“Maybe you want them to feed on yours?”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I’m reminding you.” Wesley motioned at the woods.
Olan and Kleist and Trumbo all trained their rifles on the greenery, and the latter rumbled deep in his barrel chest, “We should go in after them.”
“And have them pick you off before you get ten feet? No.” Wesley hefted his rifle. “Do as I told you.”
They continued east, Kleist out in front, Olan once more at the rear, leading Bromley’s mount and the pack animals. Presently they came to another bend.
Emala was watching ducks out on the water. She didn’t realize those in front of her had halted until her own horse stopped. “I’ll be!” she exclaimed.
Another pine tree lay across the trail. To the left was the river bank, to the right high grass.
“That tree didn’t fall by itself,” Trumbo said.
“You’re learning,” Wesley said. “We won’t fall for the same trick twice. Swing to the left along the bank and stay shy of the trees.”
Kleist nodded and reined to the left. His dun stepped on the bank—and the bank gave way. There were loud snapping sounds, and the earth caved in. The sharpened ends of stout branches came poking out. The dun squealed. Kleist, with remarkable agility, threw himself clear of the falling horse. He rolled and landed with a huge splash on his back in the water.
That the bank had collapsed startled Emala no end. She realized someone had dug it out and rigged sections of sod over a frame of tree branches so the bank appeared solid when it wasn’t.
The dun was trying to stand but couldn’t; it had been impaled by several of the branches.
Kleist lay in the water half submerged, his eyes wide, his mouth moving but no words coming out.
“What in the world?” Emala said. Then she saw the sharpened ends of stakes sticking through his chest and belly. The stakes had been imbedded in the bottom below the bank.
“Kleist!” Olan roared, and raced past the Worths.
“Watch out!” Wesley shouted. “The Kings might be nearby!”
They were.
Nate and Winona were flat on their bellies on the other side of the downed pine. Nate cautiously rose partway, a spear in each hand. He peered over the pine and saw Olan vaulting down the collapsed bank to get to Kleist. Wesley and Trumbo were still on their horses.
Ducking, Nate nodded at Winona and whispered, “It worked. There are three of them left. Here we go.” Staying low, he ran to the end of the downed pine farthest from the river.
Winona was a step behind him. She held shorter spears, their ends sharpened and hardened in a fire.
Nate didn’t slow. He swept around the end of the tree and flew toward the nearest rider, who happened to be Trumbo. The bearded bear didn’t hear him until Nate was almost on top of him.
Bellowing in alarm, Trumbo spun in the saddle and went to bring up his rifle.
Nate drove one of his spears up and in. It was like stabbing into clay. Trumbo grunted and grabbed the spear, and Nate let go. Whirling, he streaked toward Wesley.
Winona veered to attack Olan. He was almost to Kleist, yelling Kleist’s name over and over. As for Kleist, he wasn’t moving; his blood was staining the water dark.
Winona came to the edge of the bank and launched herself into the air.
“Olan! Behind you!” Wesley shouted.
Olan turned just as Winona slammed into him. She stabbed at his chest, but somehow she missed. They tumbled and rolled in the river. Instantly, she was up, both spears ready. Olan had lost his rifle, but he came up clawing for a pistol.
Nate’s eyes were locked on Wesley like an eagle’s on prey. He resisted an impulse to see how his wife was doing and cocked his arm. He was only four or five feet from Wesley’s horse when Wesley whipped around, leveled his Kentucky and fired from the hip. Nate felt a burning sensation, and then he was close enough. He thrust up and in, as he had done with Trumbo. But where Trumbo was big and slow, Wesley was sinewy and lightning-quick. Wesley twisted aside and swung the rifle stock at Nate’s head. Dodging, Nate grabbed the rifle and wrenched it with all his strength.
Wesley let go, but now he was half-on and half-off his horse, with only one foot in a stirrup. He snatched at his waist and jerked the flintlock clear.
Nate had a spear in one hand and the Kentucky rifle in the other. He swung the rifle, clubbing Wesley’s forearm, and Wesley’s lost hold of the pistol. Dropping the rifle, Nate seized Wesley’s shirt and unhorsed him, slamming him down hard. A foot caught Nate in the gut. Nate drew back and raised the spear, but another kick racked his knee with pain and his leg nearly buckled.
Over in the water, Winona stabbed Olan in the hand. He howled with rage as the flintlock plopped into the water, and then he backpedaled, cursing her fiercely. She went after him, stabbing with both spears again and again. She caught him in the shoulder. Another thrust drew blood from his thigh.
Baring his teeth, Olan growled like an animal and resorted to his knife. “I’ll kill you, bitch! Kill you! Kill you!” He was on her in a rush.
Nate saw his wife’s mortal struggle out of the corner of his eye, but he couldn’t go to her aid. He had his own situation to deal with. Wesley had regained his feet and pulled a tomahawk from behind his back.
It was Nate’s tomahawk, the one the slave hunters took from him days before.
Wesley crouched, snarling, “You’ve been a thorn in my side long enough.”
Nate didn’t respond. He parried with the spear, shifted, countered a swing that would have cleaved his head like a melon. Wesley was grinning, the epitome of confidence and raw vitality. Nate barely avoided having his thigh opened. They circled, eyeing each other, each waiting for the other to strike.
Nate had his back to the river. He heard Olan curse, and loud splashing. Wesley glanced past him, and his grin widened.
“Your squaw is dead, and you’re next.”
God help him, Nate had to look. It was Winona, the woman he loved, the woman who was his heart made flesh. He looked and froze in dismay.
Winona and Olan were down, locked together, roiling the water, the tip of Olan’s knife inches from her throat.
“Mr. King!” Emala screamed.
Nate jerked back, not sure where the blow was coming from. The razor edge of the tomahawk flashed past his eyes, so close that it nicked the bridge of his nose. He thrust hard and true, his spear penetrating just below Wesley’s jaw and going completely through and out the other side.
Wesley gripped the spear and staggered. He tried to say something, but all that came from his mouth, and his nose besides, was blood and more blood. The tomahawk fell.
Grabbing it, Nate whirled and raced for the river.
Winona was on her back, struggling to keep her face above the surface. She couldn’t see Olan well because of the water in her eyes, and she could scarcely catch her breath because of the water in her mouth and throat. She tried to hold on to Olan’s wrist so he couldn’t stab her but he suddenly tore free. Winona blinked, and cold steel gleamed high.
“I’ve got you now, you bitch!”
There was another gleam, above Olan. Before his knife could descend, the second gleam arced down, and Olan’s face did an amazing thing: It split in half, from the crown to the chin, one eyeball and one cheek going one way and the other eyeball and cheek the opposite way. From out of the cleft oozed blood and brains, and more.
Nate grabbed the back of Olan’s shirt and flung him away. Bending, he hooked his arm under Winona and levered her to her feet. Stricken with fear, he looked for wounds but saw none. “Are you all right?”
“I am now.”
“I thought—”
“Thank you.”
