The Scalp Hunters

Chapter Thirteen

Venom had no time to rein around, no time to spur his horse. He felt no fear, no panic. Bracing for the impact, he hiked his leg clear of the stirrup.

In a flurry of driving hooves, the bull crossed the space separating them. Just as it lowered its head to rip and gore, its front legs buckled and it crashed heavily to the ground, its momentum carrying it past Venom and his mount, missing them by a hand’s width.

A twitch of the bull’s tail, a final grunt, and it was dead.

“That was close!” Potter exclaimed. He had managed to push out from under his horse and was rubbing his left leg.

“You must have nerves of steel,” Tibbet threw in. “Sitting there as calm as could be.”

“I’m proud to ride with a man like you,” Jeph Kyler said, and his twin nodded in agreement.

Venom hadn’t done it to impress them. Still, anything that made them fear him more made it that much less likely they would cause him trouble. “We’re losing time,” he said, and reined around.

“Wait!” Potter hollered. “What about me?”

“Throw your saddle on one of the Injun ponies we took and be quick about it.” Venom chafed at the delay. He was eager to catch up to Rubicon and see the white girl. From the way Rubicon had described her, she must be about the prettiest young filly this side of the cradle.

The Kyler twins came up on either side.

“Want us to go on ahead and see how the darkie is doin’?” Jeph asked.

“Rubicon knows how to take care of himself.”

“That he does,” Seph agreed. “But there are seven of them and one is an Arapaho warrior.”

Venom still didn’t see the need, but since he preferred to stay on the twins’ good side, he replied, “I’d rather you stay with us, but go on if you want.” To his annoyance, they did. That left him with four, this close to Sioux territory. “Hurry up with that damn saddle, Potter.”

For the next several hours they rode nearly due west. Around them the prairie was awash in the golden glow of the sun. Butterflies flitted amid patches of wildflowers. Jackrabbits bounded off in incredibly long leaps. A red fox watched them go by, unafraid.

Venom supposed there were those who would call the prairie beautiful or God’s handiwork or some such. He wasn’t one of them. Grass was grass, flowers were flowers. As for the Almighty, he stopped believing the day he saw a little boy’s head crushed by the flailing hoof of a horse.

Toward the middle of the afternoon Venom was surprised to see the twins galloping back. He raised his arm and the others stopped to await them. “Don’t keep me in suspense,” he said as the pair reined to a stop.

“Indians,” Seph declared. “Thirty or forty. Northwest of here, heading east.”

“They’ll pass within a quarter mile of you,” Jeph took up the account. “We felt you should know.”

“Could you tell which tribe?”

“They were too far off. If I had to guess, I’d say Sioux, but that’s a hunch more than anything.”

Venom reined to the south. “We’ll go a mile or so out of our way so they don’t spot us.”

They went less than a quarter of that when Venom drew abrupt rein. To the southwest was a dust cloud. Only two things raised that much dust; a lot of buffalo or a lot of riders. He got out his spyglass. “Indians,” he announced. An awful lot of Indians.

“It can’t be the same bunch we saw,” one of the twins said.

“They’re heading northeast and will miss us by a good long way,” Venom calculated.

Potter anxiously remarked, “This country is crawling with the red heathens.”

“Maybe they’re looking for us,” Tibbet speculated.

“Or that girl and her friends,” Calvert said.

“Or that freight train,” Ryson threw in.

Venom had a different notion. “I bet they’re holding a powwow. Maybe they’re fixing to go on the war path against the Shoshones or some other enemy and the bands are gathering. Just our luck we happen to be passing through.”

Potter was glancing every which way. “We’ll have to be extra careful from here on out.”

Venom blistered the air with oaths. This would slow them. At the rate things were going, they wouldn’t catch up to Rubicon until sometime tomorrow.

“Yes, sir,” Potter said. “We’ll be turned into pincushions if we don’t keep our eyes peeled.”

Venom swore some more. He needed this like he needed a bullet hole in the head. “We’ll wait until this bunch is out of sight before we move on.” He leaned on his saddle horn.

“It’s too bad you had to shoot Logan,” Potter said. “We could use his gun if it comes to a fight.”

“Good riddance,” Venom growled.

The sun was about to set.

Logan had hiked for miles and his Texas boots weren’t fashioned for a lot of walking. His feat ached something awful. His head still ached, too. He would dearly love a chug of whiskey, but his flask had been in his saddlebags.

Logan thought of the white girl and what he would do to her. It had been too long since the last one. To make up for it he would take his time with her and draw it out as long as he could.

Logan was so lost in his daydream that he almost missed spotting an orange glow to the northwest. “A campfire,” he blurted, and stopped. He doubted it was Venom and the company. They were well to the west by now. Nor could it be the freighters. Their wagons were canvas-topped turtles and couldn’t have come this far. That left an army patrol, another party of whites—or Indians.

Logan debated. He looked down at his sore feet. He gnawed his lower lip. Finally he bent his steps toward the glow. He hoped he wasn’t making a mistake. But where there were men there were horses and he could dearly use a horse.

The glow turned out to be farther away than it appeared. Full dark had fallen when Logan came close enough to distinguish figures and to hear voices that warned him it wasn’t a patrol or other whites.

Dropping onto his belly, Logan crawled.

The fire was small, typical of Indians. The dozen or so warriors hunkered around it had paint on their faces. Some of the horses had paint on them, too. Bows and lances were the favored weapons. Only one had a rifle, which looked to be an old Hudson’s Bay trade gun.

Logan lay in the dark and bided his time.

The warriors talked in low tones. They had brought down a buck earlier and were roasting a haunch.

The tantalizing aroma set Logan’s mouth to watering. Crossing his arms in front of him, he rested his chin on his wrist. He made slits of his eyes so the fire shine didn’t give him away. Now all he could do was wait.

Usually Indians turned in early. Early compared to whites, anyhow. Logan listened to the drone of their voices and felt his blood grow sluggish in his veins. He started to drift off but snapped his eyes open and shook himself. Too late he saw a warrior coming toward him, maybe to heed nature’s call. Whatever the reason, the warrior spotted him at the same instant and let out a yip of alarm.

Pushing upright, Logan spun and raced off. The warrior ran after him. Others leaped to their feet and swarmed in pursuit.

Logan ran with all his speed, but he had never been especially fleet of foot. He heard the smack of the warrior’s moccasins close on his heels. They were flying through the dark, no more than inky silhouettes. It was nearly impossible to see much, and that gave Logan an idea. Abruptly stopping, he sidestepped and unleashed an uppercut. It caught the onrushing warrior full on the jaw and flattened him like a flapjack.

Pain exploded up Logan’s arm, but he ignored it and groped at the warrior’s waist. Nearly every warrior carried a knife. A smooth hilt molded to his palm, and drawing the blade, he slashed the warrior’s throat. Then he turned and ran.

The other warriors weren’t far behind. They had lost sight of him and spread out.

Logan heard horses coming. He glanced back and counted three riders. They were spreading out, too.

Howls of outrage told him they had found their slain friend.

Logan ran another dozen feet and threw himself flat. Twisting around, he held the bloody knife close to his cheek. A warrior ran past on his left. Another pounded by on the right. The grass was high enough that neither spotted him.

Finally, Logan had what he’d been waiting for; a mounted Sioux approached. The warrior yelled something. A warrior on foot answered and the mounted Sioux reined toward him. The horse passed within a few feet of where Logan lay. Coiling his legs, Logan tensed.

The warrior was searching right and left, looking everywhere except down.

Logan catapulted upward, his arm stiff and straight. The blade sank deep into the warrior’s belly. Warm blood gushed over Logan’s hand as the Sioux grunted and stiffened and opened his mouth to cry out.

Logan wrenched on the blade, hard. Out spilled intestines and whatever else a man had inside him. Logan grabbed a wrist and yanked. Thankfully, the horse didn’t spook. Another moment, and he was on it and galloping away, doubled over so the warriors he passed wouldn’t realize he was white.

It almost worked. Logan was about to be swallowed by the night when whoops and a commotion warned him he had been spotted.

He got out of there.

Arrows whizzed past. A lance arced out of the stars and thudded into the earth.

What Logan wouldn’t give for a gun! He had a horse, though, and a knife, and once he shook the Sioux, he could get on with tracking Venom and the girl and her friends and treat himself to hours of pure pleasure.

He tingled at the prospect.

Evelyn swung her rifle toward Rubicon, but he grabbed the barrel and swung the Hawken and her both, with no more effort than she would swing a stick. She tripped and stumbled and almost fell. Digging in her heels, she sought to wrest the rifle free, but he was much too strong. She was vaguely aware of some of the others yelling, and of Plenty Elk on the ground, spraying scarlet.

Rubicon backhanded her. He had dropped the boy in green and the Dog Eater, but there was still the father, somewhere behind him. He needed the rifle and he needed it now. With a powerful shove, he sent the girl sprawling. Grinning, he spun, thinking he had them beat. He was halfway around when a sharp pang jarred him and a prickly sensation shot through his innards. He glanced down at the knife hilt jutting from his body and then at the man who had killed him. “Son of a bitch,” he blurted as a veil of ink fell.

Waku pulled his blade free and stepped back. His wife and daughters were safe to one side, Tihi with her arms protectively around the girls. He stepped to his son, who was attempting to stand. “Lie still.”

“Evelyn…” Dega said, blood trickling from a gash in his temple.

“I’m here.” Evelyn was bruised but otherwise unhurt. She snatched up her Hawken and knelt next to Waku. “How is he?”

Probing gingerly, Waku said in relief, “He is not hurt bad. He will live.”

Forgetting herself, Evelyn clasped Dega’s hand. “Thank God. My heart about stopped when I saw him hit you.”

Dega’s own heart beat faster. She rarely touched him. The warm feel of her fingers was like a tonic. New vigor pumped through him, and he smiled in delight. “I happy you like me.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Evelyn said. “We’re friends, aren’t we?” She immediately turned to Plenty Elk, who was on his back, deathly still and deathly pale. His buckskins and the grass around him were drenched. The wound was hideous, inches deep and jagged. She touched his cheek and his eyes opened.

Plenty Elk weakly raised his hands. ‘I die now.’

‘I much sad,’ Evelyn signed. She had only known him a short while, but she had liked him a lot. She yearned to help, but there was nothing she could do. He had lost too much blood.

‘You good friend.’

‘Thank you help us,’ Evelyn responded, and winced inside. He was dying because he had stuck with them instead of striking off for his village and his people. ‘You good friend same.’

Plenty Elk tried to sign more, but his arms fell to his sides and he twitched a few times. His eyes sought hers.

Evelyn held his hand and swallowed a lump in her throat. She did not know what else to do, what else to sign. She rubbed his hand and smiled.

Plenty Elk smiled back. A tender look came over him. Then a soft gasp escaped him. His eyes shifted to the sky and widened, and with his next exhale, life fled.

“I’m so sorry.” Evelyn gently closed his glazing eyes. She turned back to Dega. He had sat up and was holding his head in his hands. Placing her hand on his shoulder, she said softly, “I still have you.”

Dega wanted the pounding between his ears to stop so he could think again. “Always have me,” he assured her.

Waku looked at them and at his wife. Rising, he took a few steps to the east, blood dripping from his knife onto his moccasins. “We must ride fast, Evelyn King.”

Evelyn knew what he was thinking. The rest of the scalp hunters were still after them. Sooner or later they would catch up, and more people were bound to die.

A lot more.