Out of curiosity, Winona asked Wesley, “What are your plans for my husband and me?”
“That depends on you. Give me your word that if I let you go, you and your husband will head for the mountains and leave me free to collect the bounty on the darkies, and I’ll cut you loose.”
Winona hid her surprise. “You would trust me to do as you want?”
“I don’t trust most people as far as I can heave them. But I’ve watched you close. For an Injun, a squaw, no less, you have more sand than most.”
“I am flattered,” Winona said. “And sad. The Worths are my friends. I cannot abandon them.”
“Then you can’t blame me for what’s in store. I gave you your chance and you refused to take it.” Wesley gigged his horse and rode to the front of the line with Trumbo and Olan. Cranston, Bromley and Kleist were at the rear.
Winona slowed and whispered to Emala, “We must try to get away the first chance we have.”
“What are you talking about? We’re tied and on foot. They have guns and are on horses. We can’t get away unless you can help us all sprout wings.”
“I didn’t expect this of you.”
“I have my family to think of. I don’t want them harmed.”
“We must try,” Winona insisted.
Samuel raised his head and said so only they could hear, “Count me in. I’ll do what ever it takes.”
“Got your gumption back, did you?” Emala said. “Here I thought you gave up.”
“Not this side of the grave. I’m over my sulk.”
“What is it my husband read to me once? I remember. ‘Give us liberty or give us death.’ ”
“Lord, help us,” Emala said.
Winona smiled encouragement at Samuel. It was good to see him restored to his old self. Chickory and Randa would do what they had to, as well. But that begged the question: what? They were unarmed and bound. How were they to prevail over six killers bristling with weapons?
The answer came in the form of a whinny.
Chapter Thirteen
Nate King loved his wife more than anything. He loved her more than life. He loved her so deeply, she was part of him. He loved her so devotedly that when other women showed an interest, as had happened a few times, he politely but firmly made it as clear as clear could be that Winona was his one and only, now and forever.
Some men would call that silly. Some would call it stupid. Some would say that only a fool gave himself so completely to one woman. Some would deny there was even a thing like “love,” and say that anyone who believed there was was fooling himself.
But Nate knew his heart and his mind, and when he was with Winona his heart was filled to overflowing with affection and his mind was filled with a deep sense of peace.
Love was real. Love was two hearts beating as one. Love was always caring, and always being there when the one you loved needed you.
Put more simply, Nate had found that Winona was his and he was hers, and that was how it was.
So to hear Harrod warn of what the slave hunters would do to her if he didn’t give himself up tore at Nate as nothing else could. It hurt him where he could be hurt the most: in his heart. He was tempted, strongly tempted, to do as Harrod wanted. But a tiny urge at the back of his mind cautioned him not to.
If Harrod was right and the slave hunters had Winona, then it was up to Nate to stay free, and to free her. And then to deal with the slave hunters.
No one hurt those Nate cared for without paying in the same coin. No one harmed his family—or put any of them in harm’s way—without being held accountable.
As Nate lay in the thicket listening to Peleg Harrod walk off, every fiber of his being burned with anger. Not so much at Harrod, although he’d liked the man and to a degree trusted him, despite Winona’s misgivings. No, Nate was angry with himself for not heeding her. She’d warned him and he hadn’t listened.
Nate renewed his attack on the knots. He pried and bit and tugged until his gums were bleeding and his whole mouth was sore. Bit by bit, slow degree by slow degree, he loosened the first of the knots. It took much too long. Daylight ebbed. The sun was on the rim of creation when the first knot came undone. Nate immediately went to work on the next. Either it wasn’t as tight or he had learned from the first, but he got it undone in a tenth of the time.
Nate sat up and rubbed his wrists. There was still the rope around his ankles but it proved to be easy with his hands free.
He crawled out of the thicket and stood. A cool breeze fanned his face.
Night had fallen. The meat eaters were coming out of their dens and hidden places to prowl for prey. They filled the wild with their cries: coyotes yipped, a fox uttered a piercing shriek, to the west a grizzly snorted, and somewhere out on the prairie wolves howled.
Nate was no fool. He had lived in the wilderness long enough to know that a weapon meant the difference between living and dying. Any weapon would do. A lance. A bow. The only thing was, Harrod had taken his knife and his tomahawk, as well as his guns. Still, there were ways.
Nate made his way toward the Platte River. The myriad of stars lent a pale glow to the woodland. He could see to avoid trees and logs but not far enough ahead to tell whether an enemy, white or red, two-legged or four-legged, was slinking up on him
He came to the bank. Below, the river gurgled and burbled. He slid down, sank to his knees, and plunged in his hands. The water was wonderfully cool on his skinned wrists. It was also delicious. He drank his fill, then splashed some on his ankles.
Stones littered the bottom. Groping about, he found one he liked. It was the size of his fist, thick on one side and thin on the other. He chipped at the thin edge with another rock until it was sharp enough to suit him.
Next, Nate needed a downed limb. Preferably one about six feet long, fairly straight, that didn’t require a lot of trimming. It took a while but he found one. He sharpened it as he hiked.
Harrod was long gone off to the east, back to those who had hired him. Nate bent his steps in the same direction. He figured—he hoped—the slave hunters weren’t far away. A couple of hours at the most, he reckoned, and he would reach their camp.
Brimming with wrath and confidence, Nate set a rapid pace. He felt no fear of the inky woods. The wilds were his home, after all.
But that didn’t mean Nate became reckless. When a bear grunted nearby, he climbed a tree. Splashing told him the bear was in the river, after fish or frogs probably, or cavorting in bear fashion. He heard another grunt, and a mew, and was doubly glad he had climbed the tree.
It was a mother bear with a cub. No animal was more fiercely protective of her young. One whiff of his scent and she would tear down the tree to get at him.
Then Nate saw them, inky bulks with small shadows, wading the Platte. He stayed put until they reached the far side and disappeared into the undergrowth.
Descending, Nate took up his quest. He eagerly scanned the dark ahead, but there wasn’t so much as a glimmer of orange.
By his reckoning an hour passed.
The possibility of being attacked was never far from Nate’s mind. Twice something big crashed through the brush, and he crouched with his spear at the ready. In both instances, what ever it was ran off.
A second hour crawled on the footsteps of the first, and there was still no sign of a campfire. Apparently the slaver hunters were farther away than he thought.
Nate had a disturbing thought. What if they were days away? By the time he got to their camp, they would be long gone, well on their way to the Mississippi.
He would give anything for a horse.
The Big Dipper arced cross the sky until its position told him the time was close to midnight. He was sore and tired and hungry, but he wasn’t about to stop this side of the grave.
“I’m coming, Winona.”
To Nate’s surprise, he got an answer: a bestial growl. Halting, he held his spear low in front of him, the sharpened tip angled up and out. He balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to lunge or spring aside.
What ever growled was feline. Cat sounds were different from wolf and coyote sounds.
Gleaming emerald eyes confirmed his hunch. They were fixed on him with inhuman intensity. The size and shape could only be one animaclass="underline" a cougar. A hungry cougar.
“Try and you die,” Nate said.
A lot of animals ran at the sound of a human voice. Not this one. Snarling, it stalked closer.
Just what Nate needed. He stamped a foot and shouted, but it had no effect. He roared as a bear would roar, but the cat had figured out he wasn’t a bear. He whooped. He whistled. He shrieked. In frustration he even tried a few cuss words.
A twig snapped to Nate’s right, but he paid it no mind. He mustn’t take his eyes off the cougar. The moment he broke eye contact, it could charge.
The vegetation on the other side of the trail rustled, and despite the cougar, Nate gave a quick look—and felt his blood change to ice.
A second pair of slanted eyes, nearly identical to the first, were peering back at him.
There wasn’t just one cougar.
There were two.