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 age.
“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.