The Scalp Hunters (7 page)

Logan opened his eyes and was racked with pain. He thought it strange since by rights he should be dead. He remembered Venom pointing a pistol at him. He'd tried to twist aside, but his reflexes were no match for a bullet. He remembered the blast of the shot, remembered the shock of being hit. Then he was falling and the ground rushed up to meet him and after that there was nothing but darkness until now.

Sliding his hands under him, Logan rose onto his elbows. His head pounded, and his stomach churned. Gingerly, he touched his temple and winced. From near his eyebrow to above his ear was a lead-gouged furrow. Probably because he was turning when Venom fired, the bullet had struck a glancing blow. It was the only reason he was alive. Judging by the circle of red under him and the amount of dry blood on his face and neck, he'd bled a lot.

Logan sat up. He wasn't surprised to find that his rifle and pistols and knife were gone. His former friends had helped themselves to his weapons. To his horse, too.

With great care, Logan slowly stood. Dizziness struck and he swayed but stayed on his feet. Lightly
pressing his hand to the wound, he walked in a small circle, establishing that the tracks of his former companions, as he figured they would, pointed to the west. He plodded after them.

With each passing minute the pain subsided a little so that by the end of half an hour it was a persis tent dull ache. His queasiness faded, too. Logan thought of Venom and clenched his fists. The bastard had shot him without warning and left him for dead. No one did that to him and went on breathing. No one.

In a way, Venom had done him a favor. For some time now Logan had considered either taking over the company or going off and starting one of his own. He was tired of the looks he got from the others when he indulged in females, tired of them always carping about what he did. They had no room to talk, the hypocrites. They carved up women and girls to add to their scalp bag. All he did differently was enjoy the ladies before he scalped them.

Logan got hooked when he was young. An aunt started him down the path. She'd liked it rough, really rough, and given him a taste that grew rougher as time went by. Now when he was done with a woman, she looked as if she'd been through a war. Most were barely alive.

He couldn't get enough. It gave him a thrill like no other. A thrill so potent, he couldn't go without. When he wasn't with a woman, he daydreamed about being with them, and at night he drifted in dreams of explicit fantasy.

Unfortunately, the law hanged people for what he did.

So Logan had gone off to the frontier where tin badges were scarce and he could do pretty much as he pleased. The frontier, where Indians were usu
ally blamed for whites who went missing and whites were blamed for Indians who went missing.

At first it had been heaven on earth. He'd waylaid women and had his way and no one was ever the wiser. But his habit didn't put food in his belly or clothes on his back. He needed spending money.

Logan happened to be in San Antonio one hot afternoon when Venom and his scalp hunters rode in to claim the bounty on some Comanche scalps. Logan approached Venom about working for him and was pleased as could be when the veteran took him on. His pleasure was short-lived. The third time out, they slaughtered a family of peaceable Pimas. Logan got hold of a girl about fourteen and before he could stop himself had done the sort of things that always sent a tingle of delight down his spine.

That had led to this, to being betrayed and shot down like some animal. The more Logan thought about it, the madder he got. He would keep going until he got hold of a horse and then he would find Venom and his so-called friends and do to them as they had done to him.

Along the way Logan intended to treat himself. He needed a female, needed a female bad. Specifically, the white girl Rubicon told them about. The young one, the pretty one. He would do to her as he had done to all those others.

Logan couldn't wait.

Evelyn warned the black man not to move or she would shoot him. She assumed the threat would turn him to stone. Instead, as she rose from concealment on the crest of the gully with her Hawken centered on his chest, he did the last thing she expected.

The black turned and smiled, his arms out from
his sides. “We meet again, young one,” he cheerfully greeted her.

“Didn't you hear me?” Evelyn demanded. “I'll shoot you if you don't do exactly as I say.”

“Shot a lot of people, have you? Somehow, I don't think so. I doubt you've ever shot anybody.” He confidently added, “It's never easy the first time. Some people can't do it. They don't have it in them.”

“I do,” Evelyn assured him. With a bob of her chin at the opposite side of the gully, she said, “So does he.”

Plenty Elk had an arrow nocked to his bowstring and the string drawn back to his cheek.

“Don't do anything hasty,” the black man said. “See? I'm putting my rifle down. Now I'm taking a pistol and laying it down, too.”

“I told you not to move, scalp hunter.” Evelyn held the Hawken straight and steady, ready to shoot. He was right, though. She wasn't like her brother. She wasn't a killer. She wouldn't shoot unless he forced her, and even then she would shoot reluctantly.

The black raised his hands in the air. “Suit yourself, girl. You caught me fair and square. But what was that about scalps?”

“Play innocent, why don't you?”

“Why, girl, I'm as innocent as a newborn babe.”

Evelyn sidled down the slope. She told him to get on his knees. He hesitated, glanced at Plenty Elk, and did as she bid him. With Plenty Elk covering her, Evelyn reached around from behind and snatched the second pistol, then stepped back. “There now. We need to talk. First off, what's your name?”

“Rubicon.”

“That's a strange name. What does it mean?”

Rubicon shrugged. “My pa said it had something to do with a river somewhere. That's all I know.”

“Plenty Elk, here, has told me about you and your friends. How far back are they? What are their plans? Were you to signal them when you caught up with us?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” Rubicon said good-naturedly.

“I expect a lot of answers.” It had been Evelyn's idea to take him alive. Plenty Elk had been disappointed, but she convinced him the black might have information they could use.

Rubicon chuckled. “Listen to yourself. You're a girl playing at being tough. If you had any sense you would get on your horse and ride like hell while you still can.”

“Big talk, but
we
caught
you
, not the other way around.”

“It's not me you have to worry about, girl. It's the man I ride for. He'll be awful mad at you for jumping me and he's not nice when he's mad. Fact is, he's the meanest cuss on the whole damn planet.”

“I'm a King, mister.”

“Is that supposed to mean something?”

“It means I might be a girl, but I'm not helpless. It means I never give up. It means I don't desert my friends. It means I'll do whatever I have to in order to stop you.”

“For a fool you sure are pretty.”

“On your feet. Keep your hands where I can see them and head up this gully.” Evelyn snagged the reins to his horse and brought it along.

Rubicon chuckled. “Get on my knees. Get on my feet. I wish you'd make up your mind.”

“You're in awful good spirits for someone in your predicament.”

“It's not me who has the predicament, girl. It's you. I don't know what you think you're doing by
taking me this way. It won't do you any good. It won't do you any good at all.”

“Why do you ride with the man you told me about? You don't strike me as being bad.”

Rubicon glanced over his shoulder at her. “There you go again. Missy, you can't judge other folks by how you think. It's how
they
think that counts. You better let me go or the first chance I get, I'll beat you to the ground and I won't bat an eye doing it.”

“Get moving.” Evelyn saw Plenty Elk give her a quizzical look. She motioned for him to come down and he was quick to fall into step beside her. Not once did he lower his bow.

“Yes, sir,” Rubicon rambled on. “You're in a fine pickle. You won't take my advice and light a shuck. What to do? What to do?”

“You like to hear yourself talk, don't you?”

Rubicon was talking to distract her, and to test how much she would let him get away with. He was trying to dupe her into letting down her guard so he could jump her. Otherwise, he was in for grief when Venom caught up. Venom didn't like it when his men were taken captive. The last man that happened to, a gent by the name of Williams, was staked out in the burning sun by the Comanches. Venom refused to cut him free, saying that anyone so damn careless had it coming to them.

Evelyn was glad her captive had gone quiet. All his chatter was making it hard for her to think, and she had a lot to work out. She could tell that Plenty Elk was puzzled that she hadn't killed the man outright, and to be honest, the smart thing was to shoot him dead. She'd had the perfect opportunity back there and couldn't do it. It worried her. By civilized standards she'd done the right thing. Only this wasn't civilization. This was the wilderness. The
laws and rules that people stuck to east of the Mississippi River did not apply west of it. Out here it was be strong and live or be weak and die.

For a long while now, Evelyn had secretly wondered if she was weak. There were incidents in the past, times when she should have slain someone out to do her harm, and she didn't. She couldn't find it in her. Maybe—and the thought troubled her—maybe she was one of those who couldn't harm another living soul no matter what the circumstances.

Her father killed when he had to. Her brother did it time and time again with no remorse. Even her mother had taken a life or two. What was wrong with her that she couldn't do the same?

Evelyn put it from her mind. Now wasn't the time. They rounded the next bend and there were the Nansusequa, anxiously waiting. “Look what we found,” she announced.

“Why is he not dead?” Waku asked.

“We're taking him with us. First I need someone to tie his wrists. Dega, would you do the honors? There's a rope in my parfleche.”

Dega was happy to do anything she asked. The mare shied when he reached for the saddle, but Evelyn spoke to it and the horse stood still while he opened the parfleche and took out the rope Evelyn used to tether the mare at night. Drawing his knife, he cut a suitable length and replaced the rest. As he walked over behind the captive, the black man grinned.

“Tell me, green boy, do you savvy the white tongue?”

“I speak white,” Dega said. “And I not be green.”

“Your buckskins are.” Rubicon bobbed his chin at the rest of the family. “So are theirs. What gives?”

“No give you our clothes. Our clothes ours.”

Rubicon blinked, and chortled. “No, no. What I want to know is why are you dressed all in green?”

“Green for Manitoa,” Dega explained. “Green for life.”

“Not green for grass?” Rubicon taunted.

“Put hands back so I tie them.”

“Sure, whatever you say.” Rubicon moved his arms behind him and felt his wrists gripped.

“Not move,” Dega directed.

“You'll get to go on breathing if you cooperate,” Evelyn said.

“I'm all for breathing.”

Dega gave the rope a shake. “Once you tied we no danger.”

“That's what you think.” Rubicon noticed that the girl had lowered her rifle partway. The Arapaho still had an arrow notched to his bow, but the boy about to tie his wrists had stepped between them. No one else had a weapon ready to use. They were green in more ways than one, these people, and it was about to cost them. Suddenly stiffening, he looked back the way they had come and yelled, “Venom! Potter! It's about time you got here.”

The ruse worked. All of them turned. Every last one. Even the boy with the rope.

Rubicon whirled. He had the boy's tomahawk in his hand before any of them could think to stop him. He swung it and caught the boy across the head with the flat of the blade. He'd meant to cleave the boy's head, but in his haste he misjudged his swing.

Plenty Elk saw Degamawaku start to fall. He stepped to the right for a clear target and took a split second to sight down the arrow. At that range he could hardly miss, but he was going for the heart, for a kill shot, and he wanted to be sure.

Rubicon expected the Arapaho to react first. The Dog Eater was seven or eight feet away, too far to hit. So Rubicon threw the tomahawk. He didn't expect to inflict a wound, only to make the Arapaho duck and buy him the time to grab a gun from the girl.

The tomahawk spun end over end.

Plenty Elk went to fling himself aside and was turning when the tomahawk struck his bow and glanced off. The keen edge caught him in the side of the neck, slicing through skin, flesh and blood vessels. He clutched at himself as a red mist sprayed every which way.

“Plenty Elk!” Evelyn cried. She jerked her rifle up.

With a howl of triumph, Rubicon was on her.

Venom had no time to rein around, no time to spur his horse. He felt no fear, no panic. Bracing for the impact, he hiked his leg clear of the stirrup.

In a flurry of driving hooves, the bull crossed the space separating them. Just as it lowered its head to rip and gore, its front legs buckled and it crashed heavily to the ground, its momentum carrying it past Venom and his mount, missing them by a hand's width.

A twitch of the bull's tail, a final grunt, and it was dead.

“That was close!” Potter exclaimed. He had managed to push out from under his horse and was rubbing his left leg.

“You must have nerves of steel,” Tibbet threw in. “Sitting there as calm as could be.”

“I'm proud to ride with a man like you,” Jeph Kyler said, and his twin nodded in agreement.

Venom hadn't done it to impress them. Still, anything that made them fear him more made it that much less likely they would cause him trouble. “We're losing time,” he said, and reined around.

“Wait!” Potter hollered. “What about me?”

“Throw your saddle on one of the Injun ponies
we took and be quick about it.” Venom chafed at the delay. He was eager to catch up to Rubicon and see the white girl. From the way Rubicon had described her, she must be about the prettiest young filly this side of the cradle.

The Kyler twins came up on either side.

“Want us to go on ahead and see how the darkie is doin'?” Jeph asked.

“Rubicon knows how to take care of himself.”

“That he does,” Seph agreed. “But there are seven of them and one is an Arapaho warrior.”

Venom still didn't see the need, but since he preferred to stay on the twins' good side, he replied, “I'd rather you stay with us, but go on if you want.” To his annoyance, they did. That left him with four, this close to Sioux territory. “Hurry up with that damn saddle, Potter.”

For the next several hours they rode nearly due west. Around them the prairie was awash in the golden glow of the sun. Butterflies flitted amid patches of wildflowers. Jackrabbits bounded off in incredibly long leaps. A red fox watched them go by, unafraid.

Venom supposed there were those who would call the prairie beautiful or God's handiwork or some such. He wasn't one of them. Grass was grass, flowers were flowers. As for the Almighty, he stopped believing the day he saw a little boy's head crushed by the flailing hoof of a horse.

Toward the middle of the afternoon Venom was surprised to see the twins galloping back. He raised his arm and the others stopped to await them. “Don't keep me in suspense,” he said as the pair reined to a stop.

“Indians,” Seph declared. “Thirty or forty. Northwest of here, heading east.”

“They'll pass within a quarter mile of you,” Jeph took up the account. “We felt you should know.”

“Could you tell which tribe?”

“They were too far off. If I had to guess, I'd say Sioux, but that's a hunch more than anything.”

Venom reined to the south. “We'll go a mile or so out of our way so they don't spot us.”

They went less than a quarter of that when Venom drew abrupt rein. To the southwest was a dust cloud. Only two things raised that much dust; a lot of buffalo or a lot of riders. He got out his spyglass. “Indians,” he announced. An awful lot of Indians.

“It can't be the same bunch we saw,” one of the twins said.

“They're heading northeast and will miss us by a good long way,” Venom calculated.

Potter anxiously remarked, “This country is crawling with the red heathens.”

“Maybe they're looking for us,” Tibbet speculated.

“Or that girl and her friends,” Calvert said.

“Or that freight train,” Ryson threw in.

Venom had a different notion. “I bet they're holding a powwow. Maybe they're fixing to go on the war path against the Shoshones or some other enemy and the bands are gathering. Just our luck we happen to be passing through.”

Potter was glancing every which way. “We'll have to be extra careful from here on out.”

Venom blistered the air with oaths. This would slow them. At the rate things were going, they wouldn't catch up to Rubicon until sometime tomorrow.

“Yes, sir,” Potter said. “We'll be turned into pincushions if we don't keep our eyes peeled.”

Venom swore some more. He needed this like he
needed a bullet hole in the head. “We'll wait until this bunch is out of sight before we move on.” He leaned on his saddle horn.

“It's too bad you had to shoot Logan,” Potter said. “We could use his gun if it comes to a fight.”

“Good riddance,” Venom growled.

The sun was about to set.

Logan had hiked for miles and his Texas boots weren't fashioned for a lot of walking. His feat ached something awful. His head still ached, too. He would dearly love a chug of whiskey, but his flask had been in his saddlebags.

Logan thought of the white girl and what he would do to her. It had been too long since the last one. To make up for it he would take his time with her and draw it out as long as he could.

Logan was so lost in his daydream that he almost missed spotting an orange glow to the northwest. “A campfire,” he blurted, and stopped. He doubted it was Venom and the company. They were well to the west by now. Nor could it be the freighters. Their wagons were canvas-topped turtles and couldn't have come this far. That left an army patrol, another party of whites—or Indians.

Logan debated. He looked down at his sore feet. He gnawed his lower lip. Finally he bent his steps toward the glow. He hoped he wasn't making a mistake. But where there were men there were horses and he could dearly use a horse.

The glow turned out to be farther away than it appeared. Full dark had fallen when Logan came close enough to distinguish figures and to hear voices that warned him it wasn't a patrol or other whites.

Dropping onto his belly, Logan crawled.

The fire was small, typical of Indians. The dozen
or so warriors hunkered around it had paint on their faces. Some of the horses had paint on them, too. Bows and lances were the favored weapons. Only one had a rifle, which looked to be an old Hudson's Bay trade gun.

Logan lay in the dark and bided his time.

The warriors talked in low tones. They had brought down a buck earlier and were roasting a haunch.

The tantalizing aroma set Logan's mouth to watering. Crossing his arms in front of him, he rested his chin on his wrist. He made slits of his eyes so the fire shine didn't give him away. Now all he could do was wait.

Usually Indians turned in early. Early compared to whites, anyhow. Logan listened to the drone of their voices and felt his blood grow sluggish in his veins. He started to drift off but snapped his eyes open and shook himself. Too late he saw a warrior coming toward him, maybe to heed nature's call. Whatever the reason, the warrior spotted him at the same instant and let out a yip of alarm.

Pushing upright, Logan spun and raced off. The warrior ran after him. Others leaped to their feet and swarmed in pursuit.

Logan ran with all his speed, but he had never been especially fleet of foot. He heard the smack of the warrior's moccasins close on his heels. They were flying through the dark, no more than inky silhouettes. It was nearly impossible to see much, and that gave Logan an idea. Abruptly stopping, he sidestepped and unleashed an uppercut. It caught the onrushing warrior full on the jaw and flattened him like a flapjack.

Pain exploded up Logan's arm, but he ignored it and groped at the warrior's waist. Nearly every warrior carried a knife. A smooth hilt molded to his
palm, and drawing the blade, he slashed the warrior's throat. Then he turned and ran.

The other warriors weren't far behind. They had lost sight of him and spread out.

Logan heard horses coming. He glanced back and counted three riders. They were spreading out, too.

Howls of outrage told him they had found their slain friend.

Logan ran another dozen feet and threw himself flat. Twisting around, he held the bloody knife close to his cheek. A warrior ran past on his left. Another pounded by on the right. The grass was high enough that neither spotted him.

Finally, Logan had what he'd been waiting for; a mounted Sioux approached. The warrior yelled something. A warrior on foot answered and the mounted Sioux reined toward him. The horse passed within a few feet of where Logan lay. Coiling his legs, Logan tensed.

The warrior was searching right and left, looking everywhere except down.

Logan catapulted upward, his arm stiff and straight. The blade sank deep into the warrior's belly. Warm blood gushed over Logan's hand as the Sioux grunted and stiffened and opened his mouth to cry out.

Logan wrenched on the blade, hard. Out spilled intestines and whatever else a man had inside him. Logan grabbed a wrist and yanked. Thankfully, the horse didn't spook. Another moment, and he was on it and galloping away, doubled over so the warriors he passed wouldn't realize he was white.

It almost worked. Logan was about to be swallowed by the night when whoops and a commotion warned him he had been spotted.

He got out of there.

Arrows whizzed past. A lance arced out of the stars and thudded into the earth.

What Logan wouldn't give for a gun! He had a horse, though, and a knife, and once he shook the Sioux, he could get on with tracking Venom and the girl and her friends and treat himself to hours of pure pleasure.

He tingled at the prospect.

Evelyn swung her rifle toward Rubicon, but he grabbed the barrel and swung the Hawken and her both, with no more effort than she would swing a stick. She tripped and stumbled and almost fell. Digging in her heels, she sought to wrest the rifle free, but he was much too strong. She was vaguely aware of some of the others yelling, and of Plenty Elk on the ground, spraying scarlet.

Rubicon backhanded her. He had dropped the boy in green and the Dog Eater, but there was still the father, somewhere behind him. He needed the rifle and he needed it now. With a powerful shove, he sent the girl sprawling. Grinning, he spun, thinking he had them beat. He was halfway around when a sharp pang jarred him and a prickly sensation shot through his innards. He glanced down at the knife hilt jutting from his body and then at the man who had killed him. “Son of a bitch,” he blurted as a veil of ink fell.

Waku pulled his blade free and stepped back. His wife and daughters were safe to one side, Tihi with her arms protectively around the girls. He stepped to his son, who was attempting to stand. “Lie still.”

“Evelyn…” Dega said, blood trickling from a gash in his temple.

“I'm here.” Evelyn was bruised but otherwise unhurt. She snatched up her Hawken and knelt next to Waku. “How is he?”

Probing gingerly, Waku said in relief, “He is not hurt bad. He will live.”

Forgetting herself, Evelyn clasped Dega's hand. “Thank God. My heart about stopped when I saw him hit you.”

Dega's own heart beat faster. She rarely touched him. The warm feel of her fingers was like a tonic. New vigor pumped through him, and he smiled in delight. “I happy you like me.”

“Why wouldn't I?” Evelyn said. “We're friends, aren't we?” She immediately turned to Plenty Elk, who was on his back, deathly still and deathly pale. His buckskins and the grass around him were drenched. The wound was hideous, inches deep and jagged. She touched his cheek and his eyes opened.

Plenty Elk weakly raised his hands. ‘I die now.'

‘I much sad,' Evelyn signed. She had only known him a short while, but she had liked him a lot. She yearned to help, but there was nothing she could do. He had lost too much blood.

‘You good friend.'

‘Thank you help us,' Evelyn responded, and winced inside. He was dying because he had stuck with them instead of striking off for his village and his people. ‘You good friend same.'

Plenty Elk tried to sign more, but his arms fell to his sides and he twitched a few times. His eyes sought hers.

Evelyn held his hand and swallowed a lump in her throat. She did not know what else to do, what else to sign. She rubbed his hand and smiled.

Plenty Elk smiled back. A tender look came over him. Then a soft gasp escaped him. His eyes shifted to the sky and widened, and with his next exhale, life fled.

“I'm so sorry.” Evelyn gently closed his glazing
eyes. She turned back to Dega. He had sat up and was holding his head in his hands. Placing her hand on his shoulder, she said softly, “I still have you.”

Dega wanted the pounding between his ears to stop so he could think again. “Always have me,” he assured her.

Waku looked at them and at his wife. Rising, he took a few steps to the east, blood dripping from his knife onto his moccasins. “We must ride fast, Evelyn King.”

Evelyn knew what he was thinking. The rest of the scalp hunters were still after them. Sooner or later they would catch up, and more people were bound to die.

A lot more.