A growl from Nate’s stomach reminded him he had not eaten anything since breakfast the morning before.
Passing out had done him some good. He wasn’t as bone-tired as before. He was able to hold a fast pace. If he could keep the pace up, if he could spot their campfire, if he could reach their camp before daylight…if, if, if.
Nate thought of Harrod’s betrayal, and what the man had put him through, and his blood boiled. He would like to get his hands on Harrod and vent his wrath.
The cool wind was a boon. He breathed deep and felt invigorated.
Now and again he flexed the fingers of his wounded arm to keep them from becoming stiff.
Minute by minute the night waned.
Dawn was an hour off and Nate was on the verge of bursting with frustration when in the distance, a finger of orange appeared. He stopped and rubbed his eyes and looked again. The pinpoint was still there. Eagerly, he pumped his long legs. He was so intent on the orange spot, he was oblivious to the woods around him until he came around a bend and the trail was blocked by a large bulk that snorted and reared from all fours onto its hind legs.
Nate stopped dead. It was another black bear. They weren’t as fierce as grizzlies, but twice in his life he had nearly been killed by black bears and had learned to never, ever take them lightly. This one sniffed and cocked its head. A growl rumbled from its barrel chest.
Nate broke out in a sweat. This was the last thing he needed. He had the spear, but against a bear it was next to useless. He stayed still, his fate in the paws of the most unpredictable creature on God’s green earth.
The bear took a lumbering step and did more sniffing.
Nate resisted an urge to run. Running from a bear sometimes incited them into attacking. Instead he looked the bear in the eyes and slowly raised his arms to make himself appear bigger.
The black bear’s thin lips curled.
Nate firmed his hold on the spear. He wouldn’t go down without a struggle. The bear’s throat was its most vulnerable spot. A thrust to the jugular might prove fatal. If he could pierce the jugular, if he could avoid the enraged bear until it dropped …if, if, again.
There were too many if’s in life.
The black bear lumbered closer. He saw saliva on the bear’s teeth. He saw snot drip from its nose.
Just when Nate thought it would attack, the bear came down on all fours, and turned. A grunt and it was gone, melting into the vegetation with ghostly stealth.
Bears were crafty. Sometimes they lumbered off, only to circle around and come at their prey from another direction. Nate didn’t linger. Holding his wounded arm to his side, he ran until his chest throbbed and his lungs were strained.
Slowing to a walk, Nate glanced back. The bear hadn’t come after him. He gave silent thanks and moved on. The spot of orange was bigger. He was getting close.
Over and over in his head he repeated the same vow:
Nate couldn’t bear the idea of losing her. They had been together for de cades. He didn’t talk about it much because men didn’t talk about such things, but she was the heart of his life.
He had a friend who believed that women were for cooking and sewing and cleaning, and for keeping men warm under the sheets. His friend’s idea of love was a shallow stream watered by the runoff of need and not the deeper love that came from two hearts entwined.
Nate caught himself and shook his head in annoyance. Here he was thinking about love when he should be concentrating on one thing and one thing only. He raised his gaze to the orange. A quarter of a mile, he figured. And not much night left.
Nate walked faster. The slave hunters were bound to be up at the crack of dawn, and once awake, they would be that much harder to take by surprise.
“I’m coming, Winona.”
The sound of his voice startled him. Maybe being alone in all that vastness had gotten to him.
When he was a couple hundred feet out, Nate slowed. He didn’t want to; he had to. The crack of a twig could spoil everything. He moved with the care and patience of the Apaches he had tangled with years ago on a visit to Santa Fe.
The fire had burned low, which worked in his favor. The less light, the less likely they were to spot him before he was ready to be spotted.
At a hundred feet, Nate eased onto his belly and crawled. He wasn’t taking any chances. Not with Winona’s life at stake. And the lives of the Worths, of course.
Nate held the spear at his side and was careful it didn’t snag. Never had he missed his rifle and pistols and bowie as much as he did right then. With guns he would have stood a good chance. Without them…He frowned and continued crawling.
Nate was a realist. He might come out on top. He might not. He thought of his son, Zach, and Zach’s delightful spouse, Louisa. He thought of his best friend and mentor, Shakespeare McNair, and Shake-seare’s Flathead wife, Blue Water Woman. He thought of happy times and happy memories, and made his peace. If it was to be, it was to be. When all was said and thought, a man, any man, or a woman, any woman, had no more control over their destinies than the guiding hand of the Almighty allowed.
Now Nate was close enough to hear the crackling of the flames. He was close enough to see that the ground around the fire was empty of sleeping forms. No one was there. Not the slave hunters. Not Winona. Not the Worths. Nor were there any horses.
They had gone, and left the fire burning.
Anger brought Nate to his feet. He charged into the clearing, his chest heavy with worry. Without a mount he had no hope of overtaking them. Fighting off despair, he shuffled to the fire. Near it was a dry pool of blood. He dropped the spear, sank to his knees, and said the name that meant more to him than anything. “Winona.”
“She’s right here, Injun lover.”
Nate felt like the world’s biggest fool. “You were waiting for me.”
Six men ringed him with leveled rifles. One of the six was Peleg Harrod. “We were waiting for you, hoss. Let me introduce these other gents.” He did so, ending with, “And this is the famous Grizzly Killer. Word has it he’s killed more silver tips than any man alive.”
“Want me to kill him, Wesley?” Trumbo asked. “A twitch of my finger and I’ll splatter his brains.”
The hawk-faced slave hunter cradled his Kentucky and came to the other side of the fire. “This was my doing. I don’t like loose ends. I knew if I didn’t finish it, you would track me down and hold me to account.”
“You figured right.” Nate peered into the dark. He was weary and worn and drained, and longed for one thing. “Where are they? What have you done with them?”
“Not a thing to the darkies. They’re worth money. As for your squaw…” Wesley gestured at the dry blood. “There were seven of us, but she killed the boy standing watch. She shouldn’t have done that. I was willing to do her quick, but now it won’t be.” He gestured again, at the encircling dark. “Fetch them. And don’t forget the horses.”
Harrod stayed where he was. “I’m right sorry about this, but money is money and he’s paying me well.”
“Judas was paid well, too.”
Harrod jerked his head as if he had been slapped. “Hey now. I didn’t kill you like I was supposed to. That should count for something.”
Wesley faced the old frontiersman. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that, Peleg. We had an agreement, remember?”
“Of course.”
“And you broke it.”
“You have him, don’t you?”
“That’s not the point. You were to lead him back here into an ambush and we would kill him. With him dead, the rest would be easy to catch.”
“It worked out, didn’t it? The Worths and his woman rode right into your hands.”
“It worked out, yes,” Wesley said. “It worked out in spite of you not doing as I wanted.”
Harrod mustered a grin. “You’re not mad at me, are you?”
