The Scalp Hunters

Chapter Twelve

Logan opened his eyes and was racked with pain. He thought it strange since by rights he should be dead. He remembered Venom pointing a pistol at him. He’d tried to twist aside, but his reflexes were no match for a bullet. He remembered the blast of the shot, remembered the shock of being hit. Then he was falling and the ground rushed up to meet him and after that there was nothing but darkness until now.

Sliding his hands under him, Logan rose onto his elbows. His head pounded, and his stomach churned. Gingerly, he touched his temple and winced. From near his eyebrow to above his ear was a lead-gouged furrow. Probably because he was turning when Venom fired, the bullet had struck a glancing blow. It was the only reason he was alive. Judging by the circle of red under him and the amount of dry blood on his face and neck, he’d bled a lot.

Logan sat up. He wasn’t surprised to find that his rifle and pistols and knife were gone. His former friends had helped themselves to his weapons. To his horse, too.

With great care, Logan slowly stood. Dizziness struck and he swayed but stayed on his feet. Lightly pressing his hand to the wound, he walked in a small circle, establishing that the tracks of his former companions, as he figured they would, pointed to the west. He plodded after them.

With each passing minute the pain subsided a little so that by the end of half an hour it was a persis tent dull ache. His queasiness faded, too. Logan thought of Venom and clenched his fists. The bastard had shot him without warning and left him for dead. No one did that to him and went on breathing. No one.

In a way, Venom had done him a favor. For some time now Logan had considered either taking over the company or going off and starting one of his own. He was tired of the looks he got from the others when he indulged in females, tired of them always carping about what he did. They had no room to talk, the hypocrites. They carved up women and girls to add to their scalp bag. All he did differently was enjoy the ladies before he scalped them.

Logan got hooked when he was young. An aunt started him down the path. She’d liked it rough, really rough, and given him a taste that grew rougher as time went by. Now when he was done with a woman, she looked as if she’d been through a war. Most were barely alive.

He couldn’t get enough. It gave him a thrill like no other. A thrill so potent, he couldn’t go without. When he wasn’t with a woman, he daydreamed about being with them, and at night he drifted in dreams of explicit fantasy.

Unfortunately, the law hanged people for what he did.

So Logan had gone off to the frontier where tin badges were scarce and he could do pretty much as he pleased. The frontier, where Indians were usually blamed for whites who went missing and whites were blamed for Indians who went missing.

At first it had been heaven on earth. He’d waylaid women and had his way and no one was ever the wiser. But his habit didn’t put food in his belly or clothes on his back. He needed spending money.

Logan happened to be in San Antonio one hot afternoon when Venom and his scalp hunters rode in to claim the bounty on some Comanche scalps. Logan approached Venom about working for him and was pleased as could be when the veteran took him on. His pleasure was short-lived. The third time out, they slaughtered a family of peaceable Pimas. Logan got hold of a girl about fourteen and before he could stop himself had done the sort of things that always sent a tingle of delight down his spine.

That had led to this, to being betrayed and shot down like some animal. The more Logan thought about it, the madder he got. He would keep going until he got hold of a horse and then he would find Venom and his so-called friends and do to them as they had done to him.

Along the way Logan intended to treat himself. He needed a female, needed a female bad. Specifically, the white girl Rubicon told them about. The young one, the pretty one. He would do to her as he had done to all those others.

Logan couldn’t wait.

Evelyn warned the black man not to move or she would shoot him. She assumed the threat would turn him to stone. Instead, as she rose from concealment on the crest of the gully with her Hawken centered on his chest, he did the last thing she expected.

The black turned and smiled, his arms out from his sides. “We meet again, young one,” he cheerfully greeted her.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Evelyn demanded. “I’ll shoot you if you don’t do exactly as I say.”

“Shot a lot of people, have you? Somehow, I don’t think so. I doubt you’ve ever shot anybody.” He confidently added, “It’s never easy the first time. Some people can’t do it. They don’t have it in them.”

“I do,” Evelyn assured him. With a bob of her chin at the opposite side of the gully, she said, “So does he.”

Plenty Elk had an arrow nocked to his bowstring and the string drawn back to his cheek.

“Don’t do anything hasty,” the black man said. “See? I’m putting my rifle down. Now I’m taking a pistol and laying it down, too.”

“I told you not to move, scalp hunter.” Evelyn held the Hawken straight and steady, ready to shoot. He was right, though. She wasn’t like her brother. She wasn’t a killer. She wouldn’t shoot unless he forced her, and even then she would shoot reluctantly.

The black raised his hands in the air. “Suit yourself, girl. You caught me fair and square. But what was that about scalps?”

“Play innocent, why don’t you?”

“Why, girl, I’m as innocent as a newborn babe.”

Evelyn sidled down the slope. She told him to get on his knees. He hesitated, glanced at Plenty Elk, and did as she bid him. With Plenty Elk covering her, Evelyn reached around from behind and snatched the second pistol, then stepped back. “There now. We need to talk. First off, what’s your name?”

“Rubicon.”

“That’s a strange name. What does it mean?”

Rubicon shrugged. “My pa said it had something to do with a river somewhere. That’s all I know.”

“Plenty Elk, here, has told me about you and your friends. How far back are they? What are their plans? Were you to signal them when you caught up with us?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” Rubicon said good-naturedly.

“I expect a lot of answers.” It had been Evelyn’s idea to take him alive. Plenty Elk had been disappointed, but she convinced him the black might have information they could use.

Rubicon chuckled. “Listen to yourself. You’re a girl playing at being tough. If you had any sense you would get on your horse and ride like hell while you still can.”

“Big talk, but we caught you, not the other way around.”

“It’s not me you have to worry about, girl. It’s the man I ride for. He’ll be awful mad at you for jumping me and he’s not nice when he’s mad. Fact is, he’s the meanest cuss on the whole damn planet.”

“I’m a King, mister.”

“Is that supposed to mean something?”

“It means I might be a girl, but I’m not helpless. It means I never give up. It means I don’t desert my friends. It means I’ll do whatever I have to in order to stop you.”

“For a fool you sure are pretty.”

“On your feet. Keep your hands where I can see them and head up this gully.” Evelyn snagged the reins to his horse and brought it along.

Rubicon chuckled. “Get on my knees. Get on my feet. I wish you’d make up your mind.”

“You’re in awful good spirits for someone in your predicament.”

“It’s not me who has the predicament, girl. It’s you. I don’t know what you think you’re doing by taking me this way. It won’t do you any good. It won’t do you any good at all.”

“Why do you ride with the man you told me about? You don’t strike me as being bad.”

Rubicon glanced over his shoulder at her. “There you go again. Missy, you can’t judge other folks by how you think. It’s how they think that counts. You better let me go or the first chance I get, I’ll beat you to the ground and I won’t bat an eye doing it.”

“Get moving.” Evelyn saw Plenty Elk give her a quizzical look. She motioned for him to come down and he was quick to fall into step beside her. Not once did he lower his bow.

“Yes, sir,” Rubicon rambled on. “You’re in a fine pickle. You won’t take my advice and light a shuck. What to do? What to do?”

“You like to hear yourself talk, don’t you?”

Rubicon was talking to distract her, and to test how much she would let him get away with. He was trying to dupe her into letting down her guard so he could jump her. Otherwise, he was in for grief when Venom caught up. Venom didn’t like it when his men were taken captive. The last man that happened to, a gent by the name of Williams, was staked out in the burning sun by the Comanches. Venom refused to cut him free, saying that anyone so damn careless had it coming to them.

Evelyn was glad her captive had gone quiet. All his chatter was making it hard for her to think, and she had a lot to work out. She could tell that Plenty Elk was puzzled that she hadn’t killed the man outright, and to be honest, the smart thing was to shoot him dead. She’d had the perfect opportunity back there and couldn’t do it. It worried her. By civilized standards she’d done the right thing. Only this wasn’t civilization. This was the wilderness. The laws and rules that people stuck to east of the Mississippi River did not apply west of it. Out here it was be strong and live or be weak and die.

For a long while now, Evelyn had secretly wondered if she was weak. There were incidents in the past, times when she should have slain someone out to do her harm, and she didn’t. She couldn’t find it in her. Maybe—and the thought troubled her—maybe she was one of those who couldn’t harm another living soul no matter what the circumstances.

Her father killed when he had to. Her brother did it time and time again with no remorse. Even her mother had taken a life or two. What was wrong with her that she couldn’t do the same?

Evelyn put it from her mind. Now wasn’t the time. They rounded the next bend and there were the Nansusequa, anxiously waiting. “Look what we found,” she announced.

“Why is he not dead?” Waku asked.

“We’re taking him with us. First I need someone to tie his wrists. Dega, would you do the honors? There’s a rope in my parfleche.”

Dega was happy to do anything she asked. The mare shied when he reached for the saddle, but Evelyn spoke to it and the horse stood still while he opened the parfleche and took out the rope Evelyn used to tether the mare at night. Drawing his knife, he cut a suitable length and replaced the rest. As he walked over behind the captive, the black man grinned.

“Tell me, green boy, do you savvy the white tongue?”

“I speak white,” Dega said. “And I not be green.”

“Your buckskins are.” Rubicon bobbed his chin at the rest of the family. “So are theirs. What gives?”

“No give you our clothes. Our clothes ours.”

Rubicon blinked, and chortled. “No, no. What I want to know is why are you dressed all in green?”

“Green for Manitoa,” Dega explained. “Green for life.”

“Not green for grass?” Rubicon taunted.

“Put hands back so I tie them.”

“Sure, whatever you say.” Rubicon moved his arms behind him and felt his wrists gripped.

“Not move,” Dega directed.

“You’ll get to go on breathing if you cooperate,” Evelyn said.

“I’m all for breathing.”

Dega gave the rope a shake. “Once you tied we no danger.”

“That’s what you think.” Rubicon noticed that the girl had lowered her rifle partway. The Arapaho still had an arrow notched to his bow, but the boy about to tie his wrists had stepped between them. No one else had a weapon ready to use. They were green in more ways than one, these people, and it was about to cost them. Suddenly stiffening, he looked back the way they had come and yelled, “Venom! Potter! It’s about time you got here.”

The ruse worked. All of them turned. Every last one. Even the boy with the rope.

Rubicon whirled. He had the boy’s tomahawk in his hand before any of them could think to stop him. He swung it and caught the boy across the head with the flat of the blade. He’d meant to cleave the boy’s head, but in his haste he misjudged his swing.

Plenty Elk saw Degamawaku start to fall. He stepped to the right for a clear target and took a split second to sight down the arrow. At that range he could hardly miss, but he was going for the heart, for a kill shot, and he wanted to be sure.

Rubicon expected the Arapaho to react first. The Dog Eater was seven or eight feet away, too far to hit. So Rubicon threw the tomahawk. He didn’t expect to inflict a wound, only to make the Arapaho duck and buy him the time to grab a gun from the girl.

The tomahawk spun end over end.

Plenty Elk went to fling himself aside and was turning when the tomahawk struck his bow and glanced off. The keen edge caught him in the side of the neck, slicing through skin, flesh and blood vessels. He clutched at himself as a red mist sprayed every which way.

“Plenty Elk!” Evelyn cried. She jerked her rifle up.

With a howl of triumph, Rubicon was on her.