Wilderness Double Edition 19, page 31
Rosemary had never despised anyone as much as she despised the weasel holding the gun on her. With every fiber of her being she yearned to tear into him and rip his smug smile from his arrogant face. But she obeyed.
“Smart move,” Chaco rasped.
That was all he said for the next half an hour. Other sounds filled the night: the howl of wolves, the bugling of elk, and the occasional grunts of a bear.
From time to time Rosemary surreptitiously glanced at Chaco, praying his guard would lapse so she could attempt to disarm him or distract him long enough for her youngest to flee. But he was as vigilant as a hawk.
“Hold up,” Chaco abruptly demanded. He kneed his mount up next to hers and stared intently across the Platte. “This is it. We’re going to cross. You and the boy will go ahead of me.”
The muzzle of his pistol, pointed at her chest, convinced Rosemary not to argue. The pinto was tentative about entering the flowing water until she flicked her reins a few times and applied her heels. Except for isolated pools, the Platte was as shallow as a river could be and still lay claim to the name. She had a hunch the half-breed wouldn’t pick a deep spot to cross, and she was right. The level rose as high as the pinto’s hocks but no farther.
A horseshoe-shaped hill bordered the opposite edge of the river. The arms of the horseshoe sloped down to the Platte, and between them, flanked by the river on one side and the curved end of the horseshoe on the other, lay a four-acre hideaway effectively screened from the outside world. Sprinkled with trees and brush, it was an ideal hiding place.
“No one can find us here,” Chaco bragged, reining toward the horseshoe’s west arm. “The boys and me have been using it for months. We only come and go by the river, so we never leave tracks.” He cackled at his cleverness. “Smack in the middle of Sioux country, and they have no idea we’re here. And it’s close enough to the Oregon Trail that we can keep a watch on all the wagon trains that pass by.”
Erosion had worn away part of the west arm of the horseshoe, leaving an oval nook approximately ten yards in diameter. Dark as it was, Rosemary distinguished a number of packs, saddlebags, and spare saddles strewn haphazardly about. Occupying the center was the charred remains of a campfire. To its left was a pile of firewood.
“Home, sweet home,” Chaco said, and slid to the ground. “Light and sit a spell,” he directed, both pistols in his hands now.
Rosemary’s leg muscles protested. She was sore and stiff and extremely tired. Her body craved sleep, but her mind had to stay sharp and focused. She went to help Eddy, but he hopped down unaided and came into her outstretched arms.
“How touching,” Chaco said in disgust. “When you’re done, get the fire going. And just so you won’t get your hopes up, it can’t be seen from the other side of the river. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”
“How am I supposed to start it?” Rosemary said. “Rub two sticks together?”
Chaco wagged a pistol at one of the saddlebags. “There should be a fire steel and flint in there. They belong to Garvey, but I reckon he’s past caring if we use them.”
One hand pressed to the aching small of her back, Rosemary walked over and knelt. The saddlebag was unfastened. She opened the flap and shoved her fingers into the pocket. They made contact with the fire steel and she slid it out. The flint was harder to find. It was in among fifteen or twenty other articles the saddlebag contained. Her questing fingers brushed something else, an object she instantly recognized for what it was. A quick glance at Chaco showed he was gazing toward the Platte. Quickly, she removed a ten-inch hunting knife in a sheath and shoved it under another saddlebag. None too soon.
“Hurry it up,” Chaco groused. “I want some coffee, and I’d like it this year.”
Rosemary found the flint. She and Eddy cleared away the charred firewood and added new wood from the pile. A handful of dry grass sufficed for tinder. Hunkering, Rosemary struck the steel and flint together. After a bit, a large spark lodged in the ball of grass, and by lightly puffing on it, she fanned the spark into a tiny flame that rapidly grew in size. Soon the dead wood caught and the fire blazed to life.
“Not bad, lady,” Chaco said. He had gone to a pack and was returning with a battered coffeepot. “Here, kid.” He threw the pot at Eddy, and although Eddy got his hands up in time, he cried out in pain and dropped the coffeepot at his feet. Chaco cackled, then suddenly fell quiet and motioned for them to do the same.
A second later, Rosemary heard the sounds he had: splashing from the river. Something—or someone—was crossing to their side.
Chaco grabbed Eddy and pushed him toward the fire. “The two of you are to sit there in plain sight and not make a peep.” He melted into the darkness, saying, “Remember. I can drop you both anytime I want.”
Rosemary draped a protective arm across her youngest’s shoulders. “Have faith, Edward,” she whispered. “We’ll get out of this fix yet. I promise.”
“He hurt me, Ma.” Eddy held up his left hand. Two of his knuckles were scraped raw and bleeding, and the little finger was swelling.
Right then and there Rosemary Spencer decided that come what may, Ten Commandments or no Ten Commandments, she was going to kill Chaco or die trying. She gave a peck on the cheek and whispered in his ear, “Leave him to me. He’s won’t ever hurt you again.”
Hoof falls thudded dully, and out of the night came a low whinny. A horse and rider took shape, the saddleless mount lathered with sweat, its flanks heaving, an animal on the verge of collapse. The rider wasn’t in much better shape. He was bent over, a hand to his side, breathing heavily, with great beads of sweat dotting his bearded face. Reining up, he slowly dismounted. Not until he straightened did he see them, and hatred leapt into his dark eyes. “You!”
Chaco bounded from hiding. “Gault! You made it!” Grinning, he clapped the giant on the arm. “I knew you’d feed that mountain man to the worms.”
Wincing, Gault Morton removed his hand from his side. His buckskin shirt was stained with blood. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, ’breed. I did no such thing.” He limped toward the fire, favoring his left leg. “I was lucky to get out of there with my hide intact. That fella is as hard to shake as my own shadow.”
“Nate King is still alive?” Chaco blanched. Nervously licking his thin lips, he scanned the black veil at the mouth of the horseshoe. “What if he followed you here?”
“Relax. He’s wounded, same as me. And he didn’t know where we stashed the Sioux ponies.” Gault sank down with a sigh and pried at his shirt, raising it high enough to examine his wound. A ball had scoured his side, digging a half-inch-deep furrow across his ribs but sparing his vitals. He grunted, then growled, “It’s not as bad as I thought. I reckon I’ll live after all. But I’m plumb tuckered out.”
“I want to know everything that happened.”
“There’s not much to tell,” Gault said wearily. “Garvey and me climbed up on the bluff to cover you, like you wanted. But when we got here, we were considerable surprised to find King and this gal already there, with her runts. We got the drop on them, but they jumped us when I shot the oldest kid. King knifed my brother. I lost my rifle and one of my pistols, so I lit out, but he came after me.” He gingerly lowered his shirt. “I got away, and here I am.”
“You said King is wounded? Are you sure? Where did you see him last?”
“Relax, I tell you,” Gault said irritably. “He chased me through the hills for nigh on an hour. I tried every trick I could think of to shake him, but he dogs a trail like a bloodhound.” Gault grimaced. “We took potshots at one another every now and then. One of his clipped me. One of mine caught him as he was skulking over a hill. I saw him fall with my own eyes. He got up again, but he was moving mighty slow.”
“Then what?”
“Like I told you. I snuck around to the Sioux horses and came straight here.” Gault raised a huge hand when Chaco went to speak. “And yes, I checked my back trail a hundred times. I’d stake my life he wasn’t following me.”
“That’s exactly what’s at stake,” Chaco said harshly. “Yours and mine, both.”
“Even if he’s after us, he can’t track at night. He’ll have to wait until daylight,” Gault said, and smirked. “By then we’ll be ready for him.”
“I won’t rest easy until I’ve touched his dead carcass,” Chaco declared. “Mountain men ain’t like us. They’re more animal than human. And I’ve heard stories about this King. They say the Utes tried to drive him off for years and gave up. Kicking Bull told me he’s the only white man even the Blackfeet won’t tangle with.”
“He puts his britches on one leg at a time, same as us,” Gault said. “Don’t make him out to be more than he is.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Chaco said. “We have nothing to worry about until sunrise.” Walking over, he kicked Eddy’s foot. “Up off your rump, brat, and go fill our coffeepot with water.”
“From the river?”
“Unless you can get it from thin air.” Chaco seized Eddy by the arm and shoved him with such force, Eddy stumbled and almost fell. “Off you go. And don’t dawdle.”
Like a tigress springing to the defense of a cub, Rosemary leaped to her feet and sprang. She wasn’t fast enough. Chaco whipped around, a pistol squared on her chest, nipping her rush in the bud.
“Sit back down, woman. The kid can do it himself.”
Simmering with pent-up fury, Rosemary responded, “He doesn’t like being in the dark alone.”
“A kid his age? Hell, it ain’t that far. And there aren’t any grizzlies or cats around. The horses would act up if there were.” Chaco gestured at Eddy. “What you waiting for? If I have to tell you again, I’ll tan your hide.”
Eddy looked forlornly at Rosemary. She smiled and nodded, and he squared his small shoulders and marched off. She listened to the tramp of his feet until the sounds faded. Maternal instinct caused her to take several impulsive steps, but she halted when Chaco barred her way. “Where the hell do you think you’re traipsing off to?”
“He’s my son.”
“So you coddle him, is that it? Treat him like a baby, even though he’s old enough to get by on his own.” Chaco moved around the fire so his back was to the hill, and squatted. “I’ve met your type before, lady. You should have stayed in the States. The frontier ain’t for the likes of you.”
“What do you know about being a parent?” Rosemary rebutted. “Have you ever had children of your own?” He started to reply, but she didn’t let him. “It’s obvious you haven’t. Because if you had, you’d know that every child is a piece of your heart given life and substance. When they hurt, you hurt. When they cry, you cry. You will do anything to safeguard them and ensure they live to have children of their own.”
“Well, now,” Chaco said derisively, “that was a nice little speech. And to answer your question, no, I’ve never been a parent. I hope to hell I never am. You see—” his mouth split in a sadistic grin “—I like killing kids, not raising them.”
Rosemary’s soul recoiled as if brushed by the presence of Satan himself. “You’re a monster. A despicable, inhuman monster.”
Chaco’s laugh was brittle as ice. “I’m every bit as human as you. Only, I don’t pretend to be something I’m not. You and your high-and-mighty airs. Always looking down your nose at people like me. I’ll show you. Wait until your kid gets back.”
Locking her jaw in order not to rile him more, Rosemary folded her arms. She was only a few yards from the knife under the saddlebag. Somehow she must arm herself with it without being noticed.
Tense minutes went by. Rosemary waited expectantly for her youngest to reappear. Chaco glared. Gault was reexamining his wound. Then, from so close by all three of them jumped, came a shrill youthful scream of terror. “Ma! Ma! Help! It’s got me!”
“Eddy!” Rosemary cried, and dashed forward. Before she could take five strides a hand fell on her shoulder, a foot hooked her ankle, and she was flung onto her stomach.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Chaco snarled, and moved past her, his flintlocks leveled.
Gault had risen and was fingering his remaining pistol. “What do you reckon got him? A painter, maybe?”
“How the hell would I know?” Chaco said, and hollered, “Kid, where are you?”
The ensuing silence curdled Rosemary’s veins like arsenic in her bloodstream. Her body grew fiery hot, then as chill as the north wind. Her insides churned. Turbulent pounding in her head threatened to smother her consciousness. She had lost another one! Her husband! Her oldest! And now her precious youngest! She was all alone. Her future had been dashed to ruin and she had nothing to live for, no reason to go on. Except revenge. She glanced at the ‘breed and the giant. Neither was paying attention to her. Girding herself, she rose onto her hands and knees and crawled toward the saddlebag. She would get the knife. She would sneak up behind them, bury it in Chaco, and, God willing, live long enough to plunge it into Gault.
Rosemary covered half the distance and glanced back to see if they had noticed. They were still peering into the dark. Another couple of yards and she would have the knife. She faced around and stopped dead. A pair of moccasins had materialized between her and the saddlebags. She was dumbfounded, and her eyes roved upward over the sturdy legs the moccasins were attached to, to a brawny chest and broad shoulders and the handsome head that crowned them. “Nate!” she breathed, in awe and joy.
The mountain man was a terrible sight to behold. His features were set in an iron cast of sheer savagery, and truth to tell, he did appear more beast than man. In his right hand was a pistol, in his left hand his Bowie. “Drop your guns!” he roared in a voice that resounded like steel on burnished bronze.
Chaco started to whirl, thought better of it, and threw his flintlocks to one side. “I should have known!” he said bitterly. “You had the brat yell to distract us!”
Gault turned much more slowly, his hand still on the butt of his flintlock. He didn’t act the least bit surprised. “So,” was all he said.
Nate King took several steps to the right, placing Rosemary out of the line of fire. “So,” he answered, and then, to her disbelief and dismay, he shoved his flintlock under his belt. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Gault did a strange thing. He smiled, as if in gratitude, and bobbed his chin in a token of respect. “Chaco, if you interfere, I’ll kill you my own self.” So saying, he streaked his hand to his pistol. His arm a blur, he swept it clear, but it wasn’t quite high enough when Nate King’s pistol spat smoke and lead and the rear of Gault’s cranium showered outward in a spray of gore and brains.
Chaco was in motion before Gault’s body crashed to the ground. He leaped toward his pistols, but Nate King blocked his way. Their eyes met. Chaco hissed, and out flashed his long-bladed hunting knife. “I’ll do you myself with my blade, then!”
Rosemary opened her mouth to shout for King to watch out, but he had seen the thrust and parried it with his Bowie. King tossed his pistol aside and the two men closed, slashing, cutting, dodging, and ducking almost too fast for her to follow.
Chaco’s blade was everywhere, weaving a gleaming tapestry of imminent death. He was confident, quick, and deadly. But soon a change came over him. Rosemary saw his confidence fade, saw bewilderment mushroom into outright fear. And then she saw the most beautiful sight of all: Chaco, fighting for his life. Chaco, pressed inexorably backward by Nate King’s glittering Bowie. Chaco, trying a last desperate gambit. Pivoting, he arced his blade up and in. But the Bowie was faster. It cleaved to the hilt into his chest.
Nate King stood over his prone adversary, blood trickling from half a dozen cuts and nicks, and slowly pulled his big knife out.
“You did it!” Rosemary flew to him, wrapped her arms tight.
“Save your hugs,” the mountain man said gently. “You’ll need them for those two.” He shifted, and nodded.
Eddy was approaching, and he wasn’t alone. He was supporting Sam, whose shoulder was stained dark but who was as alive as alive could be, and both were grinning from ear to ear.
“Mr. King found me,” Sam said. “We came as soon as we could.”
“He asked me to scream like that, Ma,” Eddy piped up. “I hope you’re not mad.”
They met in a tangle of arms and tears. Rosemary held them close and gave rein to great choking sobs that took forever to subside. When she finally straightened and turned, Nate had coffee on to brew. She made no attempt to hide the feelings her eyes betrayed.
The mountain man deliberately looked off into the distance. “Come morning I’ll take you to Fort Laramie. You’ll be able to get all the help you need there.”
“Is that all?”
“Then it’s on to the Rockies for me. I have a wife waiting, remember? I’ve been away from her too long as it is.”
Rosemary Spencer put on a brave smile. “I’m happy for you, Mr. King. I truly am.” She sucked in a deep breath and switched her smile to her sons. “Samuel, let’s bandage you up and have some supper. We all need a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow is the start of a whole new life.”
WILDERNESS DOUBLE EDITION 18:
37: PERILS OF THE WIND
38: MOUNTAIN MAN THE TEMPEST
By David Robbins Writing as David Thompson
First Published by Leisure Books in 2001
Copyright © 2001, 2019 by David Robbins
First Kindle Edition: April 2019
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Our cover features A New Year on the Cimarron, painted by Frederic Remington, Public Domain
