They were almost to the bottom when Star Dancer pointed. “There! It is the woman.”
Skin Shredder saw her hand poking limply from the dirt and rocks. “She must be dead.” No sooner did he say it than her fingers moved. “Link arms. We will form a chain. I will go out myself.”
It was treacherous work. The talus could give way at any moment. But by taking small steps and treading lightly, they edged out until Skin Shredder was close enough to grip the woman’s hand. Only a sprinkle of dirt covered part of her face and one shoulder.
Skin Shredder pulled. He had to do it in such a way that he didn’t press down hard with his feet. Bit by bit, he dragged her from her earthen grave. Rocks rolled and the earth moved, but it didn’t set the rest of the talus in motion.
The white woman groaned a few times. Her dress was torn and brown with dirt. Her face had many bruises.
Skin Shredder could not get over how hideous she was. She didn’t have the broad nose or big lobes or thick eyebrows of Tunkua women. She didn’t have the tattoos that made Tunkua women so beautiful. With infinite slowness, he stooped and picked her up. He was surprised at how light she was. He carefully handed her to Splashes Blood who in turn handed her to Star Dancer, who gave her to the last warrior in the chain; he set her on solid ground.
Once they were safe, they ringed the woman.
“Her ankles are still tied,” Star Dancer noted.
Skin Shredder cut the rope. He shook her but all she did was groan. He shook her harder, and when that failed, he smacked her on the cheek. Her eyelids fluttered and then opened wide.
Lou could scarce credit what she saw. The last she remembered, she was hurtling down the talus slope. A wave of fright washed over her, but she didn’t let it show. She knew about the tribe on the other side of the range. They called themselves the Heart Eaters and had those terrible faces. Her father-in-law and McNair had supposedly blocked the pass that permitted the Heart Eaters to enter King Valley, but apparently the warriors had found another way in.
From the frying pan to the fire, Lou realized. She smiled to show them she was friendly and slowly sat up. Her left shoulder throbbed and her face hurt all over. She looked around for Zach and fought down rising panic. “How do you do?”
Once again Skin Shredder was impressed by her courage. Most captives would cower in fright. “I do not speak your tongue.”
Lou remembered Nate saying the Heart Eaters knew sign. She motioned at the talus and asked in finger talk, ‘Question: You save me?’
‘We pull you out.’
‘I thank you.’
‘We no do help you.’
‘Question: What you want me?’
‘We take you our village.’
Lou’s breath caught in her throat. ‘I no want go.’
‘You go,’ Skin Shredder signed with a cold smile.
Twisting, Lou searched the talus for Zach. He was nowhere in sight. He might be buried and likely dead. Her eyes started to tear, and she blinked them away. “Oh, Zachary.”
Skin Shredder guessed she was looking for her man. He gestured, and Splashes Blood and Star Dancer seized her arms and hauled her to her feet. When they let go, she swayed like a reed and would have fallen if Star Dancer hadn’t held her.
‘Question: You hurt?’
‘I be weak,’ Lou responded. She could feel her strength slowly returning, but she didn’t want them to know. The longer they delayed, the better her chance of spotting Zach, or what was left of him, and she dearly wanted to see him one last time, even if he lay in the repose of death.
To his friends Skin Shredder said, “We will wait, unless one of you wants to carry her.”
No one did.
‘Question,’ Lou signed. ‘What you do with me in village?’
Skin Shredder held his hand close to his chest, his fingers hooked like claws. He pretended to claw his chest open and pull his heart out. Then he held his hand up to his mouth and pretended to take a bite.
The other warriors laughed.
Louisa King shuddered.
Chapter Thirteen
A small herd of mountain buffalo called King Valley home. Shaggier than their flatland cousins, they stayed deep in the woods most of each day, coming out at dawn and late afternoon to drink and graze. They posed no threat so long as they were not disturbed. Many a time Shakespeare had watched them from his window and been reminded of the days when he hunted their cousins with his Indian friends. He didn’t hunt these. Nate had suggested they leave the herd be. As Nate put it, “We’ll hunt them only if we’re starving. That way, we’ll always have a pantry on the hoof we can fall back on.”
Shakespeare got a chuckle out of
But now, with his wife helpless on the travois, Shakespeare worried their decision would cost him dearly.
The bull snorted and shook its shaggy head, its horns glinting in the sunlight.
Blue Water Woman heard the snort and craned her neck to see over the top of the travois. A tongue of fear licked at her and she swallowed it down. As she always did in a crisis, she willed herself to stay calm, to focus and not give sway to fright. “Husband?” she said softly.
Shakespeare didn’t take his eyes off the buffalo. He was holding his Hawken across his legs, but he made no attempt to raise it. “Not now, chipmunk. We have a problem.”
“I see him. You should cut the travois loose and ride off before he charges.”
Shakespeare almost gave a snort of his own. “And abandon you? That’s the silliest thing you’ve ever said in all the years I’ve known you.”
The bull stamped and tossed its head and came several steps nearer. Over six feet high at the shoulders, with a bulging hump and broad head, it was a living, breathing monster.
Shakespeare fingered his rifle. It would take a lucky shot to bring the brute down. It must weigh between fifteen hundred and two thousand pounds, a lot of it muscle.
Blue Water Woman rose on an elbow. The bull looked at her and rumbled in its chest.
“For God’s sake, don’t move,” Shakespeare cautioned. “If it charges I might not be able to protect you.”
“If it charges I want you to save yourself.”
Shakespeare did what he had just told her not to do; he moved. Turning in the saddle, he declared, “I can hardly forbear hurling things at you.”
“I cannot help it if I love you and do not want you hurt.”
“Grant me the same courtesy.” Shakespeare had never told her, but he secretly hoped he died before she did. He would be so lonely without her, he didn’t know if he would want to go on living.
Blue Water Woman was watching the buffalo. She was taken aback when other dark shapes appeared. Six, seven, eight, she counted, all as shaggy but none as big as the huge bull. “Carcajou!”
Shakespeare’s pulse quickened. One buffalo was bad enough. Nine was a nightmare. All those horns, on creatures as unpredictable as the weather. He eased the Hawken from his lap. He couldn’t get all of them, but he would bring the big bull down.
“Do not shoot,” Blue Water Woman cautioned. She worried that he might drop the bull in the hope the rest would run off.
