The Outcast

in her to do away with herself if it meant doing away with the baby, too.

The Outcast studied his captive. He was impressed by how quiet she was. Most woman would scream or be hysterical. This little one, he mused, had exceptional courage. It reminded him of her. Again pain filled him. Not physical pain, but the deep searing pain of raw emotion. It occurred to him that he had thought of her more since he came across this young white woman than he had in many moons.

The Outcast told himself his feelings were to be expected. Such a loss, the loss of someone who meant everything, someone loved and adored and cherished beyond all others, could never be forgotten. The best he could do, the best any person could do, was to hold the hurt at bay by piling rocks of denial around his heart so that the hurt could not touch it. The problem, of course, was that piles of rocks always had gaps in them, thin gaps, yes, but gaps where a stray feeling or an unguarded thought could slip through.

A tiny voice in the Outcast’s mind told him to spare himself the misery. All he had to do was draw his knife and slit the white woman’s throat. One slash and her life was over. One slash and his hurt was banished. He placed his hand on the hilt.

Lou opened her eyes and looked at her captor. She wished she spoke his tongue or he spoke hers. She would beg him to set her free so she could go back to her home and to those she loved most in the world. She saw him give a slight start, and wondered why.

The Outcast was about to draw his knife when his captive fixed her eyes on him. Such remarkable eyes, as blue as the lake. Mute appeal was mirrored in their depths. An appeal so potent, it caught him about his heart with a pelt of the softest fur. His head swirled, and he hissed in annoyance. “Stop looking at me,” he said, but she didn’t understand him and kept on doing it. He raised his hand to smack her.

Lou turned away. She wondered why he was so mad. It didn’t bode well. Men prone to get angry were also often violent. He might beat her if she wasn’t careful. In despair she sagged across the pinto, her cheek against its side. Her belly was starting to hurt, and that worried her. It couldn’t be good for her to be over the horse this way.

She gazed off through the trees, longing for a glimpse of her cabin, but they had come too far to the west. Soon, they would start to climb into the high country. It puzzled her. The only way out of the valley, as far as she knew, was to the east. Why was her captor heading west?

The Outcast scanned the valley rim. To the northwest was the glacier. To the south were peaks so high, they brushed the clouds. Ahead, to the west, were forested slopes that rose in tiers to rocky ramparts. He would set his traps there.

Inwardly, the Outcast smiled. Killing the breed and the old white man would take his mind off her. He had a lot to do and he might as well start now. Reining out of the stream and up the bank, he came to a stop at a stand of saplings and slid down. The saplings were ideal for what he had in mind.

Lou raised her head. Hope flared anew. She’d figured he would stay in the stream for miles. That was the smart thing to do if he wanted to shake off pursuit. She saw him take the rope and cut a couple of short lengths. Then he moved off into the undergrowth.

He had left her alone.

Instantly, Lou shifted to try to slide off the pinto. But her legs were partly numb and she couldn’t quite manage it. Suddenly her captor was back. He had a downed tree limb, which he broke into pieces. Each piece was no thicker than his middle finger. One was about a foot long, the other six inches, the third even shorter. As she watched, he sat and drew his knife and started cutting on first one and then the other.

Lou would have to wait for another chance to try to escape. Curious what he was up to, she watched him intently.

The Outcast sharpened the sticks. At the opposite ends of the long one and the short one he cut notches. A rock served to pound the long stick into the ground. Stepping to a thin sapling he had chosen, the Outcast reached overhead and climbed. He used only his arms. Under his weight the tree began to bend. As it bent, his feet sank lower and lower until they were on the ground again. The sapling was now curved like a bow.

The Outcast tied one end of the rope to the sapling, about a third of the way from the top. Holding the rope securely so the tree couldn’t snap back up, he tied the other end of the rope to the short stick, then knelt beside the stake.

Horror gripped Lou. She had divined what he was up to. Zach and Nate used the same trick to kill rabbits and the like. “God, no!” she exclaimed through her gag.

The Outcast glanced at her.

“Why are you doing this?” Lou struggled against her bonds.

The Outcast patted the sapling. He didn’t understand a word the woman was saying, but he understood the worry on her face. “I do what I must. You and your man and your friends are my enemies.”

The Outcast aligned the notch in the short stick with the notch in the stake, setting them so the short stick would release if it was bumped. Rising, he took the third sharpened stick and carefully tied it to the bent sapling at the height of a mounted man. He cast about until he found pine limbs that suited his purpose and set them so they hid the rope and the stake. Now all that was needed was for one of his pursuers to ride by and jar the limb that hid the short stick. The sapling would whip up and impale the rider.

Lou’s mouth went dry. She had realized the awful truth. He wasn’t taking her to his village. He had no interest in her other than as bait. He was using her to lure Zach and Shakespeare to their deaths.

Chapter Nine

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?”