Wilderness Double Edition 19, page 27
“What is it?” Garvey asked.
“Your brother stop here,” the Indian said in clipped English, pointing at the exact spot. “He walk off. His horse go there.”
Rosemary’s skin crawled as the Indian’s arm rose and his finger pointed directly at her hiding place. She didn’t have a moment to lose. They were bound to spot her within seconds. Worse, they might spot the Conestoga, and she couldn’t let that happen. She had to lure them away from her sons. To that end, she grabbed hold of the saddle and swung up. Her dress bunched around the middle of her thighs, but it couldn’t be helped. Smacking her rifle against the dun’s flank, she lit out of there as if she were fleeing a forest fire. She galloped eastward, away from the Conestoga, away from Sam and Eddy.
Shouts erupted. When Rosemary looked back all three were after her. During her childhood she had ridden a lot, but not much since, and her horsemanship was rusty.
Concentrating, she rode like a madwoman, heedless of the threat to life and limb. She ducked low branches, dodged others. She goaded the dun over logs and small boulders. She rode as she had never ridden before, but it wasn’t enough.
Chaco and his companions were gaining.
The woods were to blame. Closely spaced trunks and heavy thickets were slowing Rosemary down. She needed open ground. With lusty whoops ringing in her ears, she reined toward the Oregon Trail. The cutthroats laughed and shouted back and forth. To them the chase was some kind of game. But not to her. Too much was at stake.
Ahead the trees thinned. Without slowing, Rosemary came to the trail and reined sharply to the right. The dun was racing flat out, yet her next glance showed that the Indian would soon overtake her. His pinto was fleeter than mercury. Rosemary smacked the dun’s flanks a few more times, but it was wasted effort.
A bend rushed toward them. Rosemary twisted and attempted to aim her rifle with one hand. It was much too heavy.
Kicking Bull was grinning. He had slung his bow over his shoulder to free both arms, and now, in a burst of speed, he brought the pinto alongside the dun, leaned in, and wrapped a bronzed arm around her waist.
Rosemary swatted at him, but the rifle stock glanced off his chest, and a heartbeat later she was yanked from the saddle and sent tumbling. Unprepared for the fall, she hit hard on her shoulder and rolled. She wound up on her back with the breath knocked out of her. The rifle had gone sailing from her fingers, but she still had her pistol, and struggling onto her elbows, she groped for it. Her hand was swatted aside.
“Be still.” Kicking Bull stood over her and pushed her flat with the sole of his moccasin. His right hand strayed to the bone hilt of his knife.
A cloud of dust heralded Chaco and Garvey, who leaped from their mounts while the horses were still in motion. Rushing up on either side, they looked down at her in amazement.
“Who the hell are you, woman?” Chaco demanded. “And where the hell did you come from?”
“More to the point,” Garvey said, “what the hell is she doing on my brother’s horse?”
Rosemary glared defiantly. She didn’t dare tell them where Gault was.
“Are you deaf, woman?” Chaco said, and kicked her. Pain exploded up Rosemary’s side. She would have doubled over, except Kicking Bull had his foot on her pouch, effectively pinning her.
Bending down, Garvey entwined his thick fingers into her hair. “Where’s my brother, damn it?” He shook her, none too gently. “Answer me, or by God I’ll make you wish you had.”
“She must be from the wagon train,” Chaco speculated. “Somehow she escaped the Sioux and has been hiding.”
“Which still doesn’t explain where Gault is.” Garvey was a brutish man; anger made him uglier. “Last chance, bitch. Tell me what I want to know.” His fist flicked into her gut.
Rosemary’s universe dissolved into pinpoints of light and the contents of her stomach rose halfway up her throat. Gritting her teeth, she refused to say.
“Let’s do this right,” Chaco said, stepping back. “Each of you take an arm and boost her up.”
Garvey and Kicking Bull complied. Rosemary sagged between them, too dazed to stand on her own legs. Nausea assailed her, and it was a wonder she didn’t pass out.
“Now, then,” Chaco said, sliding his knife from its sheath. “Unless you want to lose your nose, you’ll explain how it is you’re riding Gault’s animal.”
“I don’t know any Gault,” Rosemary lied, and was rewarded with a knee to the midriff that compounded her agony tenfold.
Chaco wagged the knife in tiny circles. “You’re easy on the eyes, lady. I’d love to diddle you, but that won’t stop me from carving you up so bad, your own mother wouldn’t recognize you.” He pressed the edge of the blade to her right nostril. “Last chance. Where’s Gault Morton?”
Rosemary had always considered herself fairly brave, but now she wavered. Mutilation. The word pealed in her head like the toll of doom. She found herself questioning whether the loss of her nose was worth her continued silence. Then she thought of Sam and Eddy, and her faltering courage solidified into a solid granite wall of resistance. “Go to Hell.”
Chaco sneered and tensed his knife arm. “Try to be reasonable with some people, and look at how they treat you. It’s your decision. After today you’ll never look at yourself in the mirror again.”
Rosemary braced for the moment of truth.
Suddenly Chaco glanced up, past her, and shock spread across his scarred countenance—shock mixed with more than a little fear. Hooves hammered, and something struck Garvey Morton from behind and sent him sprawling. Kicking Bull released her and spun, but he was too slow. A rifle stock smashed into his temple and he fell in his tracks, oozing blood.
That left Chaco, who frantically backpedaled while clawing at one of his pistols. There was a blur of movement and a black battering ram slammed into him, catapulting him head over heels. He did not rise when he finally came to rest.
Garvey did, though. Bellowing like a bull elk in rut, he heaved erect. A moccasin flashed and connected with his face, turning his legs to mush. He melted to the grass and lay twitching like someone afflicted with a nervous condition.
Nate King was the living embodiment of raw fury. Reining his bay around, he leaped down and gripped her by the shoulders. “Are you hurt? Where did these polecats come from? And what are you doing so far from the wagon?”
Breathlessly, briefly, Rosemary explained. She left out mentioning the money in her pouch and how it got there, and ended with “Where were you? We expected you back a couple of hours ago.”
“Your ox strayed farther than I reckoned.”
The animal was behind her, the lead rope left where King had dropped it. “Jeremiah!” Rosemary exclaimed, but the animal no more knew its name than it did genuine affection. To the mountain man she said, “Thank God you came when you did. But what do we do with these scoundrels?”
“What else is there to do?” King trained his Hawken on Garvey Morton and cocked the hammer.
Never in a million years would Rosemary have thought he could kill someone in cold blood. “You’d shoot them when they’re unconscious and can’t defend themselves?”
“You couldn’t defend yourself, and they were about to do a lot worse to you. If we don’t turn them into maggot bait, they won’t rest until they’ve done the same to us. Is that what you want?”
“There has to be another way,” Rosemary said. There had to be more to frontier life than the incessant killing, killing, killing.
“Not unless you want to tie them up and hold them prisoner until the cows come home,” King said in complete jest.
Rosemary grasped at the straw. “I like that idea. That’s what we’ll do. Bind them and haul them to the wagon. We can decide how to deal with them later.”
“You’re serious?” Nate King said, and when she nodded, he sighed and shook his head in disbelief. “I’ll go along this once. But you’re making a mistake. Men like these see mercy as a weakness, and compassion as stupid. They’ll kill you the first chance they get.”
“Then we won’t give them that chance,” Rosemary said optimistically.
The mountain man took a coil of rope from his saddle and bound the three men with their wrists behind their backs. He also relieved them of their pistols and knives and flung the weapons in among the trees. Giving each of their rifles the same treatment, he remarked, “When you clip a painter’s claws, it’s less apt to scratch you.”
“How will they survive if we let them go?”
“Who cares?” King rejoined. “I’ve met Chaco and the Morton brothers before. Years ago, at the last of the rendezvous. They were snakes in the grass then, and they still have more scales than a rattler. The world would be better off without them.”
“But it’s not right for us to set ourselves up as their judge, jury, and executioners,” Rosemary said. “Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.”
“You can quote Scripture until doomsday and it won’t change the fact that these men are vermin. Let them live, and the next lives they take will be on your head.”
Rosemary hadn’t thought of that. “I need time to think,” she said. “I’ve never murdered anyone before.”
“Killing isn’t murder when you’re killing murderers,” King rebutted. “They shoot mad dogs, don’t they?”
Rosemary resorted to the last argument of her gender when men were being stubborn. “Please. Do it for me.”
Sam and Eddy were anxiously awaiting them, and their happiness at seeing Nate King was unbounded.
Gault didn’t share their sentiments. “You!” he barked as King reined to a stop, and coldly regarded the three limp forms slumped over the other horses. “I’d never have believed there was a coon alive who could take all of them at once.”
The mountain man dismounted and dumped Chaco, Garvey, and Kicking Bull onto the ground. “You and your brother haven’t changed any, have you?”
“Why should we?” Gault said smugly. “We do right fine nowadays. We lay low near the trail, and when the Sioux are done, we take their leavings. Nothing illegal in that. And now we’ve got pretty near fifteen thousand dollars cached along the Platte where no one will ever find it.”
“You’re lucky the Sioux never discovered you,” Rosemary said.
Gault’s gaze drifted beyond her, and he abruptly surged upward but couldn’t rise more than an inch. “Damn you, woman. Thanks to you, our luck just ran out!”
Rosemary smiled knowingly. “I’m not about to fall for the same trick twice.”
“He’s telling the truth, Ma,” Eddy said, snatching at her dress to get her attention. “There’s an Indian yonder, watching us.”
Rosemary turned, and to her dismay spied a lone Sioux on horseback off under the trees. They were so preoccupied, he had approached within forty yards unseen. His face was hid in shadow, but she swore she could feel his gaze upon her.
“I’ll drop him!” Sam yelled, his rifle rising.
Nate King was quicker. Grabbing the barrel, he pushed the rifle aside, bawling, “Don’t shoot!”
“Why the blazes not?” Sam sought to pull loose, but he was no match for the mountain man’s steely sinews. “He’s a hostile. Him and his kind massacred our friends, and he’ll do the same to us.”
“You’re only guessing he took part,” King said, refusing to relinquish the gun. “He might not have.”
“But he’ll let the war party know where we are,” Sam protested. “We’ll have the whole Sioux nation down on our heads.”
Rosemary agreed. She elevated her own rifle, but the Sioux had magically vanished. “Where did he go?” she asked, perplexed.
Sam was a study in frustration. “He’s gone, and it’s all your fault!” he railed at Nate King. “You should have let me put a window in his skull while I had the chance.”
Support came from an unlikely source. “The boy’s right,” Gault Morton declared. “We’re as good as dead. Cut me free so I can go down fighting.”
Eddy’s fingers were still entwined in Rosemary’s dress. “Are we going to be scalped, Ma?”
Rosemary stared at the mountain man in silent reproach. Had her trust in him been misplaced? He had saved her back on the trail, but by sparing the Sioux warrior he might have sealed their fates. “Of course not,” she responded, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. To Nate King she said, “What now?”
“We get out of here.” The mountain man had been surveying the surrounding countryside, but now he turned and read in their faces what was in their hearts. “All of you think we should have killed him, I take it? But what if the war party is close enough to hear the shot? They’ll be on us in minutes. This way, he has to go find them. We’ve bought ourselves extra time.”
“Where do you suggest we go?” Rosemary inquired. “Off somewhere to hide until the next wagon train comes along?”
“I suggest we head for Fort Laramie. It shouldn’t take more than four or five days. You’ll be safe there, and there might be mules or oxen for sale.”
Rosemary remembered Harry Trapp talking about the post. It had been built back in ’34 on a bank of the Laramie River about a mile above the Laramie’s junction with the Platte, and was named after a French trapper, Jacques La Ramie, who was ambushed and slain by Arapahos in that general area. A trading post, it thrived during the trapping era but fell on hard times when the beaver trade ended. Then emigrants began flocking west along the Oregon Trail, and now Fort Laramie was a favorite stopover on the route to South Pass. According to Harry Trapp, there was a rumor the Army was considering buying it and turning the post into a military installation for the express purpose of protecting westbound pioneers.
“They have livestock for sale?”
“Now and then emigrants trade extra animals for provisions,” King said. “Or sell them for a little extra spending money.”
Sam wasn’t satisfied with the idea. “What about our three oxen? The Sioux will use them for target practice, then burn our wagon and all our effects. I say we stay.”
“We’ll take your oxen with us,” King proposed. “As for your effects, I’m sorry. You can only take what your horses can carry.”
Gault had been listening with keen interest. “Wait a minute. They don’t own any horses.”
The mountain man smiled. “They do now.”
“You rotten son of a bitch,” Gault snarled. “You’re fixing to steal ours and leave us trussed like pigs for the slaughter.”
“I couldn’t have put it better myself.”
Swearing a mean streak, Gault tried to kick King in the shins, but his leg didn’t quite reach far enough. “Damn your hide! You know what the Sioux will do to us.” Gault was scared and made no attempt to hide it. “What about you, lady?” he appealed to Rosemary. “Can you ride off and leave fellow whites to be tortured alive?”
“After how you treated me, dare you ask?” was Rosemary’s rejoinder.
“Let bygones be bygones,” Gault pleaded. “My pards and me will go our own way and forget we ever set eyes on you. We’ll also forget about the ton of money you’re toting.”
“Money?” Nate King said.
Her ears burning, Rosemary couldn’t get her tongue to work.
Gault glanced from her to King and back again. “He doesn’t know you helped yourself to all the pokes those pilgrims were carrying?”
Steeling herself, Rosemary glanced at Nate King and said in her defense, “It’s not as if they had any use for it. I have two boys to provide for. I did what I thought best.”
“I don’t blame you,” King responded, and stared at Sam. “You must have enough to buy a new wagon and whatever else you’ll need. So there’s really no reason to stay here, is there?”
Rosemary realized his annoyance was directed at her eldest, not at her. To prevent Sam from sassing off, she instructed him to fetch the rest of their ammunition, then told Eddy to bring their jerky.
Nate King dragged Garvey, Kicking Bull, and Chaco over next to Gault. “When they come around, tell them this is for Sam Williams.”
“Who?” Rosemary said.
“An old trapper who lived in the Green River country. He loved the mountains and stayed on after most trappers had gone east. A friendlier soul you couldn’t meet. He was always willing to share his food and spare blankets with anyone who happened by.” King paused. “One day a friend of mine by the name of Shakespeare McNair stopped to see him. Old Sam had been murdered. Shot in the back while standing at his stove. His cabin had been ransacked and all the furniture smashed.”
Rosemary glanced at Gault, who was shamming an interest in the clouds. “And you suspect these four are to blame?”
“I know they were. They were seen in the area a few days before it happened. And McNair found the tracks of four horses leading from the old man’s cabin. Three were shod, one wasn’t.”
“So?” Gault sneered. “It doesn’t prove we were responsible. Anyway, we had nothing against that old coot. Why would we kill him?”
“Because of the rumor,” King said. “Old Sam was supposed to have several thousand dollars squirreled away from his trapping days. It wasn’t true, though. You and your friends killed him for nothing.”
King took a coil of rope from Garvey’s horse, drew his Bowie, and cut four equal lengths about fifteen inches long.
“What are those for?” Gault wanted to know.
“Your ankles.”
Gault unleashed the worst torrent of profanity yet, blistering the very air with his curses. As King went from one prone figure to the next, Gault strained to snap his bounds. When his turn came, he kicked and bucked and snarled like a beast gone berserk.
Lunging, King slammed his knees down onto Gault’s legs, leaving Gault with no recourse but to submit to having them tied.
“I hope to God the Sioux get their hands on you, Grizzly Killer. I hope they cut off your oysters and make you eat them.”
Rosemary climbed into the Conestoga after sets of spare clothes for her and the boys. Nearly every article had its attendant memory; the rocking chair Bert made for her, the quilt her mother labored over for years, tools that belonged to her father, her prized maple chest of drawers, and more, so much more. She gathered what little jewelry she had and a few small keepsakes.
