The Outcast (8 page)

A small herd of mountain buffalo called King Valley home. Shaggier than their flatland cousins, they stayed deep in the woods most of each day, coming out at dawn and late afternoon to drink and graze. They posed no threat so long as they were not disturbed. Many a time Shakespeare had watched them from his window and been reminded of the days when he hunted their cousins with his Indian friends. He didn't hunt these. Nate had suggested they leave the herd be. As Nate put it, “We'll hunt them only if we're starving. That way, we'll always have a pantry on the hoof we can fall back on.”

Shakespeare got a chuckle out of
pantry on the hoof.

But now, with his wife helpless on the travois, Shakespeare worried their decision would cost him dearly.

The bull snorted and shook its shaggy head, its horns glinting in the sunlight.

Blue Water Woman heard the snort and craned her neck to see over the top of the travois. A tongue of fear licked at her and she swallowed it down. As she always did in a crisis, she willed herself to stay calm, to focus and not give sway to fright. “Husband?” she said softly.

Shakespeare didn't take his eyes off the buffalo. He was holding his Hawken across his legs, but he made no attempt to raise it. “Not now, chipmunk. We have a problem.”

“I see him. You should cut the travois loose and ride off before he charges.”

Shakespeare almost gave a snort of his own. “And abandon you? That's the silliest thing you've ever said in all the years I've known you.”

The bull stamped and tossed its head and came several steps nearer. Over six feet high at the shoulders, with a bulging hump and broad head, it was a living, breathing monster.

Shakespeare fingered his rifle. It would take a lucky shot to bring the brute down. It must weigh between fifteen hundred and two thousand pounds, a lot of it muscle.

Blue Water Woman rose on an elbow. The bull looked at her and rumbled in its chest.

“For God's sake, don't move,” Shakespeare cautioned. “If it charges I might not be able to protect you.”

“If it charges I want you to save yourself.”

Shakespeare did what he had just told her not to do; he moved. Turning in the saddle, he declared, “I can hardly forbear hurling things at you.”

“I cannot help it if I love you and do not want you hurt.”

“Grant me the same courtesy.” Shakespeare had never told her, but he secretly hoped he died before she did. He would be so lonely without her, he didn't know if he would want to go on living.

Blue Water Woman was watching the buffalo. She was taken aback when other dark shapes appeared. Six, seven, eight, she counted, all as shaggy but none as big as the huge bull. “Carcajou!”

Shakespeare's pulse quickened. One buffalo was bad enough. Nine was a nightmare. All those horns, on creatures as unpredictable as the weather. He eased the Hawken from his lap. He couldn't get all of them, but he would bring the big bull down.

“Do not shoot,” Blue Water Woman cautioned. She worried that he might drop the bull in the hope the rest would run off.

“What do you take me for?” Shakespeare wedged the hardwood stock to his shoulder and took aim.

“What are you doing then?”

“Just in case.” Shakespeare intended to fire and throw himself in front of the travois, if it came to that.

“You are not to shoot no matter what,” Blue Water Woman insisted. She was all too aware of how stubborn he could be once he set his mind to something.

“That will be for me to decide.”

A cow started toward them, but stopped at a bellow from the bull.

“That was nice of him,” Blue Water Woman said. Her gratitude was short-lived.

Head bobbing, blowing noisily, its hooves ringing on rocks, the big bull advanced.

Shakespeare took a bead on the buffalo's right eye. The skull was so thick that a brain shot rarely penetrated, and facing it head-on, he didn't have a lung shot. His best bet was the eye, but with the head bobbing as it was, it was like hitting a bobbing dark pea.

Blue Water Woman gripped the travois. She had seen for herself how savage buffalo could be when they were provoked. Once, after a surround, she had gone with the other women to skin and carve the many buffalo the warriors killed. She had been slicing a belly open when she heard cries and shouts. A bull everyone thought was dead wasn't. It had regained its feet, and before any of the warriors could loose more shafts, it had been among them, ramming with its broad forehead and ripping with its great horns. Four horses had gone down, one with its insides spilling out. A warrior had rode up and buried a lance in the buffalo's side, and the buffalo whirled and gored his horse. As the horse fell, the man was pitched onto an upcurved horn. For as long as she lived, Blue Water Woman would never forget his death shriek.

Shakespeare's impulse was to fire before the bull reached them. His finger curled around the trigger.

“Please, Carcajou.”

Against his better judgment, Shakespeare took his cheek from the Hawken. His nerves jangled as the bull came ever closer. The mare nickered and tried to shy but couldn't because of the travois. “There, there,” he said quietly, and stroked the mare's neck.

Blue Water Woman held her breath.

A swarm of flies buzzing around it, the big bull reached the mare. It looked at her, grunted, and walked on by.

Now it was beside the travois. Blue Water Woman could have reached out and touched it. She saw its nostrils flare, and suddenly it stopped. The great head swung toward her. For a few heartbeats she feared the worst. The bull sniffed the buffalo robe she was bundled in, then nuzzled it and rubbed against the travois so hard that the entire travois shook and threatened to shatter.

Shakespeare put his cheek to the rifle.

The bull ambled on. After it came the bull's harem, none of them so much as giving the mare or the travois a glance. They crossed to the lake and dipped their muzzles to drink.

“I'll be switched,” Shakespeare said in relief, and gigged the mare to get out of there.

Blue Water Woman sank onto her back. Tension drained like water from a sieve. “Are you glad you listened to me?”

“I always listen to you, heart of my heart.”

“Oh my,” Blue Water Woman said.

“What?”

“All this time I thought you were deaf.”

A ringing in Zach's ears was his first sensation. He clawed up out of a dark well and floated in a pool of pain. Where he was and why he was in pain eluded him until he tried to move and discovered his arms and legs were pinned. Then it all came back in a rush: the talus, Lou, the Blood warrior, everything. He opened his eyes and brown specks fell into them, making them water. Blinking, he raised his head. He was on his back. Dirt and rocks formed a cocoon around him. Only his face was exposed.

That he was alive was a quirk of fate. If he had wound up facedown, he'd have suffocated. He thought of Lou—and sought to break free. Dust got into his nose, making him cough. He cut his fingers, but he didn't care. After hard effort he was able to sit up. He looked around. The talus had swept him into the pines.

A lot of tugging and digging freed his legs. He slowly rose, half dreading a leg was broken. He was bruised and sore but otherwise fine

His rifle was missing. He'd also lost one of his pistols. A glint of metal drew him to the Hawken's barrel, which poked from a bush. He picked it up and was relieved to find it undamaged except for scrapes and nicks. He looked around again but did not see the pistol.

Zach moved out of the pines. The talus slope was much as it had been. He scoured it from bottom to top, but there was no sign of Louisa. He cupped his mouth to shout her name and hesitated. If the Blood was alive, the warrior would hear and come after him. Zach shouted anyway.

The silence was a stab to his gut.

Zach moved along the edge of the talus, seeking some sign. A whinny brought more relief as the bay came out of the trees. It was covered with dust and the parfleche he had tied on was missing, but otherwise the horse was unhurt. He climbed on and called Lou's name again.

Worry clawed his insides. He imagined her buried alive. It would be an awful way to go. He debated whether to scale the slope on foot and search every square inch. Instead he swung wide and rode to the top. Dismounting, he checked for sign. In the dirt were tracks—a lot of tracks. They told a story that sent a thrill of joy and then a chill of horror down his spine.

Lou was alive! But other warriors had her. Her footprints led to where a horse had been tied. From there, hoofprints led up the mountain, with the tracks of warriors on either side.

Zach knew of the tribe on the other side of the divide; he had fought and killed one of its warriors. His pa and Shakespeare had used a keg of black powder to blow the pass—the only way over, they thought. Apparently there was another, and a war party had come into the valley. Those warriors now had Lou and were taking her back to their village.

That was how Zach read the sign. Lou faced a worse end than if she had been entombed in the talus.

Zach swallowed and gigged the bay. He figured they weren't far ahead, no more than an hour, but they would move fast and it would take some doing to overtake them before they got over the range.

A grim fury seized him. All Zach wanted was to live in peace with his wife and the others. All he asked was to be left alone by the outside world. His days of living to count coup were over. But enemies kept putting them in peril. Danger kept rearing its unwanted head. Life was a constant struggle for survival, and he was tired of it.

The idea surprised him. He had never thought like this before. And now was hardly the time to start.

The Heart Eaters had his wife.

So be it.

He would have to save her and take their lives, or perish in the attempt.

From the woods below the talus, the Outcast watched the breed head up the mountain. Limping into the open, he started after him. His left knee throbbed and his head pounded. He'd lost his bow and his quiver, but he still had his knife and tomahawk. They would have to do.

The Outcast had not lost consciousness. For a while he had lain in a daze but finally he recovered enough to stand on wobbly legs. He almost gave himself away when he had moved through the trees, but fortunately he saw the seven warriors before they saw him.

They were strange, these warriors. The Outcast had never beheld their like. Their scarred faces were hideous. He imagined they did it to strike fear into their enemies, but he could have been wrong. He saw them uncover the white woman, saw their hand talk although they were too far away for him to tell what they were signing. Then the warrior had made the woman climb onto his pinto and they went off up the mountain.

The Outcast had two reasons to go after them—they had taken his horse and his captive. A third reason gnawed at him like a beaver at a tree, but he refused to let it take root. He cared for no one but himself. He had lost all feelings for others the day
she
died.

Or, rather, the day he killed her and their baby.

He relived it in his mind, that terrible event, seared into his memory forever. The day he came back to his lodge to find Mad Wolf there. She had the baby to her bosom and was pleading with Mad Wolf to leave.

For half a dozen moons Mad Wolf tried to win her away. Mad Wolf had more horses and his father was high in the council, and he thought he had the right to any woman he wanted. Mad Wolf wanted Yellow Fox. Mad Wolf didn't care that she was spoken for. Mad Wolf didn't care that she had told him over and over that she would never come to live with him.

Mad Wolf kept after her. One fateful day he had dared to enter their lodge and press his suit.

The Outcast had never been so mad. Even now, it made his blood grow hot in his veins. They had heated words, Mad Wolf and he. One angry word led to another, and Mad Wolf reached for his knife.

Without thinking, the Outcast reacted. He drove his lance into Mad Wolf's body with all the strength in his sinews.

The Outcast hadn't realized that Yellow Fox had come up behind Mad Wolf. He hadn't realized his lance went all the way through Mad Wolf and through the baby and into her until she cried out.

It wasn't one body that fell.

It was three.

It was the day the Outcast died inside. When the elders called him before them, he listened with an empty heart. No Kainai had ever done such a thing. Kainai were never to kill Kainai. To kill a woman and an infant—it was unthinkable. It was bad medicine. With deep regret the council acted for the good of all.

They banished him.

No one came to see him off the day he rode from the village. Those he passed turned their backs to him.

The Outcast wandered. An empty vessel that refused to be filled, he traveled where whim took him. In his sorrow and grief he thought he would never feel again.

He hadn't, until now.

In grim anger, the Outcast started after the scarred warriors.

They had taken his horse and his captive.

He would have their lives—or they would have his.

“There.” Star Dancer pointed.

“I see him,” Skin Shredder said.

The breed was after them. As yet he was well down the mountain, but climbing rapidly.

“He will overtake us before the sun goes down.”

“Let him.” Skin Shredder would rise high in the esteem of his people if he brought back two captives instead of one.

Louisa wondered what they were talking about. She was on the pinto a little way ahead in the trees and could not see where they were looking. She hoped against hope that Zach was coming. She refused to believe he was dead. She'd survived the talus; so could he. He was a lot tougher.

The Heart Eaters continued their ascent.

Lou was tempted to try to escape. All she had to do was yank the reins from the hands of the Indian holding them, and use her heels. But with warriors on both sides and the leader and his friends behind, she would be lucky if she got ten feet.

Lou had to do something. Not just for her sake. She had the new life to think of. If something had happened to Zach, she owed it to him to stay alive so she could give birth to his legacy.

Lou put a hand on her belly. It was too soon to feel the baby kick, but she told herself that now and then she felt it move. Her imagination, most likely, but there it was.

Skin Shredder was watching her. He'd noticed how she was constantly putting a hand on her stomach. At first he thought she had been hurt when she was caught in the talus. Then he thought maybe she was sick. Finally he remembered his own women and the one who had just given him a son, and he blurted, “She is with child.”

Splashes Blood looked at him. “Who?”

“How many captives do we have?” Skin Shredder nodded at the white woman. “We must keep her alive until it is born.” Of all the delicacies life offered, of all the delicious kinds of meat, the heart of a baby was the choicest.

“The other Bear People will come after us,” Splashes Blood mentioned.

Skin Shredder knew of whom he spoke—the giant with the black beard and the old man with the white beard. They were dangerous, that pair. “Let them come to our valley. They will never leave it.”

A slope of lodgepole pines was mired in gloom. The slender trees grew in ranks so close together that at times there was barely space for the pinto. Skin Shredder doubted the white woman would try to escape until they were out of them. She could not ride fast with the trees pressing in on her. He relaxed his guard and stopped watching her.

Lou was bubbling with excitement. Here was her chance. She girded herself, and when most of the warriors were looking the other way, she coiled her legs and leaped. Her outstretched hands wrapped around a lodgepole, and with a lithe swing she was on the ground and running. She moved so quickly that she had a five-yard lead before a harsh cry alerted her captors to her flight.

Lou was fleet of foot. She wasn't as fast as Zach, but he often liked to say that she was a female antelope. In britches, anyway. Dresses slowed her. She poured all she had into her legs and bounded down the mountain in long loping strides. She risked a glance over her shoulder and saw that four of the Heart Eaters were after her. The rest had stayed with the pinto.

Skin Shredder was startled by how fast she was. He was going all out, but he couldn't gain. Star Dancer, though, was faster, and would catch her before she was out of the lodgepoles.

Heavy breathing and the thud of flying feet warned Lou one of them was almost on top of her. She dared another glance and saw bronzed fingers reaching for the back of her dress. The warrior was intent on her to the exclusion of all else. Inspiration struck, and she ran straight at one of the pines. The warrior's fingertips brushed her, and he smiled, thinking that he almost had her. He didn't see the tree until Lou swerved.

Skin Shredder heard the thud of impact. He didn't stop. He streaked past Star Dancer, who was holding an arm and thrashing about in pain. Now it was up to him.

Lou was pleased with herself. Her little ploy had worked. But now their leader was hard after her, and she didn't think the same trick would work twice. She started weaving among the slender boles, turning right and left, never running straight for more than a few yards. As she hoped, he lost a little ground.

Skin Shredder fumed. She was clever, this white woman. He settled into a rhythm, pacing himself, conserving his energy for a spurt when his chance came to catch her. And it would. He could run for many leagues without tiring. His stamina was superior to hers, and in the end, it would be her undoing.

An ache in Lou's side reminded her of how long it had been since she had run any distance. Cabin life had softened her. Add to that her condition, and it was small wonder that soon she was panting and her legs pained in protest at their abuse.

Lou refused to stop. She would never give up, not so long as she had breath in her body. She weaved right, ducked under a limb, weaved left and had her cheek opened. A branch snatched her dress and broke.

Skin Shredder admired her tenacity. She was so slight and frail that he would not have thought she had it in her.

The lodgepoles were almost at an end. Below was a slope sprinkled with spruce.

Lou must do something to slow Skin Shredder, but what? The breaking of the limb gave her an idea. She deliberately ran at another and snapped it off without breaking stride. Then, twisting, she threw the branch at his face.

Skin Shredder was caught by surprise. It was so unexpected, and she was so quick, that he swerved aside a fraction too late. The branch slashed his temple, missing his eye by a finger's width. He slowed, and she increased her lead.

Skin Shredder smiled. She was a firebrand, this small one. It was too bad she must die. She had the kind of spirit he liked in his wives.

Lou was glad she had slowed him down but she was only delaying the inevitable. She would run out of tricks and energy and the warriors would be on her. She imagined they would be mad, imagined them hitting and kicking her. A beating might cost her the baby. Added incentive for her to make her feet fly.

Lou was running so fast, the trees were a blur. She burst from the lodgepoles. A boulder filled her vision and she swept around it. On the other side was a badger mound and a badger hole. She willed her body to jump but she was not quite quick enough.

Her left foot went into the hole, and down she crashed.

Zach King pushed the bay harder than he had ever ridden it. He lashed the reins and used his heels and climbed as fast as the terrain permitted. The steep slopes chafed at his patience. His temper, held in check by a thin veneer of self-control, snapped. The more he thought about what Lou had gone through—first abducted by the Blood and now the Heart Eaters—the angrier he became.

Zach was in the grip of bloodlust. It made him think of when he was younger, when he lived for counting coup. He hadn't felt this way in many a moon, and it felt good to be his old self again.

He was eager for a glimpse of Lou and her captors. He had checked the Hawken and his remaining pistol. His knife was razor sharp. His tomahawk had a keen edge. He craved the coming fight as a drunk craved a drink or a person with a sweet tooth craved pies and cakes.

Whenever he came to a gap in the trees Zach rose in the stirrups and scanned the higher slopes. He figured the Heart Eaters were making for their secret pass over the top of the range. After he dealt with them and got Lou safely back home, he would take a keg of black powder and ensure the Heart Eaters never again invaded King Valley.

Better yet, Zach would like to find their village. Two or three kegs should suffice to blow the tribe to the white man's kingdom come—or enough of them that the few left would retreat deeper into the mountains and cease to be a threat to his loved ones or anyone else.

That had been one of life's hardest lessons. His father and mother were such good people, and they had raised him with so much kindness and love, that when he was little he took it for granted that everyone else was the same. It had come as a shock to discover that a lot of people weren't kind or loving—that they were, in fact, anything but. A lot of folks didn't care about anything except themselves. Even worse, some people, red and white, lived to hurt others. They relished the pain they inflicted, whether physical or emotional. They were hateful and mean, and reveled in their vileness. His pa said it was the way of the world. He thought they should all be chucked off a cliff.

Zach rose in the stirrups. He saw no one and was about to sink back down when he caught movement near a phalanx of lodgepole pines. It took a few seconds for what he was seeing to make sense. When it did, his breath caught in his throat. Lou was on foot and fleeing for her life. He reached for his parfleche to take out his spyglass and remembered he had left it on a shelf in their bedroom.

“Damn my stupidity, anyhow.”

Lou suddenly stumbled—or so it appeared to Zach—and fell. The others were on her in a twinkling. One of them yanked her to her feet and hauled her toward the lodgepoles. The others bent and seemed to be carrying or rolling something up the slope.

Zach raised the Hawken to his shoulder but lowered it again. What was he thinking? They were too far off. He must keep his temper in check for a little while longer.

He hoped Lou was all right, hoped the fall hadn't hurt her inside. If she should lose the baby he would wreak bloodshed on the Heart Eaters a hundredfold.

God, how Zach wished the bay had wings. Presently he neared the lodgepoles and reined toward the spot where he had seen Lou fall. He saw a badger burrow and guessed the truth. He also saw a bare shallow circle of dirt, and then another, each about as big around as a washtub. Ruts led from the circles into the trees. He wondered what made them.

A loud snapping and crunching brought Zach to a stop. He looked up just as a boulder came rolling out of the trees—straight at him. He reined sharply aside, fearing the boulder would crash into the bay's legs and bring down the horse. It missed by an arm's length.

Then Zach understood. The circles of dirt were where boulders had been. He reined to the left to get out of there just as another boulder hurtled out at the bay.

The horse carried them clear.

Zach went to rein around. Suddenly scarred figures burst from cover and swarmed about him. For a moment he thought he would be riddled with arrows, but their bows were slung. They had large rocks and tree limbs, and one let fly with a rock that struck the Hawken and nearly knocked it from his hand. He tried to point it, but the blunt end of a thick limb caught him in the ribs and iron fingers grabbed hold of his leg.

Zach was unhorsed. He slammed to the earth on his shoulders. Before he could rise, before he could draw his knife or his tomahawk, they were on him. A warrior was on each arm, a warrior on each leg, another astride his chest. He was pinned flat.

Zach heaved upward, but their combined weight was too much. They made no attempt to stab him or beat him. All they did was hold him down and smile. Those smiles were like searing red-hot pokers driven into Zach's gut. He felt a berserker rage coming over him, but he held it in check. All he would do was waste himself.

Two more warriors appeared, Lou held between them. She was limping, her face etched in pain. She smiled, a smile of such love and tenderness that Zach's head swam.

“About time you showed up.”

Caught in an ebb tide of emotion, Zach said quietly, “I sure made a mess of it.”

Louisa yearned to go to him and take him in her arms. She had tried to shout a warning, but Skin Shredder had clamped a hand over her mouth. “We're not dead yet.”

“How bad is your leg?”

“It's not broken.” Lou gazed down the mountain. “Are you alone?”

“Shakespeare is tending Blue Water Woman.”

“She's alive?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God.”

“Don't give up hope. I'll get you out of this or die.”

“Haven't you heard?” Lou smiled. “I'm a King. A King never gives up hope.”

Skin Shredder was puzzled. He couldn't understand how the two could be so calm about the breed's capture. He'd expected the man to be in a frenzy and the woman to scream and fight. Instead they behaved as if it were of no consequence. “Tie his wrists and bring his horse. Do not let him get on it. Make him walk.”

Zach resisted when they hauled him to his feet and forced his arms behind him, but there were too many. It was humiliating, being bound by enemies.

They started up the mountain.

Lou walked beside Zach, her shoulder brushing his. None of the warriors objected until she made bold to reach out and gently clasp his bounds hands. The warrior behind her, evidently thinking she was trying to undo the knots, swatted her hands and said something.

Skin Shredder was in the lead. He glanced back when he heard Star Dancer tell the white woman not to touch the breed. “Watch her closely. They must not escape.” It had been many moons since a raiding party brought back two captives. His people would be overjoyed. They would sing his praises and dance and cut out and eat the man's heart. The woman could wait until the baby was born. Then there would be two more to eat.

The thought made his mouth water. He could almost taste them.