Winter's Touch (14 page)

The Indians appeared to be arguing among themselves.

“What are they saying?” Carson whispered to Innes.

“They’re arguing over which direction they should take. Crooked Oak wants to go back the way they came. The others want to go south, then west into the mountains. Our tracks out of camp led west. They think we kept heading that way.”

The argument heated. There was shouting and pointing, and one of the men motioned toward the shelter of the rocks where Carson and the others were.

Carson held his breath. What was that old children’s story about the emperor and his clothes? Any minute now someone was going to point out that he was naked. Any minute the Arapaho would spot them, or ride toward the trees to rest their horses in the shade.

He had been in worse situations during the war. Less cover. No cover. Thousands of men shooting at him instead of a half dozen that might or might not notice him. But he hadn’t had Bess and Megan with him.

Suddenly one rider—Crooked Oak—broke from the others. With an angry shout over his shoulder at his comrades, he trotted his horse toward the trees.

Carson got him in his sights and waited.

The other riders shouted and galloped off back the way they had come.

A dozen yards from the escapees’ hiding place Crooked Oak drew his horse up. For a long moment he sat there. Just sat there, staring toward the rocks. Staring straight at
him
, Carson would have sworn.

Then, with a look of disgust, Crooked Oak turned his horse away and rode after the others.

Neither Carson nor Innes moved, other than to turn and watch as Crooked Oak caught up with his friends. In less than a minute they had disappeared around the curve of the valley.

“’Twas a wee bit closer than I like,” Carson said as he lowered his rifle, “but it’ll do.”

Slowly Carson pulled his rifle from the notch. “Let’s get the hell out of here before they change their minds and come back.”

“You’ll be gettin’ no argument from me, lad. I’m all for it.” Innes turned and signaled to Hunter.

The boy led the animals out of their deep cover. Megan was already mounted.

“Look, Daddy, I’m—”

“Shh,” Carson cautioned. Softly he said, “We have to be quiet, honey.”

“I’m riding,” she said in a loud whisper. “All by myself.”

“You sure are.” He went to her side and touched her cheek. “And I’m proud of you, honey. Are you ready to go?”

With an irrepressible grin, Megan nodded her head vigorously. Her braids, which Bess had obviously redone recently, bounced.

Innes swung up behind her.

Hunter mounted his horse. He held out his hand to Bess, and offered his foot for her to step on. Carson grasped her waist and gave her a boost up.

Then he turned to his own horse and reached for Winter Fawn.

“No.” She backed away from him. “I’m riding behind today.”

“You can’t, Winter Fawn. You’re not strong enough.”

“I am not so weak that I canna sit up and hold on. If I grow tired I will tell you.”

“We’re going to do some hard riding. There may not be a chance to stop.”

“Then we shouldna be wasting time arguing about it. I willna let you cradle me again. You need both hands free. Last night we were lucky.”

She was right, Carson knew, on all counts. He needed to be able to use the rifle if necessary. He had cursed his inability to do so last night. And they were wasting time. “All right, but if you start feeling weak, you tell me.”

“I will tell you.”

When he saw how much it hurt her to mount behind him, he regretted giving in to her. But if she could hold on, they would be better off.

Innes led the way out of the rocks and headed south through the woods and over the ridge into the next valley, much smaller than the last one.

The ground they traveled was wet from the rain. It took the hoof prints of the horses and mule deep and held them, a trail of unmistakable tracks for anyone to see. And follow.

Which was exactly what Crooked Oak and the others did when, after finding no sign of the ones they pursued, they decided to go back into the hills to search.

When they came upon the fresh hoof prints in the mud, Crooked Oak instantly recognized the tracks of Red Beard’s horse and mule. They were as familiar to him as the tracks of his own mounts. He shouted with excitement. “It is them! Let us ride hard, my friends.”

They followed the trail over the ridge, up one valley and down another. Man-Above must surely be smiling upon Crooked Oak again. Now he could catch Winter Fawn, kill the whites, and return with scalps.

Then, with Winter Fawn beside him, his true destiny would unfold for all to see.

Yes, he thought some time later, Man-Above must indeed be smiling on him. The tracks were so fresh, his prey was only minutes ahead.

Inside, Crooked Oak rejoiced. All would be his!

They crested another ridge and saw them there, Red Beard, Hunter, the white man and his two girls, and Winter Fawn, less than a mile ahead.

Crooked Oak could not contain himself. He let out a wild, shrill whoop. “We ride, my friends! To victory for Our People!”

While waiting his turn to cross the stream, Carson felt the skin on the back of his neck crawl. It was a narrow stream, but the banks were steep and rocky, offering few places to cross. Innes went first, letting his horse pick its way carefully over the slick, shifting rocks in the rushing water, then up the gravel slope on the other side and into the pines.

Hunter followed his father’s path. When he left the water and started up the gravel slope, Innes had to retreat farther into the trees to get out of the way. There wasn’t room on that small knob of land for more than one horse.

Winter Fawn had yet to say anything. Carson had been surprised and impressed that she had managed to sit upright all morning. He knew she had to be at the end of her strength, as well as in considerable pain, but she had not uttered a single word of complaint.

Carson lifted the reins to urge his horse down to the stream, but suddenly Winter Fawn hissed in a sharp breath and squeezed him hard around the waist. “Look behind us,” she whispered.

Carson twisted and glanced over his shoulder. The sight of the six warriors sweeping down on them from scarcely a half mile downstream chilled his blood.

“Hurry,” he said urgently. “Get down.”

“No! They will kill you!”

He tried to pull her arm from around his waist. “They’re likely to kill you by accident trying to get to me. Get down. Now,” he ordered sharply.

“If I stay here,” she told Carson urgently, “they will come here for me. My father willna leave me. You dinna want them near Bess and Megan. We are all better off if I go with you.”

Pausing on the opposite bank, Hunter turned to watch Carson’s crossing. But he wasn’t crossing. The man was arguing with Winter Fawn. Then, with a glance downstream, Hunter saw the riders and understood. Carson was trying to make Winter Fawn get down. He would take off and lead the warriors away from the rest of them. It was a good plan. But Winter Fawn was not cooperating.

Hunter knew his sister was right. Yes, Crooked Oak surely wanted to kill Carson. What no one had said aloud was that it was very likely that Crooked Oak might not be over-sorrowed if everyone who helped Carson escape—everyone but Winter Fawn—were to be killed. Hunter believed their father was in almost as much danger as Carson.

“Go” he called across the stream. “Take her. We will guard your sister and daughter. Go now, while you can.”

From his spot deeper in the trees, Innes could not see what was happening. “What the hell?”

With the warriors drawing nearer every second, Carson knew he had to make a decision immediately. There was no choice, really. If he crossed that stream, they would all be caught. If he took off, chances were good that the warriors would follow him. Bess and Megan would be safe.

Winter Fawn would not.

“Dammit,” he said to no one in particular.

Across the stream, Innes had worked his horse up beside Hunter’s. The Scotsman squinted and stared at the approaching warriors. “Aye, lad,” he called to Carson, “be gone with ye. You take care of my lass, and I’ll take care of yours.”

Bess, her eyes wide with fear, stared from behind Hunter’s shoulder. She sought reassurance from Carson, then looked to Hunter. When the boy nodded to her, she looked back at her brother. “Go, Carson. Stay safe.”

God, Carson thought, when had his baby sister become so brave? What if he was wrong to leave them?

But he wasn’t wrong. His instincts told him they would all be safer if he led the warriors away. His only hesitation was Winter Fawn. If she was right that Crooked Oak would come for her—and from all the talk, he had to believe it—then he would not leave her behind. He didn’t want to give the warriors any excuse to get near Bess and Megan.

Not that she was cooperating in staying behind anyway. With a final look to Innes, Carson nodded sharply and waited while Innes and Hunter disappeared into the trees.

“Hold on tight,” he told Winter Fawn. He lifted the reins and looked back downstream to make certain the warriors saw him.

God, he hoped he was doing the right thing.

“What are we waiting for?” Winter Fawn demanded.

“To make sure they see me and follow.”

“If they get any closer, you will end up following them,” she cried.

Despite everything, Carson chuckled. If it sounded a little grim, that was to be expected. Outrunning the warriors did not seem likely. Yes, they may have ridden many miles farther, but Carson and Winter Fawn had ridden double, and their horse was carrying the extra weight of a heavy Western saddle. Carson guessed that more than made up for the fewer miles his horse had traveled.

Then there was the fact that the warriors undoubtedly knew this country intimately. They had traveled it, hunted it, raided throughout it. Carson knew north from south, and could find his ranch, but since he wasn’t about to lead them direct there, he would need to lose their pursuers, who were, he’d been told, expert trackers. Losing them, he feared, was going to take some doing. He’d been in these mountains before, but to say he knew his way around in them was to exaggerate.

It was a fool’s errand if ever there was one. The horse was tired, Winter Fawn was weak and in pain, Carson was a newcomer to the territory, being chased by experts.

He would hope that the warriors would follow him so that Innes could get the girls to safety. He wouldn’t, couldn’t bring himself, to hope for much more than that.

To get to the ranch, Innes would have to head south.

Carson turned his horse north. “Okay, boy, let’s see what you’ve got.” He wasn’t sure if he was talking to the horse, or himself. With a glance at the approaching warriors, he pulled his rifle from its sheathe and held it over his head. With a wild Rebel yell, he loosed the reins and turned the horse north along the ridge, away from Bess and Megan, away from nearly all that was left of his family, toward an unknown, uncertain, and quite likely short-lived future.

But, by God, he wouldn’t go down without a fight. For a man who was sick of war and fighting, he was surprisingly eager to stand and fight. This running away, even though it was for the sake of the girls, ate at him.

Ahead the ridge ended abruptly at a rock wall. With a glance behind to make sure the warriors had taken his bait, Carson guided the animal down the north side and headed out of the foothills and into the mountains.

Winter Fawn held on tight, clinging to his back like a burr on a dog. If she fell off, Carson would stop and come back for her, she knew. And they would be caught. And he would die. She had no fear for her own safety at Crooked Oak’s hands. He wanted her too badly to risk harming her. But he would kill Carson. Of that she was certain.

Beneath her the ground fell away one minute, rose sharply the next. The ground was rocky and uneven. She twisted to look behind them for the warriors, and vowed not to do it again when black spots of pain danced before her eyes. She held on tight and did her best to block out the screaming pain in her side.

Carson had no such problem with looking back. As soon as he’d put a hill between him and the pursuers, he hit a small creek that wound between two hills. He followed it as it twisted back and forth. They left it once, then he backed the horse back into the water, hoping to at least delay the others while they figured out what he’d done.

After about a half mile he found what he’d been hoping for—a patch of gravel that led out of the water. He didn’t figure he was fooling anybody, but he would do what he could to slow them down.

Suddenly from behind came the sound of fast hoofs scrambling over rock.

They couldn’t have caught them so easily!

With blood pounding in his ears, Carson angled behind a pile of boulders that had tumbled down the hillside sometime in the past. Behind their protection, he drew the horse to a halt, then spun him toward the oncoming threat. He raised his rifle and aimed at the spot where they would have to emerge from the tall scrub.

The crashing grew louder. They were making no attempt to sneak up on him, Carson noted ruefully. They were pretty damn certain of their victory over one man.

“Slide down,” Carson said quietly to Winter Fawn. “Climb into those rocks and take cover.”

“No.”

“Dammit, Winter Fawn, do it!”

“I willna,” she cried softly, wishing fervently that she was in front of him on the saddle once again. If she was in front, they would not shoot at him. She knew they would not.

Why she felt so strongly about saving this man, she did not know. She had gone to help him, to cut him free, because he was her father’s friend. Surely she had done enough, cutting him loose, getting shot for her efforts. Yet something deep inside compelled her to do more.

Something had happened to her when she had been pinned to him by Crooked Oak’s arrow. When she had looked up into the white man’s eyes, something inside her had moved. Opened up. Taken him in. He had somehow become a part of her. She could no more hide in the rocks and let him face this danger alone than she could stop the sun from its daily march across the sky.