Uttering an oath, Nate wheeled Pegasus and fled. All his efforts to lose the warriors had been in vain, merely so much wasted time. There must, he reasoned, be a shortcut through the hills known only to the Utes, or else the band had ridden like mad and circled around to get out in front of them. Now the warriors were less than two hundred yards distant, and once the gap was narrowed to half that distance the Utes would use their bows.
“Damn their bones!” Cain cried.
Nate was doing some fast thinking. He couldn’t hope to outrun the band, not with Pegasus so tired. His only recourse was to find a convenient spot to make a stand and to do it quickly. But where? There was plenty of forest to hide in, but he wanted a spot where the Utes would have a hard time getting at the two of them. Moments later he saw a bunch of boulders halfway up a hill on his right, and without hesitation he look the slope on the fly, shouting, “Hang on tight!”
Cain’s arms encircled his waist.
The whoops reached a crescendo when the Utes realized his intent.
Pegasus was almost to the boulders when the first arrow streaked out of the blue and smacked into the earth within a yard of the gelding’s neck. A second shaft missed by even less. A third struck a boulder to one side of them. Then they were behind another boulder the size of a Shoshoni lodge, one of five of similar size forming a crude natural fortification, and they could hear more arrows cracking against the impenetrable stone surfaces.
Nate was off the Palouse and at a crack between two of the boulders before Solomon Cain began to lift his leg to climb down. The seven Utes were charging up the slope, spreading out as they did, all with bows in their hands and firing as rapidly as they could nock shafts to their bowstrings. Clearly they were counting on overwhelming Nate and Cain by sheer force of numbers.
Nate had other ideas. He pressed the Hawken to his right shoulder, cocked the hammer, and took a quick bead on the foremost Ute. Barely had the sight settled on the warrior’s brawny upper chest than Nate squeezed off the shot. The ball flew true and the Ute toppled in a whirl of arms and legs.
Darting to the left, to the end of the boulders, Nate drew a flintlock and had it cocked and leveled by the time he stopped to aim at a second Ute. A buzzing shaft smacked into the earth at his feet. Another nipped on his sleeve. Concentrating on the Ute, he fired, then jumped to safety as the warrior crashed to the ground.
The charge was broken. Breaking to the right and the left, the surviving warriors made for the nearest cover, some vaulting from their mounts before the animals stopped moving. In seconds there was no sign of a single Ute, they were so well hidden.
Nate wedged the spent pistol under his belt and began reloading the Hawken, first putting the butt between his feet, then pouring the proper amount of black powder into his palm, measuring by sight. Next he hastily fed the powder from his palm down the muzzle. Swiftly wrapping a ball in a patch, he pushed both into the muzzle with his thumb, then used the ramrod to shove them down on top of the powder. All the while the slope below was eerily quiet. As he replaced the ramrod in its housing he glanced at Pegasus, and was shocked to see Solomon Cain still on the horse, bent forward over the saddle. “Were you hit?” he asked.
“No. It’s my head,” Cain answered. “I can barely think straight. That wallop must have rattled me worse than I figured.”
“Get off and lie down,” Nate directed, stepping forward. He drew the pistol he hadn’t fired yet. “Here. Hold onto this. They might try to rush us again.”
“Thank you,” Cain said, taking hold of the flintlock by the barrel instead of the butt end. “And I want to also thank you for the loan of your horse.”
Nate, already starting to turn away, stopped and glanced up. “My horse?” he said, and too late saw an object sweeping at his head. Instinctively he tried to duck but the blow connected, slamming him backwards, stunning him. His vision swam and he fell to his knees. He heard Pegasus heading up the slope and bellowed, “No!” Solomon Cain paid no heed. It took only five or six seconds for Nate’s vision to return to normal, yet by then the gelding was a dozen yards off and gaining ground with each stride.
From scattered points below came yells of surprise, and several arrows chased the Palouse but lost the race.
Without thinking Nate whipped the Hawken up and sighted on Cain’s back midway between the shoulder blades. All he had to do was pull back the hammer, then squeeze off the shot. Yet he hesitated. Shooting a man in the back went against his grain. In his estimation it was the same as cold-blooded murder, and while he had killed many times to save his life or the lives of those dear to him, he took consolation in the fact he wasn’t a wanton murderer.
His hesitation didn’t last, however. Cain was stealing his horse, leaving him afoot, stranding him in the middle of nowhere with a band of bloodthirsty Utes about to close in. Now was not the time for scruples, he reflected, and his trigger finger tightened.
Cain cut into a stand of trees and disappeared.
Furious, Nate relaxed his finger and moved closer to the boulders. He was hoping to see Pegasus emerge from the evergreens, riderless, and trot back to him. The gelding had a passionate dislike for being ridden by anyone else. If a stranger tried to climb up, the Palouse would shy away, kick or buck. Not this time, though. Apparently, since Cain had already been on Pegasus, had in fact ridden double a considerable distance with Nate, Pegasus had grown accustomed to Cain’s presence and didn’t mind Cain being in the saddle.
A shrill whistle alerted Nate to a more urgent problem.
He crouched and peered through a crack. Some of the Utes were stealthily working their way toward the boulders. He glimpsed two of them, fleeting shadows impossible to shoot. Soon they would be on him.
Nate scowled in anger at the turn of events, girded his legs, and sprinted to the left, going from boulder to boulder until he was in the clear and racing madly for fir trees a score of yards off. The Utes saw him the moment he broke from cover. Shouts broke out, arrows flew all around him. He ran a zigzag course to make it harder for the Utes to hit him. A glance showed all five Utes had darted from concealment and were in hot pursuit. Two of the three abruptly realized they would fare better on horseback and ran for their horses, which had strayed toward the bottom of the slope. He had to reach the trees before they mounted and came after him or his life was forfeit.
His feet fairly flew over the ground. He tried not to think of what would happen should he trip. The Utes were howling, certain they would soon have him in their clutches. The tree line drew closer. And closer. Now he could see the individual leaves and the knots on the trunks. Just a few more feet and he would be there!
A speeding shaft caught him high on the right shoulder and spun him completely around. Somehow he retained his balance and his momentum carried him forward into the trees. He collided with a trunk, bounced off, and stood still, fighting off the shock that threatened to numb his mind and seal his doom.
Waves of agony washed over him, eclipsing the shock, restoring his senses. The bloody point of the slender arrow jutted several inches out from his throbbing shoulder and he could see red drops spattering onto his shirt. His hand still held the Hawken, but his fingers were beginning to feel numb so he reached across and took the rifle in his left hand. Then he ran.
The fleetest Utes were within fifteen yards of the tree line.
He sprinted for all he was worth, racing deeper and deeper into the forest. The harder his legs pumped, the faster he bled, and he worried about weakening from the loss of blood. It was a risk he had to take. He dared not slow down until he lost the warriors. If he lost them.
At length his legs began to tire. A look back showed that he had temporarily outdistanced the Utes, who must have lost sight of him and would now be tracking him down. He slowed, then slanted to the right, heading up the slope where he might find a spot where he could try and hold the Utes off. If a fight came he wanted the advantage of the high ground.
Eventually the trees gave way to a rocky stretch of slope. There he exercised extreme care, jumping from stone to stone wherever possible to leave as few tracks as possible. He came to a place where erosion had worn out a shallow gully and into this he sank, lying on his left side with the Hawken in front of him.
Now he could catch his breath and take stock. The wound had stopped bleeding but hurt abominably. He knew the arrow must come out, and the sooner the better. Gripping the shaft below the point, he clamped his front teeth together, bunched his muscles, and exerted all the pressure he could. The shaft trembled, aggravating the torment. He could feel sweat covering his forehead. The veins on his neck were standing out. And suddenly the arrow broke with a loud snap.
Nate tossed the bloody tip from him in disgust, then twisted and tried to get a grip on the part of the shaft protruding from his back. His slick palm slipped twice, so he wiped it clean on his leggins and tried again. This time he succeeded in taking hold, but strain as he might he did no more than move the shaft a fraction of an inch. How was he ever going to get it out?
Letting go, he sank down, his brow in the dirt, and took deep breaths. He was in the fix of his life. Sooner or later the Utes would track him to the gully. Should he stay and fight or keep running?
Shouts broke out below. Propping himself on his elbow, he saw a pair of Utes on horseback near the cluster of boulders where he had made his stand. They were yelling and pointing at the crest of the hill. Shifting, he discovered the reason. Solomon Cain had reached the top and stopped to gaze down. The Utes took off after him.
So now there were three to contend with, Nate reflected. Sinking back, he accidentally bumped the arrow against the side of the gully and grimaced at the fresh pain that engulfed him. His right arm tingled and nausea gnawed at him.
He had to keep climbing. Grabbing the Hawken, he rose awkwardly and scanned the slope. Cain had vanished and the two Utes were halfway to the crest. Nothing moved in the forest, which meant little. The three remaining Utes might already know where he was hiding and be waiting for him to show himself.
Nate stepped out of the gully, hunched over, and continued climbing. He felt sluggish and had extreme difficulty concentrating. Fearful he might collapse and pass out, he hurried as best he was able. Constantly he checked the forest below, and also noted the progress of the two Utes going after Cain, both of whom soon went over the top. He saw them go with mixed feelings. On the one hand he wanted them to overtake Cain and give the bastard a dose of his own medicine, but on the other he was worried about them taking Pegasus.
He went thirty yards before his legs gave out. One second he was plodding steadily upward in grim determination. The next his face was in the dirt and he was inhaling dust. Angered by the betrayal of his own body, he rolled onto his back, then managed to sit up. Nearby was a waist-high boulder, the only cover available.
Using the stock of the Hawken as a crutch, Nate got himself behind the boulder. Sitting with his back to it, he closed his eyes and struggled with the tide of exhaustion on the verge of overwhelming him.
When would he learn? he asked himself. How long would it be before he realized he couldn’t blindly trust every stranger he came across in his travels? Several times, now, his unthinking trust had jeopardized his life. He had to do as his best friend and mentor Shakespeare McNair advised, “Be neighborly but keep your hand on your gun.”
The sunlight warmed his face, making him drowsy. His eyelids fluttered as he valiantly strived to stay awake. But the ordeal proved too much for him. A black cloud seemed to consume his consciousness and he faded into oblivion.
~*~
He awoke to the sensation of small drops of moisture striking his face. Disoriented, he sat with his eyes closed, trying to recall where he was and what had happened. In a rush of memories he recalled everything just as thunder boomed in the distance.
Nate blinked and looked all around him. He was amazed to see twilight shrouded the Rocky Mountains because it meant he’d slept for hours. Miraculously, the Utes hadn’t found him. More drops struck his cheeks and he stared up at the roiling clouds sweeping past overhead. The storm he had expected was almost upon him.
Lightning lanced the sky to the west, emphasizing how exposed he was to the elements. The last place he wanted to be was out in the open when the storm unleashed its full fury. Wounded and weak as he was, a thorough soaking might be all that was needed to render him helplessly ill.
Bracing his left hand on the boulder, he shoved to his feet. The Utes, evidently, were long gone since their horses were no longer to be seen. He headed for an isolated stand of trees to the east, and just reached them when the rain changed from tiny drops into great big ones and the heavens rumbled mightily.
Finding a patch of undergrowth, he dropped to his hands and knees and crawled into the brush, parting branches with his rifle so they wouldn’t catch on the arrow. There, partially sheltered, he lay flat and listened to the howling wind.
He would be going nowhere for a while. Resting his chin on his left forearm, he contemplated the folly that had led him into the fix he was in. His never-ending search for beaver had taken him far from his usual haunts, where the beaver were harder to find with each passing trapping season. He needed somewhere new to trap, somewhere where the animals hadn’t been depleted. And since few whites had ever ventured into Ute country, he’d figured he should be able to find an ideal locale there.
If he’d had any brains he would have listened to Winona and gone into the remote country to the northwest of their cabin, not to the southwest into Ute land. Now the harm was done, in more ways than one.
The rain was pouring down, the wind curling the saplings and shaking the branches of the taller trees. Some of the drops got through to him, but not enough to make him uncomfortable. A dank scent filled his nostrils. Drowsiness returned but he resisted an urge to sleep.
Since he was stuck there, he might as well make the best of it, he decided. Drawing his knees up under him, he lowered his forehead to the ground, then reached back with both hands and grasped the arrow. His right shoulder pulsed with exquisite anguish, which he shut from his mind. The arrow had to come out. To leave it in much longer invited infection.
Grunting, he pulled on the shaft with all of his strength. The arrow stubbornly budged a fraction of an inch but no more. Again he tried, working the shaft from side to side to loosen it, and felt fresh blood trickle down his chest. He broke out in perspiration from head to toe.
Repeatedly he pulled on the arrow, and gradually it began to slide out. After each strenuous exertion he had to rest for a few minutes. Then he had another go at it. His buckskin shirt around the entry and exit wounds was soaked with blood when, to his joy, the shaft slid free.
Exhausted again, he slumped down and stared at the bloody arrow. He hadn’t thought to examine the barbed point earlier to see if it had been coated with poison, which could prove a fatal oversight. Sometimes Indians dipped the heads of their shafts in rattlesnake venom or dead animals. Contact with warm blood released the poison into the system and death was a slow, agonizing affair.
Nate put the arrow down and sat up. Beyond the thicket the storm was in full swing. Lightning lit the sky again and again. More rain was reaching him, yet so far he had avoided being drenched. He quickly collected a handful of small, dry twigs and dry weeds. Forming them into a compact pile with a depression in the middle, he leaned over the pile to further protect it from the rain, then opened his bullet pouch and took out his oval fire steel, his flint, and punk. Placing the punk in the depression, he set about producing sparks by striking the flint with slicing blows of the fire steel. Soon he had the punk burning. The tiny flames spread to the grass. By adding larger branches he got a small fire going in no time.
Now came the hard part. Replacing the steel and flint in his pouch, he removed his shirt. Then he pulled the Hawken’s ramrod out and held the ramrod over the flames until the heated end practically glowed red-hot. He was ready. Aligning the hot end with the exit wound in his shoulder, he bit down on a thick piece of branch, held his breath, and shoved the ramrod into the hole. Searing pain shot through him. He could smell his own burning flesh. His courage faltered and he almost released the ramrod, but didn’t. The wound had to be cauterized. If the point of the arrow had been poisoned this was the only way of saving himself.
The ramrod went halfway and became stuck. Yanking it out, he once more applied the end to the fire. A job half-finished was no job at all. Shortly, the ramrod was hot enough and he stuck it into the hole. This time the task was easier and he poked the ramrod all the way through, unable to resist a shudder at the uncomfortable sensation.
Once he had the ramrod out, he sank down onto his left side, limp and weak, drained of all energy. He lay still, hearing the crackling fire and the intermittent crash of thunder. If he survived until morning, he would be out of danger. His next priority would be to regain his strength. Then what?
There could be only one answer. He was going after Solomon Cain. He would get Pegasus back. And he would insure that Cain never stole another horse from anyone else.
~*~
A cold breeze gave him gooseflesh and revived him. His fire had died. Sluggishly, he sat up, realizing the rain had stopped. The sky was silent. Craning his head, he peered through the branches and spotted twinkling stars.
He’d slept again! Yet he was far from being refreshed. Donning his shirt, he curled up into a ball, his hands between his legs for warmth, and permitted sleep to claim him once more.
When next Nate opened his eyes the sun ruled the heavens. He rose to his knees to gingerly inspect his shoulder. There was no trace of bleeding, no evidence of swelling or discoloration. Apparently the cauterization had been successful.
He checked the Hawken because he couldn’t remember if he’d reloaded it or not, and found he had. The pistol, though, needed loading, so he did so before he turned and crawled from his hiding place. Squinting in the bright light, he slowly rose and adjusted his knife and his tomahawk so they hung properly.
Although he could hardly wait to pursue Cain, he knew he needed nourishment first. His jerked venison, pemmican, and the other food Winona had packed for him were all in a parfleche on Pegasus. To eat he had to find game.
Cocking the Hawken and touching the stock to his left shoulder, he hiked toward the bottom of the hill, deliberately making as much noise as he could as he went from brush patch to brush patch. When, minutes later, a rabbit bolted to the west, he was ready. Or thought he was. For he found that holding the Hawken in exactly the opposite way as he normally did and sighting along the barrel with his left eye instead of his right was an ungainly experience. He couldn’t seem to get a bead on his breakfast, and was about to lower the rifle when the rabbit helped him out by stopping to stare at him. A second later a ball ripped through its brain.
Nate dashed over to the twitching animal, then scoured the hill and the surrounding countryside. If the Utes were still in the area they might have heard the shot. It would be wise to head elsewhere to cook his meal. Accordingly, he reloaded the rifle as fast as he could with his right arm being so stiff and sore, then picked up the rabbit and made for the crest.
At the top he halted in dismay on finding the barren earth a blank slate. The storm had washed out every last hoof print. Now he had no way of tracking Cain, of reclaiming Pegasus.
Simmering with frustration, Nate hiked down into dense woodland. For over a mile he pressed on until he came to a clearing flanked by a gurgling stream. There he slaked his parched throat, then built a small fire directly under overspreading tree limbs so the branches would disperse what little smoke the fire gave off.
Gutting and skinning the rabbit was easily accomplished. He sharpened a stick, jabbed the pointed end through several pieces of raw meat, and held the makeshift spit over the low flames. The tantalizing aroma the rabbit soon gave off made his mouth water in anticipation.
Presently the meat was cooked enough to suit him and he took a bite, savoring the delicious taste. Closing his eyes, he chewed slowly, knowing he might become sick if he bolted his food. While he had often enjoyed rabbit in the past, it had never ranked as one of his favorites. He much preferred deer and panther meat, especially the latter, which was the most flavorful meat in all creation according to those privileged to eat some. But this rabbit, he mused, had to be about the best meat he’d ever had.
Suddenly Nate froze. He thought he’d heard the soft pad of stealthy footfall. Gulping down his mouthful of meat, he opened his eyes and swiveled around to find a lone Ute stalking toward him with an arrow already trained on his back.