On both sides the thicket crackled and rustled to the passage of Pawnees. They had lost sight of him, but they knew he was in there somewhere. Kuruk barked commands.
Nate hunkered low. It was dark enough that a warrior could pass within a few feet and not spot him. So long as none of them ran smack into him, he might escape detection.
Then Kuruk switched to English. “I know you are in here, Grizzly Killer. I am not a fool. We will find you and we will kill you.”
Nate peered through the thicket, hoping for a shot.
“How did you find us? We have been most careful in covering our tracks, as you whites would say.”
Nate didn’t take the bait. He stayed silent. Feet moved stealthily to his right. Legs appeared to his left. The warriors were so close he could practically reach out and touch them. They went on by.
Another warrior said something in Pawnee. Kuruk, forgetting himself, started to answer in English with, “He has to be. We would have heard him if—” Kuruk switched to Pawnee.
Nate raised his head. No one was near him. He was about to get out of there when the thicket parted and in front of him reared a warrior he hadn’t noticed.
The Pawnee uttered a sharp cry and raised a lance.
Nate shot him. He hiked the Hawken and fired. The muzzle flash lit the warrior’s painted face and betrayed his surprise at being shot through the heart. Heaving erect, Nate bolted. He burst out of the thicket and flew. A lance missed his shoulder. An arrow nicked the eagle feather in his hair.
After him came the Pawnees, yelling their war cries.
Kuruk bellowed something.
Nate considered himself to be fairly fleet of foot, but two of the Pawnees were as fast if not faster. A glance showed them hard after him and gaining. Neither let a shaft fly; evidently they intended to take him alive. Kuruk’s doing, Nate suspected. Kuruk wanted to stake him out and torture him.
Nate tried to shake them. He cut back and forth at right angles. He weaved among benighted boles. The Pawnees not only kept up; they continued to gain. One of them called out to those behind.
Nate had lost his sense of direction. He wasn’t sure which way he was running. He turned right.
From out of nowhere a warrior appeared. The man had a tomahawk and the instant he saw Nate, he raised it to cleave Nate’s skull. In the span of a heartbeat Nate had a flintlock out. He fired and sidestepped as the tomahawk descended. Another second and he was in the clear while the warrior flopped and gurgled. He jammed the spent pistol under his belt and sprinted full out.
Kuruk was shouting again, sounding beside himself.
Nate ran. He was growing winded, but he could last a good while yet. He nearly tripped over a log. A boulder almost broke both legs. He took two more bounds and suddenly he was falling. He had gone over a bank. It was a short drop, but he hit hard enough to knock the wind out of him. Tumbling, he wound up in high grass. He lay there catching his breath while around him the night was broken by yells and the beat of moccasin-clad feet.
They had lost him again. They were searching, roving from side to side. A figure appeared on top of the bank. It was Kuruk, overseeing the hunt.
Nate felt at his waist for the other flintlock. He wrapped his fingers around the wood and went to tug it free.
Almost at his elbow another figure materialized. The Pawnee was staring ahead, not at the ground, and went by in a rush.
Nate looked at the bank. Kuruk was gone. Nate stayed where he was while the sounds of pursuit faded. The Pawnees had gone on down the mountain. For the moment he was safe. Or was he? Nate wouldn’t put it past the wily Kuruk to be lurking close by in the hope Nate would give himself away. Silently, Nate made it to his knees. Silently and slowly, he stood.
No outcries split the night.
Nate sought the North Star. It would tell him where he was. By his reckoning, the Texan and the horses were to the northeast. After all the running he had done, the climb taxed him. He skirted the Pawnee camp and would have kept on climbing had one of the Pawnee horses not nickered. A brainstorm struck, and he quickly wheeled. Every animal had been hobbled so it couldn’t stray off. Drawing his bowie knife, Nate cut the first hobble and then the second. Once they were all free he would spook them and leave the Pawnees stranded afoot.
Nate moved to the third horse. He bent, and saved his life. A lance speared the space where his chest had been. He spun as a warrior sprang. A knife sought his neck. He grabbed the Pawnee’s wrist and the Pawnee gripped his. Locked together, they struggled furiously, each seeking to wrest loose and stab the other. The Pawnee was shorter, but he was broad at the shoulders and immensely strong. For long seconds the outcome hung in the balance. Then the unforeseen occurred; Nate blundered into the fire. He felt intense heat. Searing pain shot up his legs. Instinctively he tried to leap back, but the Pawnee held him fast and grinned a vicious grin. The pain worsened. Smoke was rising from Nate’s moccasins and his pants. He was about to burst into flame.
Exerting all his strength, Nate wrenched and flung the Pawnee from him. The warrior was up in a heartbeat. His knife held low, the man came in low and quick, slashing at Nate’s groin. A twist and a step and Nate sank the bowie to the hilt between two ribs.
The Pawnee’s back arched and his mouth gaped wide, but no sounds came out. He gulped breath, or tried to, and died.
Nate yanked the bowie out as the warrior fell. A shout warned him others were converging. Spinning, he got out of there. His feet hurt from the flames and each stride made him grimace. But he didn’t slow. He ran until he was near where he thought Maklin should be, but the horses and the Texan weren’t there. For a panicked instant Nate thought Maklin had run out on him. He should have known better.
Hooves drummed and a strong hand gripped Nate by the arm and swung him onto the bay. Side by side they rode for their lives while behind them the Pawnees rent the air with yowls of frustration.
“Thanks,” Nate said.
“We’re not safe yet.”
A glance at their camp showed Nate several had mounted and were giving chase.
Chapter Thirteen
Nate reined down the mountain. The Texan’s pistol boomed and the Pawnees howled in rage.
The ride was a nightmare. Obstacles loomed so abruptly that avoiding them took all the skill Nate possessed. His fear was for the bay more than himself. A mistake on his part could bring the animal to ruinous harm.
They rode and they rode and gradually the sounds of pursuit faded. They were nearly to the bottom of the mountain when Nate brought the bay to a stop and shifted in the saddle to listen.
“I think we shook them,” Maklin said.
“I hope so.”
“How many did you rub out?”
Nate had to think. “I shot two and stabbed another. I expect all three are dead.”
“And I shot a fourth, so there are only seven left. Maybe Kuruk will give up and go home.”
“Anyone who hates as much as he does won’t quit easy.” Nate clucked the weary bay on.
Maklin came up next to him. “What do you think those things were we saw earlier?”
“I have no idea,” Nate admitted. But he was determined to find out. “I reckon a visit to those caves is in order.”
“When you do, I’m tagging along.”
Nothing else was said until they neared the Valley of Skulls. The weary bay was about tuckered out and Nate was looking forward to letting it rest.
Suddenly a voice split the night.
“Halt! Who is that?”
Nate drew rein in surprise. “Haskell, is that you? It’s King and Maklin. We’re coming in.”
The freighter lieutenant and another man had their rifles in hand. “It’s good to see you safe. We heard shooting far off, so the captain decided to have us take turns standing guard until morning.”