Wilderness Double Edition #9, page 6
Once on level ground the two trappers bore to the south and worked their way in a roundabout fashion to the aspens. They were at the edge of the trees when a clear metallic click stopped them in their tracks.
“Non! Non! It is our friends, young one.”
“Yes, it’s us,” Nate confirmed, going on to find Pepin with a firm hand on the barrel of the greenhorn’s rifle, which had been deflected downward. “Didn’t it occur to you that it might be Shakespeare and me?” he asked Jenks.
“I wasn’t thinking. I heard a sound and I assumed it might be Indians.”
“That makes twice,” Nate said, recalling the incident when Jenks had shot at them. “Keep it up and one of these times you’ll make a mistake you’ll live to regret.”
“Enfant!” Pepin declared, and laughed.
Although Nate did not find the close call so amusing, he let the matter drop and turned to the issue at hand. “Here is what we found,” he began. The Canadian and the youth were rapt listeners, and when Nate was done the Canadian smiled and slapped a thigh.
“Ten scalps to share! This is better than I dreamed.”
“Our main purpose is to reclaim the stolen hides and such,” Shakespeare mentioned.
“All I want is revenge,” Jenks said eagerly.
“A dagger of the mind, a false creation, proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain,” Shakespeare quoted.
“What?”
“Never mind,” Shakespeare said, unwilling to waste words. There was nothing he could say or do that would change the young man’s attitude, and rather than waste energy trying, he leaned against a sapling and crossed his arms. Some lessons could only be taught by life itself. Jenks would learn of his own accord, if he survived to learn at all.
Nate detailed the arrangement of the Piegan camp, concluding with: “They have no idea we’re here, so if all goes well we can take them completely by surprise. I think we should sneak up on them from four directions and at a signal from me, open fire.”
“I will take up position near their horses to keep any of the savages from getting away,” Pepin said.
Nate suspected the voyageur had an ulterior motive. At the first blast of gunfire the Piegans would naturally dash for their horses to flee, enabling Pepin to drop more than he might otherwise, thereby giving him the chance to collect more scalps.
“What about me?” Jenks inquired. “I’ve never fought Indians before. What do I do?”
“You go to the top of the small hill,” Nate suggested. The hillock, he figured, would be the safest place to be since it was highly unlikely any of the warriors would try to scale the slope while under attack. “If any of them go for the high ground, cut them off.”
“I’ll drop them like flies,” Jenks pledged. “But where will you be?”
“Shakespeare and I will go through the grass, right up to their camp.”
Jenks grinned. “Better you than me, King. If the Piegans spot you before you’re ready, you’ll be turned into pincushions.”
“Thanks for the warning.” Nate craned his neck to see up through the foliage. Every trapper learned early on how to tell the passage of time by the relative positions of the stars and the constellations, and by his reckoning it was then close to eight o’clock. “We’ll wait until midnight to move out. By then most of them should be sound asleep.”
“What do we do until then?” Jenks wondered.
“I don’t know about you, but I aim to get some rest,” Nate answered. Going over to a clear space amidst the saplings, he sat down with his back to a trunk, rested the Hawken across his legs, and tried to nap. The long day in the saddle had left him fatigued, but the impending clash had him too on edge to permit sleep. Shifting and squirming, he tried his best, until he heard a soft snicker.
“Ants in your britches, son?”
Nate looked around as McNair walked over and took a seat. “It’s times like this I wish I had your knack for falling asleep anywhere, anytime.”
“Blame Winona.”
“You’ve lost me. What does she have to do with anything?”
“If your wife nagged you, you’d know how to drop off at the drop of a pin. No man likes to listen to a woman squawk at him from dawn to dusk, day in and day out. So men who find themselves in that situation learn to shut their wives out by falling asleep at will.”
“And where did you pick up this tidbit of information? Your wife doesn’t nag you either.”
“No, she doesn’t. But years ago I lived with another woman, a plucky Nez Perce, who just about wore my ears to a frazzle. I loved her too much to leave her, yet I couldn’t take all that carping. Then one day she up and got herself taken by the Bloods during a raid, so I imagine some lucky Blood warrior has had to put up with her all these years.” Shakespeare grinned. “There is justice in this old world, no matter what anyone says to the contrary.”
“You’re always full of surprises,” Nate commented. His gaze drifted to the Piegan campfire. “Let’s hope we’re not in for any nasty ones when we make our move.”
“You did right by having Jenks on the hill,” Shakespeare said. “It’ll keep him out of danger.” His voice lowered.
“Course, he’s not the one who worries me.”
“Pepin? He can handle himself.”
“You’ll get no argument there. But the man is too sure of himself. And he’s got a powerful hankering for scalps. Worse case I ever saw. He would have been happier if he’d been born a Blackfoot.”
“There you go again. Exaggerating as always.”
“Think I do?” Shakespeare shrugged. “Well, let’s hope so, for both our sakes.”
For the next several hours Nate made small talk. He was too on edge to do anything else. Despite the many times he had engaged in mortal combat with enemies white and red alike, he could never get used to the idea. He wasn’t one of those who liked to fight for the mere sake of fighting. If he had his druthers, he’d rather live in peace with everyone, but that was an impractical ideal, especially for one living in the untamed wilderness. Running into enemies, both human and bestial, was a common part of life in the mountains, and any man who wanted to last long had to accept that fact and live accordingly.
The crunch of a twig heralded Pepin. “It’s about that time, my friends,” he declared, pointing heavenward. “Are you ready?”
The location of the Big Dipper showed the Canadian was right. Nate stood, worked his legs to restore circulation, and checked the Hawken. None of them uttered a sound as he walked out of the trees and paused to regard the basin. “Spread out and stay low,” he cautioned. “If you get into trouble, the rest of us will come to your aid.”
“That’s good to hear,” Jenks said. His tone, his posture indicated his nerves were taut.
“Good luck,” Nate offered. He touched Shakespeare’s arm, then stalked forward as before. The light from the Piegan fire had dwindled to a few fingers of flame that would soon go out, which forced him to hurry in order to be in place before that happened.
Dread of encountering another rattler prompted Nate to stop every time he heard rustling. In each case it was the wind, which had intensified and was rippling the grass much as a gale rippled waves on the sea. Nate was halfway to the hillock when he thought to glance over his shoulder at the horizon and saw a mass of dark clouds blotting out many of the stars. A storm was coming. And if it got there before they were ready, it would spoil everything. In a driving downpour they wouldn’t be able to see more than a few feet.
Disregarding caution, Nate hurried faster, parting the grass with his head and shoulders. He wondered if his companions had noticed the approaching storm and if they were doing as he was. Once his right hand came down on something wriggling and slippery, but there was no answering rattle and he plowed on ahead without bothering to find out what the thing had been.
The wind had an unforeseen effect. Nate was still fifty feet from the camp when the flames were smothered, plunging the immediate area into total darkness. Now Nate couldn’t see where the Piegans were sleeping. Indeed, he had no idea whether a guard had been posted and where the warrior might be.
Frowning at the unwanted development, Nate moved steadily nearer. He didn’t fear detection because the waving grass smothered any faint noises he made. About twenty feet out he sank onto his belly. Another ten feet brought him close enough to make out a few dark lumps on the ground by the fire. Sleeping Piegans, but he only counted five. Where were the rest?
Nate lifted his head to see better, then turned to ice on hearing a yawn off to the left. A slender figure was moving toward the fire, the lone man on watch, evidently. The Piegan knelt at the fire. Nate saw sparks blossom and promptly sank down. The guard was trying to get the fire going again.
Persistence paid off. After a dozen tries the brave rekindled the flames and held his hands out to shield them from the wind.
In the pale glow Nate saw the warrior’s hawkish features. He now counted seven sleeping forms, which left two unaccounted for. The possibility of there being more than one guard was terribly worrisome. He scanned the hillock and the black shadows where the horses were tethered, but saw no one.
The Piegan, meanwhile, was feeding branches to the fire, raising the flames to new heights. He added too many, or maybe the wind flared the fire, but whichever was the case, the flames suddenly shot so high the Piegan had to leap back to keep from having his eyebrows singed.
At that moment a horse whinnied.
Instantly the Piegan was on his feet, and he wasn’t the only one. Three others leaped up, bows in hand. They spoke in muted voices while gazing all around. Two of them then headed for the horses.
Nate was in a quandary. He wasn’t sure if Shakespeare and Jenks were in position yet, and if he jumped the gun before they were ready, the whole element of surprise would be wasted. He watched with bated breath as the two warriors vanished in the murky shadows. The same or another horse nickered. There was a commotion but no outcries, no gunshots. He began to breathe a smidgen easier.
On the top of the hillock another commotion erupted. Someone cursed—in English. A tremendous crashing in the underbrush brought more of the sleeping Piegans to their feet in time to see a pair of men rolling down the slope, men who were locked together as each sought the other’s throat. Rolling over and over and over, the combatants finally came to rest at the bottom.
Nate let out a gasp. Lester Jenks was grappling with a muscular brave, a brave who must have been on top of the hillock. A second sentry. The Piegans had not been as cocky as Shakespeare thought; they had taken prudent precautions against an attack.
Fierce yells broke out among the Piegans, and several moved to help their fellow. One drew a knife and coiled to plunge the blade into Jenks’s back.
Something had to be done. Nate could wait no longer. Raising the Hawken, he took a hasty bead on the Piegan with the knife. But his thumb was in the act of curling back the hammer when another rifle cracked in the grass off to his left. Shakespeare’s rifle it was, and the slug caught the knife-wielder squarely in the center of the back, ripping through the man’s spine and bursting out his chest.
As the first Piegan fell, the rest whirled to confront the new threat. Nate shifted, sighted on a burly warrior, and gently squeezed the trigger. At the retort, the burly one was lifted from his feet and slammed lifeless to the ground.
The war party was in turmoil. They didn’t know how many enemies they faced, and the deaths of two of their number in as many seconds had disconcerted the majority. Some broke, running for the horses. A few lifted bows, seeking targets to shoot. And a lone warrior turned back to assist the man grappling with Jenks. This warrior had a tomahawk, which he started to swing in an overhand arc.
Reloading the Hawken was out of the question. Nate drew his right flintlock, rising to one knee as he did. He snapped off a shot without aiming, and was gratified to see the ball strike the tomahawk-wielder in the armpit. The man jerked to one side, twisted, and fell.
Another pistol banged. Shakespeare had dropped a fourth warrior.
Barbed arrows sought the trappers.
Nate flattened again as a whizzing shaft streaked over his head, almost clipping his beaver hat. Yet another warrior dashed for the horses, leaving only two by the fire, one armed with a bow, the last holding a war club. Jenks was getting the worst of his fight; the Piegan was slowly choking the life from him.
Wedging the spent flintlock under his belt, Nate girded his legs, drew his other pistol, and surged forward, shooting as he straightened. The bowman, hit high in the chest, staggered and dropped his bow but did not fall. Nate unlimbered his tomahawk, uttered a Shoshone war whoop, and rushed to close quarters.
The Piegan bearing the war club charged to meet Nate. They clashed in front of the fire, the Piegan swinging first, a brutal blow that would have smashed Nate’s skull to fragments had it landed. A swift parry with the tomahawk deflected it. Nate pivoted, slashing at the warrior’s stomach. His foe, as nimbly as a chipmunk, danced aside.
Meanwhile, the wounded bowman had drawn a knife and was seeking an opening.
Nate was caught between the pair. He had to keep one eye on the man with the club, the other on the brave with the knife. Working in concert they might have downed Nate swiftly, but the wounded man was unable to do much more than stab ineffectively.
Suddenly Shakespeare McNair entered the fray, swinging his rifle as if it was a club, the stock crunching the wounded Piegan’s nose and felling the warrior on the spot.
The warrior with the war club shrieked and made a frantic bid to cave in Nate’s forehead. Nate countered, blocking the blow. In the process he hooked his right leg behind the Piegan’s legs and shoved with his elbow, tripping his adversary. The Piegan landed on his back, got an elbow under him, and started to rise. Nate stopped him. Or rather, the keen edge of the tomahawk did by splitting the warrior’s face right down the middle.
Nate wrenched the tomahawk loose and whirled to help Jenks. Aghast, he saw that he was too late. Lester Jenks lay limp in the grass, the hilt of a knife jutting from the youth’s chest. There was no sign of the warrior who had killed him. “Where—?” he blurted out, glancing around.
Shakespeare was looking around also. “I think he ran for the horses,” he said, and headed in that direction.
Nate immediately followed. There were still four Piegans unaccounted for. He’d expected to hear Pepin cut loose as warriors made for the string, yet there hadn’t been a sound out of the Canadian, leading Nate to fear Pepin was dead too.
A body materialized in the night.
Both Shakespeare and Nate slowed. The corpse was that of a Piegan, his throat slit ear to ear. They went further and found another. A few yards more and there was a third, and bent over it, slicing off the scalp, was the grinning voyageur.
“Magnifique! Three scalps, all mine!” Pepin unbent and waved his grisly trophy in the air. “Formidable, eh, my friends? They never knew what hit them!”
Nate halted, breathing deeply as the swirl of violence caught up with him. His blood raged through his veins and he felt almost out of breath. He understood now why Pepin had not fired. The Canadian had not wanted to alert the fleeing Piegans to his presence, so he had dispatched them silently.
“Where’s the last man?” Shakespeare asked, peering into the night.
“We missed one?” Pepin said. “That will not do. We cannot waste a scalp.”
Coming as it did so soon on the heels of losing Jenks, Nate found the voyageur's bloodthirstiness appalling. Turning, he walked toward their fallen friend. Behind him Pepin addressed McNair.
“Where is our young companion, mon ami?”
Nate did not hear Shakespeare’s low response, but the Canadian’s bellow of anger was like the bellow of a bull moose. Nate halted beside the dead greenhorn, sank to one knee, and took hold of the knife hilt to yank the weapon out. Jenks’s eyes were wide open, staring blankly at the heavens. Nate let go of the knife to reach down and close the hapless trapper’s eyelids, and as he did, rushing footsteps came at him from the right. He looked up just as the last of the Piegans, tomahawk in hand, screeched and sprang.
Six
Moments ago Nate King had tucked his own tomahawk under his belt. His hands were empty, his pistols also. But his left hand was near his knife. With the speed of thought he went to grab for it, then realized he could not possibly bring the knife into play before the Piegan slammed into him. So he brought both arms up, barely in time to cushion the impact as the heavy warrior bowled him clean over.
Nate landed flat, the Piegan astride his midsection. He tried to hurl the warrior from him, and the movement of his head as he lifted it saved his life because he moved it a hair to the left just as the brave’s tomahawk cleaved the air, fanning his right ear. A punch to the Piegan’s flat stomach elicited a grunt. The warrior, snarling, swept the tomahawk on high.
Getting his feet firmly on the ground, Nate bucked as a wild horse might, which threw the brave forward onto his shoulders. Nate was ready. Seizing the man’s thighs as the Piegan slid upward, he heaved, throwing the warrior from him. In an instant Nate was in a crouch and clawing for his tomahawk.
The Piegan divined Nate’s intent and aimed a blow at Nate’s wrist, forcing Nate to pull his arm up or lose his hand. Nate scrambled backwards, trying to gain distance so he could employ a weapon, but the Piegan came after him, swinging constantly, a series of vicious swipes that would have ripped Nate to shreds if they had connected.
In the heat of personal combat a man’s reflexes take over. If he tries to think, to reason out strategy, more often than not he loses his life during the precious seconds he is distracted by his own thoughts. Quite frequently inspiration saves the day, inspiration so elemental it stems from the most basic of instincts, the instinct for self-preservation.
Nate King had a strong sense of self-preservation. That instinct had carried him through dozens of conflicts with men and beasts alike. And it served him in good stead now. For as the Piegan delivered a particularly powerful blow that left the warrior momentarily off balance, Nate took a step toward the man instead of away from him and gouged his fingers into the Piegan’s eyes.
