“It is time to kill,” Wakumassee said.
Evelyn King felt a stab of panic. “Oh God.”
Chapter Seventeen
Dega glided through the dense growth with an ease born of experience. He had been raised in the thick woodlands east of the Mississippi. The forest was his home. Whether lowland, prairie or mountain, he was as much a part of it as the trees and the brush and the animals he shared it with.
Dega made no more noise than the breeze as he wound among the boles. He moved low to the ground so his enemy wouldn’t spot him before he spotted his enemy. The man called Logan must not get away with their horses. His father was counting on him. He would not let Waku down, would not let his mother or his sisters or Evelyn, fair Evelyn, down.
At the thought of her, Dega tingled. Last night had been the best night of his life. To think they had kissed. To think she cared for him as much as he cared for her.
Dega stopped in his tracks. Now was not the time for daydreaming. Not during a stalk. Not when he soon might need to do that which his people only did as a last resort.
The People of the Forest never spilled blood for the spilling’s sake. They held life in too high esteem, all life, from a salamander’s to a bear’s, from a butterfly’s to a wren’s. Life was the gift of That Which Was In All Things, the Manitoa, a gift to be cherished, not destroyed.
There came moments, though, moments like this one, when in order to preserve life, a Nansusequa might have to take it.
Of late, Dega had taken to wondering if his people would still be alive if they had been less fond of peace and more fond of war. The Sioux and the Blackfeet were both warlike people, and the whites didn’t dare try to take their land. Maybe if the Nansusequa had been more willing to go to war, they would still exist.
The clomp of hooves brought Dega out of himself. With a growl of annoyance he plunged through the greenery toward the source. He spied Logan on a horse, pulling on the lead rope to the others. Bursting into the open, Dega drew the arrow to his cheek and sighted on the white man’s torso.
“Stop or die.”
Logan whipped around and began to raise his rifle but froze and cursed. “Damn you, Injun. You’ve got no more sense than a slug.”
“Get down,” Dega directed.
“I don’t have time for this. Even if you stick that in me I’ll get off a shot and we’ll both be dead, and for what?”
“Get down.”
“Venom and his friends will be here any minute. You should be with your family and that girl.”
Dega took another step and aimed at a point just below the sternum, where the shaft would penetrate to the heart. “I not say again. You no take horses. Drop rifle and get down.”
Logan was mad at being taken off guard. By an Apache or a Sioux he could understand. By a smooth-faced boy who if he were white would barely be old enough to shave was an insult. He lowered his rifle stock-first, then slowly swung his leg over the saddle and slid to the ground, his hands in front of him to make the boy think he was as meek as a kitten. “There. Happy now?”
“We go back. You walk front of me with horses.”
Logan had expected the boy to tell him to drop his pistols, too. The mistake would cost him. “Whatever you say, boy.”
“I man, not boy,” Dega said indignantly. “I Nansusequa warrior.”
Logan had the lead rope in one hand and the reins in the other. He turned as if to retrace his steps. “The Nansusequa? That’s your tribe? Never heard of them. Where are you from, anyhow? Not from these parts, I’d wager.” Logan was stalling. All it would take was a moment’s lapse on the so-called warrior’s part, and he could gain the upper hand.
“We from east of great river,” Dega answered.
“I could guess that much. Where exactly?” Logan tugged on the rope and the reins. The arrow’s barbed tip moved as he moved. He had to pass his would-be captor.
“Ever hear New Albion?”
“Isn’t that a town somewhere? Indiana or Illinois or one of those states? You’re a long way from home.”
“All my people die. Mountains home now.”
“You don’t say.” Logan looked away so the boy wouldn’t suspect, and then, on his very next step, he darted around his mount and drew both flintlocks.
Dega did the only thing he could think of; he spun and ran. He braced for a searing pain in his back but no shots boomed. Veering to avoid an oak, he spotted a thicket and without hesitation dived in, holding the bow at his side so it wouldn’t become entangled. He went several steps, and crouched.
“You’re as dumb as a stump, boy.”
Dega peered through the interwoven limbs and leaves. He hadn’t moved fast enough. The white man was at the thicket, both guns leveled.
“Not that you’ll live long enough for it to do you any good, but here’s some advice. Never talk when you should kill. Never let yourself be distracted. Now come on out with your hands empty and I might let you live a bit.”
“No.”
“To call you a jackass is an insult to jackasses. Either get out here or have holes blown in you.”
Dega eased onto his hands and knees. “I must come this way,” he lied. “It hard to stand.”
“Crawl if it’ll make you happy, just so you get your stupid self out here.” Logan backed off. “Make like a rabbit.”
“I crawl not hop.” Dega moved slowly. His left arm brushed his hip—and his knife sheath.
“A briar patch, for God’s sake. Didn’t you say most of your tribe is dead? No wonder. Stupid makes for early graves.” Logan laughed.
“Much stupid,” Dega said.
“You call yourself a warrior, boy, but you’re not. You’re a boy playing at being a man.” Logan wagged the pistols. “When you get out of there, stand up and keep your hands where I can see them.”
“I will,” Dega lied. He came to the end of the thicket and unfurled, his head hung low, as if he had given up hope. He turned slightly so he was sideways to Logan and the pistols.
“This was too easy.” Logan laughed again.
Dega struck. He whipped his knife out and sprang, stabbing at the other’s throat. The boom of a flintlock and pain in his side were simultaneous. Then he and the white man were on the ground, struggling fiercely, with death hanging in the balance.
Venom was puzzled. His quarry wasn’t behaving as most quarry did. It made no sense for them to stop in the belt of trees yonder when they should be fleeing pell-mell for their lives. He didn’t like it. He suspected a trick. “You’re sure they’re in there?” He had used his spyglass and not seen anyone.
Jeph and Seph Kyler were on either side of him. “We wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t so,” the former declared.
“We’re not liars,” said the other.
Venom had his men dismount. They were out of rifle range. Only the white girl had guns. She was the one they had to worry about, if they worried at all. After tangling with Apaches and Comanches, going up against a puny girl would be like stomping an infant. “Spread out and move in. Remember I want the white girl alive. Anyone who harms her answers to me.”
“And the redskins in green?” Potter asked.
“Need you ask? We’re after their hair.”
Tibbet coughed. “What about the Injun women? You’re not fixing to deprive us of our fun, are you?”
“Drag them off and have your way. Just don’t damage the scalps.” Venom advanced. When he dropped flat and snaked forward on his belly, so did the others. The trees loomed closer.
Venom didn’t intend to lose another man as he’d lost Rubicon. He was going to outwit the little bitch and her friends, and to that end, as soon as he came within earshot of the trees, he stood, cradled his rifle, and put a smile on his face. “I know you’re in there, girl. My name is Venom. How about you and me palaver?”