Wilderness Double Edition 22, page 28
Zach never hesitated. He charged full speed, giving no thought to being unarmed or to the massive size of the man he faced. Zach ran straight at him, and when he was six feet away, he whipped his legs in front of him as he so often had when he was a boy and liked to slide down dusty mountainsides, and slid between Larson’s legs before the dumbfounded giant could think to grab him.
Vasklin was almost to the other end. Rearing erect, Zach sprinted after him. Behind him Larson had turned and was giving chase.
“Dang, you’re a slippery cuss!”
Zach had always taken pride in how fast he was. Foot races were popular among the Shoshones, and he had won more than anyone his age except Swift Antelope. Now his fleetness brought him to the far door barely two seconds after Vasklin had gone out. It was swinging shut, and he slammed into it with his shoulder.
A rowboat was tied at the dock, at the foot of a lad’ der. Vasklin was about to climb down. He whirled at the crash of the door and hissed, “What does it take to stop you?”
Barely breaking stride, Zach covered the final ten feet in a headlong rush and rammed into him. His intention was to knock Vasklin off the dock, and in that he succeeded. But Vasklin got an arm around his neck, and in the blink of an eye he was going over the side, too.
There was the sensation of falling. Zach barely had time to draw air into his lungs before the clammy fist of the muddy river enveloped him, and their combined weight and momentum carried them toward the bottom. A foot struck him in the thigh, a fist caught him in the gut. He felt Vasklin kick free and saw him stroke rapidly for the surface.
Zach rose after him, swimming smoothly, powerfully. He was almost as adept in water as he was at running. They were six or seven feet from the surface when his right hand brushed Vasklin’s ankle. Wrapping his fingers tight, he tugged.
Vasklin glanced down, panic in his eyes, his cheeks bulging like those of a chipmunk gathering nuts for the winter. He lashed out with his other foot and whipped his body from side to side.
Zach refused to let go. He could hold his breath for minutes, if need be, more than long enough to end forever Vasklin’s depraved stranglehold on New Orleans.
But whatever else he might be, Martin Vasklin was not one to go meekly into eternal night. He kicked harder, pumped his arms harder, and suddenly he was rising again.
Zach swam after him. Stroking cleanly, he broke the surface. Vasklin was pulling himself over the side of the rowboat. No, you don’t! Zach thought, and clamped his arms around Vasklin’s waist. For a few seconds Vasklin resisted, but only a few.
They were underwater again. A thumb gouged Zach in the eye. Fingers dug into his neck. Vasklin was fighting for his life, and he fought dirty. Zach punched him in the gut but the water weakened the blow. Zach closed his right hand on Vasklin’s throat but he could not hold on, and once again Vasklin rose out of reach.
This time Vasklin made for the ladder, not the rowboat. He was beginning to climb when Zach reared out of the river and tried to pull him back down.
“Let go, damn you!”
A fist looped at Zach’s face. He jerked aside but knuckles scraped his cheek and he almost lost his hold. He punched Vasklin in the back and in the ribs, and received a knee to the jaw that nearly broke his hold and left him dangling. He grabbed at a rung but his wet hand slipped on the wet wood and the next moment a foot to the shoulder sent him plunging into the river.
Zach came up sputtering and shaking his head to clear it and saw Vasklin scrambling up the ladder with the agility of a mountain goat. He also saw Vin, waiting at the top with a pistol in his hand.
Vasklin was looking down and did not realize his fate was sealed. He smirked at Zach, yelled, “I beat you again, breed!” Then he looked up, and froze.
“This is for my sister, you son of a bitch,” Vin said, and fired.
The back of Martin Vasklin’s skull burst like a rotten melon. Bits of bone and hair flew through the air and into the water. With a loud splash Vasklin’s body followed the fragments into the river and sank into oblivion.
Zach continued climbing. Vin lowered a hand to help him, and pulled him up. Duncan and Alain were there, too; Duncan with a pistol on Larson. “The rest are all dead,” he said.
“Richard?” Zach asked.
Alain shook his head.
There remained but one more thread to the tapestry.
At Alain’s insistence the four of them dined that evening at the most elegant restaurant in New Orleans, The Cockleshell, run by a chef from London. Alain insisted on treating them and was deaf to Duncan and Vin’s offer to help pay.
Zach could not offer because he had hardly any money left. It made his glum frame of mind worse. He had failed, failed utterly, and lost Evelyn. Perhaps for good.
He was not paying much attention to what was going on around him, and did not know what to make of it when a pink envelope lavishly scented with perfume was placed in front of him. On the envelope, written in a flowing feminine cursive hand, was: To Zachary King. For his eyes only. “What’s this?” he asked.
“Courtesy of Harold K. Wilkerson,” Alain said. “His manservant handed it to me half an hour ago. Apparently Athena Borke left it on a table in her suite, but none of the hotel staff knew who you were or how to find you.” Alain poured himself some wine. “After your antics at his mansion, and after hearing your tale, Wilkerson personally went to the Harvest House to check up on Athena and was given the envelope. He sent it around to me.”
“Open it,” Duncan urged.
“It must be about your sister,” Vin said.
Zach ripped the end of the envelope off and upended it. Out fell a folded pink sheet of stationary. He unfolded it, and blinked in surprise. “This isn’t English. It’s French.” Which he couldn’t read.
“May I, mon ami?” Alain said, and took the liberty of taking it. “Well now. It seems Miss Borke is fluent in French. Fortunately for you, so am I.”
“But why French?” Zach wondered. “Read it, quickly.”
“You are sure?” Alain scanned the sheet and his color darkened. Then he read aloud,
“Monsieur Zachary King. If you are reading this, then the traps I have laid have failed and you are still alive. Mores the pity, as I have had such fun manipulating you like a puppet. Did you enjoy the game? It is just beginning. For you see, I have decided to broaden your despondent sisters horizons by taking her on a tour of the Continent. That’s right If you want to see her again, alive, you must search for her in Paris, France. By the time you read this we will have set sail. I have been there several times and have many Parisian friends, and I will arrange the warmest welcome for you that you can imagine.
My best regards. Athena Borke.”
Vin whistled softly.
“What will you do?” Duncan asked.
“What else can I do,” Zach answered, “but somehow scrape up the money to go on to Paris?”
Alain de Fortier was thoughtfully swirling the red wine in his glass. “I am long overdue for another visit to France, so what do you say to the two of us going together? And permitting me to pay our way?”
“I couldn’t ask that of you. Or anyone.” It was more than Zach had any right to expect.
Alain shrugged. “I have nothing better to do. Besides, the excitement, the adventure, they appeal to me. We will save your sister and deal with this Borke woman, and all will be well.”
“I hope so,” Zachary King said. God, how he hoped so!
About the Author
David L. Robbins was born on Independence Day 1950. He has written more than three hundred books under his own name and many pen names, among them: David Thompson, Jake McMasters, Jon Sharpe, Don Pendleton, Franklin W. Dixon, Ralph Compton, Dean L. McElwain, J.D. Cameron and John Killdeer.
Robbins was raised in Pennsylvania. When he was seventeen he enlisted in the United States Air Force and eventually rose to the rank of sergeant. After his honorable discharge he attended college and went into broadcasting, working as an announcer and engineer (and later as a program director) at various radio stations. Later still he entered law enforcement and then took to writing full-time.
At one time or another Robbins has lived in Pennsylvania, Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Montana, Colorado and the Pacific Northwest. He spent a year and a half in Europe, traveling through France, Italy, Greece and Germany. He lived for more than a year in Turkey.
Today he is best known for two current long-running series - Wilderness, the generational saga of a Mountain Man and his Shoshone wife - and Endworld is a science fiction series under his own name started in 1986. Among his many other books, Piccadilly Publishing is pleased to be reissuing ebook editions of Wilderness, Davy Crockett and, of course, White Apache.
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