was to lose himself in the high grass. In order to succeed, he had to do the unexpected, the very last thing the slavers would ever expect. So, when the onrushing line had gone on by, he turned toward their camp. Picking his way like a stalking painter, it was not long before he glimpsed the camp fire again. Immediately he changed course to the east to circle the trampled tract. Prudently he kept his eyes on those who had stayed behind.

  The man called Gregor paced back and forth and glared at everyone and everything. In each huge hand he held a cocked pistol.

  Felicity Ward was being held by two of the slavers. Tears drenched her cheeks. Nate figured that she had tried to go to her husband’s aid. A rivulet of blood trickled from the right corner of her mouth, but otherwise she appeared unharmed.

  Three other slavers stood near their leader, rifles tucked to their shoulders.

  When Nate was almost all the way around the camp, he halted and lowered Ward. Simon groaned softly, not loud enough to be overheard, thankfully. With the rifle at his waist, Nate crept closer. If he could, he would like to spirit the woman out of there, but to attempt it now, with the slavers up in arms, would be certain suicide. Her fool of a husband had spoiled whatever hope they had of freeing her anytime soon; the slavers were bound to be on their guard for days.

  Shouts broke out to the north. The slavers realized that he had given them the slip, and they were spreading out further in an attempt to run him down.

  Nate was not worried. No one could track him in the dark, and it would take an army of men to probe among every blade of grass within 100 yards of the camp. All he had to do was sit tight until they tired and gave up. Then he could slip off unnoticed.

  The big question was what to do afterward. Nate felt sorry for the Wards and wanted to help them, but by the same token he did not like the thought of being away from his family for a long time. And it was bound to take days, if not weeks, to rescue Felicity.

  Simon sure as blazes couldn’t do the job by himself, Nate reflected. The Bostonian would be as helpless as a newborn if left on his own. Just as helpless as Nate had once been, before his uncle and his mentor taught him how to meet the wilderness on its own terms and live to tell of it.

  Nate glanced at Simon’s prone form. As much as being separated from his family upset him, he couldn’t bring himself to go off and leave the Wards. Not when they had no one else to depend on. He would have to do as McNair had done for him and teach Simon enough to get by. And in the bargain he had to come up with a brainstorm to save Mrs. Ward.

  Commotion in the camp brought Nate’s pondering to an end. Several of the slavers had returned. One was the beefy breed who had been so protective of Gregor. Nate had a hunch it was the same breed who had helped whisk Felicity Ward right out from under her husband’s nose.

  “We have lost him,” the stocky one announced.

  “How the hell could that happen, Santiago? You’re supposed to be one of the best. What would your pa say?

  Nate knew that it was common practice among some of the Indian tribes living along the border of Mexico for the men to take Spanish names. In fact, the breed did look to be half Mexican. As for the other half, Nate could have sworn there were traces of Apache in the man’s face and build. But that could not be. No self-respecting Apache, even one who was not full-blooded, would stoop to ride with slavers.

  “I think maybe so there another,” Santiago declared in broken, thickly accented English. “He help first get away.”

  “Two men?” Gregor said. “I only saw the one.” He jabbed a pistol at Felicity Ward. “It was her jackass of a husband. And he couldn’t give a five-year-old brat the slip in broad daylight. You know that. We dogged him for half a day before we swiped his woman.”

  “There maybe so two,” Santiago insisted. “I not get good look at this other. But him big. Him very fast. Not stupid like husband.”

  Gregor tucked one of his pistols under his belt and scratched his chin, his brow knit. “I’ve never known you or your pa to be wrong before. And it is kind of peculiar that a fool like Ward was able to track us all this way. Maybe he had some help.”

  More slavers had returned. A short white man picked up Simon Ward’s rifle, which had fallen at the edge of the grass. The stock of the new Hawken had been shattered. “Hey, lookee here,” the man said. “This is why Santiago’s shot didn’t drop that yak dead.”

  “Ward is one lucky bastard,” Gregor commented. He glanced at the string of horses, then at his captive. “Listen up. I’m not taking chances. Where there are two men, there might be more. So we’re pushing on right this minute. I want half of you to saddle the animals and load up the packs while the rest fan out into the grass and stand lookout. Move it.”

  Whatever else might be said about the slavers, they were a well-knit group who obeyed their leader with military precision.

  Nate suddenly saw several head in his general direction. Quickly moving to Ward, he knelt and draped the Bostonian over his left shoulder. Holding his rifle in his right hand, he moved deeper into the grass.

  It should have been easy for Nate to keep from being discovered. Had he been by himself, he could have slipped away with the slavers being none the wiser. But Simon Ward chose that very moment to lift his head and give out with a groan loud enough to be heard in Canada.

  Reaching back, Nate put a hand over the greenhorn’s mouth to stifle another cry. He need not have bothered. The damage had already been done.

  “This way!” a slaver shouted. “I just heard them over here!”

  “I want their heads!” Gregor roared. “A bigger share to the man who brings them down!”

  Nate fled to the southeast, keeping low as before. He had to let go of Ward and when he did, Simon groaned again and tried to slide off him. Halting, Nate slid Ward off his shoulder.

  The younger man plopped onto his knees and swayed like one drunk. “What the hell did you do to me, King? My jaw feels broken!”

  “You’ll be dead if you don’t shut up,” Nate whispered, once more covering Ward’s mouth. “They’re after us again.”

  Simon didn’t care. He knew that the trapper had slugged him and he was outraged. The way he saw it, King had prevented him from saving his wife. He was befuddled. He was in pain. So he acted automatically and cocked a fist to pay the mountain man back.

  Nate had about run out of patience with the man. Every time he tried to help, Ward gave him a hard time. Rather than try to explain, he punched Simon in the pit of the stomach. Not hard, just enough to cause the man to double over. As Ward did, Nate leaned down and said urgently into his ear, “If you ever want to see Felicity alive again, you had better come to your senses. We have to move, and move fast.”

  The mention of his wife’s name cleared Simon’s head. He was still mad, but he decided to suspend their dispute for the time being and try to stay alive, for her sake. Gulping in air, his gut in agony, he pushed away the arm King extended and snapped, “All right. But don’t think I’ll forget that twice you’ve laid a hand on me.”

  “Come on,” Nate said, moving silently off. He winced when Ward stumbled erect and followed, making as much noise as a small herd of buffalo. “Quiet!” he warned.

  Off to the left a harsh voice rent the night. “Over this way! I just heard them!”

  Whirling, Nate gave Simon a shove to hurry him along just as a shadowy figure bounded through the grass with a Kentucky rifle elevated to fire. Nate had his Hawken leveled at his waist. In a twinkling he cocked it and fired. The rifle belched smoke and lead and the charging slaver keeled over, discharging the Kentucky into the ground as he fell.

  All hell broke loose. Shouts erupted. The flash of the two rifles had given the slaver
s something to shoot at, and they did. Guns cracked in all different directions. Lead balls whizzed every which way.

  Nate dropped flat a heartbeat before the gunfire broke out and hoped his greenhorn companion had the presence of mind to do the same. Lethal hornets buzzed overhead and cleaved the grass to his right and his left. In the lull that followed the first volley, he jumped to his feet, scooped up the dead man’s Kentucky, and turned.

  Simon Ward stood a few feet away. The man had not bothered to duck down. Yet by some miracle he had been spared. “What is the matter with you?” he demanded. “One second you’re pushing me, the next you’re on the ground. What’s it to be? Are we running or fighting?”

  “Running,” Nate said and gave him another shove just for the hell of it. The crackle of grass alerted him to oncoming slavers who would be on them in less than thirty seconds unless they made themselves scarce.

  Simon heard the crash of heavy bodies, too. He realized there were far too many for the frontiersman and him to battle, so for once he did exactly as the trapper wanted and ran as fast as his legs could carry him. He had always considered himself fleet of foot and was confident he could outdistance their pursuers. But he soon found that racing through the grass was much harder than walking through it. The long stems clutched at his legs, seeking to ensnare him. Ruts kept cropping up, nearly tripping him again and again. To compound the situation, he had no idea if he was going in the right direction. In a very short time he worried that he might be running in circles, so he looked back to ask the mountain man. Only King wasn’t there.

  It had become apparent to Nate in the first few moments of the chase that Ward would not be able to outrun the slavers. Already the killers were much too close. Something had to be done to slow them down, and he was the only one who could do it.