Only The Strong Page 13

  Emala chortled. “Nate King ain’t no fool. He’d know it was a trap and hold back until dark.”

  “Could be.” Wesley pointed at Trumbo and Kleist. “I want the two of you to backtrack half a mile or so. Do it careful. Look for sign of the mountain man and his squaw.”

  “We’ll fetch our horses.” Trumbo went to turn.

  “Did I say to ride?” Wesley snapped. “Go on foot. That way you won’t leave sign telling King we’re expecting him.”

  “Oh. You’re right. I didn’t think again.”

  “That’s what I’m for.” Wesley turned and squatted next to Samuel. “Your wrists and ankles are bleeding. I told you not to try to get free, but you didn’t listen.”

  “What do you care?”

  “Not a damn bit. But I have a job to do and it helps me do the job faster and easier if you’re not weak from loss of blood.” Wesley regarded him thoughtfully. “Your woman says that you and the Kings are friends. Is that true?”

  Samuel had to fight the pain to say, “I expect as we are now, yes. Why do you want to know?”

  Emala piped up with, “They like us so much, they’ve invited us to come live in their valley.”

  “This bothers me more and more. If they like you so damn much, where the hell are they?” Wesley rose. “We’ll spend the night here. If the Kings don’t show by morning, we’ll head out.”

  Samuel thought of the suffering his wife and children would go through. “You’re not goin’ to keep us staked out like this all night, are you?”

  “No.” Wesley drew his knife and cut a strip from Samuel’s shirt. “Open your mouth.”

  “I’ll be damned if I will.”

  Wesley jabbed the tip of the blade against Samuel’s neck. “You think you can sass me because I want you alive for the money. But there’s nothing that says I can’t chop off a finger or toe. Or how about if I feed you your daughter’s nose or an ear?”

  “I hate you,” Samuel said. But he opened his mouth. His piece of shirt tasted of sweat.

  “Why didn’t we gag them earlier?” Olan asked. “They’d have yelled their heads off to warn the Kings.”

  “That they would,” Wesley agreed. “All of them, all at the same time, making so much noise, the Kings wouldn’t hear us close in for the kill.”

  Olan chuckled. “Trumbo is always saying about how you’re as slick as axle grease, and I have to agree. Could be I’d like to work with you steady if you can give me your word my poke won’t ever go empty.”

  “Equal shares is how we split the bounties. Not many runaways are worth as much as this bunch. But I’ve never had less than a hundred dollars in my poke in all the years I’ve been chasing black sheep.”

  Emala had put up with all she was going to. “We’re not sheep! We’re human beings!”

  Wesley leaned down and pinched the fleshy part of her upper arm so hard, she cried out. “It riles me when your kind claim to be the same as me. Take a good look, cow. I’m human, and my skin is white. Your skin is black. That makes you something else.”

  “How can you think that? How can you be so twisted inside?”

  “You just can’t stand to hear the truth, you lump of ugliness.” Wesley cut a strip from her dress and bunched it up. “Open wide.”

  Emala couldn’t say what made her do it. When he started to stuff the gag between her teeth, she bit down with all her might. Blood spurted and bone crunched. She swallowed some of the blood and nearly gagged.

  Suddenly Olan was there. The stock of his rifle rose and fell.

  “Emala!” Samuel cried.

  “Ma!” Randa wailed.

  Chickory was dumbstruck with horror.

  Wesley clutched his hand, grit his teeth and hissed, “The bitch! The miserable bitch!” He pressed his bleeding finger to his side and grimaced. “First my teeth. Now this.”

  Samuel stared aghast at the blood trickling from his wife’s brow. “If you’ve busted her skull, so help me—”

  “As thick as her head is?” Olan responded, and laughed. “Hell, I’m lucky I didn’t bust my rifle.”

  “In all the years I’ve been at this,” Wesley said, “no runaways have ever given me as much trouble. And I have a feeling the worst is yet to come.”

  “The mountain man?”

  “And his squaw. Don’t forget her.”

  “She’s female, for God’s sake.”

  “She’s a red savage, and she will kill if she has to.” Wesley gazed to the west. “As surely as anything, they’ll try to stop us. I don’t know when and I can’t say how, but they will.”

  “Let them. Nate King won’t be so lucky next time.” Olan fingered the hilt of his knife. “Me, I’m looking forward to making a tobacco pouch out of his wife’s hide.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  A bee buzzed past Emala and she gave a slight start. Ordinarily she would be near panic. Bee stings hurt like the dickens and made her puff up something awful. But she was too upset to panic. Her world had come crashing down around her. Not only that, her head was pounding. Not as bad as the night before but bad enough that she could hardly think.

  The slave hunters were strung out in a line. Bromley was in the lead, his shotgun across his saddle. Next came Wesley and Trumbo. Kleist was leading the Worths’ mounts. Last came Olan, in charge of the pack horse, whistling to himself.

  For the hundredth time Emala tested the rope that bound her wrists. It was as tight as ever. She bit off a cuss word. She didn’t believe in swearing, and she was doing her best to convince Samuel not to, but Samuel was a man and men had been put on earth to try female patience.

  “Lord, preserve us,” Emala breathed.

  “What did you say?” Samuel twisted around. “Are you all right? How are you holdin’ up?”

  Emala couldn’t get over how devoted he had acted all day. He hung on her every word and was always asking how she was doing. It made her suspicious. When men are nice, they have a secret reason. “I’m fine,” she fibbed. “But thank you for askin’.” If he could be polite, so could she.

  They neared a bend in the Platte. The river, usually shallow, deepened and widened into a series of pools. Finches and sparrows chirped in the brush. Warblers sang high in the trees. Squirrels scampered from limb to limb, and a long-eared rabbit bounded off. Does pricked their ears and fled with their white tails erect. In one of the pools a large beaver swam toward a mound of sticks.

  Emala couldn’t get over it all. So many creatures, it was the Garden of Eden all over again. It was strange how things worked out, she reflected. Here she had been dragged against her will from her life as a slave, only to find Samuel had been right and being a slave was no life at all. She wouldn’t ever admit it, but she loved being free, loved it more than anything except her children and possibly Samuel.

  And just when Emala was starting to savor the joy of being alive, along came the slave hunters and their hired killers to drag her and hers back to the life she despised.

  Life just wasn’t fair.

  “No, it sure ain’t,” Samuel declared.

  Emala realized she had spoken aloud.

  “If only we’d made it to the mountains, they’d never have found us. We’d be free forever.”

  Wesley slowed and waited for Samuel to come up alongside him. “I heard that. The price on your heads, you’d have hunters after you from now until you’re six feet under.”

  “Surely they wouldn’t follow us all the way to the Rocky Mountains?” Emala said, surprised.

  “How long before it sinks in? Five thousand dollars is more than most men make in ten years.”

  They started around the bend. Trees hid the next stretch of trail. Emala was surprised when Wesley suddenly drew rein and rose in the stirrups. She was even more surprised when she saw why.

  Bromley and Trumbo had stopped. They had to.

  The trail ahead was blocked. A pine tree had fallen across it. That wasn’t unusual. Trees were felled all the time by high winds or heavy rain or simple a
ge.

  “Go around,” Wesley commanded.

  Bromley nodded and jabbed his heels. To the left of the fallen tree were briars, so he reined to the right to pass between the downed tree and a stand of saplings. There was a loud crunch, as if his horse had stepped on a branch, and a sapling whipped up off the ground with a whoosh. Bromley saw it and tried to dodge but he was too slow.

  Emala was flabbergasted by what happened next.

  One of the sapling’s limbs had been trimmed and sharpened to a point. The tip lanced into Bromley’s left side, and he cried out. Then the sapling whipped back again, pulling Bromley with it. The spear jerked free, spraying blood, and Bromley sprawled onto the ground and clutched at the spurting hole.

  “Help him!” Wesley roared.

  Trumbo, stunned, recovered his wits and swung down. He dashed to Bromley, who was flopping wildly about and swearing like a madman. Trumbo grabbed Bromley’s shoulder, but Bromley pushed his hand away and went on thrashing.

  “Oh, God! Not like this! Don’t let it be like this!”

  Wesley and the others swung down. Kleist dashed over to Trumbo, yelling at Bromley, “Lie still so we can see how bad it is!”

  Emala never liked the sight of blood. So much was pumping from Bromley, it about made her sick. But God help her, she couldn’t look away.

  Trumbo and Kleist both got hold of Bromley just as he arched his head to the sky, let out a strangled gasp and went limp.

  “Bromley?” Kleist said, and shook him. He put his ear to the bloody shirt and then felt for a pulse. “He’s dead!”

  “There must be redskins hereabouts,” Trumbo declared.

  Wesley went over to the sapling and stared at the blood dripping from the sharpened limb. “Injuns, hell. This is Nate King’s doing. His and that squaw of his.”

  “But how?” Trumbo said. “They’re on foot and we have horses. How’d they get ahead of us?”

  “Only one way they could have,” Wesley surmised. “They didn’t stop at night like we did.”

  Olan pushed Trumbo aside and knelt next to Bromley. “Damn them to hell. Brom and me were pards for years.”

  “We need to bury him,” Kleist said.

  Wesley shook his head. “Like hell. That could be just what the Kings want us to do. Let down our guard so they can jump us. Take Bromley’s shotgun and his knife and what ever else is worth taking and we’ll light a shuck.”

  “You just hold on,” Olan said. “He was our pard. We owe it to him to plant him so the critters don’t feed on his remains.”

  “Maybe you want them to feed on yours?”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “I’m reminding you.” Wesley motioned at the woods. “The Kings are out there.”

  Olan and Kleist and Trumbo all trained their rifles on the greenery, and the latter rumbled deep in his barrel chest, “We should go in after them.”

  “And have them pick you off before you get ten feet? No.” Wesley hefted his rifle. “Do as I told you.”

  They continued east, Kleist out in front, Olan once more at the rear, leading Bromley’s mount and the pack animals. Presently they came to another bend.

  Emala was watching ducks out on the water. She didn’t realize those in front of her had halted until her own horse stopped. “I’ll be!” she exclaimed.

  Another pine tree lay across the trail. To the left was the river bank, to the right high grass.

  “That tree didn’t fall by itself,” Trumbo said.

  “You’re learning,” Wesley said. “We won’t fall for the same trick twice. Swing to the left along the bank and stay shy of the trees.”

  Kleist nodded and reined to the left. His dun stepped on the bank—and the bank gave way. There were loud snapping sounds, and the earth caved in. The sharpened ends of stout branches came poking out. The dun squealed. Kleist, with remarkable agility, threw himself clear of the falling horse. He rolled and landed with a huge splash on his back in the water.

  That the bank had collapsed startled Emala no end. She realized someone had dug it out and rigged sections of sod over a frame of tree branches so the bank appeared solid when it wasn’t.

  The dun was trying to stand but couldn’t; it had been impaled by several of the branches.

  Kleist lay in the water half submerged, his eyes wide, his mouth moving but no words coming out.

  “What in the world?” Emala said. Then she saw the sharpened ends of stakes sticking through his chest and belly. The stakes had been imbedded in the bottom below the bank.

  “Kleist!” Olan roared, and raced past the Worths.

  “Watch out!” Wesley shouted. “The Kings might be nearby!”

  They were.

  Nate and Winona were flat on their bellies on the other side of the downed pine. Nate cautiously rose partway, a spear in each hand. He peered over the pine and saw Olan vaulting down the collapsed bank to get to Kleist. Wesley and Trumbo were still on their horses.

  Ducking, Nate nodded at Winona and whispered, “It worked. There are three of them left. Here we go.” Staying low, he ran to the end of the downed pine farthest from the river.

  Winona was a step behind him. She held shorter spears, their ends sharpened and hardened in a fire.

  Nate didn’t slow. He swept around the end of the tree and flew toward the nearest rider, who happened to be Trumbo. The bearded bear didn’t hear him until Nate was almost on top of him.

  Bellowing in alarm, Trumbo spun in the saddle and went to bring up his rifle.

  Nate drove one of his spears up and in. It was like stabbing into clay. Trumbo grunted and grabbed the spear, and Nate let go. Whirling, he streaked toward Wesley.

  Winona veered to attack Olan. He was almost to Kleist, yelling Kleist’s name over and over. As for Kleist, he wasn’t moving; his blood was staining the water dark.

  Winona came to the edge of the bank and launched herself into the air.

  “Olan! Behind you!” Wesley shouted.

  Olan turned just as Winona slammed into him. She stabbed at his chest, but somehow she missed. They tumbled and rolled in the river. Instantly, she was up, both spears ready. Olan had lost his rifle, but he came up clawing for a pistol.

  Nate’s eyes were locked on Wesley like an eagle’s on prey. He resisted an impulse to see how his wife was doing and cocked his arm. He was only four or five feet from Wesley’s horse when Wesley whipped around, leveled his Kentucky and fired from the hip. Nate felt a burning sensation, and then he was close enough. He thrust up and in, as he had done with Trumbo. But where Trumbo was big and slow, Wesley was sinewy and lightning-quick. Wesley twisted aside and swung the rifle stock at Nate’s head. Dodging, Nate grabbed the rifle and wrenched it with all his strength.

  Wesley let go, but now he was half-on and half-off his horse, with only one foot in a stirrup. He snatched at his waist and jerked the flintlock clear.

  Nate had a spear in one hand and the Kentucky rifle in the other. He swung the rifle, clubbing Wesley’s forearm, and Wesley’s lost hold of the pistol. Dropping the rifle, Nate seized Wesley’s shirt and unhorsed him, slamming him down hard. A foot caught Nate in the gut. Nate drew back and raised the spear, but another kick racked his knee with pain and his leg nearly buckled.

  Over in the water, Winona stabbed Olan in the hand. He howled with rage as the flintlock plopped into the water, and then he backpedaled, cursing her fiercely. She went after him, stabbing with both spears again and again. She caught him in the shoulder. Another thrust drew blood from his thigh.

  Baring his teeth, Olan growled like an animal and resorted to his knife. “I’ll kill you, bitch! Kill you! Kill you!” He was on her in a rush.

  Nate saw his wife’s mortal struggle out of the corner of his eye, but he couldn’t go to her aid. He had his own situation to deal with. Wesley had regained his feet and pulled a tomahawk from behind his back.

  It was Nate’s tomahawk, the one the slave hunters took from him days before.

  Wesley crouched, snarl
ing, “You’ve been a thorn in my side long enough.”

  Nate didn’t respond. He parried with the spear, shifted, countered a swing that would have cleaved his head like a melon. Wesley was grinning, the epitome of confidence and raw vitality. Nate barely avoided having his thigh opened. They circled, eyeing each other, each waiting for the other to strike.

  Nate had his back to the river. He heard Olan curse, and loud splashing. Wesley glanced past him, and his grin widened.

  “Your squaw is dead, and you’re next.”

  God help him, Nate had to look. It was Winona, the woman he loved, the woman who was his heart made flesh. He looked and froze in dismay.

  Winona and Olan were down, locked together, roiling the water, the tip of Olan’s knife inches from her throat.

  “Mr. King!” Emala screamed.

  Nate jerked back, not sure where the blow was coming from. The razor edge of the tomahawk flashed past his eyes, so close that it nicked the bridge of his nose. He thrust hard and true, his spear penetrating just below Wesley’s jaw and going completely through and out the other side.

  Wesley gripped the spear and staggered. He tried to say something, but all that came from his mouth, and his nose besides, was blood and more blood. The tomahawk fell.

  Grabbing it, Nate whirled and raced for the river.

  Winona was on her back, struggling to keep her face above the surface. She couldn’t see Olan well because of the water in her eyes, and she could scarcely catch her breath because of the water in her mouth and throat. She tried to hold on to Olan’s wrist so he couldn’t stab her but he suddenly tore free. Winona blinked, and cold steel gleamed high.

  “I’ve got you now, you bitch!”

  There was another gleam, above Olan. Before his knife could descend, the second gleam arced down, and Olan’s face did an amazing thing: It split in half, from the crown to the chin, one eyeball and one cheek going one way and the other eyeball and cheek the opposite way. From out of the cleft oozed blood and brains, and more.

  Nate grabbed the back of Olan’s shirt and flung him away. Bending, he hooked his arm under Winona and levered her to her feet. Stricken with fear, he looked for wounds but saw none. “Are you all right?”