Nate hesitated, torn between an urge to fight and an impulse to flee. He might be able to shoot three of the warriors before the group reached him, but the rest would swiftly overwhelm him. It was smarter in his estimation to make a run for it simply because Winona’s future depended on his staying alive.
He had started to back away from the saplings when a remarkable thing happened; the Apaches veered to his left to bypass the stand entirely. A smile spread over his face as it dawned on him that they had no idea he was there. He heard them talking among themselves as they went by on the far side of the stand.
What if Pegasus whinnied? The anxious thought brought him to his feet and he quickly made his way to the Palouse’s side. He need not have worried. The tired horse was standing quietly, dozing. Breathing a bit easier, he moved next to the east edge of the aspens. From this vantage point he could see the Apaches clearly as they trotted to the rim of the tableland and there stopped.
As he studied their features he was stunned to recognize one of them as a warrior who had been a member of the small band he had tangled with. He knew it was the same man from the green headband the man wore, which was the only green one he had seen on an Apache thus far.
He abruptly realized what they were up to, and gave inward thanks he’d reached the hidden oasis when he had. His earlier assumption that there was a village nearby must be correct. The small band had hastened there after the fight, and now one of them was leading reinforcements back to find him and kill him or capture him for later torture.
The seven warriors were standing less than twenty yards from the spot where he had come over the rim. If, for whatever reason, they went north instead of going down the earthen slope, they were bound to see Pegasus’s hoofprints and they’d know their quarry was much closer than they believed.
Nate watched expectantly until, at a gesture from the warrior with the green headband, the entire group vanished over the rim. He sat back, elated. Then a jarring insight sobered him. If those Apaches made straight for the site of the fight, they might not see the tracks he’d left as he’d made his way to the tableland. But if they used the very same route he’d used, they’d find the tracks in no time and immediately turn around to come after him.
What should he do? Standing, he hurried to Pegasus, untied the reins, and swung up. He couldn’t afford to take chances. Time was now more crucial than ever before. Finding and freeing Winona must be done rapidly.
He swung to the south, and stuck close to the ragged rim on the assumption he ran less risk of encountering Apaches there than in the midst of their verdant Garden of Eden. In this manner he covered over a mile.
Then he heard someone singing.
Nate instantly stopped and peered through the fir trees in the direction from which the merry sound came. Beyond the firs was a meadow. Crossing it were four young Apache women, all carrying baskets. They walked to the east, to a stand of bushes, where two of them knelt and commenced digging at the roots.
These were the first Apache women Nate had ever beheld, and he scrutinized them with interest. They were quite beautiful, what with their raven hair, smooth features, and decorated buckskin dresses. Being in their twenties, they had yet to acquire the many wrinkles that served as badges of distinction for older Indian women who lived hard but rewarding lives in devotion to their families.
They chatted gaily as they worked, feeling perfectly safe in their mountain retreat. All four were soon digging, and when their baskets were full of roots they rose and hiked to the northwest.
Nate waited until they were out of sight. Dismounting, he looped the reins around a low limb, gripped the Hawken in his left hand, and padded after the four women. He caught up with them in seconds, but kept far enough back that his chances of being spotted were remote. The women passed through a tract of trees, and emerged on the south shore of the sparkling lake.
Now Nate laid eyes on a sight no other white man had ever observed and lived to tell about. Spread out before him was a large Apache village, which in one respect was unlike any Indian village with which he was familiar. The lodges were totally different from those of the Shoshones. In fact, they were totally different from those of all the tribes living on the plains. Instead of dwellings made from buffalo hides, the Apaches lived in structures known as wickiups. Bowl-shaped, they were fashioned from slender poles and then covered with grass and brush.
There were forty wickiups along the lakeshore. Among them played laughing, happy children. Women were engaged in a variety of tasks, everything from tanning hides to constructing baskets. The warriors sat around talking, sharpening knives, making bowstrings, or gambling.
Nate counted twenty-seven men. The rest must be either out hunting or on raids. He scoured the village from one end to the other, but saw no sign of Winona. But he did spy the stolen horse, tethered beside a wickiup close to the lake. He settled down on his stomach and made himself comfortable.
Soon, with the golden sun perched above the western horizon, the women busied themselves preparing the evening meal. Cook fires were started. The children were called from their play, and the men went to their respective wickiups to await their food.
At last Nate saw Winona. The warrior who had abducted her emerged from the wickiup next to the stolen horse, turned, and motioned angrily. From inside came Winona, who was grabbed by the arm and rudely shoved to the ground. Through sign language the Apache ordered her to fix his meal. Then he stalked off to a nearby wickiup and began talking with another warrior.
As excited as Nate felt at seeing his beloved again, he was more worried about her welfare. That she had angered her captor was obvious. Why, he could guess. She would not submit meekly to being mistreated. Winona was a proud, strong-willed woman whose self-confidence was boundless. And knowing her as well as he did, he knew she would rather die than let herself be subjected to the ultimate indignity.
Her captor must be finding that out for himself. What would the man do next? Nate wondered. If the warrior was a fool he would try to force himself on her and risk having his eyes scratched out. Even if the man succeeded, he had to realize that at some point in the future, when least expected, he would wake up to find a knife buried in his throat.
Perhaps her captor was wiser than that. Perhaps he would take his time, try to seduce her gradually. If she eventually felt all hope of being rescued or escaping was lost, she might give in, if she didn’t take her own life first.
A raging hatred burned in Nate’s breast for the one who had taken her. He wanted to get his hands around the bastard’s neck and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze until the Apache’s tongue protruded and the man’s face became as blue as that lake yonder.
Nate watched Winona cook the meal. Her captor returned, sat cross-legged, and ate without speaking. She took a small bowl and sat down several yards away, deliberately turning her back to him, which sparked an angry stare.
Keep it up! Nate wanted to shout, feeling a tight knot form in his throat. Swallowing hard, he scoured the entire village again, seeking evidence of dogs. The Shoshones and other tribes were partial to relying on dogs to guard their villages at night, so it was logical to expect the Apaches to do the same. Oddly enough, he didn’t see a single one. Then he remembered being told by Shakespeare that the Apaches often ate dogs when other game was scarce, just like they ate horses and mules.
His stomach growled, reminding him of his own famished state. Steeling himself, he shut food from his mind and impatiently waited for the Apaches to retire. They seemed to take forever doing so. Once their meal was concluded, the women cleaned up while the men socialized. Parties of warriors gathered around various fires to discuss matters of importance.
As he lay there, an unusual and enlightening thought occurred to Nate. For all their reputed ferociousness, the Apaches were much like every other Indian tribe. The men were born warriors, bred through countless generations to excel at warfare and raiding, and while they didn’t count coup as did the tribes on the plains and those inhabiting the northern Rockies, they did take immense pride in their fighting ability. The women, like Indian women everywhere, lived what at first glance might appear to be lives of sheer drudgery, toiling from dawn to dusk at all the tasks necessary to feed and clothe their families, but they did so out of a sense of loving service, not because they were forced to. And the children were exactly the same as all carefree children everywhere, playing at the activities they saw the adults doing and hoping one day to be respected members of their people.
Viewing the Apaches as just another tribe gave him a whole new perspective. Yes, they were to be feared, but no more so than the Blackfeet or the Utes. Yes, the men were skilled warriors, but no more so in their way than the Shoshones or the Cheyennes or the Sioux were in theirs. The Apaches had adapted to the harsh land in which they lived just as the tribes living on the plains had adapted to the conditions there. Apaches were flesh and blood. They could be killed. They could be outfoxed. And he was going to prove it by freeing his wife from their clutches, by rescuing her from their very midst.
By the positions of the constellations the hour was nearly midnight when the last of the warriors turned in. The village lay serene under the myriad of shimmering stars. From the northwest came a strong wind, rustling the high grass and the leaves of the trees. Small waves rippled the surface of the lake.
Nate could wait no longer. Rising into a crouch, he stalked closer, his ears and eyes straining to their limits. From some of the dwellings came muffled snoring. Otherwise, all was as still as a cemetery. Near the first wickiups he paused and nervously licked his lips. Some of the entrances were covered with hide flaps or crude lattice works, others weren’t. Since he had no way of knowing if any of the Apaches were awake, he had to be careful not to walk past any doorways. A single warning shout would bring them all out like angry bees stirred from their hive.
He moved toward the wickiup by the lake, placing the soles of his moccasins down lightly with each step, wary of snapping a twig or causing a loose stone to roll. Close up, the wickiups were like great black turtles. Penetrating the darkness within each was impossible.
When he was halfway through the village he heard a grunt from a wickiup he was passing and halted, his scalp tingling until the grunt was replaced by low snoring. His palms slick, he crept past dwelling after dwelling until only one remained in front of him: the one where his wife was being held.
Suddenly he thought of the stolen horse. The animal was staring at him, but so far had made no sound. He tensed, dreading a whinny. A minute went by. Two. The horse lowered its head, disinterested. If he could, he would have given it a hug.
Nate leveled the Hawken and tiptoed toward the entrance. Suddenly something moved inside. In three quick bounds he was to the right of the opening, the Hawken upraised to bash out the brains of the warrior should the man step out. A heartbeat later someone did, only it wasn’t the Apache.
It was Winona.
She backed out, her footfalls completely silent, and had begun to turn when she saw him. Her eyes widened and glistened as if from moisture. Her mouth forming a perfect oval, she threw herself into his arms and buried her face against his neck.
Nate smelled the scent of her hair and felt her warm body pressed flush with his. He wanted to cry for joy, but he fought back the tears. Now was not the time, he told himself. Slowly he lowered the Hawken and gave Winona a fleeting embrace. Then he whispered in her ear, “Did you kill him?”
She shook her head no.
Too bad, Nate reflected. Taking her hand, he stepped to the bay and carefully reached down to untie the rope. The animal looked at him but made no noise. Moving to the lake, he turned to the right, hoping the soft lapping of the waves would cover the dull plodding of the bay’s hoofs. Proceeding cautiously, they covered fifty yards without mishap. Then a hundred.
Winona was giving his hand such a squeeze that it hurt. She unexpectedly leaned against him and give him a kiss on the cheek. “I knew you would come, my husband,” she whispered.
“I would never give up as long as I lived,” Nate whispered back, and kissed her in return.
“I did not expect you so soon. I thought I would have to hide until the Apaches stopped looking for me, then try to find you.”
“I was lucky,” Nate said.
“Naiche knew you would show up too, but not tonight. He thought it would take you two or three days if Naretena did not get you.” She paused, then elaborated. “Naretena and six others left this afternoon to hunt you down.”
“I saw them,” Nate whispered. “Who is Naiche?”
“The warrior who stole me. He was impressed by you, my husband, by the way you tracked us and fought them when you tried to save me. He said he had never known a white or Mexican who was a match for the Apaches, but you are.”
“He said that?”
“In his way he is an honorable man.”
Nate changed the subject. “Didn’t he tie you tonight?”
“He did, but not as tightly as before.” Winona grinned. “My teeth are as sharp as a beaver’s.”
By now they were well clear of the village and bearing to the south so Nate could reclaim Pegasus. He kept a vigilant watch on the wickiups, fearing the one called Naiche would awaken and discover Winona was missing. Truth to tell, he was surprised the warrior hadn’t awakened when she snuck from the dwelling. Then he reminded himself that Naiche had just come back from a long, arduous raid during which the warrior must have gotten little rest. Secure in his own wickiup, Naiche must be sleeping as soundly as a hibernating bear.
“How are the others?” Winona asked.
“Francisco took Zach and Blue Water Woman back to the hacienda. Shakespeare was wounded but I expect him to pull through. He’s as tough as a grizzly and three times as ornery.”
“I feared you were dead until you showed up on the slope of that mountain, riding right into the trap the Apaches had set. Naiche said that what you did was one of the bravest acts he ever witnessed.”
“It sounds like the two of you became fast friends,” Nate commented testily, forgetting to whisper in his annoyance.
“I got to know him very well, my dearest,” Winona said, relaxing her grip on his hand to rub her forefinger over his. “And I made it plain to him that you are the only man for me.”
“Did he ...?” Nate began.
“He tried but his heart wasn’t in it.”
“No?”
“Apache men respect their women very much. They rarely hit them or mistreat them, even those they capture.”
“They’re regular saints,” Nate muttered.
“Saints?” Winona repeated. “Oh. Now I remember the word.” She laughed ever so lightly. “No, they are not saints. But they are men you would respect if you were not so jealous.”
“Who’s jealous?”
They fell silent, and presently reached the trees where Nate had left the Palouse. He stopped to survey the village one last time, then turned to go forward as a strident whoop rent the chill night air from somewhere near the lake. Seconds later there were more shouts and considerable commotion as roused Apaches spilled from their wickiups right and left.
“Hurry,” Nate urged, giving the rope a sharp pull to hasten the stolen horse along. His own animal was right where he left it, and in moments both of them were mounted and moving slowly eastward so as not to make much noise.
“Naiche must have awakened and discovered I was gone,” Winona commented quietly.
“Either that or one of them got up to heed nature’s call and saw that the horse was missing, then woke Naiche,” Nate said. From the uproar, the agitated Apaches were scouring the vicinity of their village for Winona. Soon, if they hadn’t already, the warriors would fan out in all directions to try and find her.
“We should make a run for it,” Winona recommended.
“I reckon,” Nate said, although he had reservations. Once they broke into a gallop the enraged Apaches would hear them and give chase in force. With enough of a lead they could easily outdistance most of their pursuers, those on foot, but there had been several other horses in the village and they were cause for concern.
He poked his heels into the Palouse’s flanks and angled to the left, away from the rim, since a single misstep in the dark would plummet both horse and rider over the edge. Winona stayed at his side, her long hair flying.
Not twenty yards off there was a loud cry, echoed by another close behind him. More yells arose to the north.
Nate swallowed hard and leaned forward, making the outline of his body almost indistinguishable from that of Pegasus. Winona did likewise. It was an old Indian trick that rendered them less visible targets. At a gallop they crashed through brush and came out on an open stretch where he gave the gelding its head.
Suddenly a stocky figure materialized out of the shadowy murk, running to intercept them.
The Hawken was resting across Nate’s thighs, the barrel pointing in the general direction of the Apache. It was a simple matter for Nate to swivel the rifle just so, cock the hammer, and fire without raising his body. The gun boomed, the warrior stumbled and fell. To their rear a chorus of shrill, bloodthirsty cries showed the Apaches were pursuing them in full force.
The thing Nate now dreaded most was that one of their animals would step into a rut or a hole or a wild creature’s burrow and go down. The Apaches would be on them before they could mount double and continue their flight. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a dozen or more ghostly shapes, all on foot but moving at an incredible speed. He’d heard tell that Apaches were some of the swiftest runners alive, and he was seeing that claim proved right before his eyes.
Still, the horses were faster and they began to pull ahead. He peered eastward, seeking some sign of the end of the tableland although he knew it was much too far off. A cluster of trees loomed in their path so he swung to the right, going around, then lashed Pegasus with the reins once they were in the open again. The bay, still fatigued from its long journey, began to flag, to drop back, forcing him to slow a bit to stay close to his wife.
With each passing moment the whoops of the warriors grew progressively fainter. He let himself relax a little, his confidence growing. Once they were in the maze of mountains bordering the Apache stronghold they would be safe. That is, if a roving war party didn’t accidentally stumble on them.
At that instant a new sound was added to the frenzied racket to their rear, the sharp blast of a rifle.
Nate stiffened in dismay. He hadn’t counted on the Apaches using guns, but he should have known better. Despite what he’d been told about the Apache preference for the bow and arrow, there were bound to have been warriors who, out of curiosity if for no other reason, had taken guns as part of their plunder from a raid and subsequently learned to use them.
“Husband,” Winona suddenly said. “I think my horse has been hit.”
He glanced at the bay, thinking she must be wrong because they were well out in front of the Apaches and the one who fired couldn’t have seen them clearly. Odds were the warrior had tried to guess exactly where they were by the drumming of their mounts’ hoofs, then fired blindly. Besides, he hadn’t heard the bullet strike her horse. “Are you ... ?” he began, and had to rein up sharply when the bay faltered and abruptly came to a stop.
Now that they were stopped, Nate could hear the stolen animal’s heavy wheezing. Head sagging, it swayed. Quickly he moved Pegasus alongside it and held out his left arm. “Climb on,” he directed.
Winona needed no encouragement, for now from behind them came the pounding rumble of pursuing horses, three or four at least. Her hand shot out and grasped his forearm.
With a surge of his powerful muscles, Nate pulled her up behind him. Her arms encircled his waist, her body molded flush with his. “Hang tight,” he breathed, goading the Palouse into a gallop once more. Every second counted. The delay had proven costly, judging by the proximity of the horses after them.
War whoops confirmed the Apaches were close on their heels.
An arrow cleaved the air, missing Nate’s head by a foot, but he paid it no mind. Fear for Winona eclipsed all else since she was more likely to be hit than he was. And he dared not ride a zigzag pattern to make aiming harder for the Apaches because doing so might enable the warriors to overtake Pegasus.
It was a furious race for life, with Nate keenly aware that both of their lives depended on the Palouse’s performance. If the gelding faltered they were as good as dead. Or he was, anyway. Winona would wind up back in the clutches of Naiche.
He touched a flintlock, but decided against drawing it. Trying to shoot a gun accurately while astride the back of a moving horse was difficult under the best of circumstances. At night, at full speed, it would be a miracle if he scored a hit.
For the remainder of his life he would vividly remember those harrowing moments when fear dominated his being. Slowly, Pegasus increased the gap between them and the Apaches. The warrior armed with a rifle fired again, but this time he missed.
So intently was Nate concentrating on their pursuers that he was startled when suddenly a vast chasm seemed to materialize right in front of them. Too late he realized it wasn’t a chasm at all. It was the earthen slope he had scaled to reach the tableland, but it might as well be a chasm because the very next second Pegasus plunged over the edge with a panicked whinny.