Deborah Camp (41 page)

A cry of anguish escaped him and he had to press his lips tightly together to keep from roaring with rage. He stared hard at her, willing her to move, to lift her head, to give him one sign of life. A sob threatened to tear him in half, but he won over his emotional side. No time for that. If she was alive, he had to free her from the clutches of these barbarians. He checked the Colt again, then the Hawken. He had removed his coat so as to be unencumbered. He patted his vest pockets and felt the Hawken’s cartridges. His fingers danced over long strings—fuses? A warning blared in his brain. He pulled out one of the cartridges and stared in horror at the colorful stripes and long fuses.

“Firecrackers,” he whispered, his upper lip lifting in a snarl of disgust. Not ammunition! He’d brought firecrackers along to fight a band of blood-thirsty Indians!

For a moment his head swam and he felt ill with his own uselessness. Patrol paced and bumped against Tucker, shaking him from his miserable stupor. He grabbed the Hawken and ran in a low crouch to an overhanging boulder. Tucker lay flat on his stomach alongside it, using its shadows for cover. Patrol lay behind the boulder. Tucker could hear the dog panting. He examined the territory
and located other hiding spots that would be his stepping stones to Copper. He’d set her free and try to get her out of the camp before the others began to stir.

As he perfected the plan in his mind, the flap on the biggest tepee flipped open and a line of Indians emerged; eight in all, and smeared with war paint. A veil of smoke snaked behind them and the breeze carried the scent of loco weed, spicy herbs, and heavy sage. They’d been passing the pipe or purifying themselves in smoke, Tucker thought. Which meant they were preparing for some kind of ceremony. Feet Like Wind brought up the rear, but his long legs took him past the others as they made straight for Copper. Hatred shot through Tucker at the sight of his sworn enemy.

Feet Like Wind stopped before Copper and grabbed a handful of her lustrous hair, using it to pull her head up. Her eyes were closed, her face a pasty white. Rust-colored blood stained her forehead and streaked down the left side of her face. A patch of her hair was matted with clotted blood. Tucker felt Patrol’s anxiety and made a hushing sign to the dog, commanding him to be quiet. He glanced around, making sure no one had found him out and was slipping up to slit his throat. Ranger was somewhere nearby, he knew, and Tucker drew a measure of comfort from that. The pinto was more than a horse and less than a devil; a witch’s flesh and blood broomstick.

Feet Like Wind drew back a hand and slapped Copper hard across the face. Tucker reacted by taking a bead on the middle of the Indian’s spine. His trigger finger twitched. Copper moaned softly and it was an answered prayer for Tucker Jones. He shut his eyes and bit his bottom lip until the surge of gratitude passed and he could again face the battle ahead of him.

The breeze flapped Feet Like Wind’s long, black
braids and the feathers stuck in it. The warrior spit fully in Copper’s face before letting her head drop again. He grabbed a spear from another Indian and circled the cross-stake, speaking in his native tongue and shoving the spear at the sky to punctuate his bravado.

“Yeah, you’re a big man now that you’ve got her half dead and tied to a stake,” Tucker whispered, nursing his hatred for the other man.

He ached to reach Copper’s side and wipe the savage’s spittal from her face, bathe and dress her wounds, take care of her as she had taken care of him. He sighted the Hawken again, aiming at Feet Like Wind as the warrior pranced in a circle. The others fell in with him, charging at Copper in a dance of hunters against a fallen prey. Tremendous pride rose within Tucker when Copper’s chin inched up until she faced the circling vultures. She stared stonily at them, showing not a flicker of fear. Tucker wanted to stand atop the boulder and shout at the top of his lungs that he loved her more than life itself. No wonder legendary tales trailed her like colored ribbons. A woman of such courage, of such tenacity deserved to be lauded, revered and, yes, even feared.

From a distance, he couldn’t tell how badly she was injured, but from the amount of blood on her clothing, he knew she must be weak and exhausted. She’d been tied to that stake overnight after God-only-knew what kinds of torture.

Feet Like Wind moved so quickly that Tucker didn’t comprehend that he’d grabbed up a small club until he’d already struck Copper in the stomach with it. She released a low moan, but kept her chin up. The others picked up clubs and tightened their circle, gradually inching into striking distance. They tapped Copper with the clubs, counting coup on her, then Feet Like Wind raised his weapon high above Copper’s head. His muscles flexed, gathering in strength for his next, killing
blow. Patrol whined. Tucker closed one eye and curled his finger around the first trigger of the double-barreled Hawken.

His careful plans dissolved, whisked away by Feet Like Wind’s raised club. Tucker prayed that the ancient weapon wouldn’t misfire. He squeezed, heard the click, the snap, and then the lovely boom as the rifle bucked against his shoulder. A split second later the club in Feet Like Wind’s hand splintered and the Indian dropped it with a howl. He spun in Tucker’s direction, holding his bloody hand and scouring the rocky outcroppings with beady, black eyes. The tall Indian shouted and the others scrambled for weapons. Tucker had only a few moments to crawl behind the boulder before the ground bloomed with bullets.

Tucker hooked an arm over his head, protecting his face from ricochets. He gathered Patrol against him, making the dog stay down and out of firing range. When the explosions diminished, Tucker peeked over the top of the boulder. The Indians were running toward the corral for their horses, bent on finishing him off. Well, at least they had forgotten Copper for the time being, which had been his objective. Now what? He looked around for a miracle and Ranger moved into a band of pink morning light. Tucker and the pinto eyed each other.

“Are you going to let me ride you, old son? We’ll probably die together, but at least we’ll die trying to save her pretty skin. I can’t think of a better reason to ride you into hell.”

Ranger bobbed his head as if motioning for Tucker to get his backside in gear and climb on. Tucker laughed darkly.

“Patrol, stay.”

The dog whined.

“No, you don’t. There’s no sense in you dying with us. You’re a good dog, Patrol. Good dog.” He
hugged the wolfhound tightly before making a dash for the stocky pinto. Grabbing a handful of mane, he hauled himself onto Ranger’s wide back. He laid his hands flat against the pinto’s neck and held tight with his knees.

“I’ll tell you a secret. I always dreamed of having a horse like you. I guess everybody does,” he whispered, leaning over the pinto’s neck. Ranger clacked his yellow teeth. “Right,” Tucker said, tensing for battle. “Let’s rescue our damsel in distress.”

With Colt in hand, knife between his teeth, and the bow and arrows slung across his back, he left his cover and directed Ranger closer to the village. The Gros Ventre braves were springing onto their horses as Ranger galloped into range. The scent of battle burned in Tucker’s nostrils and his years of soldiering came to the fore, obliterating odds and ravaging reasons, leaving only the brash immortality of military might. Tucker aimed carefully and the Colt kicked again and again in his hand. Gros Ventre screamed in pain and fell off their horses. A couple never even made it astride their dancing mounts before Tucker’s bullets found them.

Lead ripped through the air past his head and shoulders. Acrid gunpowder overpowered all other smells. Using his legs to guide Ranger, Tucker positioned the pinto closer and closer to the camp, but managed to keep trees and rocky outcroppings in front of them to spoil the aim of the enemy. War cries rose as more blood pooled on the cold ground. Tucker’s training served him well and he ducked and darted, riding with precision astride a pony that had never known the cold kiss of fear. But although he managed to evade the braves in the first minute of battle, he was warwise enough to realize that the last grains of sand were pouring from his life’s hourglass.

A bullet plowed skin from Ranger’s left side and another nicked Tucker’s right ear. He made
Ranger stand among the aspen while he holstered the empty Colt and loaded the heavy Hawken with the last of his ammunition. His fingers touched the firecrackers in his pocket and he cursed himself again for being such a hapless dimwit. He bit down on the knife blade and brought the Hawken up to the, ready. Fire bloomed above his knee and he grunted in sudden pain. Blood stained his pants leg. He flexed his leg and was glad the bullet hadn’t shattered his kneecap. Pushing the teeth-gnashing agony aside, he focused on the clutch of Indians riding toward him.

Outnumbered and with the taint of defeat in his mouth, Tucker wrestled Ranger around to confront the band of whooping Gros Ventre. He dug in his heels and released a howl of his own as the devil horse laid back his ears and sprinted straight for the enemy. The Hawken boomed once, twice, and scattered the knot of braves. Three fell, ten more came on. Tucker automatically reached for more cartridges and brought out a handful of the firecrackers. Ranger shrieked and made for the Gros Ventre warriors, hooves pounding and flinging up clumps of mud and dead grass.

Not expecting a frontal charge from the solitary horseman, the Gros Ventre were momentarily stunned. Tucker felt surprise ripple through them. Gripping the useless firecrackers, he stared at the savage faces. The primitive warpaint triggered an idea, and he kneed Ranger to the left, further throwing the warriors off-balance as he rode directly for Copper and the fire blazing near her.

Ranger quivered when he sighted Copper and started to veer toward her, but Tucker barked a command at him and Ranger obeyed. The pinto stopped before the fire, whirled to face their attackers again, and reared in a last, valiant hurrah. Tucker grabbed the knife handle and wielded the puny weapon. He gathered a great, shuddering breath and hoped it wasn’t his last.

“I am Ghostwalker! I am Copper Headed Woman’s creation!” he shouted, his voice showing no trace of the doom he felt. “You have wronged my creator and I will bring lightning down from the sunny sky to strike you dead!” With that, he flung a handful of the firecrackers into the fire.

Seconds ticked by and nothing happened. Feet Like Wind rode fast toward Tucker, spear held high, its sharp point glinting in the sun. The fire suddenly roared and threw sparks. Feet Like Wind’s mount reared. And then all hell broke loose. Lights exploded and plumes of red and gold smoke shot up from the fire in ghostly columns. A high whistle split the air and then a low boom hammered the sky directly over their heads. Light splintered, popped, and spread in tiny sunbursts. The war whoops changed to shrieks of terror as the braves covered their heads and tried to stay on their bucking, rearing horses.

The burst of noise and smell of chemicals roused Copper from her fuzzy, shapeless world. She lifted her head with effort and tried to focus her swollen eyes. For a few moments she had thought she was hallucinating, but it was all too real, too immediate.

“Tucker.” His name cooled her parched lips.

“I am Ghostwalker!” he shouted, waving a knife like a madman. “I am Copper Headed Woman’s creation, and you shall pay for every drop of her blood you’ve spilled. Come thunder! Come lightning!” He pitched something into the fire and explosions peppered the air.

What was he doing? How was he bringing the lightning? Magic, she thought, her mind reeling. He’s found magic.

“Tuckeeer!” She summoned the shreds of her strength to call out to him.

Reacting to her voice, Ranger stepped sideways to her. Tucker leaned down, the knife arced twice,
and Copper crumpled to her knees, the ropes no longer keeping her upright.

Tucker tossed two or three more firecrackers into the fire and slid off Ranger to go to her. His arms felt strong and warm and wonderfully safe. He carried her to Ranger. She recovered enough stamina to climb onto Ranger’s back. The pinto eyed her and nudged at her knee with his velvety nose.

The Gros Ventre circled, surrounding them even as they openly cringed from the man with lightning bolt hands. Tucker sensed their dilemma in not knowing who to fear more, Copper Headed Woman’s ghost or Feet Like Wind’s temper.

Feet Like Wind pointed the spear at him and spoke in English. “You are a dead man! Now I will send you back into your grave and you will stay there this time!”

“You can’t.” Tucker fashioned a grin and shifted his weight to his uninjured leg. “Only Copper Headed Woman can send me back.” He rested a hand on Ranger’s muddy rump, ready to slap it if things turned against them again and one last run was the only option open for Ranger and Copper. With any luck, Tucker figured he might stay alive long enough to give them a head start.

Feet Like Wind’s black gaze shifted to Tucker’s bloody pants leg. “You bleed, ghost.”

“And maybe I looked like I died, but you know better. You killed me once. I bled, I died, but I came back. Copper Headed Woman will always bring me back. You’ll never be shed of this enemy, Feet Like Wind.” He gripped the knife in one hand and his last three firecrackers in the other. He held his arms out from his sides. “But I want no war with you. I don’t want to bring trouble to the Gros Ventre. You are the ones making war on us. If this continues, you’ll regret it.” He pointed to the fire, drawing all attention to it before waving his hands in a great show and letting go of one firecracker. It
was a screamer that wailed up into the sky, trailing red smoke, and then bursting into a flowering of red sparkles. The Gros Ventre retreated, murmuring frightenedly among themselves. Tucker knew he had the upper hand. Now if only he could keep it. Staring at the proud Feet Like Wind, he remembered, how he had often bolstered a commanding officer’s already inflated ego to get his way. Men were men, no matter what color their skin.

“Feet Like Wind is the bravest warrior in these mountains,” he announced, and even Feet Like Wind seemed surprised to hear it. “If you smoke the peace pipe with me and Copper Headed Woman, then you and your people will share the tall medicine of this witchy woman.” He pointed the knife tip at the befeathered leader. “But if you smite us we will return to bring misfortune to the Gros Ventre. We will set fire to your tepees, starve your women and children, and blacken your innards until you all rot away.”