The Tears of God

Chapter Fifteen

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?”

“It was a Pawnee. He’s dead.”

Maklin winced and looked around and saw the dead warrior. “Good riddance. He damn near did me in.”

“He was in a rush to get at me.” Nate helped the Texan to sit up. “I have some herbs. I’ll bandage you.”

Gingerly touching the gash, Maklin swore. “All I need is some water to wash it clean.” He glared at the one responsible. “I told you it would be one at a time.”

“At least there are only five left.”

“All it takes is one with luck.” Maklin drew a handkerchief from a pocket and pressed it to his head. “Kuruk must figure to wear you down. What do you want to bet he’ll be the last to try you?”

Nate dragged the body out of the firelight and rolled it into a patch of brush. That would have to do. He wasn’t about to go to the time and effort to bury a man who had just tried to kill him.

Maklin was dabbing his wound. “I’ve been thinking. Why not treat them to their own medicine?”

“I’m listening.”

“When we head back they’re bound to follow. We find a spot to wait for them and ambush the bastards like they’ve been ambushing us. Between the two of us we can end it, permanent.”

“It’s me they’re after,” Nate reminded him. “You don’t need to get involved.”

“Like hell I don’t.” Maklin held out his handkerchief, bright red with his blood. “They are out to get me now as much as they are out to get you. So what do you say? Tit for tat?”

The idea appealed to Nate. If they set this up right, the Pawnees would ride into their gun sights and it would be over.

“Then it’s agreed? Good. I’m sick and tired of this cat and mouse. It will be root hog or die.”

Once more Nate slept fitfully. It didn’t help that the night was filled with the howls and roars of the meateaters out to fill their bellies and the screams and shrieks of the host of creatures that didn’t want to fill them. Ordinarily they wouldn’t disturb his slumber. But his frayed nerves were strained by every sound, no matter how slight, and he would wake with a start at each yowl and bleat.

The night seemed to last forever. A pink tinge had yet to color the eastern horizon when Nate decided enough was enough and cast off his blankets. Rekindling the fire, he put coffee on to brew. He needed it to help him stay awake. Dozing in the saddle could prove fatal.

The Texan didn’t stir until a golden crown lent a regal touch to the new day. Sitting up, he yawned and stretched and said matter-of-factly, “You look like hell, hoss.”

“I could use a good night’s sleep,” Nate admitted.

“It won’t be long,” Maklin predicted. “Maybe today we’ll get to surprise your friend Kuruk.”

Nate hoped so. After six cups of coffee and pemmican he was ready to head out. The day was bright and gorgeous as only days in the mountains could be. They retraced their steps across the tableland and came to the wallow where the warrior had attacked Nate.

“The body is gone.” Maklin stated the obvious. “His friend must have carried him off.”

“Something did,” Nate said, and pointed at bits of buckskin and pieces of skin and hair that led off into the high grass.

“A bear, you reckon?”

Nate spied fresh tracks in the dirt. “Wolves. They found it during the night.”

“I didn’t think wolves ate people.”

“Usually no. But if they’re hungry enough or so old they can’t get much to eat and they sniff out fresh blood…” Nate shrugged.

By noon they were in heavy forest. Shadows cloaked the undergrowth. Nate nearly put a crick in his neck from twisting and turning his head so much. He was glad that the next slope had a lot fewer trees. It had boulders, all shapes and sizes, scattered as if tossed by a giant hand.

Maklin was in the lead, his hat pushed back on his head so it didn’t irritate his wound. “I sure do miss Texas. You ever been there?”

“No.”

“You should visit it someday. Most who come never want to leave. It beats Lexington’s Second Eden all hollow.”

Nate couldn’t shake the feeling they were being stalked. He turned to check behind them and saw his shadow and the bay’s and the shadow of a giant boulder they were near—and another shadow seemingly took wing above them. Only it was much larger than any bird and it didn’t have wings.

Nate swung around. He tried to raise the Hawken, but only had it halfway up when a stocky Pawnee slammed into him. The warrior had been on top of the boulder.

The impact tore Nate from the saddle. Steel nicked his shoulder as he slammed onto his back hard enough to jar his marrow. The knife rose and came down again, but he jerked aside and it bit into the dirt instead of his body. Driving his knee up, Nate dislodged his attacker. He still had the Hawken and when the warrior hissed and came at him in a frenzy of bloodlust, he swung with all the power in his shoulders and arms.

At the thunk of wood on bone, the Pawnee collapsed like a limp washcloth.

Maklin had reined around and drawn a pistol. “Is he dead?”

“I hope not.” Quickly, Nate got his rope and cut off a short piece to bind the warrior’s ankles. He didn’t bind the hands. He stripped the Pawnee of weapons, squatted, and smacked the man’s cheek several times. Ever so slowly, consciousness returned. The warrior looked about in confusion, saw Maklin with a pistol trained on him, and scowled.

Nate’s fingers flowed in sign language. “Question. You called?”

The warrior didn’t reply. He appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties and had streaks of black and red war paint on his face.

Nate tried again. “Question. You called?” This time he added, “I no kill you talk.”

The warrior glanced at Maklin, then at Nate. His hands rose. “I called Elk Horn.”

“I called Grizzly Killer.”

“I know. I wait kill you.”

“Where Kuruk.” Nate actually used the signs for “man called Bear.”

The Pawnee’s hands stayed on his chest.

“I want end fight,” Nate signed. “I want fight Kuruk man and man.” Among some tribes a personal challenge had to be accepted or the man who was challenged bore the taint of cowardice.

“Question. Why.”

“I may-be-so kill him. Him may-be-so kill me. You and warriors go Pawnee land.” Nate was offering to end it one way or the other. He held little hope they would accept and the warrior’s attitude dashed it. The man’s face hardened and his next movements were sharp and angry.

“You kill Beaver Tail. You kill Horse Running. You kill Shoots Two Arrows. Now we kill you.”

“Question. No peace among us.”

“You enemy,” Elk Horn signed savagely. “No peace now, no peace tomorrow.”

It was the same as saying that as far as the Pawnees were concerned, they wouldn’t stop trying to rub Nate out while they were still on this side of the grave. Nate sighed and signed, “I try be friend.”

Maklin had been watching intently. “That’s why you let him live? I could have told you it wouldn’t work.”

“I’m not fond of killing.”

“Sometimes a man has to. He isn’t given a choice. Remember that talk we had about seeing your family again? You better accept you are in this to kill or you won’t.”

The hatred in the Pawnee’s eyes was eloquent proof the Texan was right.

Nate drew his bowie and cut the rope around the warrior’s ankles. Then he slid the knife into its sheath and signed. “You go now.”

“What are you doing?” Maklin demanded.

“I won’t shoot an unarmed man.” Nate stood, snagging the Hawken as he rose.

“Damn it, pard. He’ll only try to kill you again.”

“We’re letting him go,” Nate insisted.

The warrior was looking from one of them to the other. He coiled his legs and sat up.

“Blunt is right about you. You’re too damn decent for your own good. But I can’t let you do this.”

Nate stepped between them. “I said he could go and I’m a man of my word. Lower your flintlock.”

Maklin just sat there.

“I’m asking you as a friend.”

With great reluctance, the Texan let the pistol sink to his side.

“Thank you.” Nate glanced over his shoulder and saw that the warrior was rising. He smiled to show the man had nothing to fear, but the man didn’t return it. Hate was writ on every particle of his face. “Go,” Nate said, and motioned.

The Pawnee started to turn. Suddenly he lunged and scooped up his knife. With a cry of elation he leaped at Nate, the blade poised for a death stroke.

Maklin’s pistol cracked.

The ball missed Nate’s shoulder by an inch and cored the warrior’s eye. The splat was followed by the thud of the body hitting the ground.

“So much for being nice.”

Nate stared at the body. He was sick of this, sick of the death. “I forgot about his knife lying there.”

“I didn’t.”

“You expected him to try again, didn’t you?”

“Let’s just say it didn’t surprise me.”

Nate looked up. “I’m in your debt again.”

Maklin chuckled. “One of us had to use his head. And then there were four.”

Nate went to climb on the bay. “His horse must be nearby. We should look for it.”

They did, with no success. They did find tracks, though.

“Look here,” Maklin said. “The rest rode off and took his animal with them.” He scratched his chin. “I wonder how they got in front of us. I’d have sworn they must be miles to the southwest by now.”

“They saw us turn back and circled around,” Nate speculated. “It must have taken some hard riding.”

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. They sure do want you dead.”

On that grim note they rode on. By late afternoon they were within a mile of the Valley of Skulls. Both they and their horses were worn out.

Nate was surprised the Pawnees hadn’t tried again, and mentioned as much.

“They’ve lost too many warriors,” Maklin said. “They’ll be more choosy about how they do it from here on out.”

Suddenly their horses whinnied and shied. Nate heard a rumbling and realized the ground under them was shaking. It lasted for about half a minute, long enough to rattle every bone in his body and leave the horses half spooked.

“An earthquake,” Maklin spat. “Damn, I hate this geyser country. The sooner I am shed of it, the better.”

“Let’s hope the Shakers are all right.”

“Those idiots? It would serve them right if the earth opened up and swallowed them.”

“Sure it would. You don’t really want them dead.”

“I am not you, Nate. I don’t spare my enemies and I don’t suffer fools.”

They neared the mouth of the valley and drew rein in consternation. Borne on the breeze came screams and cries.