them getting killed.”
“So it’ll be one at a time from here on out? Hell.”
“We’ll just have to keep on our toes.”
“We can always turn back,” Maklin said. “Make them come for you instead of us riding into every ambush they set.”
“No.”
“You’re a stubborn cuss, Nate King.”
Nate looked at him. “I want to end it.”
“I don’t blame you. But it will eat at your nerves, something like this.” Maklin regarded the dead man, and grinned. “Look at the bright side. One more down means only six to go. The odds get better all the time.”
They pressed on. White puffs of clouds floated serenely in the blue arc of sky. A breeze rippled the grass as it might waves in the sea. A pair of finches flew overhead and a doe and her fawn stared but didn’t run off.
This was always the way with the wilderness. On the surface it could be as calm as a lake on a windless day. Under the surface, though, lurked perils galore. Beasts that delighted in feasting on human flesh. Snakes with poison in their fangs, scorpions with poison in their tails. Pitfalls of chance and deadfalls of trees and just plain falls for the unwary. So many dangers the list was too long for Nate to ponder.
The dark underbelly belied the warmth of the sun and the caress of the wind. A man must never forget the duality of the wilds or the wilds would lay that man low.
It was said that Nature was fickle. It was said that “she” was a harsh mistress. Nature had no gender, though. Nature was the order of things, and that order was a doe and her fawn on one hand and a Pawnee with a knife on the other. Life and death, light and dark, peaceful and violent.
Nate had thought about it and thought about it and concluded that if the order of things was a reflection of the Maker of that order, then the Maker must have a reason for things being as they were. But what that reason could be was as much a mystery now as it had been years ago when he first thought about it.
The best explanation he’d heard was courtesy of Shakespeare. Life was a forge, McNair once said, and just as the heat of a forge tempered metal to be hard so it wouldn’t break, so, too, did life temper men and women to make them strong and wise so they wouldn’t break under the adversities.
Nate gave a toss of his head. He was letting his mind wander again. That could prove costly should another Pawnee spring out of nowhere.
The sun was on its westward descent. Gradually the shadows lengthened. Nate began to cast about for a suitable camp and chose a stand of aspens. The trees would shelter them from the wind and hide their fire from the Pawnees. He climbed down and led the bay to a small clear space.
Maklin offered to gather firewood and walked off.
While he waited Nate gathered dry leaves and grass for kindling. He formed a pile, and when Maklin returned, took his fire steel and flint from his possibles bag. It took three strikes. Once the spark ignited, he puffed lightly on the tiny flame. As it grew he added fuel, and soon they had a crackling fire.
Maklin chewed on jerky and stared across at him.
“Something on your mind?”
“You wouldn’t listen if there is.”
“Try me.”
“This is a mistake. I keep saying it, but you won’t heed.”
“Not that again.”
Maklin bit off another piece. “You told me a while back that you had me figured out. Well, I have you figured out, too. You take the blame for Wendell and his family. You take the blame for our wrangler. You want revenge for them as much as Kuruk wants revenge for his uncle.”
“If that’s how you see it.”
“You must not care for your family as much as you claim you do.”
Nate’s head snapped up. “Be careful. They are everything to me. I won’t have anyone say otherwise.”
“Your idea of everything must be different from mine or you wouldn’t be doing this. You wouldn’t make it this easy for your enemies to make your woman a widow and your boy and girl fatherless.”
“That’s going too far.”
“I’m only saying my piece. If it hurts, then it’s true, and if it’s true you can’t hold it against me.”
Nate spent the next half hour examining his feelings. He decided the Texan was only half right, but even half was too much. He
“What’s right isn’t always what’s best.”
In his mind’s eye Nate pictured Winona and Evelyn and Zach. “You have convinced me.”
“I have?”
“We’ll head back in the morning.”
“You give your word?”
“If Kuruk wants me, he’ll have to come after me.”
“You’re not as hardheaded as I thought.”
“Maklin?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks.”
Nate smiled and the Texan smiled and their bond of friendship was cemented. But the moment didn’t last.
From out of the dark flew a swarthy warrior. With a fierce yip he swung the tomahawk at the Texan’s head and then he vaulted the flames and threw himself at Nate.
Nate King hurled his coffee in the Pawnee’s face. It didn’t stop him, but it slowed him for the fraction of an instant Nate needed to dive to one side. The tomahawk cleaved air and the warrior whirled and came at him again.
Scrambling back, Nate dodged a blow to the neck and another to the face. He pushed to his feet, freeing his own tomahawk as he rose. Ducking under a slash that would have taken his head off, he swiped his tomahawk up and in, intending to open the Pawnee from navel to sternum. But the man was incredibly quick and sprang out of reach.
They paused, their eyes locked, taking each other’s measure.
Uttering a war whoop, the warrior attacked again. Nate parried several swift swings and retaliated, but his blow was blocked. They circled, unleashing blow and counterblow. The sharp edge of the Pawnee’s weapon missed Nate’s neck by a whisper. Nate’s next swing opened the Pawnee’s arm.
Again they paused. The warrior crouched and moved his tomahawk in small circles, a mocking grin on his face. Nate waited, balanced on the balls of his feet. He had noticed that when the Pawnee came at him the last two times, the man’s first blow was from right to left. Nate could use that against him.
Once more the warrior attacked. Once more his tomahawk arced from right to left.
Nate was ready. He swept his up and under and nearly severed the warrior’s wrist. Shocked, the warrior swooped his other hand to a knife at his hip, but he didn’t quite have it out of its sheath when Nate did to the man’s neck as he had just done to the wrist.
Avoiding the spurting blood, Nate dashed to Maklin. The Texan was on his belly, his hat off, scarlet matting his hair. Nate sank to a knee and carefully rolled him over, fearing he would find Maklin’s skull had been cleaved like a melon. He smiled in relief. Evidently the flat of the Pawnee’s tomahawk had struck a glancing blow. There was a gash but nothing worse.
The Texan groaned and his eyes opened. “What the hell?”
