Nate King was in motion before the last wavering note of mortal terror died on the wind. It had come from the northwest, where dense forest bordered the encampment. His Hawken clutched in his left hand, he sprinted in that direction. Hardly had he gone twenty yards when he was joined by Henry Allen and a knot of somber trappers.
Every person in camp had stopped whatever they were doing to stare into the dark woods. Mothers were .gathering children. Men gathered weapons.
Nate saw his son racing toward him and stopped the boy cold with a shake of his head. “Find your ma and sister,” he hollered. “Stay with them until I get back.”
Zach was too disappointed for words. If there were hostile Indians about, he wanted to be in the thick of things. It was the dream of all Shoshone boys his age to one day be great warriors, and the only way to do that was by counting coup in battle. But he obeyed his pa without hesitation. He knew his father was counting on him to safeguard his mother and sister, and he wouldn’t let his pa down.
Nate spied a grizzled mountaineer who was on sentry duty crouched at the edge of the woods. At the same moment, the man spotted him and beckoned urgently. Jogging over, Nate sank to one knee. “See anything, Weiss?”
“Two women with baskets left a short while ago,” the man revealed in his heavy German accent. He jabbed his rifle at a ravine barely visible through the trees. “They went that way to get roots, I think.” Weiss shuddered. “That scream! May I never hear its like again!”
More mountaineers were converging at a brisk clip. Nate picked Henry Allen and four other dependable men to accompany him. To Clive Jenks, he said, “Double the guard on the camp and the stock. Have everyone stand by their guns until you hear from us.”
“What if you don’t make it back?” Jenks wanted to know.
“Then you get promoted,” Nate said. He didn’t mean the remark to be humorous, which was just as well, since no one cracked a smile. Nate rose to hasten off.
“Hold on, King. I’m coming with you.”
None of the mountain men had noticed when Richard Ashworth and his gigantic shadow arrived on the scene. Threading through the group, Ashworth proudly clasped the heavy Hawken he had purchased in St. Louis and announced, “As leader of this expedition, I am responsible for all your lives. If there are dangers to be confronted, then I must confront them. Lead on, my good fellow. I’ll be right behind you.”
Nate hesitated. The New Yorker had no business tagging along; it might get him killed. But there was no time to waste debating the point, so Nate merely nodded once and sped into the brush. A carpet of pine needles enabled him to move as silently as a specter. The other mountaineers did the same. To his mild surprise, Emilio Barzini was equally skilled at moving stealthily. For one so huge, the Sicilian was amazingly swift. Only one of them was making any noise.
Ashworth noticed King shoot him a sour look and wondered why. Seconds later he stepped on a dry twig and several of the other men gave him the same kind of look.
Realizing that he was not being quiet enough, Ashworth slowed. He scoured the ground closely and avoided dry twigs and leaves. For several yards he made no sound whatsoever. Pleased with himself, he glanced up to see if the rest had noticed how well he was doing and discovered that he had fallen at least twenty feet behind. He hurried to catch up.
Nate was skirting a thicket when the crack of another twig to his rear caused his temper to flare. Ashworth’s intentions were honorable, but the man was a bumbling simpleton when it came to stealth. Whatever had attacked the women, whether man or beast, was bound to know they were coming.
The mouth of the ravine appeared. Nate raised a hand and instantly Allen and the rest of the mountaineers halted. Even Emilio Barzini. Only Ashworth took a few more strides before noticing and stopping.
Hunched low, Nate soon found the tracks of the two women. They had been walking side by side, probably chatting, paying scant heed to the woods around them. They should have known better.
The tracks disclosed that one had been a Flathead, the other a Nez Perce. Nate tried to recollect who among the mountaineers were hitched to women from those tribes as he padded on into the ravine. It would have been better to hug either wall in order to avoid the thick brush, but he stayed right on their trail to find them that much sooner.
Their steps meandered from bush to bush. Nate found where the Nez Perce had dug a hole to extract a few roots. Farther on, they had stopped. Both sets of toes had turned toward the right, as if they both had heard something and pivoted to see what it might be. Apparently, they had not been alarmed. Both had gone on, wending among boulders and clusters of plant growth.
A bend in the ravine hid whatever lay beyond. Nate motioned for the those behind him to exercise even greater caution. The Tennessean came forward and glued himself to Nate’s elbow. Together they crept to the turn. Raising their rifles, they peeked around.
Ever since hearing the scream, Nate had feared the worst. He had witnessed so many atrocities over the years that he had come to regard them as part of the normal course of life in the Rockies. So he was inwardly prepared for whatever they might find. Or so he thought.
“Dear God!” Allen breathed.
Nate’s stomach roiled. Bile rose in his throat but he swallowed it. His mouth suddenly went bone dry as he slid warily forward.
It was the Flathead. She had been quite lovely in life, with a healthy bronzed complexion and hair almost as long as Winona’s. In death she was starkly pale, her tresses disheveled.
Part of her paleness could be blamed on the loss of blood. Someone had slit her throat from ear to ear and a large scarlet puddle framed her shoulders and head.
But that was not all her assailants had done. Her beaded dress had been slit from top to hem, then parted as one might part the pages of a book. Next she had been gutted, her intestines yanked out and strewn over her thighs. As if that were not enough, her breasts had been sliced off. Her throat, evidently, had been slit last.
“The vermin would have done more if they’d had the time,” Allen whispered.
Nate was inclined to agree. Her attackers had known the scream would bring rescuers. So they had not dallied any longer than necessary to finish her off.
The Tennessean looped wide to scour for prints as Nate stepped to the body. Almost tenderly, he folded the dress up over the woman’s exposed parts as best he was able. Her wide, blank eyes sent a tiny chill rippling down his back. He could well imagine the same horrid fate befalling Winona. More than ever, he was upset that she had seen fit to come along.
Allen signaled by chittering like a chipmunk.
Going over, Nate studied the trail left by the departing warriors. “Crows!” he growled, wishing he had killed Little Soldier when he had the chance. Scuff marks showed where they had dragged the Nez Perce off. She had fought them, to no avail.
“Want I should go after them?” Allen volunteered.
Just then a loud gasp heralded the arrival of the others. Richard Ashworth was shocked to his core. The only corpses he had ever seen had been immaculately arranged ones at formal funerals. He blinked at the spreading pool of blood, at the pink gap where her throat had been slashed, at twin moist spots on her chest. Dizziness made him stagger. He would have fallen, but he thrust an arm against a boulder for support.
Emilio Barzini was a human statue, his features inscrutable. The ghastly condition of the woman did not effect him in the least. He had seen quite a few mutilated people in his time; he had even mutilated a few himself. Compared to them, the Indian woman was in good shape.
Ashworth tried to tear his gaze from the awful spectacle, but couldn’t. Taking deep breaths to clear his head, he abruptly had to bend and empty his stomach.
Nate waited for their leader to compose himself before speaking up. “Ashworth, I want you and your shadow to get back to camp. Hanson, go with them and fetch a blanket to cover the body. Find her man. He’ll have the final say on what we do with her.”
“That would be Lyle Cornish,” another mountaineer mentioned, and frowned. “Poor fella, he was right fond of that filly. Bought her last year for two horses and a pile of blankets.”
Ashworth did not understand how the trappers could stand there so calmly and coldly talk about the woman as if she had been an article of commerce. He said as much.
Nate glowered. There was only so much stupidity he would tolerate. “You’re a fine one to talk,” he responded. “If it weren’t for you, she would still be alive.”
The accusation jarred Ashworth out of his daze. “What are you blathering about?” he snapped. “I had no more to do with her death than I do with the rising and setting of the sun.”
Nate did not have time to spare but he paused anyway. “That’s what you think, hoss. You were the one who stopped me from making worm food of that weasel back on the Green River.” Ashworth did not see the link. “So?”
Stabbing a finger at the Flathead, Nate could not help but raise his voice in anger. “Crows did this, greenhorn! Do you have any idea what that means?”
Bewildered, Ashworth glanced from one trapper to the next. Their collective accusation hung as thick in the air as smoke over a fire. “Oh,” he said lamely, not knowing what else to say. Then, as the full magnitude of King’s comment sank in, he blurted much louder, “Oh! But I only did what I thought was right! How can you fault me for that?”
Nate nodded at the corpse. “Ask her, mister. She’s the one your good intentions killed.” Turning, he nudged Henry Allen. “We’ll go together.”
Ashworth watched the two mountain men dash off. “My word!” he said, more to himself than anyone else. Looking at Hanson, he asked, “How do they know Little Soldier is involved? It might be other Crows.”
Hanson offered no answer. Nor did any of the other men. Ashworth, stunned, feeling very much the pariah, headed for camp. His legs had never felt so leaden.
Nate glanced back once to insure Ashworth was doing as he had directed. Devoting himself to the tracks, he soon figured out that the Crows had made for a gap high in the right wall.
A talus slope had to be negotiated. Slick with small stones and loose earth, it was as treacherous as ice. Nate climbed carefully, sideways, placing each foot down firmly before lifting the other. He tried not to make any noise but it was hopeless. Dirt and pebbles kept sliding out from under him to rattle to the bottom.
Halfway up there was evidence of a struggle. The Nez Perce had broken free and tried to flee, but had been tackled by two of the Crows. She must have fought them tooth and nail because they had been forced to render her unconscious before they went on. The drag marks were plain as could be, even in the gathering gloom.
It would soon be night. Nate reflected that the women should have waited until morning to go root hunting. Their suppers would not have been all that less tasty without them.
Murky shadow shrouded the gap. It was barely wide enough for a broad-shouldered man like Nate. Holding the Hawken in front of him, he sidled along a serpentine crevice that slanted steadily higher. Presently, he reached the top and peered in all directions before exposing himself.
“They’ve lit a shuck,” Allen guessed.
“Look for sign,” Nate said, and located it himself seconds later. He had to get down on his hands and knees to read it. Six unshod horses had been ground hitched at that spot for quite some time. They had left in a hurry, one bearing more weight than any of the others.
“Heading west,” Allen said thoughtfully. “To throw us off the scent, most likely. Their camp will be to the south, east or north. The big question is which.”
“No, the big question is whether they’re alone or not,” Nate corrected him.
“Only one way to find out,” the Tennessean said.
Nate sighed. More than anything, he wanted to go after the band and save the Nez Perce. But it wouldn’t do to go stumbling around in the dark. Neither of them could track at night without torches, which would enable the Crows to spot them from a long way off. “We’ll have to wait until sunrise.”
“Damn,” Allen said.
“You and me both,” Nate confirmed. Reluctantly, he cradled his rifle and retraced their steps. They arrived at the body just as Hanson and others were bearing it away. A morose mountain man walked beside the slain woman, his callused hand resting on the bloodstained blankets, his rawhide cheeks moistened by tears.
Nate glumly brought up the rear. Since each and every day he had to live with the prospect of Winona facing a similar horrible end, he felt Cornish’s pain as if it were his own.
Fully half the camp was gathered close to the woods when the party emerged. Among them was a young trapper being held by two others. “Where’s my woman? What happened to Yellow Bird?” On seeing the body, he heaved and strained to be let free. Wisely, the men held on.
Virtually all eyes were on Nate as he walked toward the younger mountaineer, whose name, as Nate recalled, was Able Ferris. Terror lent his features a wild aspect.
“Don’t keep me in suspense, King! I can’t stand not knowing! Is she alive or not?”
There was no way around it. Nate put a hand on Ferris’s arm. “The Crows have her. Allen and I tracked them as far as we could. At first light we’ll go after her.”
“First light!” Ferris practically roared. “Are you mad? You know as well as I do what those bastards will do to her before morning. I’m going after her right this minute.”
Ferris tried to take a stride but was restrained once again by his companions.
“No!” one said. “Those devils will lift your hair for certain! We won’t allow it.”
Ferris ignored them and focused on Nate. “They’ll listen to you. Give the word.” He paused, and when Nate offered no comment, he went on, frantic. “For the love of God, you can’t refuse me! What if it were your woman they stole? Would you be content to cool your heels in camp while she was being molested, or worse? No, of course you wouldn’t! Damn it all. Do the right thing!”
A hush fell over the camp. Until that moment, a few people had been talking softly among themselves. But they, and everyone else, now stared at Nate, awaiting his decision. He scanned their intent faces and saw the one enshrined in his heart of hearts. She gave a barely perceptible nod.
“Release him,” Nate said.
One man did but the other balked. “What in tarnation has gotten into you? Do you want both of them to be killed?”
“I want you to let him go,” Nate stressed softly.
The man didn’t miss a beat. “Only if I can go with him.”
Able Ferris, about to run off, looked back hopefully.
This time it was Henry Allen who moved his head a fraction, giving it a curt shake. Nate understood why. The six Crows might not be alone. There could be an entire war party out there somewhere, waiting to strike when the time was ripe. Every man he allowed to go with Ferris meant one less rifleman to defend the camp. “Three men can go with you,” he said. “That’s all we can spare.”
Ferris showed more teeth than a starved cow in a clover patch. “I’m obliged, King. I won’t forget this.”
“Just see that you make it back wearing your hide,” Nate said as the distraught man and his two friends hurried off. Another young trapper joined them en route to the horses.
No one else moved. They awaited orders, which Nate promptly dispensed. All the women and children were to sleep in the middle of the camp, ringed by the fires. Sentries were to keep watch in pairs. Riders were to mingle with the stock in the canyon. No one was to venture outside the camp unless he was notified first.
The expedition members dispersed. Winona, carrying Evelyn, fell into step on Nate’s right as he headed for the tent housing the expedition’s leader. Zach imitated his mother on the left.
Winona could tell her husband was upset. “You did what you had to,” she said to soothe him.
“That won’t make it any easier if none of them come back,” Nate replied.
“I know you. The real reason that you are upset is because you cannot go with them yourself. If you were not needed here, you would already be mounted and ready to ride.”
Nate had to admit that was part of it. The other factor bothering him was being responsible for the welfare of so many people. It was one thing to be second-in-command when everything was going smoothly, quite another to have over sixty lives in the palms of his hands when those lives might be snuffed out like candles in the wind at any moment.
They were almost to the tent when an enormous shape separated from the inky mantle of night and moved to bar their path. Emilio Barzini moved slowly and held his arms out from his sides to show that he meant them no harm. His personal feud with King could wait until the hos-tiles were disposed of. “Mr. Ashworth asked that he not be disturbed until he says differently.”
“That’s too bad, because I need to see him right this second,” Nate said. He brushed on past, tensed for the blow he was sure would land. But none did. The Sicilian made no attempt to stop him. Marching to the flap, he threw it open without ceremony.
Richard Ashworth had just tipped his flask to his mouth, his seventh gulp since plopping down on his cot. He couldn’t shake the appalling image of the butchered Flathead from his mind. It was the single most sickening thing he had ever seen. For the very first time he seriously considered the possibility of the mountaineers dying. Not just one or two or three, but every last one, wiped out by the Blackfoot Confederacy.
Kendall and Allen and others had told him it could happen. They had warned that every soul might be lost, that all he would have to show for his hard work and perseverance would be his bleached bones lying in the middle of nowhere.
Until the instant Ashworth set eyes on the butchered Indian woman, he had dismissed their words of caution as flights of exaggeration based on unfounded fear. The frontiersmen had heard so many tall tales about the dreaded Blackfeet that they had come to believe the tribe was invincible.
Ashworth had seen through their silly pretense. The tribe didn’t exist that could stand up against an organized force of sixty heavily armed men. All he had to do was drill some military precision into the oafish trappers, and they would exterminate any hostiles who stood in their way.
In his more whimsical moments Ashworth had daydreamed of defeating the Blackfoot Confederacy and taking their chiefs back to the States in chains. He’d be hailed as a national hero for ridding the frontier of the Blackfoot scourge.
And now? Ashworth was not so sure. Anyone who could violate a young woman in so hideous a fashion qualified as a savage in the most literal sense of the word. An entire tribe of such brutes could oppose an army. What chance, then, did his sixty have if the Blackfeet waged all-out war on them?
It was enough to give Ashworth nightmares. He was downing some of his precious Scotch to fortify himself for whatever lay ahead when the flap jerked open and in came the man he relied on more than any other to insure his dream came true. Startled by the unwanted intrusion when he had given specific orders that he was not to have any visitors, Ashworth sat up so sharply that he spilled some of the liquor on his chin and shirt.
“What is this?” Ashworth cried, trying to sweep the flask behind him before it was seen. “Doesn’t anyone in this camp know how to respect another person’s privacy? I’d rather be alone.”
“Wait outside,” Nate said over his shoulder to his family. “I won’t be long.” Hunkering, he crossed his arms on his knees and let the New Yorker fidget a few seconds. “Are you worth it?” he finally asked.
The question mystified Ashworth. “Worth it how? Financially? I’ll have you know I’m one of the richest men in New York City.” It was a small lie, he told himself, since he was still quite wealthy on paper. And once the expedition returned bearing more bales of beaver than anyone had ever collected at any one time before, he’d be as rich as he claimed.
“Are you a drunkard?”
Recoiling in indignation, Ashworth said, “How dare you, sir! Yes, I enjoy a few sips now and then, mainly for medicinal purposes. But I can stop drinking any time I want.”
Nate had seen the signs before. He thought of all the people who were depending on the pampered greenhorn, of those whose lives would prosper or be ruined depending on the outcome of the expedition. “What you saw today was only the start of things to come. More of us will die. You have to learn to deal with it like a man, or you might as well pack up and head for St. Louis in the morning.”
“Who says I’m not holding up my end?” Ashworth countered. “Just because I was ill over that poor Indian woman doesn’t mean I’m not fit to lead this expedition. Trust me. I can handle whatever comes along.”
As if to test that claim, gunshots rent the night.