There was no moon, but enough starlight for a man to see his way, especially if that man was part panther. Tobin rose from the waist-high grass where he had rested while waiting for the cover of darkness. Looking around him in the deep, quiet night, he tasted the cool air and his nostrils flared as the excitement of the kill honed his senses. After a few moments, he checked his rifle and pistol to be certain they were ready. Then he set out for the stand of cottonwoods, making his way almost silently through the high grass.
Tobin’s brain was barren soil for deep thinking, so thoughts of life’s purpose never took seed there. He had set out to track and kill many times before, but he had never questioned his role as executioner. It bothered him not one bit whether his victims deserved killing. He only knew that it was the most enjoyable part of his job, a part he looked forward to, and one that brought a great measure of pleasure. Generally, he preferred a more open confrontation so he could enjoy the terror his victims knew before they died. With this white Cheyenne, however, he chose to forego that satisfaction and strike quickly, without warning.
He had little more than two hundred yards to cover before reaching the first trees that lined the shallow stream. Moving silently through the grass, placing each foot carefully, he in no way resembled the stumbling man who had recklessly ascended the steep trail up the ridge earlier that day. One might grudgingly admit to a savage grace in the way the huge man stalked his prey.
His rifle cocked and ready, Tobin moved from tree to tree until he spotted the red glow of dying coals in the campfire. Under the shadow of the cottonwoods, he had to pause and stare for a few moments longer before spying the sleeping bodies. Ain’t that dear, he thought, smiling to himself, two little doves, all wrapped up in a package.
He was about to take another step when he was halted by a low snort, and he abruptly jerked his head to the side. The dark form of a horse stamped nervously under the trees. Tobin looked quickly back at the sleeping lovers, ready to open fire. They didn’t move. He watched the bodies intently, looking for any movement that would indicate they had heard. There was none.
He stepped closer until he could clearly make out the forms of the sleeping man and woman. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his rifle and took careful aim. In the next instant, the quiet of the cottonwood grove was shattered with the ear-splitting roar of the Winchester as Tobin fired, cocked, and fired again, pumping bullets into the helpless bundle by the fire. He fired until his rifle clicked on an empty chamber.
Cautious even after seeing every shot tear though the tough elkhide, Tobin approached the riddled bed, his eyes never leaving the hide. So that there would be no question that the white Cheyenne was dead, he would sever Little Wolf’s head and present it to Colonel Wheaton. The woman’s fine black scalp would be an excellent addition to his collection.
He stood over the bodies for a long moment, watching for any slight movement before pulling the wrap of hide away. Convinced they were dead, he reached down and lifted the elkskin and stood staring dumbfounded at two bullet-riddled cottonwood logs.
Like an animal caught in a trap, he realized at that moment that he was doomed. Suddenly his veins were filled with icewater and his spine became stiff as an iron rod. Time seemed to pass in slow motion, allowing a thousand thoughts to flash across his stunned brain. The thing that could never happen had happened. He had trapped a hundred men before this, relying upon his cunning and superior strength. He could not believe that he had been trapped this time. He had walked right into it, outsmarted by the Cheyenne for the second time.
In that frozen split-second, he steeled himself for the impact of the bullet he knew was coming. When it did not, he whirled around, angry at having been tricked, his eyes searching desperately, straining to penetrate the darkness. I know you’re here, his instincts screamed at him.
There was a faint sound to his left. He immediately turned toward it, bringing his rifle up to fire—but it had only been the soft popping from the glowing embers of the campfire. Then, when Tobin glanced up from the fire, he saw him. The faint light afforded by the flickering coals danced lightly across the phantomlike features of the Cheyenne warrior, casting a shadowy veil about his naked shoulders. The warrior stood there motionless, his arms down at his sides, a war axe his only weapon, watching Tobin impassively.
Though puzzled by Little Wolf’s defiant stance before him, Tobin did not hesitate to take his advantage. He smiled and raised his rifle. “You shoulda kept on running, renegade.” With that, he pulled the trigger. The metallic click reminded him that he had not reloaded the rifle. In angry disgust, he dropped the useless weapon and reached for the pistol in his belt. Less than a second later, he heard himself yelp in pain as the war axe struck his hand, sending the pistol flying across the campfire.
Both men sprang to retrieve it, but Little Wolf was quicker than his larger adversary. Diving across the fire, he rolled on the ground, snatched up the pistol and landed on his feet, facing Tobin. Tobin was stopped dead in his tracks by the sight of his own pistol, which was now leveled at his midsection. There followed a long eerie pause while the two faced each other. Tobin, again bracing for the bullet, was astonished when Little Wolf threw the pistol into the darkness behind him. The significance of the Cheyenne’s action was not lost upon Tobin.
“So that’s how it’s gonna be.” He could not repress the smile that spread across his face, for he knew the advantage had been returned to him. He drew the long skinning knife from his belt and lunged to meet the Cheyenne.
The impact of their bodies was like that of two bull elks, with Little Wolf recoiling backward a step from the superior weight of Tobin’s body. Tobin grunted his satisfaction. No man had been able to stand up to him in hand-to-hand combat. With one huge hand, he held Little Wolf’s wrist, nullifying the war axe. The other wrist was locked in Little Wolf’s grip. They struggled against each other, their faces only inches apart. Tobin, confident in his overpowering strength, began to apply the pressure that would bend Little Wolf’s back until it broke. After straining for several seconds, the sinister smile faded from Tobin’s face. The Cheyenne would not bend. The veins stood out in the big tracker’s neck as he summoned all the force he possessed. Yet it was to no avail. The tall Cheyenne warrior stood like a steel post, the hate and fury of years of pain and suffering flashing like sparks in his dark eyes. The moment of vengeance had at long last arrived.
Suddenly a cold chill ran the length of Tobin’s spine, a feeling he had never experienced before. In a panic, he tore his wrist loose and stepped back. Little Wolf crouched and waited, his war axe ready. Desperate now, his swaggering confidence gone, Tobin feared for his life. In a sudden move, he lunged at Little Wolf with his knife. Little Wolf stepped deftly aside and brought the axe down in a crushing blow.
Tobin screamed in pain when the war axe came down on his forearm like a bolt of lightning out of the darkness. The sharp crack of the bone caused him to release his grip on the knife. Knowing he was fighting for his life, he tried to pick up the knife only to receive a second bone-smashing blow across his other forearm. He could not hold on to the weapon and it dropped to the ground. Terror like he had never tasted in his life before gripped Tobin’s body as he staggered backward for a few steps, his useless arms dangling limply by his sides, still unable to clearly see his attacker in the dark shadows of the cottonwoods.
Cornered and knowing he was beaten, Tobin searched desperately from side to side, trying to see his executioner as Little Wolf circled him. He took another step backward, almost stumbling into the fire. Wanting to run but unsure of which direction to flee, he stepped around the softly glowing embers of the campfire, his fear overpowering the numbing pain in his arms. When he looked up again, he saw him.
Tobin gasped, unable to move. Facing him, Little Wolf stood tall and seemingly impassive, calmly watching the desperation of the helpless half-breed. Stunned and already dead in his mind, Tobin stood helpless, his eyes wide and unblinking. In the next instant, Little Wolf was suddenly upon him, before the huge man even knew he had moved. The war axe landed solidly in the side of Tobin’s head and buried into the skull like a woodman’s axe in a tree stump.
Little Wolf stepped back as the giant body slumped to the ground. He stared down at the lifeless mound for a few moments, his sober countenance disguising the fury that raced through his veins. “You will cause no more fear in this world,” he pronounced softly, then took the half-breed’s scalp. “You can now wander with no scalp in the spirit world.”
* * *
Brice Paxton came up out of his blanket, awakened from a sound sleep by the series of rifle shots. He looked toward the fire where he could see others stirring also, and knew that it had not been a dream. It could only mean one thing—Tobin had found Little Wolf. Maybe finishing him off, he thought.
His immediate reaction was one of anger. He had hoped to prevent the savage Tobin from performing the cold-blooded execution he knew the baleful tracker planned. It appeared he might be too late. He wondered about the woman. “Sergeant!” he yelled at Baskin, who was already out of his blanket and coming to get his orders. “Saddle up! I want to find that bloodthirsty son of a bitch.”
Baskin did as he was told and roused the men from their beds, knowing all the time that it was a useless exercise. That fact soon became painfully clear to his young lieutenant when he realized it was so dark in the narrow valley they camped in, that it was difficult to even find the picket line where the horses had been tied.
Conferring with his sentries, Brice found agreement as to the general direction the firing came from, but uncertainty as to how far away it might have been. Sergeant Baskin advised him that the men were ready to ride but he wasn’t sure there was enough light to follow the trail.
Paul walked up to the fire leading Daisy. “Brice, have you taken leave of your senses? Are you really planning to head out in these mountains in this dark? You’re liable to lead the whole detail off a cliff.”
Brice made no reply. He stood there looking in one direction then another, as if seeking some sign of daybreak. He bent close to the fire and looked at his watch. There would be no daylight for at least two hours. He at once realized how impulsive he had been and felt a strong wave of embarrassment at having routed his sleeping troopers prematurely. Baskin and Paul stood there, waiting for him to make a decision.
“My mistake, Sergeant. I guess Lieutenant Simmons is right, we can’t go stumbling around these bluffs in the dark. Have the men stand down. Leave the horses saddled. We’ll ride at first light.”
“Yessir.” Baskin disappeared into the darkness, shaking his head.
When Baskin had left, Paul laughingly complained, “Dammit all, Brice, I just got to sleep about an hour ago.”
“I’m sorry, Paul. I feel like a damn fool. I just want to get to that son of a bitch Tobin before he rides off and disappears in these mountains.” He laughed at his own embarrassment. “I guess this is just one more thing Baskin can talk about with the other NCO’s back at Lapwai.”