The Outcast (5 page)

Blue Water Woman saw no one else. She hastened to her friend, whispering, “Don't worry. I will cut you free.”

Lou thrashed harder.

Blue Water Woman took her finger from the Hawken's trigger and put her hand on the hilt of her knife. She heard rustling and started to turn. She wasn't quite all the way around when a blow to her head sent her stumbling to her knees. Pain exploded. She looked up.

A warrior was poised with a large rock in his hand.

“No,” Blue Water Woman said.

The world faded to black.

Louisa King thought she was done for when the warrior gripped her by the throat and raised his knife. But instead of stabbing her, he shoved her toward the front door and came after her, pushing her when she didn't move fast enough to suit him. She almost made a grab for her rifle. The jab of his blade low in her back dissuaded her.

Lou blinked in the sudden glare of the sun and paused. He pushed her again, toward the corner. She thought he might want her to mount her horse, but then he pushed her toward the woods.

“I'll do what you want. There's no need to keep shoving me,” Lou said, even thought she knew it was a waste of breath. She glanced at him and saw that he had taken Zach's rope from its peg on the wall and brought it along.

The Outcast pushed her again. He was mad at himself and taking it out on her. He didn't need her alive, but she was still breathing. It was the first weakness he had shown since the day that changed his world. He could remedy that by plunging his knife between her shoulder blades, but he thought of her belly, and couldn't.

Lou would dearly love to know what his intentions were. To her knowledge, Indians rarely committed rape. Small comfort at best, since there were so many worse things they did. Mutilating enemies was common, and some tribes enjoyed torture. She prayed to God her captor wasn't from one of them.

The Outcast paused at the tree line to look back. He gazed across the lake, and was taken aback to see a figure moving along the far shore. A woman, it looked like, and she was facing him. It had to be the Flathead.

Lou halted. She wondered why he had stopped. Having second thoughts, she hoped. But no, he shoved her again and barked at her in his own tongue, no doubt telling her to keep going.

The Outcast had seen the Flathead run toward her lodge. Either she was going for help or for a horse. Either way, she threatened to spoil everything.

Lou trudged angrily along. She was more mad at herself than the warrior; he was only doing what was natural. No, she was mad at herself for leaving the front door open and not keeping her rifle or pistols within easy reach. Most of all, she was mad because her carelessness might prove costly for the people she loved most in the world. They were bound to come after her, and her captor did not strike her as the type to die easily.

The Outcast was debating what to do. The important thing was to get away unnoticed. The woman across the lake might spoil that.

Lou tripped over a root and nearly fell. Her dress kept getting snagged on brush and limbs. She'd pull it loose, only to have it catch again ten steps later. She vowed that from here on out, she would only wear buckskins.

A whinny didn't surprise her. She'd figured that the warrior had a horse. Few entered King Valley on foot. It was too remote, too far from the trails used by whites and red men alike. She rounded a thicket and beheld a pinto. A fine animal, if she was any judge. She seemed to remember Zach saying that some Indians were partial to pintos over all others. It had something to do with the bright colors, which Indians loved.

Her captor jabbed her in the back to get her attention, then motioned at the ground.

Lou gathered that he wanted her to sit. She did, and was roughly pushed onto her back. For a few anxious moments she feared her notion about being raped was wrong; but no, he made her lie on her side with her arms behind her, and he proceeded to cut short lengths from Zach's rope to bind her ankles and wrists. She didn't like it, but there was nothing she could do. She noticed that while he bound her tight, he didn't do it so tight that the rope cut into her flesh. Then he reached for the hem of her dress.

“No!” Lou instinctively bleated, and the razor point of his knife flashed at her throat. All he did was prick her. A warning, she reckoned, and watched as he cut two strips. “Dang you. I sent all the way to St. Louis for this, and look at what you've done.”

Her anger puzzled the Outcast. Most women would be groveling in fear. But not this one. She was white, and she was an enemy, but she was gloriously brave. He caught himself and frowned. Gripping her jaw, he motioned for her to open her mouth.

Lou balked. It was bad enough being tied. But when he poked her in the ribs with that long blade of his, she did as he wanted, and the next moment her mouth was filled with a piece of her dress. “Wonderful,” she said, only it came out as “Unerful.”

The Outcast tied the other strip over her mouth so she couldn't spit out the gag. Rising, he faced their back trail. In the distance hooves drummed. He went around the thicket until he was out of sight of the woman. Crouching, he wormed his way into it until he could see her without her seeing him.

Lou wondered where he had gotten to. She tried to rub off the strip over her mouth. Failing, she went to sit up and froze. Someone was calling her name. With a start, she recognized Blue Water Woman's voice. She tried to yell, but the gag muffled her cries.

Blue Water Woman stopped shouting.

Lou wriggled toward the lake. She figured her friend was wondering where she had got to. Blue Water Woman wouldn't know what had happened and might turn around and go back to her own cabin.

Then, to Lou's relief, she saw her. Blue Water Woman, her rifle at the ready. Lou almost laughed for joy. She wanted to scream for Blue Water Woman to hurry and cut her free before the warrior came back. Her friend glided past the thicket—and a figure rose out of its depths.

Frantic, Lou shook her head and thrashed about, trying to warn Blue Water Woman before it was too late. She watched, aghast, as the warrior picked up a rock. Blue Water Woman started to turn. Lou thrashed harder but stopped at the thud of the blow.

Blue Water Woman fell to her knees. The warrior raised the rock to hit her again, but she pitched to the ground, unconscious.

The warrior threw the rock aside.

Relief washed over Lou, but it was short-lived. The next moment the warrior had her in his arms and threw her over the pinto. He swung up and lashed the reins.

She was being abducted.

From the heights to the west, the valley was a green gem rich with life, the lake blue turquoise at its middle.

The seven Tunkua gazed down at the brown dots that were the lodges of the invaders.

“We still have a long way to go,” Splashes Blood said.

Skin Shredder grunted and continued their descent. He did not care how far it was. He had come to avenge the death of his brother and nothing would stop him, save his own end.

They passed through ranks of tall firs, somber with shadows, and came on a grassy shelf and a spring. Skin Shredder hardly gave it a glance and was halfway across the shelf when Splashes Blood cleared his throat.

“We walked all day and we walked all night and now you would have us deny our dry throats?”

Skin Shredder stopped. “Drink if you want.”

“We have not eaten, either.”

“You have your deer meat.”

All of them had bundles of dried venison, which six of them now unwrapped. Splashes Blood bit into a piece and smacked his lips. “You are not eating.”

“I am not hungry.” Skin Shredder began to pace, his gaze on the lake and the lodges.

“You think of one thing and one thing only. It is not good.”

“When I want someone to tell me how I should think, I will ask them.”

Splashes Blood stopped chewing and frowned. “We have been friends since our mothers took us from our cradleboards, yet you talk to me with so little respect.”

Skin Shredder stopped pacing. He frowned, too, and then raised a hand to the scarred ridges on his face. “I am sorry. Killing the Bear People is all I have thought of for many sleeps now. I want them to suffer. I want them to suffer more than anything.”

“They killed my brother, too,” Splashes Blood reminded him. “We must not underestimate them. We must be rested and have our wits about us.”

“It is hard to rest when your heart burns with the need to slay.”

“You must try,” Splashes Blood insisted.

Skin Shredder slung his bow across his back. His meat was tied by a deerskin thong to his wolf hide belt. All of them wore such belts.

The Tunkua rite of manhood required three things of every warrior: that he scar his face with the symbols of their clan; that he fast for five days and five sleeps and have a vision; and that he hunt and slay a wolf and forever wear its hide.

“I have been told there is a girl among the Bear People,” Splashes Blood mentioned. “Those who have seen her say she looks to be but fifteen winters.”

“You and your girls…” Skin Shredder sank his teeth into a piece of meat. “Maybe the Bear People do not age as we do. Maybe they look younger than they are.”

“No matter how old she is, I want her first.”

“You can have her. I want only to spill blood. The rest does not interest me as it once did.”

Another warrior had moved to where the shelf fell away into pines. He now pointed and called out to the others. “Come see. I do not know what it is, but it was not there the last time I spied on them.”

Skin Shredder and Splashes Blood went over.

“Where is this thing, Star Dancer?”

“Look at the east end of the lake, close to the trees. I think it is a lodge. But it is not like the other lodges. It is longer and round at the top.”

“I see it,” Splashes Blood said.

“It is too far to tell much,” Skin Shredder declared. “But you are right. It is different from the others.”

“What can it mean? Have more Bear People come? Or have other people come to the valley?”

The question caused Skin Shredder to clench his fists. “It is as it was by the bay. First a few came, and then more and more, until we were driven from our home.”

“The world has too many people.”

“Will we move again?” Star Dancer asked.

“No.” Skin Shredder was emphatic. “This time we will not let them drive us off. This time we kill them as they come.”

“But if they come in great numbers…” Splashes Blood did not say the rest. They all knew his meaning.

Skin Shredder gloomily ate. That was the problem. The Tunkua were a small tribe. Never had there been more than several hundred of them, and since being forced from their home, their numbers had dwindled. Battles with other tribes, wild beasts, and disease had taken a toll. “They are not in great numbers now. We will kill all those who are here and burn their lodges as a warning to any who come later.”

“And if some come anyway and stay?”

“We will kill them, too. We will be ghosts in the night and stalkers by day, and they will fear us. We might even let some of them leave to tell the rest of their kind that this valley is bad medicine.”

“I like that idea. Fear is more powerful than blood. Fear will keep them away. Spilling their blood will only make them mad and they will want vengeance.” Splashes Blood grimly smiled. “Look at us.”

“Fear is good,” Star Dancer agreed.

“We will talk it over with the Old One when we return to our village,” Skin Shredder proposed. “He is wise in all things and will help guide our steps.”

Refreshed by the meat and the water, they were soon under way. Skin Shredder was in the lead, studying landmarks. To the north gleamed a glacier high atop a mountain. To the south was a cleft peak. To the east, barely visible on the far valley rim, was the gap that led out of the valley into the world beyond.

Splashes Blood cleared his throat. “I have been thinking. We should not burn everything.”

“No?”

“They have many wondrous things, these Bear People. They have thunder sticks that spew fire and death. They have knives made of a new kind of metal. They have blankets much finer than ours, and who knows what else in their lodges.”

“The Bear People own much that we do not.”

“What is to stop us from owning it? After we kill them, why not take all that we want?”

“It will not be much,” Skin Shredder noted. “We can take only what we can carry.”

“We can take a lot if we pack it on their horses.”

Here was a thought that excited Skin Shredder. The Tunkua never had horses of their own. It put them at a great disadvantage when waging war and in moving about.

Star Dancer said to Splashes Blood, “It is a fine idea. I am for it.”

“But we do not know how to handle horses,” Skin Shredder reminded them.

“If the Bear People learned, we can learn.”

“They are animals and we are men,” Star Dancer declared.

“It will be a great thing we do,” Splashes Blood said. “Our people will praise us. Songs will be sung around the campfires about what we have done.”

Skin Shredder tingled with excitement. It was a very fine idea, indeed. He couldn't wait to start the slaying. Not only would he have his revenge, he stood to stand high in the councils of the Tunkua. “We should thank the Bear People before we kill them.” And he did something he rarely did—he smiled.

Zach King tried to tell himself he had no reason to worry. There had been only the one shot. If Lou and Blue Water Woman were beset by hostiles, surely there would have been more. They were tough, strong women; they wouldn't go down without a fight.

Then Zach remembered that his wife was forever traipsing outside without her weapons and leaving the front door open. He glanced at McNair, riding hard beside him, and said loud enough to be heard over the pounding of hooves, “What do you think?”

Shakespeare thought they were making a mountain out of a prairie dog mound. There could be a perfectly ordinary explanation for the shot. Either woman might have shot a deer or some other animal for the cook pot. Or maybe a fox had got in with the chickens. Or a rattlesnake decided to sun itself close to one of their cabins. He seemed to recollect that Louisa, in particular, was skittish about snakes.

Since Zach was looking at him and waiting for a reply, Shakespeare shrugged and said, “I bet they're fine, but it doesn't hurt to check.” He said that last for Zach's benefit. The boy—Shakespeare mentally caught himself—the young man had a tendency to overreact. When there really was danger, well, heaven help anyone or anything that threatened Zach King or those he cared for.

The south shore came into sight. There stood McNair's cabin, awash in sunlight, as picturesque as a painting.

Shakespeare counted the horses in his corral. “My wife went somewhere on her dun.” That the packhorses were still there told him that no one had stolen it. No self-respecting horse thief would steal just one animal.

Zach rose in the stirrups to try and see the north shore. He spied his chimney. It was too far to be certain, but he thought wisps of smoke curled to the sky. That was a good sign. Lou was supposed to be doing some baking. “Do we stop at your place or go on to mine?”

“On to yours.”

When they reached the west end of the lake, Zach slowed to a walk to spare their sweaty mounts. “If they ask why we came back, I'll tell them I forgot my whetstone.”

“ ‘You do advance your cunning more and more,' ” Shakespeare quoted.

“I just don't want Lou to think that I think she can't take care of herself. She'd never let me hear the end of it.”

Shakespeare chuckled. “ ‘Oh, what men dare do. What men may do. What men daily do, not knowing what they do.' ”

“Can you say that in English or Shoshone so I can understand it?”

“Lout,” Shakespeare said. “It's not my fault you're so light of brain.” He quoted again. “ ‘A lip of much contempt speeds from me.' ”

Zach laughed, but his heart wasn't in their banter. He'd noticed that the front door to their cabin was wide open. “Why don't women ever listen?”

“That was a rhetorical question, I trust.”

“A what?”

“Women are the queens of curds and creams, and queens need not stoop to listening to their subjects.”

“I ask a serious question and that's the answer I get?”

“Haven't you learned by now that women have minds of their own? They listen when it suits them and don't when it doesn't. But to be fair, men don't listen at all.”

“What are you talking about? I listen to Lou all the time.”

“You only pretend you do. When she talks about cooking and sewing and all the things she does, you think about hunting and fishing and the black powder you need to buy the next time you're at Bent's Fort. When she goes on about how you need to repair the roof, you think about going for a ride up in the mountains.” Shakespeare chuckled. “We nod our heads and say ‘Yes, dear,' and they let us cuddle with them at night. Not a bad trade, if I say so myself.”

“I don't do any of that.”

“You don't? Then someone else is the father of Lou's child? My word. Who can it be?”

A retort leaped to the tip of Zach's tongue, but then he noticed something else. “I don't see your dun anywhere.”

“You don't?” Shakespeare had assumed his wife was paying Lou a visit. “We'll ask Lou if she's seen her.”

The quiet, the smoke rising from the chimney, had eased much of Zach's concern. He was annoyed more than anything, rankled that Lou had left the front door open yet again. Fifty yards out, he suddenly drew rein. “I'm going to teach my wife a lesson. Stay with the horses.”

“Are you sure that's wise? Why stir the hornets when they're being peaceable?”

“There's only one hornet, and its high time she learned that leaving that door open could get her in trouble someday.” Zach handed the reins over and turned to jog to the cabin.

“Be gentle, son,” Shakespeare cautioned.

Making no more sound than the wind, Zach gave the chicken coop a wide berth so he wouldn't set the hens to clucking. He came to the front wall and crouched. Grinning, he cat-stepped to the open door. It would serve Lou right, his scaring her silly. Taking a deep breath, he bounded inside while simultaneously giving voice to a roar worthy of a grizzly.

No one was there.

Scratching his head, Zach backed out. He beckoned to McNair, then scoured the shore and the forest.

Shakespeare didn't need to ask what had happened. He was off the mare before it came to a stop. “Maybe we should fire a few shots in the air. It'll bring them on the run.”

“Good idea.” Zach went to raise his rifle, then froze. “God in heaven,” he breathed.

Shakespeare turned, and thought his heart would burst in his chest.

From out of the woods, her face smeared with blood, staggered Blue Water Woman.

Louisa King had felt overwhelming fear before. There was the time Zach was nearly killed by a grizzly; the time the army took him into custody and he was put on trial for murder; the time a wolverine tried to kill them. Other instances came to mind. She should have been used to it, but she wasn't. The fear that gripped her as she was being carried off by the warrior who had invaded their valley chilled her to the marrow.

Lou knew that Zach and Shakespeare would be gone for most of the day. She couldn't count on rescue from them. She had seen Blue Water Woman brutally struck with a rock, had seen her friend collapse and blood stream over her brow and face, and felt certain she was dead. With Nate and Winona gone, and the Nansusequa off after buffalo, there was no one to come to her rescue.

Her only hope was that Zach could track her captor down. But if Zach and Shakespeare didn't get back until dark, they'd have to wait until morning to come after her, unless they used torches. By then she would be miles away.

Presently the warrior came to a stream fed by a glacier.

Lou held her breath. Would he cross it or use it to hide his tracks?

The Outcast drew rein in the middle of the stream and shifted to look behind him. He grunted in satisfaction. There was no sign of pursuit yet. He rode up the stream toward the mountains, counting on the swift-flowing water to wash away most of the pinto's prints. Most, but not all.

Lou's heart sank. This was exactly what she dreaded. Now Zach and Shakespeare would have a harder time finding her. She closed her eyes and smothered a slight tremble. Ordinarily she was as brave as the next woman, but she was in dire straits. She figured the warrior was taking her to his village, where she would spend the rest of her days as his blanket warmer.

Like hell.
Lou would slit her wrists before letting another man touch her. But then she thought of the new life taking shape within her, and her eyes moistened as she realized that she didn't have it in her to do away with herself if it meant doing away with the baby, too.

The Outcast studied his captive. He was impressed by how quiet she was. Most woman would scream or be hysterical. This little one, he mused, had exceptional courage. It reminded him of
her.
Again pain filled him. Not physical pain, but the deep searing pain of raw emotion. It occurred to him that he had thought of her more since he came across this young white woman than he had in many moons.

The Outcast told himself his feelings were to be expected. Such a loss, the loss of someone who meant everything, someone loved and adored and cherished beyond all others, could never be forgotten. The best he could do, the best any person could do, was to hold the hurt at bay by piling rocks of denial around his heart so that the hurt could not touch it. The problem, of course, was that piles of rocks always had gaps in them, thin gaps, yes, but gaps where a stray feeling or an unguarded thought could slip through.

A tiny voice in the Outcast's mind told him to spare himself the misery. All he had to do was draw his knife and slit the white woman's throat. One slash and her life was over. One slash and his hurt was banished. He placed his hand on the hilt.

Lou opened her eyes and looked at her captor. She wished she spoke his tongue or he spoke hers. She would beg him to set her free so she could go back to her home and to those she loved most in the world. She saw him give a slight start, and wondered why.

The Outcast was about to draw his knife when his captive fixed her eyes on him. Such remarkable eyes, as blue as the lake. Mute appeal was mirrored in their depths. An appeal so potent, it caught him about his heart with a pelt of the softest fur. His head swirled, and he hissed in annoyance. “Stop looking at me,” he said, but she didn't understand him and kept on doing it. He raised his hand to smack her.

Lou turned away. She wondered why he was so mad. It didn't bode well. Men prone to get angry were also often violent. He might beat her if she wasn't careful. In despair she sagged across the pinto, her cheek against its side. Her belly was starting to hurt, and that worried her. It couldn't be good for her to be over the horse this way.

She gazed off through the trees, longing for a glimpse of her cabin, but they had come too far to the west. Soon, they would start to climb into the high country. It puzzled her. The only way out of the valley, as far as she knew, was to the east. Why was her captor heading west?

The Outcast scanned the valley rim. To the northwest was the glacier. To the south were peaks so high, they brushed the clouds. Ahead, to the west, were forested slopes that rose in tiers to rocky ramparts. He would set his traps there.

Inwardly, the Outcast smiled. Killing the breed and the old white man would take his mind off
her.
He had a lot to do and he might as well start now. Reining out of the stream and up the bank, he came to a stop at a stand of saplings and slid down. The saplings were ideal for what he had in mind.

Lou raised her head. Hope flared anew. She'd figured he would stay in the stream for miles. That was the smart thing to do if he wanted to shake off pursuit. She saw him take the rope and cut a couple of short lengths. Then he moved off into the undergrowth.

He had left her alone.

Instantly, Lou shifted to try to slide off the pinto. But her legs were partly numb and she couldn't quite manage it. Suddenly her captor was back. He had a downed tree limb, which he broke into pieces. Each piece was no thicker than his middle finger. One was about a foot long, the other six inches, the third even shorter. As she watched, he sat and drew his knife and started cutting on first one and then the other.

Lou would have to wait for another chance to try to escape. Curious what he was up to, she watched him intently.

The Outcast sharpened the sticks. At the opposite ends of the long one and the short one he cut notches. A rock served to pound the long stick into the ground. Stepping to a thin sapling he had chosen, the Outcast reached overhead and climbed. He used only his arms. Under his weight the tree began to bend. As it bent, his feet sank lower and lower until they were on the ground again. The sapling was now curved like a bow.

The Outcast tied one end of the rope to the sapling, about a third of the way from the top. Holding the rope securely so the tree couldn't snap back up, he tied the other end of the rope to the short stick, then knelt beside the stake.

Horror gripped Lou. She had divined what he was up to. Zach and Nate used the same trick to kill rabbits and the like. “God, no!” she exclaimed through her gag.

The Outcast glanced at her.

“Why are you doing this?” Lou struggled against her bonds.

The Outcast patted the sapling. He didn't understand a word the woman was saying, but he understood the worry on her face. “I do what I must. You and your man and your friends are my enemies.”

The Outcast aligned the notch in the short stick with the notch in the stake, setting them so the short stick would release if it was bumped. Rising, he took the third sharpened stick and carefully tied it to the bent sapling at the height of a mounted man. He cast about until he found pine limbs that suited his purpose and set them so they hid the rope and the stake. Now all that was needed was for one of his pursuers to ride by and jar the limb that hid the short stick. The sapling would whip up and impale the rider.

Lou's mouth went dry. She had realized the awful truth. He wasn't taking her to his village. He had no interest in her other than as bait. He was using her to lure Zach and Shakespeare to their deaths.