Wilderness Double Edition 27 Page 6

  ‘You tell them leave,’ Zach said. ‘Leave or ground be red with blood,’ He was laying it on thick, as the whites liked to say, but the situation called for it. ‘Their blood.’

  ‘I said I would, haven’t I?’ Owen testily responded. ‘Come on. Cut me free and I will be on my way.’

  Zach sliced the cloth strips around his ankles first, then moved around behind him and cut the belt that bound his wrists.

  Rubbing them, Owen rose to his knees. His pants, beltless, slid down around his feet. ‘What the hell?’ he blurted. ‘Where did my belt get to?’ He groped about, found a piece on the ground, and examined it to verify what it was. ‘Damn you. This was the only belt I own.’

  ‘Damn me, white man?’ Zach said, and clubbed him with the hilt of the knife.

  Owen swayed and clutched his head but was not knocked unconscious. He stared aghast at the blade Zach flourished before his eyes, bleating, ‘Sorry! I forgot myself.’

  ‘Where your horse?’

  ‘I left it off there a ways,’ Owen said, gesturing vaguely westward.

  ‘Take me,’ Zach commanded. Gripping the man’s shoulder, he roughly hauled him erect, and shoved. ‘Walk quick.’ Zach jabbed him low in the back to speed him along.

  ‘I’m going! I’m going!’

  Inwardly, Zach smiled. He debated slicing off the man’s nose or an ear. That was what a real Blackfoot warrior would do. The Blackfeet hated whites, ill will bred by the Lewis and Clark expedition. A clash between the explorers and the Blackfeet resulted in one Blackfoot being stabbed to death and another shot, a slight the Blackfeet had never forgotten. But mutilating Owen might enrage the British lord and his party and put them in a mood to fight. Zach wanted them to leave. He gave Owen another push.

  ‘I’m doing the best I can, damn it,’ the man grumbled. ‘I’m not a bloody owl. I can’t see in the dark.’

  The horse had been left with its reins dangling about a hundred and fifty yards from the Ward’s cabin. Owen went to take hold of them, but Zach snatched them from his grasp.

  ‘No. Me keep horse.’

  ‘What?’ Owen gazed toward the far end of the valley, apprehension twisting his features into a mirror of fear. ‘You expect me to walk all that distance? At night?’

  ‘We not harm you,’ Zach said. ‘You must tell other whites our words.’ He reminded himself to talk like someone who barely knew English.

  ‘I will, I will. Only I can do it a lot faster if I ride.’

  ‘No.’ Zach needed to gain the Wards as much time as possible. It would take Owen hours to reach the camp on foot.

  ‘But there are beasties abroad,’ Owen glumly protested. ‘I could be eaten.’

  As if to accent his plea, a faint roar echoed down from the timbered slopes high above. A grizzly was in a foul temper. Almost on its heels came the wavering howl of a roving wolf.

  ‘No,’ Zach said again. The man was in very little danger. Simon Ward had long since cleared the valley of predators that might do his family harm. He pricked Owen in the ribs. ‘Go now.’

  Exhibiting great reluctance, the hapless Brit bent his steps into the darkness. He glanced back several times, apparently afraid it was all a trick and he would be slain anyway.

  As soon as the night swallowed him, Zach made a rapid beeline for the cabin. He tied the horse to the corral rail and entered the cabin by the window. Once inside, he closed the window, then crossed the room.

  Over in the corner Little Peter was breathing heavily, deep in sleep.

  Zach pushed the bedroom door halfway open. ‘Simon! Felicity!’ he whispered. ‘You need to get up and get dressed!’ He went to the cast-iron stove and rekindled the embers. He was putting the coffeepot on to brew when the Wards emerged, yawning and rubbing their eyes but fully clothed.

  ‘What is it?’ Simon asked. ‘What’s so urgent?’

  Zach explained about the man left to watch them and what he had done. ‘I have convinced him you are dead and that the Blackfoot war party will wipe out the lord and his bunch if they don’t light a shuck.’

  ‘It might work,’ Felicity said. ‘But Lord Kilraven strikes me as the kind who does not scare easily. What if he doesn’t believe it? What if he comes here to see our bodies with his own eyes?’

  ‘We will be long gone,’ Zach said. ‘I am taking you up into the high country where you will be safe.’ He had hunted the territory since he was old enough to ride and knew the region from the Green River to the Arkansas River as well as any man alive.

  Simon gazed about the room. ‘Leave our home?’

  He could imagine Kilraven ordering the cabin be burned to the ground, along with everything in it. They did not have a lot of furniture and possessions, but they could ill afford to lose the few they had.

  ‘We must make it look as if the Blackfeet really did attack,’ Zach proposed. ‘Turn over the table and the chairs, throw some clothes around, kill one of your chickens and leave its blood all over the place.’

  ‘Have chicken blood all over my house?’ Felicity envisioned the resultant mess, and how difficult it would be to clean up.

  ‘We must make it look convincing. They will think the Blackfeet carried you off.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Simon said. He trusted Zach, and liked the idea of tricking Kilraven into leaving, but he would as soon cut off an arm as have everything he had worked so hard to build be destroyed.

  ‘It’s either that or make a stand here,’ Zach pointed out. ‘How many men did you say this lord has again?’

  Simon turned to Felicity and clasped her hands in his. ‘I will leave it up to you. Do we or don’t we? We could come back to find our home and our barn razed and all our animals dead.’

  Felicity gazed at their son, slumbering so peacefully and innocently. A lump formed in her throat. She loved their cabin. It was not much by Eastern standards, but she had worked hard to make it a home, and she would be devastated were they to lose it.

  Simon intuited her feelings from her expression. Usually, in matters of importance, they both had a say in what they would do, but in this instance he wanted her to have the final word.

  Swallowing hard, Felicity said softly, ‘I guess we have no choice. They took our guns so we can’t fight them, and even if they hadn’t, there are just too many of the scoundrels.’

  Simon faced Zach. ‘We will do as you suggest. Give us fifteen minutes to get ready.’

  ‘Take an hour,’ Zach said. ‘There is plenty of time. It will be morning before any of them can get here. That gives us most of the night to get you up into the mountains.’ Zach smiled. ‘Eat a meal. Pack your valuables. We will take whatever you want.’

  ‘What about our animals? The chickens and pigs and horses and our cow?’

  ‘Everything except the horses can stay. The Blackfeet love to steal horses almost as much as they love to count coup on whites.’

  Felicity came to him and put her hand on his shoulder. ‘I can’t tell you how much this means to us. And I must say, I’m surprised. Given how bloodthirsty people say you are, I am delighted at how hard you are trying not to spill blood.’

  Zach did not tell her that he was doing it for their benefit. ‘Let’s hope this works. If it doesn’t, the blood spilling will come later, and there will be a godawful lot of it.’

  Eight

  Lord Laurence Kilraven hated America. He hated their salty, fatty food; in the mornings they ate toast drenched in butter with eggs and ham or beef smeared in hog’s lard; in the evening it was more food drowning in lard and fat, and pastries and pies sickeningly rich in butter. He hated their clothes; they wore shabby homespun, for the most part, and well worn, at that, to the point where most of the population went about in the semblance of penniless ragamuffins. He hated their obsession with tobacco; they were constantly chewing and spitting, spitting and chewing. At the theater one evening in St. Louis, or what passed for a theater in America, a patron had the temerity to let loose with a wad of thoroughly masticated tobacco at his
feet. He would have beaten the man senseless with his cane if he’d had his cane with him.

  America did have one trait Lord Kilraven admired, the only trait he could say this about, namely: their obsession with money. He shared that obsession. The Kilraven fortune had declined to the point where he was desperate to fill the family coffers. Hence his inspiration to open the first hunting preserve of its kind in all North America.

  If there was one thing Lord Kilraven hated more than America, it was being rousted out of a sound sleep. He seldom slept well as it was, so to be blissfully asleep and then to hear his manservant, Caruthers, insistently if politely whispering his name, provoked a flush of anger. ‘What in God’s name is it?’ he demanded harshly.

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but Mr. Severn is outside. He says he must speak to you. It is most urgent.’ Caruthers was fully dressed. He was required to be at Kilraven’s beck and call, day and night, and slept on a cot near the front of the tent.

  Kilraven was loathe to rise but did so. He sat up in bed—a bed, not a cot, he would not deign to sleep on a cot—then stood and shrugged into the robe Caruthers held for him. He glanced at his snoring wife and frowned. ‘Remind me again why I married her?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Kilraven strode to the front of their tent and pushed on the flap and stepped out into the chill late night hair. Half the camp had been aroused and many of the men had gathered, some, to his annoyance, in various stages of undress. ‘Well? This had better be important.’

  ‘I am sorry to disturb you, your lordship,’ Severn said. ‘But Owen has just shown up, and he bears bad tidings.’

  It took Kilraven a few seconds to recall that Owen was the man assigned to watch the Ward cabin. ‘Where is he?’

  Severn moved aside.

  Reginald Owen was a mess. He was caked with sweat. His shirt was half-out and he was holding his beltless pants up with one hand. The bottom of his pants and his shoes were brown with dust. Red in the face, he was partly bent over, his body quaking as he gasped for breath.

  ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘I am about done in, sir,’ Owen wheezed. ‘I ran most of the way, never knowing when those heathens might change their minds and put an arrow in my back.’

  ‘Explain yourself,’ Kilraven instructed him, and listened impatiently while his sputtering underling narrated his harrowing experience. When Owen finally finished, Kilraven thoughtfully rubbed his chin. ‘You say these Blackfeet will wipe us out if we don’t leave?’

  ‘The red bugger’s very words, sir,’ Owen confirmed.

  Kilraven had hoped to avoid clashes with savages. He had brought trinkets to give them and gain their goodwill in the event his party encountered any. The Blackfeet, though, were supposed to despise whites so much that trading with them was out of the question. ‘You went up to the Ward cabin at one point, did you not?’

  ‘That I did, sir,’ Owen answered. ‘Mr. Severn ordered me to keep a close watch and warned they might try to sneak off.’

  ‘Did you then, or at any other time, hear anything that would lead you to conclude they were murdered by the heathens?’

  ‘I did not, sir. It was as quiet as could be. The first I knew those devils were there was when I came to after being hit on the head.’

  ‘You heard no outcries? No indications of a struggle? Nothing of that nature?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And how many Blackfeet did you see? Be exact.’

  ‘Just the one, sir.’

  ‘Only the one?’ Lord Kilraven ran a hand through his shock of white hair. ‘There is something queer here. Mr. Severn, I want to talk to our scout, as he calls himself. Where is he?’

  ‘The last I saw, under one of the wagons, sound asleep.’

  ‘Fetch him, and be quick about it. I will be back out.’ Kilraven went into the tent and had Caruthers help him dress.

  ‘Should I wake Lady Kilraven, sir?’

  ‘Whatever for?’ Kilraven snapped. ‘I endure her useless prattle enough as it is. Let her sleep.’

  ‘As you wish, sir.’

  By the time Lord Kilraven reemerged, everyone was on hand except his wife and his niece. At the forefront stood a lanky man in dirty buckskins, his stringy brown hair poking from under a floppy brown hat. He had a bony forehead and bony cheeks, and a jagged ridge of scar tissue where his left ear should be. A Hawken was cradled in the crook of his right elbow. At his waist were two flintlocks and a bone-handled knife. He was chewing tobacco, but he stopped to say, ‘You sent for me, your highness?’

  Lord Kilraven drew himself up to his full height. ‘How many times have I told you not to address me at that, Mr. Ryker? I am not the King of England. I am a baron.’

  ‘I don’t know barons from bear skite,’ Ryker responded with more than a trace of insolence.

  Severn took immediate offense. ‘You will address his lordship with the respect his title deserves.’

  Ryker spat a wad of tobacco, and smirked. ‘I will talk any damn way I please, mister, and if you don’t like it, you’re welcome to try and do something about it.’

  Kilraven held up a hand, silencing the reply Severn was about to make. ‘Stop this petty bickering. A situation has developed, Mr. Ryker, and I need your expert opinion.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Ryker opened his possibles bag and took out a pouch. He undid the tie string, dipped his fingers inside, and stuffed a large pinch of a reddish substance into his mouth.

  ‘More tobacco,’ Lord Kilraven said in undisguised disgust.

  ‘Hell no, your highness,’ Ryker responded. ‘Tobacco can’t hold a lick to this. It is kinnikinic.’

  Despite himself, Kilraven was curious. ‘That sounds Indian to me.’

  ‘It is,’ Ryker said. ‘Kinnikinic is made from willow bark. The red willow, not the other. You chew it like tobacco, but it tastes and smells better.’ He closed the pouch and slid it back into his possible bag. ‘Chew enough of it and you feel like you can walk on water.’

  ‘Are you saying it is a narcotic?’

  ‘I’m saying you feel real good. If that’s what narcotic means, then yes.’ Ryker chewed lustily. ‘Now what’s this all about? Someone mentioned the Blackfeet.’

  Lord Kilraven explained and had Reginald Owen repeat his account of his run-in with the Blackfoot warrior. Ryker listened without interrupting until Owen came to the part where the warrior had led him to his horse.

  ‘Hold on, hoss. That’s enough. I agree with his highness, here. Something doesn’t add up.’ Ryker spat kinnikinic juice. ‘Describe this Blackfoot for me? Was he wearing war paint? What weapons did he have? What were his moccasins like? Give me all the details you can.’

  Owen obliged, and when he was done, Ryker indulged in a hearty chuckle. ‘I’ll be damned.’

  ‘What is it?’ Lord Kilraven asked, and was peeved when the American ignored him and instead addressed Owen.

  ‘You mentioned that you heard this so-called Blackfoot speak Injun? Can you remember what he said?’

  ‘Not very well, I am afraid,’ Owen replied. ‘It was something like sue had dee.’

  ‘Could it have been su’ahaibeidee?’

  Owen nodded enthusiastically. ‘It very well could have been, yes. What does it mean? Was it a threat?’

  Ryker laughed. ‘He was saying you are an idiot, and I agree.’ Ryker turned to Lord Kilraven. ‘That there is Shoshone, not Blackfoot. My hunch was right. That was no Injun. It was Zach King.’

  ‘King? That name is familiar. Where have I heard it before?’

  ‘From me, at Bent’s Fort, when you hired me,’ Ryker said. ‘I warned you about Zach’s pa, Nate. Remember? Warned you about how the Kings and the Wards are good friends and how Nate King won’t stand for having his friends driven from their homestead.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the mountain man,’ Kilraven said. ‘He is the reason you refused to stay with the wagons when we came up the valley. Instead, you went around and waited for us here.’

 
; ‘It’s like I told you at Bent’s Fort. The Wards are well thought of hereabouts. Folks won’t take kindly to what you intend to do to them, and I don’t want to be blamed for having a hand in it.’

  ‘All you are doing is serving as our guide,’ Kilraven said. ‘You cannot be held to account for my actions.’

  ‘Like hell I can’t. Folks in this country take that kind of thing real personal. If their friends find out I guided you here, I could have cold steel stuck in my gizzard. That’s why I don’t want anyone, including the Wards, to know I am involved.’

  Lord Kilraven was sure the man was unduly concerned. But it was Ryker’s problem, not his, and he would not waste another word on it. ‘Be that as it may, what about this boy, this Zach King?’

  ‘He’s no sprout, your highness. He’s full growed, and in some respects, scarier than his pa.’

  ‘Scary how?’ Again Kilraven thought the American was exaggerating.

  ‘I know them both. I’ve never been to their cabins for supper, but I have talked to them a few times. Nate King is as highly regarded as Jim Bridger and Kit Carson. Those names might not mean much to you, but they carry a lot of respect on the frontier.’

  ‘It is the son who is the issue,’ Kilraven reminded him.

  ‘I’ll get to him in a minute,’ Ryker said. ‘Nate King is as honest as the year is long. He’s loyal to his friends and fierce to his enemies. He’s killed when he’s had to, but only when he has to. He’s not one of those who kills because he likes it. He’s not like his son.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Aren’t you listening? Zach King is half-Shoshone. The Shoshones are a peaceable tribe, but Zach’s not peaceable. He likes to count coup. He’s a warrior more than anything else. His pa will avoid bloodshed if he can help it, but the son goes straight for the throat. If he’s helping the Wards, you’re in for a fight.’

  ‘He is but one man,’ Kilraven scoffed. ‘He has no chance against our guns.’

  ‘Don’t underestimate him,’ Ryker warned. ‘He’s canny, that one. Clever as clever can be. His Injun name is Stalking Coyote, but it might as well be Stalking Fox.’