Eleven

Nate King’s first thought, on hearing the rattle of the dirt, was that the creature they had encountered earlier had stalked them and was attacking him. He tried to spin, but was way too slow. The impact smashed him to the ground so hard the breath whooshed from his lungs. He felt the Hawken being tom from his grasp, and through a haze of pain he saw Clay Basket bringing her rifle to bear even as a sharp object gouged him in the side of the neck and a gruff voice spoke.

“Try it, squaw, and this son of a bitch dies!”

It was Belker! Nate realized, and tried to move, but the renegade was on his back, kneeling on him, pinning him in place. Clay Basket glanced at him, then at the killer. Reluctantly, she lowered her rifle and took a step back.

“How touching!” Belker quipped. “I knew there was more to this bastard than he let on. What, is he your lover?”

“He is a friend,” Clay Basket answered indignantly.

“And I’m the king of England,” Belker said. “The two of you didn’t fool me for a minute. I saw the way he was watchin’ you when he thought no one else would notice. Idiots!”

Nate was trying to get his right arm out from under him so he could reach for his tomahawk. He had almost succeeded when the knife point gouged deeper into his neck and a hand seized hold of his hair and yanked on his head.

“Try that, fool, and I’ll slit you from ear to ear!” Belker hissed. He slid off Nate and stood, hauling Nate erect by the hair. “Give me any excuse and you’re a dead man, no matter what Galt wants.”

Nate was given a rough shove that sent him stumbling toward Clay Basket. He kept his balance, drew up short, and was poised to draw a pistol when he saw the renegade had already done so.

“Drop all your weapons, Smith. Nice and slow.”

Only a fool resisted while staring down the barrel of a .55-caliber flintlock. Simmering with anger at being caught so handily, Nate removed all four of his belt weapons. The smirk on Belker’s grimy face only aggravated him more.

“That’s a good boy,” the cutthroat taunted. “I knew you’d be reasonable about it.” Chuckling, he wagged his pistol. “Now back up.”

Nate’s blood boiled as he helplessly watched Belker taking possession of their arms, and he wanted to kick himself for being so careless. He had to rein in a suicidal urge to make a mad dash at the renegade. Presently he was looking down the barrel of his own Hawken instead of a pistol.

“Next we march out and around to the top of this gully so I can fetch my rifle,” Belker said. “Keep your hands where I can see them, because I assure you I have no qualms about shootin’ either of you in the back if you give me the slightest cause.”

Nate believed him. Turning, he allowed Clay Basket to go first. That way, he could block Belker’s view of her if he had to. He tried to catch her eye and signal her with a bob of his head to let her know she should make a bid to escape if the opportunity presented itself, but she was staring at the ground, dejected. They retraced their steps to the mouth of the gully, and began climbing a gradual incline to the top.

“I’ve got to hand it to you, Smith,” Belker commented. “You gave the others a merry chase. But then, they’re not the tracker I am. I found your trail right away and almost blundered onto you when you were hiding behind that pine. Remember?”

Nate wasn’t going to respond, but a sharp poke between the shoulder blades changed his mind. “I remember,” he said sullenly.

“I knew the two of you were hidin’ there, so I went off into the brush and waited for you to show yourselves. Then I followed you until I saw my chance. Pretty clever, huh?”

“Was that you in the trees?” Nate asked.

“What trees?”

“In that stand a while back, breaking limbs and making those sounds?”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. I never got too close because I didn’t want you spottin’ me before I was ready to make my move.”

Nate came to the rim of the gully. Grass and bushes grew to the very edge, and he was obliged to step around some of the latter as he followed Clay Basket toward the spot where Belker had jumped them from the rim. A germ of an idea formed, and he scanned the slope in front of them. He glanced back, measuring the distance between the renegade and him, and suppressed a grin.

“Have you ever seen someone have their belly slit and their innards ripped out?” Belker was saying. “I have. It ain’t a sight for the squeamish.” He snickered. “I expect I’ll get to see it again when Galt starts in on you. Trust me, pilgrim. He’s not the kind of man you want to rile. Something inside of him snaps and he goes all crazy. Why, once I saw him carve a man up so bad the man didn’t hardly look human no more when Galt was done.”

“I bet you’ve done your share,” Nate remarked.

“Meaning?”

“I’ve heard about you, Belker. You’re no saint.”

The renegade chortled. “No, I ain’t. I’ve planted a few jackasses in my time. But I always do the job neat and clean, not like Galt. He likes to see people suffer, likes to see them squirm and hear them beg for their lives. One time he reached inside a guy he’d cut open and pulled the feller’s heart out with his bare hand. Lordy, was that a sight!”

Nate had slowed a bit so Clay Basket could gain a couple of yards on them. He didn’t want her to be too close when he made his move.

“I swear that Galt was born wrong,” Belker had gone on. “He should have been born a Blackfoot or an Apache instead of a white man. He’d have been right at home with them.”

“And you don’t mind riding with someone like him?”

“Mind, hell! He’s making us rich, ain’t he? I don’t care how crazy he gets just so we keep on filling our pokes with fur money.”

Another bush appeared in front of Nate, the largest yet, over three feet high. This time, instead of going around the plant on the left side, where the ground was level, he went around on the right side, where the slope dropped away to the bottom of the gully. Almost immediately the loose earth gave way under his foot and he started to slip.

“Not that way, damn you!” Belker bellowed.

Nate deliberately fell onto his stomach and clawed at the slope, pretending he was caught in gravity’s grip, while at the same time he dug in his toes to arrest his descent. He also pretended to pay no attention at all to the renegade, who stepped close to the edge and glared down at him.

“Get back up here!”

“I’m trying,” Nate lied, scrambling faster, his left hand moving closer and closer to Belker’s legs each time he dug his fingers into the earth.

“Try harder, idiot.” Belker motioned impatiently, and when he did the barrel of the Hawken swung to one side.

This was the moment Nate had been waiting for. Braced on his toes, he lunged upward, still pretending to be clawing at the slope when in reality he was diving at Belker’s legs. His left arm looped around both of the cutthroat’s ankles and with a tremendous heave he upended Belker and pulled.

Venting a string of oaths, the renegade plummeted over the edge, tumbling downward, one rifle flying but not the Hawken. Together they rolled to the very bottom, where Nate released his hold and seized the Hawken by the barrel. With a terrific wrench he gained control of the gun, but as he did it went off almost in his face.

“Damn you!” Belker roared, rising. His hand swooped to his belt and flashed out holding the long knife he favored. “To hell with Galt! I’m putting you under right here and now!”

Nate barely backed away quickly enough to avoid a wicked slash that would have gutted him. He swung the Hawken at Belker’s head, but the wily killer ducked under the swing and stabbed at Nate’s legs. Nate had to leap backward. As he did, Belker grasped the rifle barrel.

There they stood, not more than a yard apart, each with a hand on the Hawken, Belker waving his long knife in small circles in the air. “Think you’re clever, don’t you, smart boy?” he said mockingly. “Well, we’ll see how clever you think you are after I cut out your tongue.”

Nate didn’t waste breath replying. He gave a tug on the Hawken, pulling Belker toward him, and leaped straight at the shorter man. His hand closed on the renegade’s right wrist to keep the knife at bay while his knee drove into Belker’s groin. They both toppled, Belker clamping his other hand on Nate’s throat.

Back and forth they rolled, each struggling mightily to gain an advantage. Nate was amazed at the renegade’s strength. Strive as he might, the knife edged ever nearer to his face.

Belker growled as he fought, much like the black bear he so resembled, his lips curled to reveal his clenched teeth. “You’re mine! Hear me? Mine!” he cried.

Nate strained his utmost and pushed the renegade’s arm back a few inches. Their rolling brought them up against the slope, with Nate on the bottom. Belker angled the razor-edged blade inward, seeking Nate’s neck. Nate, in desperation, snapped his head forward, butting his brow into the cutthroat’s nose. Something cracked, and Belker shrieked and tried to rise.

Coiling his legs, Nate rammed both feet into the renegade’s midriff. Belker went flying rearward to crash onto his back in the middle of the gully. Nate pushed into a crouch and charged just as Belker was rising. His shoulder caught the killer in the side, bowling Belker over, but as Belker went down he cut upward with the knife, ripping Nate’s buckskin shirt and slicing the skin.

They parted. Nate could feel blood trickling from his wound. He balled his fists and waited for his foe to make the next move.

Belker was in no hurry. Ready to strike, he held the knife at his waist. He was getting his breath back while letting the pain in his ribs subside. And too, he was studying Jess Smith more closely. For a greenhorn, Smith was a hellion. Or was Smith a greenhorn? Belker stared, and suddenly remembered the Rendezvous several years ago. “Damn! I knew I’d laid eyes on you before. You’re Nate King, aren’t you?”

Long ago Nate had learned not to talk when in a fight. Talking served as a distraction and might cost a man his life. So he simply nodded and circled to the right.

“I thought so!” Belker said. “That explains a lot! Wait until Galt hears.”

Nate continued to slowly circle, planting each foot carefully.

“The great Grizzly Killer!” Belker said, and snorted. “Who would have thought it?” His brow puckered. “Wait a minute. You’re married to some Shoshone bitch. What’s this Crow squaw mean to you?”

Seldom had Nate fought anyone who talked so much. He saw a rock between them, and on an impulse he flicked out his foot, kicking the rock at the renegade, who stepped to the side. Nate kicked again, only this time a spray of dirt that made Belker raise an arm to protect his eyes. Instantly Nate leaped and gripped Belker’s right wrist in both hands. Pivoting, Nate whirled, throwing every last ounce into a swing that propelled the cutthroat into the gully wall.

Belker landed on his back and endeavored to rise. Nate, taking swift strides, got there first and lashed out with his left foot. The long knife went sailing into the dark. Belker, incensed, reached for the tomahawk he had taken from Nate, but Nate closed and down they went again, punching one another furiously.

Nate landed a right to the jaw and received a left in the stomach. He blocked a flurry, then drove his left fist into Belker’s cheek, splitting the flesh. Belker’s forearm clubbed Nate on the ear. Nate connected, his knuckles flattening the renegade’s lips. In unison they rose to their knees, slugging away all the while.

The blows were brutal, bone-wrenching. Nate shut out the agony and tried to knock the cutthroat out with a solid right to the jaw. It was like striking metal. Belker merely flinched. Nate took a punch to the temple that made him see stars. He pushed backward, shaking his head to recover, and was tackled about the chest. Once more he wound up flat on his back.

Belker seemed determined to end the fight at all costs. His fists were blurs as he pounded without letup.

Nate was losing and knew it. He brought his left arm high so his face would be spared, and shoved against the cutthroat with his right hand. Belker was immovable. Bucking his hips, Nate simultaneously twisted and threw the renegade off. His head swimming, he straightened, then froze upon hearing a click.

One of Nate’s pistols was now aimed at his head. Belker grinned, wiped blood from the corner of his mouth, and said, “Enough of this. I should have shot you the minute I first saw you. Meet your Maker, King.”

A single shot sounded, resembling a blast of thunder, echoing along the gully in both directions.

Belker’s grin faded. He tried to lift an arm to touch the ragged cavity in his forehead, but couldn’t. The pistol drooped, his arm sagged. His whole body went limp and he pitched forward.

Nate darted out of the way and stared down at the killer in bewilderment. A sigh drew his gaze to the rim, where Clay Basket was lowering the smoking rifle she had just used. Belker’s own gun had been turned against him. “Thanks,” Nate said softly. Absently, he brushed at the gore that had spattered the front of his shirt.

Clay Basket came down the slope, sliding half the way, the rifle employed as a crutch to keep her erect. In a swirl of dust she stopped and gazed at the man she had slain. “If ever a man deserved to die, he was one.”

“You’ll get no complaints from me,” Nate assured her. He held up his hands and saw the skin peeled from his knuckles. Bruises and welts covered him from his face to his groin.

“Now we are safe, Grizzly Killer,” Clay Basket said. “Now we can hurry to my Nelson.”

“If none of his friends heard the shot,” Nate observed. He would have liked to sit down and rest, but he had already grown careless once and wasn’t about to make the same mistake again. Swiftly he scaled the east side of the gully and stood listening. No shouts sounded anywhere. The night was as quiet as a tomb.

“We were lucky,” Nate said as he rejoined her. “We’re too far away for them to have heard.” Taking Belker’s rifle from her, he loaded it and gave it back. He also gave her Belker’s pistol and knife. His own weapons soon adorned his waist. Carrying the Hawken in one hand and George’s rifle in the other, he resumed their interrupted trek at a faster clip.

Neither of them spoke for the longest while. The cut Nate had sustained stung terribly but wasn’t life-threatening, so he ignored it. Which was typical, not just for him but for most trappers. Whiners and weaklings had no business being in the mountains. Those who fainted at the sight of blood were better off in the States where civilized society spared them from the grimmer realities of life.

Gradually the sky to the east lightened. Not much, but enough to signal the advent of dawn within the hour. Nate was extremely tired, and imagined Clay Basket felt the same. He had to admire her fortitude in holding up as well as she had, and he rated Tim Nelson a very fortunate man in having earned the love of such a remarkable woman. Back in the States there were many who looked down on Indians, who regarded Indians as somehow inferior to whites, as little better than animals. He’d often wondered if those people would change their minds if they could live with Indians for a while and get to know the so-called “savages” as they really were. Doing so had certainly changed his outlook. Ignorance, it seemed to him, was a prime breeding ground for hatred and bloodshed, and he thought it a shame that so many were afflicted with a lack of human understanding.

Out of consideration for Clay Basket, Nate halted on a rise and remarked, “Let’s rest a few minutes. It won’t do us any good to wear ourselves to a frazzle.”

“If you want,” she replied, not sounding very pleased by the delay.

Nate looked at her and debated whether to say something, whether to prepare her for the grim possibility that the man she loved might be dead. Tim Nelson, after all, had been in grave condition when Nate rode off. But when he saw her gazing westward, an eager gleam animating her eyes, he couldn’t bring himself to shatter her hopes. Instead, he commented, “By tonight you should be back with Tim.”

Clay Basket’s throat bobbed. “He is all I think about.” She grinned self-consciously. “I always thought I would one day marry a man from my own tribe. I never thought I would love a trapper.”

“Love is strange that way,” Nate agreed. “There’s no telling when it will strike. If someone had told me when I was younger that I’d wind up taking a Shoshone woman as my wife, I’d have laughed right in their face.”

“When this is over, maybe you and your wife would see fit to visit us.”

“I’m sure she’d like that.”

“I wish—” Clay Basket said, and abruptly stopped.

Nate turned and gazed in the same direction. An enormous mountain lion was descending the nearest mountain. The great cat was just below the snow line, barely visible crossing an open space. It moved with a fluid grace that was apparent even at that distance, and with the first pale glow of dawn dappling its tawny coat, the predator presented a stirring sight. “Lord, I love these mountains,” Nate said to himself.

“So do I,” Clay Basket said.

They watched until the mountain lion disappeared in high timber. Then Nate hefted the two rifles he held and resumed their hike. How different life had been back in New York City, he reflected, when the only wild creatures he had seen were stray dogs and cats and flocks of pigeons. Perhaps his city upbringing explained why he never tired of the wildlife in the wilderness. To see a grizzly or a buffalo or an eagle was always a thrill; each experience added a certain spice to his life that far surpassed anything he had ever known in civilization.

Presently Nate had a more pressing matter to consider. He had guided them by instinct, relying on his sense of direction to bring them right to where he had left his horses. He had roughly calculated the time it would take them, and had believed they would get there before the sun rose, but now, with the eastern sky growing steadily brighter, there was no sign of the hill he sought. Granted, he was approaching the spot from a different direction, but he had learned enough about noting and memorizing landmarks to be certain he would know the area when he saw it.

Halting, Nate studied the lay of the land. There was a mountain to the west, a hill to the north, and another to the northeast. One of those hills must be the one overlooking the basin in which the renegades had camped, but which one? Neither was familiar.

“Is something wrong?” Clay Basket inquired.

“Just getting my bearings,” Nate said, striding to the northeast. Logic told him that must be the right hill, but when they came on a narrow creek he hadn’t seen before, he began to doubt his judgment. Since the two of them hadn’t had a drop to drink in many hours, they stopped and quenched their thirst. The water was cold, refreshing. Nate wiped a sleeve across his mouth when he was done. Then he splashed water on the wound in his thigh, which was smarting terribly and had swollen up, and on the cut he had sustained fighting Belker.

“That leg should be bandaged,” Clay Basket remarked.

“When we have the time.”

Across the creek Nate found fresh elk tracks, which was reassuring. If any of the cutthroats were in the area, the elk wouldn’t have strayed from cover to drink. Still, he stayed alert as he wound through the forest toward the hill.

“How long will it take us to reach my Nelson?” Clay Basket asked.

“About four hours at the most.”

“Is that all?” Clay Basket said, and smiled.

Nate studied the west slope of the hill. There was a certain pine he looked for, a towering fir, a patriarch among the trees that had been struck by lightning in years past. The bolt had split the crown of the fir down the middle and charred the wood. Nate remembered passing it shortly before he spotted the renegades.

With the golden crown of the sun creasing the eastern horizon, the wild creatures were stirring to life. Sparrows and finches chirped, chipmunks climbed onto logs and boulders to chatter and flick their tails, noisy squirrels were again abroad in the trees, and larger animals were coming out to forage.

To Nate, the many sounds were akin to listening to an orchestra tune its musical instruments before launching into a masterful composition. The creatures were likewise preparing for another active day of living out their lives in accordance with the melody of existence Nature had decreed for them. He breathed deep and smiled.

Nate’s smile widened when he spied the split fir tree. “We’re close,” he announced, and made for a patch of underbrush forty yards off. A low nicker sounded as he approached, and pushing past a bush he saw the black stallion and the other horses. “We did it,” he told Clay Basket. “We’re safe now.”

“Is that a fact?” someone else responded, and from out of concealment stepped Roarke and two other renegades with their rifles cocked and leveled.