The Outcast (6 page)

Shakespeare McNair was in a simmering rage. At his age it wasn't often that his emotions ran out of control, but the horrid sight of his devoted wife staggering out of the forest with blood oozing down her forehead and over her face tore a screech of pure fury from Shakespeare's throat.

Zach was younger by more than fifty years and considered fleet of foot, but it was Shakespeare who reached Blue Water Woman first, Shakespeare who caught her as she collapsed, Shakespeare who gently lowered her to the ground and tenderly touched her cheek.

“God, no.”

Zach hunkered on the other side of her. “How bad is she?” he asked.

Shakespeare was probing with his fingertips to find out. She had been struck; that much was obvious. He found a deep gash above her hairline. It was the only wound, but it was enough. The blood would not stop. “We must get her inside.”

“I'll help.” Zach was near frantic about Lou, but Blue Water Woman needed immediate attention.

They carried her into the cabin. Zach was all for putting her on the bed, but Shakespeare set her down on the bearskin rug in front of the stone fireplace. Zach brought a washcloth and Shakespeare pressed it to the wound to stanch the flow.

“Water, son. Hot water, as quick as you can.”

“Leave it to me.”

Shakespeare bent and whispered, “Precious? Can you hear me? It's your Snowball.” Those were the endearments they used most when they cuddled.

Blue Water Woman's eyelids fluttered. Her eyes opened but didn't stay open. She weakly stirred and managed to say, “Husband? Is that you? I hurt so much.”

Shakespeare clasped her hand in both of his. A lump clogged his throat and he could barely see her for his tears. “I'll take care of you, don't you worry. I'll tend you and bandage you and get you to our cabin.”

“Lou,” Blue Water Woman said.

“What about her?”

“She's been taken. I saw her tied and gagged.” Blue Water Woman found it hard to think. “I saw who took her.”

“How many are there?”

“One.”

“That's all?” Shakespeare was relieved. He'd imagined an entire war party. “Zach will head out after them in a just a bit. Don't you worry. He'll find them and bring her back.”

Blue Water Woman licked her lips. So simple an act, yet it took all her strength. “Shakespeare?”

“Don't talk. Lie still. You need to rest.”

Struggling to stay conscious, Blue Water Woman got out, “This is important. The warrior who took Lou…”

“What about him?”

“He is a Blood.”

Shakespeare was surprised. The Bloods were part of what the whites called the Blackfoot Confederacy, an alliance had that controlled the northern plains and parts of southern Canada since long before Lewis and Clark. The three principal tribes were the Blackfeet, the Piegans, and the Bloods—at least those were the names the whites gave them. Their real names, the names by which they called themselves, were the Siksika, the Piikani, and the Kainai.

The Bloods—or Kainai—were so called because of the habit they had of rubbing red ochre on their faces. They were a proud, fearless people, fiercely protective of their land. Shakespeare had had dealings with them in the past, before they came to distrust and dislike the white man and drove all whites from their land or slew them.

Shakespeare scratched his beard, pondering. King Valley was far from their usual haunts. Bloods hardly ever ventured this deep into the mountains. For a lone warrior to be there was unthinkable; there had to be more. He reasoned that the Blood his wife had seen must be part of a larger war party.

“Husband?”

“I'm here.” Shakespeare squeezed her hand and kissed her on the cheek, not caring one whit that he got her blood on his lips.

“I am tired,” Blue Water Woman said. In truth, she had never felt so weak, so drained.

“You've lost a lot of blood, but you should be all right in a few days,” Shakespeare predicted. He was sugarcoating her condition to put her at ease. Truth was, she might have internal bleeding. Or, worse, the gash was deeper than it seemed, and the force of the blow had driven bone fragments into her brain.

“If you do not mind, I will sleep now.” Blue Water Woman closed her eyes and a dark mist enveloped her.

Zach came hurrying over. “I kindled the fire and have water on. I can't stay any longer.”

Shakespeare nodded. “Off you go, then. But you should know: Lou is still alive. She's been taken by the Bloods.”

A hot sensation spread from Zach's neck to the top of his head. “I'll count coup on all of them.”

“Blue Water Woman saw only one, but there must be more.” Shakespeare snagged Zach's sleeve as Zach turned. “Be careful. The Bloods are good fighters and damn clever. They'll be expecting someone to come after them. They'll be ready.”

“They won't be ready for me,” Zach vowed, and ran out the door in long lopes.

Shakespeare listened to the drum of hooves fade. By rights he should be with the boy, watching his back. But he couldn't leave Blue Water Woman. Not with her like this. He tenderly touched her chin and leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Don't you die on me. You hear? You're the love of my life. Our hearts are entwined forever.” He coughed and blinked, and tears trickled down his cheeks. A low moan escaped him.

Shakespeare broke down and sobbed.

The Tunkua descended the slope with the agility of mountain goats and the stamina of Apaches. Powerfully built, their short, muscular bodies lent them superb endurance. They could jog half a day without tiring. This served them well now, as it was a long way from the top of the mountain to the bottom, many leagues of steep slopes and thick woods.

Skin Shredder pushed to descend as low as they could before the sun went down.

They took infrequent rests. When they came to a ridge that afforded a sweeping view of the valley, Skin Shredder raised an arm and the other warriors stopped. Some took out their food bundles to eat. Others gazed about the pristine wonderland, marveling at the abundance of wildlife. Their own valley had much to recommend it, but this valley, the Valley of the Bear People, as they had come to call it of late, was a paradise.

Black-capped chickadees played in the thickets. Grosbeaks frolicked in the pines. Red crossbills winged through the air bobbing their heads and uttering their strange cry of
beep-beep-beep.
Hummingbirds whizzed and dived. Flocks of small pine siskin flew from stand to stand. Gorgeous tanagers stared at them from high limbs. Jays squawked noisily. Black-and-white magpies added their calls to the chorus.

The evidence of mammals was everywhere. Tracks of elk and shaggy mountain buffalo. The weasel called the valley home. So did the mink and the marten. Mountain sheep could be seen on the heights. Badger burrows dotted open slopes. In the waterways beaver thrived, and in the largest stream, otter. Noisy squirrels sat on pine limbs, chewing nuts. Others scampered about the ground. Chipmunks would run in fright with their tails high.

There was sign of meat eaters, too. Bear, mountain lion, bobcat. Wolves and foxes. Coyotes were especially numerous.

Back when the Tunkua first came to the mountains, the tribe was delighted when they discovered the valley. It had everything they could want. They'd camped by the lake and held council. Everyone agreed it should be their new home.

But the next day something huge stirred the waters of the lake. All of them saw the water roil, saw a giant form swim just below the surface. A water devil, the older among them called it. Bad medicine.

The second night they heard strange cries. Not the howl of wolves or the yip of coyotes, but ululating wails and fierce roars from the vicinity of the glacier, borne to them by the wind. It filled them with unease. More bad medicine.

The morning of the third day dawned bright and beautiful until it was learned that one of their number was missing. A woman had gone into the forest to gather firewood and hadn't returned. A search was conducted, with every warrior taking part. The best trackers among them were able to follow her tracks into the woods as far as a small clearing, where they abruptly stopped. There they also found other tracks, huge tracks, tracks unlike any bear but vaguely bearlike, tracks with long claws and narrow heels. The story the tracks told was plain. The woman had entered the clearing and the thing that made the huge tracks rushed out at her. She never got off a cry. Drops of blood told them they would never see her again.

This was the worst medicine of all. Another council was held and this time the tribe decided to move on. It was with reluctance that they climbed the west slopes and filed through a pass into the valley beyond. This other valley proved to be almost as bountiful. There was no lake—but no mysterious water creature, either. There was no glacier—but the nights were not disturbed by hideous cries. Best of all, they stayed there a week and no one disappeared. It became their new home.

Now, gazing out over the blue of the lake and the green of the valley bottom, Skin Shredder almost wished that this valley was their home. From time to time warriors had ventured here to hunt and fish, but they never stayed more than a few sleeps. The cries from the glacier and the roiling of the lake water always reminded them it was the haunt of creatures better left undisturbed. Creatures from when the world was young.

The Tunkua believed that at one time the earth had been filled with animals unlike any they were familiar with. Huge creatures, many covered with thick hair, creatures that dwarfed even the elk and the buffalo. Cats with teeth as long as a man's arm. Bears that could reach the tops of trees. Fourlegged giants with two tails, one at each end, and two teeth, each as long as a canoe.

Tunkua legend had it that most of these creatures had died out. But not all of them. The same with the red-haired cannibals, once so numerous and the scourge of tribes everywhere. The Tunkua also passed down tales of the little people who once lived in the hills near the bay but retreated into the interior when the tribes grew in number.

Skin Shredder thought of all of this as he stood staring across the valley.

“You should eat,” Splashes Blood said, breaking into his reverie.

“I am not hungry.”

“We have far to go yet before dark.”

“Are you my friend or my mother?”

Splashes Blood chewed and shrugged. “It is your stomach. If you like it empty, that is your choice.” He gazed at the lake. “Have you noticed their wood lodges?”

“What about them?”

“Usually there is smoke rising from all of them. Today smoke rises from only one.”

“You think only a few of the Bear People are there?”

“It could be. We know they go out of the valley to the east from time to time. Where they go, we cannot say. But they always come back.”

“Just so there are some for us to kill,” Skin Shredder said. “I will spill their blood for the blood of my brother.”

“If I am right, if some of their lodges are empty, we can take whatever we want.”

Skin Shredder had been thinking the same thing. “Their lodges are not like ours. We have watched, and they do not go in and out as we do. Their lodges do not have flaps. Part of the wood opens and closes. How is a mystery.”

“They are people, like us. What they can do, we can do.”

“They are not like us,” Skin Shredder disagreed. “Their bodies are different; their ways are different.”

“I am only saying that we are as smart as they are. What they have figured out, we can figure out.”

Star Dancer joined them. He raised an arm and pointed. “When you are done arguing, look there.”

Skin Shredder tingled with excitement. Midway between the ridge and the valley floor a rider had appeared. A man on a black-and-white horse, climbing an open slope.

“He is not white,” Splashes Blood observed.

“He is still an enemy.”

“There is a woman with him,” Star Dancer said. “She is on her belly over the horse.”

Skin Shredder peered intently. He never ceased to be amazed at how sharp Star Dancer's eyes were. A human hawk, Star Dancer. But he was right. There
was
a woman. A white woman.

“See how her arms are behind her back? And her feet are close together? She is tied. I think she is gagged, too, but it is too far for me to be sure.”

“Tied and gagged?” Splashes Blood mused. “That warrior has stolen her from the Bear Men.”

A smile curled the corners of Skin Shredder's mouth. “What he has stolen from them, we can steal from him.” He motioned at the others. “Come, brothers. Tonight we eat two hearts.”

Seven human wolves bounded down the ridge, their scarred faces lit with the glow of bloodlust.

Zach King had a temper.

He'd had it since he was old enough to remember. When he got mad, he got
really
mad, so mad that he sometimes lost control and did things he later regretted. In a few instances he had gone berserk.

His father and mother always cautioned him that if he wasn't careful, one day his temper would get him into trouble. They were right. He ended up being put on trial and nearly hanged.

Since meeting Lou, Zach had tried extra hard to keep his temper under control. He got angry, sure, but these days he rarely became so mad that he was beside himself with fury.

This day was one of them.

As Zach tracked the warrior who had taken his wife, he boiled like molten lava. The woman he loved, abducted. That Zach had just found out she was with child added to his rage. If anything happened to her, if anything happened to
them,
Zach would wage a war of extermination on the Bloods. He couldn't kill them all. They would probably slay him in the end. But he would rub out as many as he could. They would pay a hundredfold for what they had done.

Zach was so mad that when he had gone barely a hundred yards into the forest, he drew rein and took deep breaths to calm himself. He had to concentrate, to keep his senses sharp. The Blood would count on being pursued and be watching his back trail.

As McNair had pointed out, it was unlikely the warrior was alone. There must have been more. How many, Zach wouldn't know until he struck their trail. They were probably waiting in ambush. All the more reason for him to keep his wits and not let his wrath sweep him away.

The tracks were easy to follow, as fresh as they were. Zach came to where they entered a stream. He crossed to the other side and stopped. The ground was undisturbed. The warrior had stayed in the water and gone either upstream or down-stream.

Zach reined around and rode to the middle. Bending as low as he could, he examined the stream bed. Much of it was gravel. Some of it was rock. Here and there was plain mud, and in a muddy spot a partial hoof pointed upstream toward the mountains to the west.

Straightening, Zach gigged the bay. He held his rifle across his saddle in front of him. Eyes narrowed, he scanned both banks. Sooner or later the warrior had to leave the stream, and when he did, there would be evidence of it.

Zach struggled to focus on the hunt. He kept thinking of Lou, of what she must be going through. It was like having a knife pierce his heart. The ache was almost more than he could bear. He resisted the urge to fly blindly ahead so that he could rend the warrior limb from limb.

Zach would do it, too. When he caught up to them he would kill the warrior slow so that he suffered as few ever had. Anyone who would abduct a pregnant woman deserved no less.

Zach wondered how it was that the Bloods found the valley. There was only one way in, as far as he knew. His father and Shakespeare had blocked the other passes. They did it to keep something like this from happening, yet it had happened anyway. Life was fickle. The things a person least wanted to happen happened.

Zach remembered Lou's last embrace. How she had looked into his eyes, her own so happy and alive with love and the knowledge that in nine months they would be parents. She'd told him that she loved him. She said it a lot, far more than he did. His nose clogged and his throat grew tight. He went to cough to clear them but caught himself. Sounds could carry.

He wished his pa were there. There was no finer shot, no man alive more resourceful. With his pa at his side, Zach would be assured of rescuing Lou and bringing her home safe.

The grass on the left bank was trampled.

Zach drew rein. He had found where the Blood's horse climbed out. Of the Blood and Lou, there was no sign. Apparently the warrior had gone off up the mountain, perhaps to rejoin the rest of the war party. Zach poked the bay with his heels. The bay started out, slipped, and fell back when part of the bank broke and slid into the water.

The bay snorted and stamped.

“Easy, boy,” Zach said, and patted its neck. He slapped his legs and the bay started up the bank a second time. It was even slipperier now, and loose dirt dribbled from under the bay's hooves.

“You can do it,” Zach coaxed.

The bay lunged and dug in its rear hooves. It whinnied as if in pain. More of the bank broke off, but the bay made it up and over, and stopped.

Zach climbed down. He inspected each leg, and they appeared fine. “You seem all right to me.” He went to climb back on and his gaze strayed to the ground ahead. Something pricked at him, a feeling that did not seem right somehow. It bore closer scrutiny.

Zach took a few steps. A downed pine branch was at his feet. He looked around. There were saplings on both sides, and grass and brush. All perfectly normal. Then he noticed another pine limb propped against a bent sapling, and he looked again at the pine limb at his feet, and it hit him that there wasn't a pine tree within fifty feet. The limbs couldn't have fallen there. They had to have been put there deliberately.

Zach edged around the limb. He saw a rope and two notched sticks rigged as a trigger. The bent sapling took on new significance. Careful not to bump the branch, he moved closer. At just the right height to impale a man on horseback was a sharp spike.

Zach grinned. It was a clever trap. No doubt there would be others. But they wouldn't stop him from rescuing Lou. The warrior who took her would come to rue the day.

Zach unlimbered his tomahawk. He had practiced throwing it so many times that hitting the two sticks was easy. The sapling whipped up, the spike cleaving thin air instead of him. Now any deer or elk that happened by wouldn't be hurt in his stead.

Picking up the tomahawk, Zach slid the handle under his belt. He climbed on the bay and raised the reins. “Nice try. But I'm coming for you, Blood. It's you or me, to the death.”

The Outcast did not have a high opinion of white men. The few he had encountered had not impressed him. It was ridiculously easy to steal their horses. They made their campfires so big and so bright that the flames could be seen from far off. They made so much noise when they were on the move that they could be heard from far off, too. The whites were tough fighters, though. He would concede that much. Add to that the advantage their guns gave them, and it was wise not to take them lightly in battle.

The Outcast did not have a high opinion of half-breeds, either. Breeds were not as other men. The mixing of blood made them more violent than most. He had never seen this for himself, but he had heard it from so many people that it must be true. Breeds were also formidable fighters. Like whites, they should not be taken lightly.

The Outcast expected both the old white and the young breed to come after him. He had the female. She was perfect bait to draw them up into the mountains, where he could slay them.

So when the Outcast checked his back trail as he had done a hundred times that day and spotted a lone rider far below, he congratulated himself. The sapling with the spike must have gotten one of them. He tried to tell which one was still after him, the old man or the breed, but the distance was too great and he saw only the rider, who was in shadow, for a few brief moments.

No matter, the Outcast told himself. Whichever one it was, the rider was as good as dead. He continued to climb. His captive squirmed and looked up at him. She looked at him a lot and always in the same way. It bothered him. He turned his face away and pretended to be interested in a peak to the south.

Lou was weary and sore and scared. She was afraid that Zach or Shakespeare would be caught by the trap the warrior had set. She was worried, too, by pains in her belly, cramps that came and went. She didn't know if she could lose the baby so soon after she had conceived, but she did not want to take the risk. She wished her captor would stop and let her rest. She kept looking at him, but he ignored her.

The Outcast came out of the trees and drew rein at the base of a steep talus. To go up it would be foolhardy. The loose stones and dirt would give way. Many a mount had broken a leg on talus, which was why men who cared about their animals avoided them.

But the man who was after him, eager to save the female, might cast caution aside, especially if the Outcast gave him cause. With that in mind, the Outcast started up. He went only a short way, enough to suggest to his pursuer that he braved the slope and to get him to do the same. Then he reined to the right and rode in a loop that brought him down to the bottom.

It was not much of a trick. Anyone with keen eyes would see that he had not gone all the way up. But he counted on his pursuer's worry for the woman making the man careless. It was worth trying, even if all it did was cripple the man's horse. An enemy afoot was easier to slay.

The Outcast circled the talus slope until he came to firm ground and turned up the mountain. The sun was bright on the rocky ramparts. High above, an eagle soared, its head white against the blue.

The Outcast liked this valley. It was abundant with life. It had occurred to him that if he killed the white men and the breed and whoever lived in the lodge at the east end of the lake, he would have the valley to himself. He liked that idea.

He had wandered far since being banished from his tribe. It wasn't that he wanted to, so much as he liked breathing. Lone warriors were inviting targets. That he had lasted so long spoke well of his prowess. But he was tired of always being on the move. It would be nice to have a place he could stay where others wouldn't bother him. It would be nice to have a lodge over his head once more.

Lou looked at him again. She needed rest. If he didn't stop soon, she would fling herself from the pinto, and the devil be damned. But just as she was girding herself, they reached the top of the talus and he reined along the upper edge a dozen yards and stopped. Raising a leg, he slid off, then reached up and lowered her to the ground. He wasn't gentle about it. She winced when a rock gouged her ribs. Rolling onto her side, she gazed down the slope.

Lou suspected he was up to something. The move he did at the bottom must be a ruse, but if it was, he was in for a surprise. Zach and Shakespeare were too savvy to climb a talus slope. They would go around.

Lou struggled to sit up. Her wrists were chafed from the rope, and her ankles were sore. She hated the gag. She worried she might accidentally swallow it and choke. Glancing at her captor, she made noise and bobbed her head, trying to get him to look at her.

The Outcast was deep in thought. The trick alone might not be enough to get the rider out on the talus where he wanted him. An extra lure was called for. The sounds the woman was making gave him an idea. He put his hand on his knife, and she recoiled.

Lou thought he was going to stab her. She tensed, prepared to sell her life and the life inside of her as dearly as she could. He stepped around behind her and she went to pivot, when suddenly the strip of dress tied over her mouth fell away. He had cut it.

The Outcast came back around. He motioned for her to open her mouth wide. When she did, he carefully stuck two fingers in and pulled out the gag. He thought she might try to bite him, but she didn't.

Lou was so relieved, she smiled. She opened and closed her mouth, working her jaw muscles. Then she said, “I'm obliged.” She knew he couldn't understand her but maybe he would take her meaning.

The Outcast grunted. He could tell she was grateful. It was silly of her to think he had done it to ease her discomfort. He wanted her able to make noise. He wanted her to help lure the rider onto the talus slope.

Lou tried talking to him in Shoshone. Zach had taught her enough to get by when they visited their village, which he liked to do at least two or three times a year. But it was plain the warrior didn't understand.

The Outcast wondered what tongue she was speaking. On an impulse he went behind her and untied her wrists but left her ankles bound.

Lou was delighted. She gingerly rubbed her chafed skin and said in English, “Thank you. That was kind of you.”

His bow across his legs, the Outcast squatted where he could watch the slopes below.

An inspiration came over Lou. There
was
a way to communicate. She wasn't much good at it, but it was worth a try. She held her right hand up, palm out, her fingers well apart and pointed up, and wriggled her wrist several times. It was sign talk for ‘question' or ‘what.'

The Outcast gave a mild start. He didn't know that whites knew sign. His own people were adept at it.

Lou pointed at him. Then she held her right hand with her fingers closed and snapped her index finger at him. She had asked him what he was called. She figured that if she showed she was interested, he might be friendlier.

The Outcast was amused. Leave it to a female to ask his name when she should be begging him to spare her and her man. His fingers flowed swiftly in answer.

His reply puzzled Lou. She thought he said ‘I am outside.' But that couldn't be right.

In the trees above, a jay took wing with loud shrieks.

The Outcast didn't see anything to account for it. He glanced down the mountain and stiffened. The rider was much closer. It was the breed, and he was coming fast, his gaze on the ground.

Lou looked in the same direction, and her breath caught in her throat. Zach was coming to save her!

It was working out exactly as the Outcast had planned. He slid an arrow from his quiver.