Louisa heard him. She sought to arrest her slide, but the stones tore at her palms and fingers. Her legs, bound as they were, were of little use. She remembered her father-in-law telling her once about the time he was caught in a talus slide, and how he had stayed limp and loose and let the talus sweep him along. So long as she didn’t fight it, she might reach the bottom alive.
The Outcast dug in his heels and clutched at the talus, but he might as well have clutched at sand. He couldn’t stop sliding. Worse, he was sliding ever faster and dislodging more and more talus. He was like a ball of snow sent rolling down a slope, gathering speed and growing in size. Dust enveloped him like a cloud, making him cough, making it hard to see.
Zach started to rein to Lou’s aid and stiffened. A twenty-foot section of stone and earth was sweeping toward the bottom, carrying Lou and the Blood with it—and coming directly at him. He reined around, or tried to, and suddenly the bay was kicking and whinnying as the slope gave way under it. Zach threw himself clear as the bay came down on its side. Fortunately they hadn’t climbed far. It was only a dozen feet to the bottom. Zach came to a stop and stood.
Lou swatted at the cloud of dust. She remembered her condition, and put her hands over her belly, fearing the outcome should she careen into a boulder. She glimpsed Zach down at the bottom and was glad he was safe. Then she realized she was sliding toward him, along with tons of dirt and rock, and a warning cry was torn from her throat.
Zach looked up. He ran to the bay, grabbed the reins, and tugged. The horse pumped upright and stood trembling. Quickly, Zach swung on. He reined the bay around and sought to gallop out of there, but the next second the the talus was upon them. Stones and dirt and dust eddied about the bay like water. The horse managed a few strides and was brought down again, whinnying as they were swept toward the trees.
Once again Zach flung himself clear. A spruce loomed and he tried to roll to the right, but he only partially succeeded. His ribs exploded with agony, and he almost lost his grip on the Hawken.
Lou was on her back, her heels up, praying desperately for deliverance. She had lost sight of her husband. She could no longer see the warrior. Under her, the talus moved like a living thing, bearing her with it. She was helpless in its grip, an ant caught in an earthen cataract.
The Outcast was doing all he could to stop his fall, and everything he did failed. His hands were torn, his feet battered. The quiver was torn from his back. He twisted to try to get his arms and legs under him, and was sent toppling out of control. Vaguely, he was aware of a large boulder in his path. The thud of contact caused his senses to reel and the world to dim. He shook his head to clear it in time to see another boulder. He hit it excruciatingly hard. He was conscious of flying through the air, of slamming down, of being swept along, a roar in his ears, dust in his nose and mouth and eyes.
Zach turned to look for Lou. A fist-sized rock shot at him like a cannonball and he went to duck, but it caught him on the side of the head. He cartwheeled. The sky and the ground changed places. A tree loomed. The world faded to black and he felt dirt sliding over him, and then there was nothing, save an abyss that sucked him into its inky depths.
Lou thought she would suffocate from all the dust. It made her eyes sting and water. She blinked and swiped at them with a sleeve and cleared them in time to feel the dirt give way under her and her body start to sink. Loose earth and stones flowed over her. She swatted at it but there was too much for her to stop it from covering her. She couldn’t help herself; she screamed.
As abruptly as it began, the slide was over. The scream died and the roar faded and the rock-and-dirt avalanche came to an end. In the ensuing silence, nothing moved.
The talus was empty of life.
Chapter Twelve
Indians used the travois when they moved from one site to another. It consisted of long poles lashed together and covered with a hide. Shakespeare McNair made sure the travois he rigged was good and sturdy before he covered it with a buffalo robe. Then he carefully carried his wife from the bed and out the front door. She was still much too weak, but she had recovered enough to put her arms around his neck and teasingly regard him with a playful gleam in her eyes.
“My, how strong you are. It is good to know the pots and pans will not strain you.”
Shakespeare was turning so he could lay her gently down. “Pots and pans?”
“One of us must do the cooking and wash the dishes after we eat.”
After wrapping her in the robe, Shakespeare stepped back. “There. You should be comfortable enough.”
“Didn’t you hear me?”
“Yes. I’m ignoring you. I wouldn’t let you cook anyway, in the shape your in. Nor wash clothes nor knit nor fetch the eggs from the chicken coop. Leave it all to me.”
“How kind you are,” Blue Water Woman said merrily. “I had forgotten your domestic skills. You use them so rarely.”
“‘Dost thou jeer and flout me in the teeth?’ ” Shakespeare quoted.
“Not at all.” Blue Water Woman smiled sweetly. “You would make some man a fine wife.”
Shakespeare snorted in mock indignation. “ ‘O curse of marriage, that we call these delicate creatures ours.’ ” He bent and kissed her on the cheek. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to, wench.”
“Pardon me?”
“You’re trying to keep me from worrying by taking my mind off that gash in your skull. But it won’t work. I love you too much.”
Blue Water Woman reached up and squeezed his hand. “As I love you, Carcajou.”
Shakespeare closed the door. He came around the travois, climbed on the mare, and started off at a turtle’s pace. “If I jostle you, I’m sorry. I’ll do the best I can not to.”
“You are most considerate.” Blue Water Woman was warm and snug. She closed her eyes and felt the motion of the travois under her.
Despite his worry, Shakespeare was optimistic. It appeared she wasn’t severely hurt. A couple of weeks to mend, and she would be her old self.
“Husband?”
“Yes, nag of my life?”
“How do you think Zach is faring?”
“That boy can handle himself better than most.” But deep down Shakespeare was worried. Blood warriors were fierce fighters. He wished he could have gone with the boy.
“Husband?”
“Yes, oh chattering chipmunk?”
“Why do you think the Blood took Louisa?”
“Maybe he hankered for companionship.” But Shakespeare doubted it.
The Blackfoot Confederacy was notorious for its hatred of whites. The last time he went to Bent’s Fort he’d been surprised to hear that several priests had gone into Blackfoot country to convert them. It struck him about as silly as trying to get a griz to give up meat.
“Husband?”
“Will you hush and rest? You talk more now than before you got that knock on the noggin.”
“I only wanted to say that after you get me home, you should go after Zachary.”
“No.”
“I will be fine by myself.”
“It’s still no.”
“Zach and Lou might need you. I could not bear it if anything were to happen to them.”
“I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.” The very thought made Shakespeare’s eyes mist. “Zach will understand. He’d do the same if he were in my moccasins.”
“May I ask you one more thing? And then I will be quiet.”
Shakespeare shifted to check that the travois was dragging as it should. Sometimes the poles came apart if they weren’t tied tight. “I’ll believe that when I don’t hear it. But go ahead. Ask away.”