The storm came straight from the hunting ground of blizzards. Jacob Tamarron could see the seething dark clouds through breaks in the forest, pouring in a mile-thick avalanche down from the high backbone of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.
A mighty blast of frigid wind roared out ahead of the storm, careening across the mountainside and whipping the giant pine trees like blades of grass.
The thick mass of clouds, riding upon the back of the frontal winds, charged in to hide the weak winter sun from the earth. The forest was filled with dark, gray shadows, as if the evening dusk were arriving with deep night but minutes behind.
Jacob increased his pace to a trot. He moved effortlessly with a rolling, spraddle-legged stride to keep his bear-paw snowshoes from tangling together. His .50-caliber Hawken rifle swung easily in his hand. The pack of wolf skins and his buffalo sleeping robe rode lightly upon his back.
His camp lay an hour away at the base of the tall Culebra Mountain. Already he could catch glimpses of the bottom of the valley lying a thousand feet below him. His partner, Daniel, would be at their bivouac. He would have a hot fire burning and an elk haunch roasting.
Three days before, the mountain had lost some of its deep freeze, and the pale winter sun now coasted on a cloudless blue sky. Jacob had taken his rifle and tramped around the flank of the mountain to a broad thicket of bitter brush. The browse was the favorite food of deer, and the winter-hungry animals had come for miles across the snowy shoulders of Culebra to congregate there and feed.
The wolf packs also stole through the forest and gathered. The powerful predators stalked and killed many of the deer. In turn, Jacob stealthily stole up on the wolves and slew five of them. All the pelts were prime, with long luxurious guard hair and a soft, dense undercoat. The fur would bring a premium price.
Daniel had remained behind at the cabin. He was getting old and did not like camps in the snow. But he was a staunch and hardworking partner. Each day he traveled the long, difficult miles of the trap line and removed the night’s catch of mink, otter, fox, and marten, and reset the crushing steel jaws of the traps.
Jacob halted abruptly. The short hairs on the back of his neck twisted and rose as some instinct warned him he was not alone in the woods. He stepped sideways to stand against the trunk of a large pine and swiftly scanned ahead toward Saruche Creek, along every snowy aisle among the trees.
He pivoted slowly to the rear, his eyes probing all the openings. On one of the curving passageways, his fresh tracks lay plain in the white blanket of snow covering the ground. An enemy could track him at a run.
Jacob waited, pushing the limits of his senses outward, straining to determine consciously what some ancient instinct had detected at a primal level. He didn’t question the feeling that unseen enemies were near. Once he had made that mistake, when he had been very young in the mountains, and a long scar remained from the wound that had almost killed him.
The forest grew dimmer and the falling temperatures sent cold, probing fingers through his fur coat and buckskins. Still he did not stir, letting the minutes pass, his eyes constantly roaming and his ears straining to pierce the moan of the rising wind.
The frigid front of the storm overran Jacob. A mighty wind pounded him. All around him, the pines groaned at the onslaught, bucking and bending. A mammoth pine creaked under the strain. One of its high limbs broke and fell crashing to the ground.
Icy sleet began to fall in long, slanting diagonals from the swollen bellies of the clouds. The hurtling ice pellets stung like fire, and Jacob ducked his head to protect his face.
The storm intensified. The sleet became a white torrent. Visibility lessened to a few yards. A hissing strumming filled the forest as billions of sleet pellets struck the pines, drummed on the limbs and tree trunks, and bounced down to roll on the ground. The noise was deafening, pressing in upon Jacob from all sides like an invisible force.
The wall of sleet thinned. In the white curtain, not twenty yards distant, five Arapaho warriors on snow-shoes glided as soundlessly as phantoms along the border of the creek. The leader lifted his hand and the band stopped instantly.
Jacob moved a few inches to shelter behind the trunk of the tree. He stared past the rough bark and watched the Indians standing motionless, the sleet swiftly collecting on their fur coats. Each man was warily scrutinizing the valley bottom and the mountainsides.
The warriors were lean and hard, not old, not young, seasoned fighting men. They wasted not a word or motion, as if they had fought together before and each knew what was expected of him. The leader carried a rifle, and the other men strong war bows. The Arapaho would be tough to kill.
The sharp eyes of the Indians ranged the limits of their vision, searching the forest to detect something that should not be there. The warrior in the rear stared directly up the slope toward Jacob. An arrow was nocked in his bow and half drawn.
The man raised his face, almost black against the sleet. He pulled in a breath of cold air, testing with his keen nostrils for an alien scent. His tongue ran out, as if he were tasting the wind.
Jacob knew why the Arapaho were here in the valley. Over the years they had developed a successful tactic for killing and robbing the white trappers that invaded their land. Before the spring arrived and the trappers loaded their pelts on packhorses and left for Saint Joseph or Santa Fe and the fur buyers there, the Indians would leave their winter camps on the low, warmer plains lying to the east and come up into the mountains. Ranging in small war parties along the creeks, the Arapaho would ambush the white men and carry off their winter catch of fur.
The leader of the band of Indians made an almost imperceptible signal with his hand. The Arapaho moved as if they were all part of one large, hungry hunting animal, disappearing up the creek and into the masking sleet.
Jacob hastened down the remaining stretch of slope and off along the trail of the Arapaho. His partner would not expect an attack in such foul weather, and Jacob could not call out or shoot to warn him for that would turn the warriors back upon himself. He had to follow close behind and he prepared to join Daniel in the fight, to strike and kill the moment the battle began.
He hurried faster through the thrashing trees and stinging ice pellets. The cabin was a quarter of a mile up the creek and on a south-facing meadow. It would be easy for the Indians to locate.
A rifle crashed close ahead. A second boomed an instant later.
“Damnation,” cursed Jacob. The battle had started too soon. He darted forward. As he ran, he untied the leather strap that held his coat shut around him, putting his five-shot Colt revolver and skinning knife ready at hand.
The dark figures of several men took form in the streaming sleet near the wall of a small log cabin. Two forms lay partially buried in the deep snow. An Indian was leaning over one of the still bodies.
Jacob recognized the fallen man as Daniel. Before he fell, his tough old partner had shot one of the Indians.
Jacob lifted his rifle, sighted along the iron barrel, and squeezed the trigger. The long weapon jumped in his hands like a live thing. The Arapaho bending over Daniel was slammed down onto the snowy earth. Jacob swung the rifle into his left hand. His right snatched the revolver from its holster.
He cocked the gun as he extended it. His finger pressed the trigger.
With amazing swiftness the Indians had pivoted toward their attackers. One, faster than the others, jerked up his bow and bent it. An arrow sprang toward the trapper.
Jacob heard the whizzing flight of the shaft and felt the feathers of the fletching brush his cheek. You’re a brave bastard, Jacob thought, but you missed. He fired the revolver.
The Arapaho stumbled. He caught his balance and started to reach behind his back for a second arrow from the quiver. His fingers fumbled at the arrow. He fell to his knees and collapsed onto the snow-covered ground.
During Jacob’s short fight with the second Indian the remaining warriors had sprung away into the storm. Now Jacob hastily backed away until he could no longer see the crumpled forms of the men in the snow. The Indians probably thought he’d go and investigate the condition of his partner and they could circle and steal up on him. But he would not make that mistake. Daniel, old friend, if you’re still alive, hold on for a few minutes longer.
Jacob sheltered his rifle from the falling sleet with his body as he hurriedly poured a measure of powder down the barrel and rammed home the greased patch-and-lead ball. A fresh firing cap was pressed firmly upon the nipple. There were still four rounds in his revolver, and he didn’t take the weapon apart to reload the one empty chamber.
Jacob knelt, hunkered low as the wind and sleet swirled around him. He waited, staring intently into the blinding whiteness.
Jacob knew that too much time was passing. He leapt erect and lunged into the storm. Indians almost always liked to have the enemy far outnumbered. The three Arapaho were not going to continue the battle. They would be searching for the trappers’ horses.
Jacob crossed the narrow meadow and the frozen channel of Saruche Creek at a dead run. He veered slightly left, aiming to enter the downstream edge of the aspen thicket. That was where the horses would most likely be, for they liked to feed upon the tender, sweet sprouts and limbs of the trees. When he caught the first glimpse of the grove of aspen, he slowed.
Two horses burst from the trees. One animal carried two riders, the other the remaining Arapaho. The single Indian saw Jacob running to intercept their course. He began to shout at his companions.
The Arapaho had found only two of the horses, but that had been accomplished more quickly than Jacob had thought possible. Already the running horses and the men clinging to their backs were disappearing into the wall of white. Jacob slid to a halt, jerked his rifle to his shoulder, and snapped off a shot at the hurtling figure of the lone rider.
Horses and men vanished into the turmoil of the storm.
Jacob followed cautiously along the deep tracks of the running horses. His shot had been hurried; still, he felt it had been close to its target. He badly needed the cayuse to haul out the catch of furs.
The horse stood beside the body of a man on the ground. It looked back the way it had come and caught sight of Jacob slinking forward. It nickered as it recognized its master.
“Well, it ‘pears you still belong to me,” Jacob said to the horse.
The Indian stirred and groaned. He weakly struggled to a sitting position and propped himself up with his hands. His eyes were full of pain.
The eyes hardened to black obsidian as they came to rest on Jacob, standing not three paces distant, so close that the white man could reach out with his rifle barrel and touch him.
The Arapaho saw the pitiless anger in Jacob. The battle was over and he had lost. There would be no mercy.
The wounded Arapaho sat more erect and placed his hands on his knees. He squared his fur-clad shoulders and raised his face up to the falling sleet. He began to chant in a clear tenor voice.
Jacob listened to the warrior’s death song. Let him prepare himself for the journey into the world of the dead. Had Jacob been defeated, he would have appreciated that privilege from his victor.
With hooded eyes the Indian stared upward, seeming not to feel the stinging sleet pellets striking him. His voice was strong, with a fine, almost musical timbre.
Jacob drew his long-bladed knife and leapt forward. His hand lashed out as swiftly as the snapping end of a whip. The sharply honed steel blade sliced into the warrior’s neck, cutting deeply, grating off the bony vertebrae of the spinal column. As the Indian fell backward, Jacob plunged the knife through his rib cage and into his heart.
If he had lost, Jacob would have wanted a quick death from the victor.