Wilderness Double Edition 19, page 15
Holding it next to his leg, Nate thumbed back the hammer and stepped behind Bittner. He would rather shoot Haro, but the ’breed would see him if he moved to either side to fire. Since he couldn’t kill them both with one shot, he had to kill the one he could.
Nate was raising the derringer when a question popped into his head: Why couldn’t I shoot them both with one bullet? It was feasible. If he placed the slug just right, it would pass completely through Bittner and strike the ’breed. He pointed the derringer at the back of the giant’s bull neck, to the left of the spine. The human neck is one of the softest, most vulnerable spots on the body, and a ruptured jugular can kill a man within seconds.
“Leave King to me,” Bittner told Haro. “I know what I’m doing.”
Nate squeezed the trigger.
At the loud crack, a crimson geyser sprayed from the front of the giant’s neck, splattering Haro. Bittner stiffened and grabbed at his throat. Haro jerked backward as if struck, and pivoting with lightning speed, he melted into the greenery in the blink of an eye.
Without a second to lose, Nate turned toward the bay, toward the bedroll and his guns. He had taken two strides when a blood-caked hand closed on his shoulder and he was spun around.
Bittner’s throat was a ravaged ruin. He had dropped his rifle, and now, growling deep in his chest, he clamped his thick fingers onto Nate’s neck. “Bastard!” he roared, blood spurting from the jagged hole and from the comers of his mouth. Digging his fingers into Nate’s flesh, he squeezed with all the power in his bulging sinews.
Nate grabbed the bigger man’s wrists and sought to wrench loose, but Bittner was not to be denied. Nate twisted to the right, twisted to the left, and the other man clung on, his hard-as-iron fingers digging deeper, ever deeper. Staggering back, Nate struck Bittner with his fists. His blows would have crumpled lesser men, but the giant was as impervious as chain mail.
“Die!” Bittner raged, and more blood gushed. His beard was soaked, his shirt stained red.
“Pa!” Evelyn screamed. “Look out! The trees!”
Nate glanced to his left and saw Haro in the shadows, taking deliberate aim. Instantly, he swung to the right, swinging Bittner into the line of fire at the exact split second Haro’s rifle spat lead and smoke. Bittner’s forehead exploded, and gore showered onto Nate’s face and chest. Bittner’s fingers went limp. So did Bittner. Deprived of the spark of life, the man who had yearned to be rich at any cost swayed like a steer bled for slaughter, and fell.
Spinning, Nate ran to the bay. In a twinkling he had Evelyn in one arm and Melissa in the other and was hurtling toward the woods. A pistol cracked, and a stinging sensation spiked his left shoulder. Foliage closed around them as Haro’s second pistol banged. A slug thumped into a cottonwood and slivers peppered his cheek.
“Run and don’t look back!'' Nate commanded. Lowering them, he gave the girls a push. Then, rotating, he did the last thing Haro would expect: He sped back into the open, making for the bay again.
The sight of Bittner’s rifle in the grass caused Nate to veer toward it instead. It wasn’t wrapped in a blanket, and was ready for use. He took a long stride and leaped, his arms outflung.
Out of the growth charged Haro, a gleaming knife held aloft. Nate’s fingers found the rifle as Haro reached him. Tempered steel cleaved the air, the blade missing Nate by a hair and glancing off the rifle he was trying to level. Nate flung himself to the rear to gain room to move, but Haro was on him like a cougar on a marmot. The knife slashed at his neck, at his face, at his stomach.
A rut in the ground proved Nate’s downfall. He tripped and fell onto his back. Above him reared the ’breed, triumph lighting Haro’s dark eyes, the blade poised to kill. They both knew Nate couldn’t stop it from descending.
They both knew Haro had won. So it was difficult to say which of them was more surprised by the shot that rang loud and clear—and the third nostril Haro acquired. The ’breed staggered, shifted partway around, and melted to the ground, the knife that had almost claimed Nate’s life sinking into the soil beside him.
Nate rose onto his elbows.
Evelyn stood next to Bittner’s body, one of the big man’s pistols clutched in her small hands. “I couldn’t let him kill you, Pa,” she said softly. “I just couldn’t.”
Twelve
Winona King was as surprised as Killibrew when Kyle marched Ezriah Hampton to the campfire at gunpoint. Ezriah gave her an apologetic look and bowed his head in shame at being caught.
“Look at what I found,” Kyle said.
Killibrew jumped up. “What the hell is this? Are they fallin’ out of the sky?” Poking Ezriah in the chest, he rasped, “You weren’t much of a messenger, old man! The idea was for the Kings to fetch us their gold, not dog our steps to the Missouri. Didn’t you make it plain what we would do to the sprouts?”
“I did exactly as you told me,” Ezriah said, “but they couldn’t abide the thought of a filthy animal like you so much as touching the girls.”
Flushing with anger, Killibrew balled a fist and punched the old trapper in the stomach. Ezriah doubled over, sputtering in agony, and pitched onto his hands and knees. Still not satisfied, Killibrew drew back a boot and kicked him in the ribs, pitching Ezriah onto his side where he thrashed in torment.
“That’s just a taste of what’s in store for the aggravation you’ve caused me, you bastard,” Killibrew declared. He drew back his foot to kick Hampton a second time.
“Leave him alone!” Winona cried. Springing in front of Hampton, she shielded him with her body. As much as she detested him, he had gone after the girls on his own to atone for letting them be taken in the first place. And Killibrew’s earlier comment about how Ezriah had been ready to throw his life away to try and save Evelyn and Melissa had made her realize the depth of his affection for them. Perhaps the old man wasn’t as despicable as she’d led herself to believe.
Denied one outlet for his wrath, Killibrew chose another. Grabbing Winona by the front of her dress, he shook her until her teeth rattled, then thrust a foot behind her and shoved her to the ground beside Hampton. “Don’t butt in again, bitch!” he hissed. Hiking his rifle, he took a step, about to bash her over the head with the heavy stock.
Kyle suddenly flung out a hand. “Think about what you’re doing! If we hurt her, her husband won’t like it much. And we need him to get the gold, don’t we?”
Killibrew turned to stone. His fury slowly subsided and was replaced by an icy, more menacing, expression. Stepping back, he lowered his arms. “What to do? What to do?” he said thoughtfully. “It seems to me drastic measures are called for.”
“How drastic?” Kyle asked.
Winona slid to Ezriah. He was curled into a ball and breathing raggedly. “How bad is it?”
“The polecat about staved in my rib cage,” Ezriah grunted, “but I’m as tough as jerky. I’ll live.” He mustered a grin.
Killibrew commenced to pace back and forth in an excess of violent energy. “We have to face facts. Nate King has no intention of giving us what we want. Why? Because he hasn’t taken us serious. None of them have. So it’s time we set them straight.”
Kyle glanced at Winona. “You’re not fixing to harm the woman, are you?”
Killibrew stopped dead. “She’s a squaw, boy. A lousy Injun. Sure, she’s female, but so is a heifer, and you wouldn’t object if I carved up a cow, would you?”
“I don’t like the idea of harming women.”
“You’re beginnin’ to annoy me,” Killibrew said. “Why don’t you take the old geezer for a walk, if it bothers you that much. You’ll have to go a ways. She might scream. They usually do.”
The younger man stayed where he was. “When you asked me to join up, you swore to me no one would be hurt. You said you had it all planned out. You said King wouldn’t dare give us trouble. You said a lot of things that turned out not to be true.”
“How was I to know the whole damn family has grit up to their ears?” Killibrew responded. “Any sensible person would have given in. But these Kings are as pesky as wolverines. They don’t do what you expect.”
“So why go on with it?” Kyle said.
“What else would you have us do?” Killibrew impatiently rejoined. “Give up and head for St. Louis?”
“Why not?” Kyle asked. “They’ve called our bluff. We should fold our cards and walk away from the table. Ride on out and make ourselves scarce while we still can.”
“You’re serious?”
“We haven’t killed anyone yet. The worst anyone can claim is that we took the girls for a couple of days. We can say we found them wandering in the woods. It’ll be their word against ours. And since the girls haven’t been laid a hand on, we’ll be set free.”
Killibrew stopped pacing and faced him. “You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you, lunkhead? But you’re forgettin’ the most important part. The gold. I’m not leavin’ until I get it. And no matter what I have to do, I will get it. One way or another.”
Winona stood and tried to help Ezriah to stand. She was grateful the younger man was standing up for them, but she feared he had sorely misjudged the leader. Killibrew was on the verge of losing his temper again, and if the young one wasn’t careful, he would suffer the brunt of Killibrew’s wrath.
“Just so you don’t harm the woman or the kids,” Kyle said.
Winona waited for the explosion sure to follow, but Killibrew smiled as if he thought it was humorous and started to turn toward the fire. She never saw him grip one of his pistols. He was too clever. The next moment he spun, his arm out, the pistol cocked, and at near point-blank range he discharged the heavy-caliber flintlock into Kyle’s temple.
The younger man was propelled backward. Arms pin-wheeling, he staggered to a stop, gaped at his killer, then collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. A sizable chunk of the back of his skull had been blown away, and his brains began to seep onto the grass.
Maniacal rage seized Killibrew. Stomping to the corpse, he kicked it again and again and again, an excess of brutal savagery that didn’t end until Kyle’s face resembled a pulped melon. Whirling, Killibrew shoved the pistol under his belt and trained his rifle on Winona and Ezriah. “Now that the Good Samaritan has been dealt with, let’s get on with it, shall we?”
Ezriah couldn’t straighten, but that didn’t stop him from shuffling in front of Winona and saying, “You’ll have to go through me to get to her.”
“Easily done,” Killibrew said. A quick lunge, and he rammed the barrel of his rifle into Hampton’s midsection. As the old man folded, Killibrew swung the stock in a high arc that caught him on the head.
Ezriah buckled, groaned, and was still.
Winona leaped at Killibrew, but he had the reflexes of a cat. Spinning, he aimed the rifle at her chest, halting her in midstride.
“Don’t even think it, squaw. I’ve had my fill. I’d as soon shoot you as spit on you.” Killibrew sidestepped to the left. “Sit by the fire a spell. I have preparations to make.”
Acutely conscious that at any instant his gun might spew searing death, Winona curled her legs under her. She wanted to help Hampton. His hat had fallen off, and a gash below his hairline was pouring scarlet. His weapons, including his sword, were a dozen feet past him, where Kyle had dumped them. She considered making a bid for them, but Killibrew was watching her intently as he moved about the clearing.
Winona was sorry Kyle had died in her defense, but he had brought it on himself by hooking up with his slayer. Some men—and some women—were vicious by nature. They delighted in inflicting suffering and in taking lives, and no amount of talk could change their sadistic ways.
The Shoshones believed a proper upbringing forged proper character, but it would be wasted on a person with Killibrew’s temperament. He was what her husband called a “bad seed,” someone born with a wicked streak ingrained into their being.
Winona and Nate once got into a long and involved discussion about whether white men or red men were more violent. She had been of the opinion whites were; they routinely indulged in robbery and murder, as Nate conceded, and in some of the cities back east it wasn’t safe to be abroad in certain quarters after the sun went down. In contrast, among her people thievery and murder were virtually unknown.
Nate had argued convincingly that she was being unfair. True, Shoshones seldom slew members of their own tribe, but like other warrior societies they regularly sent war parties against their enemies and killed as many as they could.
Warfare was their way of life, and the torture of captives much too common. Proof that when all was said and done, the two races weren’t that much different.
Killibrew had bent over a saddle. When he straightened he held a coiled rope. He scanned the trees ringing the camp and became interested in a stately oak all by itself on the bank of Buzzard Creek. “That will do right fine,” he announced, and motioned. “Mosey on over here, woman.”
Winona moved slowly, buying time. She had some notion of what he had in mind, but with his rifle centered on her sternum, to resist invited the same fate as Kyle’s.
“Stand with your back to the trunk,” Killibrew directed, “and place your hands behind it.”
Once her hands were tied Winona would be helpless, utterly at the mercy of a two-legged fiend. “I would rather die fighting,” she said.
Killibrew nodded as if he had expected her to refuse. Shifting, he pointed his rifle at the crumpled form of Ezriah Hampton. “Maybe you don’t care about your own hide, but how about his? Either you do as I tell you or I’ll finish him off.”
Winona hesitated. Part of her felt she didn’t owe Hampton a thing; she still blamed him for the whole mess, to a degree. The other part of her had been touched by how he had rallied to her defense. She glanced at him, at the blood caking the lower half of his face and the ridge of scar tissue over his left eye, and she was lost. “I will do as you want.” Gritting her teeth at her stupidity, she leaned back against the oak and extended her arms behind her.
Snickering, Killibrew drew his ivory-hilted dagger, cut a three-foot length of the rope, and sidled around the trunk.
Seconds later a loop encircled Winona’s left wrist. She almost changed her mind, almost pulled away, but then another loop was applied to her right wrist and she was yanked backward, slamming her spine against the bole. Killibrew had her right where he wanted her. Pain seared her wrists, as the rope was tied much too tightly.
Giving a final tug to ensure the rope was secure, Killibrew crowed, “This should do just fine. Now we can get down to business.”
Winona girded herself for the horror to come. She thought of Nate. She thought of her son and her daughter, and she smiled.
Killibrew nonchalantly walked around the oak, his rifle resting across his shoulder. He had all the time in the world now. “What do you have to be so consarned happy about?” he asked.
“I have lived a full life. A good life,” Winona said.
“So you’re ready to give up the ghost? Is that it?” Killibrew set his rifle on the ground and again drew his dagger. “You won’t die for a good, long while yet. I’m going to whittle on you some, enough to hear you scream. Enough to have you beg me to stop.”
Winona wished he were closer so she could spit in his face. “That will never happen,” she vowed.
Killibrew held the dagger so the sun glinted off the blade. “I’ve carved up a few people in my time, lady. Before I was done, each and every one blubbered like a baby. You won’t be any different.” His moon face glistened with anticipation, and he stepped up close.
Winona had been waiting for just that moment. She drove her right foot at his groin, but he nimbly sidestepped. The dagger flashed twice in swift succession. Sharp pangs seared her, and as she lowered her leg she saw two slashes in her buckskin dress, one low on her shin, the other high on her thigh. The cuts weren’t deep, but they were painful.
“Try that again and I’ll hamstring you,” Killibrew said. He raised his dagger so she could see her blood on the blade.
“Do you honestly expect me to do nothing while you torture me?” Winona responded. She would fight him to her dying breath.
“Unless you want me to walk over and slit the old man’s throat, that’s exactly what you’ll do.” Killibrew ran a finger along his dagger, then flicked the finger at her face, spattering her with red drops. “We want you lookin’ pretty when that Injun-lovin’ man of yours arrives.”
“Nate?” Winona envisioned him in her mind’s eye, approaching cautiously until he saw her tied to the tree, bent and bloody. He would charge in heedless of the danger, right into Killibrew’s gun sights.
“Got another husband I don’t know about?” Killibrew said, and laughed. Leaning toward her, he propped his left hand against the oak and lightly tapped the tip of his dagger on her chin. “I have to admit I don’t understand men like him. I mean, I can savvy a man who diddles a squaw for the fun of it. But to marry one? To take an Injun woman for better or for worse till death do you part? Why the hell would he want to tie himself down like that?”
“It could be he loves me,” Winona said.
“Love an Injun? That’s the part that puzzles me the most.” Killibrew looked her up and down. “What is there about you heathens to love?”
“More than someone like you could ever appreciate.”
“Is that so?” Killibrew said. His dagger flashed, opening her right cheek from her ear to her chin.
Winona winced at the burning torment and felt the lower half of her cheek grow moist. Again she had the impression he had cut just deep enough to draw blood but not deep enough to mutilate or kill. He was toying with her to prolong her suffering. Blood dribbled into the corner of her mouth and she tasted its salty tang.
