“How?” Lou was skeptical. “Burrow into the ground like a gopher? Climb a tree? Be sensible.”
Zach fell silent. Even tied, he could hop, and if he picked the right spot, say a dense thicket or anywhere the brush was dense, he might elude them long enough to free his hands and feet. Then he could save Lou.
“Nothing more to say? You’ve giving up, just like that?” Lou’s eyes narrowed. “I know better. I know you, Stalking Coyote, and you’re still thinking of trying.”
One thing Zach never did—or did as rarely as he could help—was lie to her. “I might not have a better chance.”
“If you feel this strongly about it, we’ll try together,” Lou proposed. If she had to die, she preferred to die at his side.
“No.”
“Why not? Haven’t you heard?” Lou grinned. “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”
“It’s too dangerous.”
“Oh really? So it’s all right for you to risk your life but not all right for me to risk mine?”
“You’re risking two lives now. Or have you forgotten?”
“It’s all I think of,” Lou quietly admitted. Being told that women could have babies—being told that she could have one—didn’t prepare a woman for the actual having. It was a miracle taking place in her own body.
The bay climbed higher, its reins in the hand of a stocky Heart Eater. Zach watched the warrior closely, noting how often he glanced back, which wasn’t often at all. His bid to escape looked promising.
Lou was wrestling with herself. Zach was right. She shouldn’t take chances. If he could get away she had no doubt he would rescue her.
Zach craned his neck, searching for the firs. They shouldn’t be far off. He would drop from the bay and trust in Providence.
Lou saw him tense. “Please, Zach.”
“Don’t you dare beg me.” It was the one thing Zach had no defense against. He couldn’t refuse her anything when she begged.
“I just want you to be careful. For my sake and the sake of our child.”
“Twice the reasons to stay alive,” Zach joked, and regretted it when her features clouded.
Lou indulged in a rare cuss word. “You damn well better. I don’t want to raise our child alone. If he takes after his father, he’ll be a hellion.”
Zach hadn’t thought of that. If his son took after him—good Lord, the trouble he’d given his parents. He put it from his mind for the time being. Shadowed ranks of firs rose above, the trees so high and so close, they were in perpetual gloom.
Fear gnawed at Lou. Her head was telling her that Zach must try, but her heart was fit to burst with worry. She closed her eyes and swallowed, and when she opened them they were almost there.
None of the warriors was looking at Zach. He coiled his legs. Another minute, and they were in the trees, the Heart Eaters in single file, the bay in the middle.
Skin Shredder skirted a log and the rest followed suit.
Zach almost pushed off, but didn’t. The warrior right behind the bay could see him. He waited.
A thicket was ahead. Skin Shredder motioned and headed around it, and was out of Zach’s sight. Then the second and third warrior. The man behind the bay was looking at the ground, the last one at the sky.
It was now or never. Using his knees, Zach pushed and fell. A cushion of pine needles muffled the thud. As he hit, he rolled and then wriggled behind a fir.
The warrior behind the bay was still looking at the ground.
Zach grinned. When the last Heart Eater went by, he slid backward until it was safe to stand. Balancing on the balls of his feet, he began hopping. But it wasn’t as easy as he’d hoped it would be. There were too many downed limbs and waisthigh brush that tangled around his legs.
Zach thought of Louisa and the baby, and redoubled his effort. He must succeed for their sake. He would cut the ropes off and return to give the Heart Easters a taste of vengeance.
In midhop, Zach’s left thigh exploded in pain. It felt as if an invisible hand pushed it out from under him, and he crashed onto his back. Fighting waves of agony, he looked at his thigh and discovered why.
The blood-smeared tip of an arrow jutted from his leg.
The Outcast stopped to rest the pinto twice. The slopes were steep, the day hot, and he had not come across water since morning.
The second time, he dismounted to stretch. Far below, the lake was a deep blue oval in a broad belt of green. Above, the lighter blue of the sky was sprinkled by high white clouds.
Wildlife was everywhere. He had spooked blacktailed does and bucks. Once, several elk trotted off at his approach. High on the crags, mountain sheep were occasionally visible. Twice he spied coyotes. Up here they were bigger than their lowland cousins; the ones he saw were almost as big as wolves.
Jays squawked at him. Red finches darted from tree to tree. Chickadees played in thickets. Juncos pecked the ground. He spied an eagle soaring with the clouds, the white of its head like snow.
The Outcast breathed deeply of the mountain air and reflected that of all the places he had been in his travels, he liked this valley best. It was a good place to live. The people in the wooden lodges had chosen well.
The Outcast ended his reverie and climbed back onto the pinto. He resumed his climb, the bay’s tracks as plain as ever. Repeatedly, he glanced above him, and when next he did, he abruptly drew rein.
Something wasn’t right.
All he saw were trees and brush and boulders. Nothing out of the ordinary about any of it—except he had the feeling that it wasn’t. He scanned the pines and the shadows and saw no cause for alarm.
The Outcast had learned to trust his instincts. Often his life depended on them. He heeded his instinct now and stayed where he was. He searched and sorted what he was seeing in his mind for the slightest sign of danger. It all appeared as it should be.
After a while the Outcast tapped his heels. He rode at a walk, the club across his legs. Every patch of shadow merited scrutiny.
A cluster of blue spruce appeared. The trees’ bark was dark, the limbs spaced close together. On an impulse he reined wide. He glanced away for an instant, distracted by a red-throated woodpecker that went flying past, and he heard a twang. Instantly, he threw himself from the pinto. The buzz of the shaft showed how near it came. He landed on his shoulder, rolled into a crouch, and was behind a boulder before another arrow could seek his life.
The pinto went a little way and stopped.
Placing an eye at the boulder’s edge, the Outcast scoured the spruce. The archer was in there, somewhere, cleverly concealed. That there was just one surprised him. They were arrogant, these warriors with their scar tattoos.
The Outcast noted the lay of the terrain. He could not get close to the spruce without showing himself. They might be arrogant, but they weren’t stupid.
Squatting, the Outcast mulled his options. He was at a disadvantage in that his weapons were for close combat. How to get close without taking an arrow? Rushing the spruce entailed too much risk. He could stay where he was and let the warrior come to him, but would the warrior be that foolhardy? Probably not. His other option was to wait for dark. Then he could slip into the spruce unseen. But by then the rest of the warriors might stop for the night and would be hungry. He remembered the heart and the bite marks and thought of the young woman, and her belly, and he resolved not to wait.
Scattered about were many small stones. Picking one, the Outcast threw it at the spruce trees. He did the same with a second and a third, throwing at random, hearing them strike and fall. Eight, nine, ten stones, and he picked up another and was about to throw it when an arrow streaked out of the air and missed the top of the boulder by a finger’s width.