Seed of Evil (13 page)

From atop a grassy knoll, Geist stared back the way they had come and vented his temper in a fit of lurid swearing. “He can’t have gotten them both. They weren’t you, but they were capable.”

“They should have caught up to us by now,” Petrie said.

“I know, I know.” Geist glared at the three Crow women on their mounts. Suddenly, without any hint of what he was about to do, he drew a flintlock and shot Lavender in the face. She toppled to the grass, twitched a few times, and went limp.

Raven On The Ground was horror-struck. Flute Girl was too stunned to react.

“That’ll give the damn breed something to think about,” Geist said.

“Might make him mad.”

“Good. When a man’s mad, he’s more likely to make mistakes.” Geist commenced to reload. “Now that it’s just the two of us, we need every edge we can get.”

Petrie cradled his rifle. “Leave me and go on. I’ll pick them off and catch up.”

“Them?” Geist said, and swore. “That’s right. I forgot about Chases Rabbits. King probably freed him.” He shook his head. “But no. I want you by my side. When it comes time, we’ll do it together.”

“I can hold them so you can get away.”

“I said no. You’ve been with me from the beginning. The rest were hired help, but you’re more.”

“Together then,” Petrie agreed.

Geist shoved the reloaded pistol into place on his hip. He snagged the lead rope to the women’s horses and used his heels on his own.

Mile after endless mile of grass and occasional flowers unfolded before them. They passed buffalo wallows and prairie dog towns, and antelope that bounded off in incredible leaps.

Geist hardly noticed. He was thinking of one thing and one thing only—how to kill Zach King. His trick with the sod hadn’t worked, and his trick with the brambles hadn’t worked. Now he needed a new trick, the best yet, a trick to ensure that Zach King breathed his last.

The terrain changed. Low rolling hills, some eroded into bluffs, were crisscrossed by washes. Stands of trees were plentiful, the grass high and thick.

Geist studied his surroundings with interest. From the top of any of the bluffs, a man could see a good long way. “I’m getting an idea.”

Petrie followed his gaze. “Put me up there?” Geist nodded. “Where would you be?”

“Down low with a distraction.”

“And the women?”

“They’re the distraction. I could shoot them like I did the other one, but once we’ve disposed of King, we’ll want to celebrate.”

“I don’t do redskins.”

“A female is a female.”

“Not if she has red skin.”

“Didn’t you lose your grandfather to some Creeks? Is that why you hate them so much?”

“I hate them because they’re different. They look different. They smell different. They think different. They act different. Andy Jackson had it right. Throw them on reservations or exterminate them. When the last red man is gone, I’ll give a whoop and a holler.”

“That’s the most you’ve talked in a month of Sundays.”

“I don’t keep track.” Petrie looked at him. “We can’t let Zach King get the best of us.”

“We won’t.”

Geist went on searching for the ideal spot. They came around a hill and before them was exactly what he was looking for—a bluff with clefts wide enough to hide a grown man. Thick woods fringed the sides, and trees grew in profusion at the top. “Do you see what I see?”

“It’s perfect,” Petrie agreed.

Geist rode to the base of the bluff and dismounted. The women stared at him apprehensively. It tickled him, having them at his mercy. He inspected the clefts. One had a lip wide enough for him to stand behind and not be seen. “God is on our side,” he joked.

“Don’t jinx it,” Petrie said.

Geist stepped to the horses and grinned up at Raven On The Ground and Flute Girl. “Ladies—and I use the word loosely—it’s time you did more than sit there like lumps. I need to distract Zach King and you are made to order.” He reached up and hauled Raven On The Ground off and steadied her on her feet. She stood uncertainly, unsure what he wanted.

“I’m going to enjoy this part.” Geist chuckled and reached for her dress. She panicked and tried to run, but he was on her before she took more than a
couple of steps. She screamed as he hauled her down.

Chases Rabbits simmered with rage and liked it, which surprised him. All Crow children were taught that anger was wrong. For a Crow to give in to it and strike another Crow, or for a parent to strike a child, was considered the worst behavior. So it surprised him that he liked being mad so much. He savored it, as he might savor a kiss from Raven On The Ground. He yearned to count coup on the whites who had taken her, and to redeem himself in her eyes.

Then they came upon the unthinkable.

Nate King was in the lead, tracking. Drawing quick rein, he said, “Dear God, no.”

Zach was next. His countenance conveyed what his silence did not.

Blaze stopped and sniffed.

Chases Rabbits was almost on top of the sprawled body before he saw it. That it was a woman was obvious. It wasn’t big enough to be Flute Girl. It had to be one of the other two.

“No!” Chases Rabbits cried. Vaulting down, he rolled the body over. “Lavender,” he said, relieved.

“They shot her in the face,” Nate said. “Must have been near point-blank range. Look at the powder burns.”

Chases Rabbits didn’t care about that. All he cared about was that it wasn’t Raven On The Ground. He felt guilty for being so glad. “Why they kill her?”

“Their kind don’t need an excuse,” Zach said. “Maybe it’s to get back at us for Dryfus, Gratt, and Berber.”

A new fear coursed through Chases Rabbits. “Maybe they kill Raven On The Ground, too.”

“They haven’t yet,” Nate said, “or we’d have come across her body.”

“We must hurry,” Chases Rabbits urged, and was on his pinto and trotting to the east. The Kings came up on either side.

“Better slow down,” Zach warned. “This could be just what they want.”

“For us to rush after them into their gun sights,” Nate added.

“Me not care,” Chases Rabbits declared.

“You should if you love her. We’re her only hope.”

Every fiber of his being screamed for him to ride like the wind, but Chases Rabbits slowed the pinto to a walk. “There. Happy?”

“Don’t take it out on us,” Zach said. “We didn’t steal your one and only.”

Chases Rabbits had not sulked since he was small, but he sulked now. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing her.

A series of hills appeared, broken by bluffs and patches of woods. They spooked a few deer, but Chases Rabbits hardly noticed. In his mind, he saw only Raven On The Ground’s face, floating in the air and beckoning him to hurry. “Me kill Geist for this,” he vowed.

“You’ll have to get in line,” Zach said.

Chases Rabbits refused to be denied his coup. “Him not take your woman. Him take mine.”

“We all have a stake in this,” Nate said. “The mountains are our home. Anyone who poses a danger to one of us is a threat to all.”

Chases Rabbits had to think for the right word. “This personal.”

“I get the chance, he’s dead,” Zach said.

A bluff reared ahead, its face split by cracks.

Nate reined up. “Do you see what I see?”

“What?” Chases Rabbits asked.

Zach produced his spyglass. He trained it on the bluff, and swore.

“What?” Chases Rabbits said a second time.

“Take a gander,” Zach said, handing him the brass tube. “But keep hold of yourself.”

“What you mean?” Chases Rabbits asked, and pressed the spyglass to his eye.

“Turn it a bit if you can’t see clearly.”

Chases Rabbits saw a blur. He fiddled with the end, and the bluff came into focus. So did the two figures wedged into cracks, their long hair loose and spilling over their shoulders. It was Raven On The Ground and Flute Girl. They were bound and naked.

Zach was reaching for the spyglass when Chases Rabbit let out a war whoop and slapped it against the pinto. “Don’t!” Zach cried.

Pumping his rifle in the air and yipping, Chases Rabbits charged toward the bluff.

“Consarn it. He’ll get us all killed.” Nate charged after him.

Zach slapped his legs and reined to the right, then to the left. High on the bluff, a rifle boomed and a leaden wasp buzzed his ear, missing by a whisker’s width. Bending, he lashed the reins. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed his father swing on the offside of the bay. He did likewise on the dun.

Chases Rabbits, though, continued to charge straight ahead and was almost to the bluff when a blast from a cleft sent him catapulting backward over the pinto’s rump.

Zach let go of the reins and dropped. He was in waist-high grass and hidden from the shooter in the cleft, if not from the rifleman on the bluff. As if to confirm it, a shot cracked from up high and dirt kicked into the air a few inches from his face. He crabbed into thicker grass. The shooter in the cleft must have spotted him, because another shot clipped stems close to his head. He heard his pa’s bay galloping around the bluff, and figured his pa was going after the rifleman.

A low groan fluttered on the breeze. It had to be
Chases Rabbits, but there was nothing Zach could do for him until he dealt with the killers. Wisps of gun smoke told him which cleft the shooter was in, and when a shadow moved, Zach reared up and fired. The shadow pulled back.

Zach reloaded. Whoever was on top of the bluff had stopped shooting at him, no doubt to deal with his pa. He fought down a bout of worry. His pa could take care of himself.

“You hear me out there, boy?” Geist yelled.

The man did love to talk, Zach thought, as he tamped the patch and ball down the barrel with the ramrod.

“No need to answer. The important thing is that you listen.”

Zach wondered how Geist had lasted so long, with the mistakes he made.

“I want you to stand up where I can see you, with your hands in the air.”

Zach almost laughed.

“If you don’t, your friend’s sweetheart dies. I planted a keg of black powder at her feet. All I have to do is light the fuse, and she’s a goner.”

Zach didn’t recall seeing any kegs of black powder at the mercantile—but there could have been.

“I’ll count to five, boy, and then it’s all over for her,” Geist hollered.

Zach slid the ramrod into its housing and took aim at the cleft Geist was in.

“One.”

Both Raven On The Ground and Flute Girl appeared to be unconscious.

“Two.”

Zach debated firing even though he couldn’t see him. The slug might ricochet and score.

“Three.”

Zach coiled his legs under him but didn’t show himself.

“I thought you liked that simpleton,” Geist said. “Or is it that the squaw means nothing to you?” He paused. “Four.”

Zach’s every instinct was to stay put. Instead, he laid the Hawken on the ground and rose with his arms overhead. “Don’t kill her.”

From the cleft came a cackle. Geist stepped out, a burning lucifer in one hand, a pistol in the other. “Well, now. I honestly thought you’d let me do it.” He blew on the lucifer. “Tell me true. Dryfus, Gratt, and Berber, are they dead?”

“Dead as dead can be.”

“Damn, you are a hellion. Any last words before I squeeze the trigger?”

“The war party will be here soon,” Zach said, and took a step.

“What are you talking about?” Geist peered past Zach to the west. “What war party?”

“About a dozen Crows.” Zach took another step. “They showed up at the mercantile as I was heading out. We split up to cover more ground, but they were bound to have heard the shots.”

“You’re lying.”

“Suit yourself. But I sure wouldn’t want to be in your boots when they get their hands on you.” Again Zach edged forward.

“I have the squaws.”

“You disgraced those girls. The warriors might figure they’re better off dead.” Zach advanced another stride. He was close enough; he might take a slug, but he mustn’t let it stop him.

“I hate those damn Crows almost as much as I
hate you. Their women aren’t the whores I thought they were.”

“You made the same mistake a lot of whites do,” Zach said, and took another step for good measure. “You think Indians are inferior. You think they’re animals. That they’re nothing but savages. But most of them are smart, and decent human beings.”

“Don’t lecture me, boy,” Geist snapped. He was still scouring the terrain to the west for any sign of the war party.

“People are people. They might dress different, and talk different, and eat different, but that doesn’t make them less than you.”

“I said no lectures!”

“How about I just kill you,” Zach said, and sprang. Geist thrust his flintlock out to shoot, but Zach swatted it. The gun went off, but the barrel was pointing down. Zach got hold of Geist’s wrist. Geist cursed and punched Zach on the chin. It hurt, but Zach stayed on his feet and slugged back.

There was a flash and puff of smoke, followed by a loud hiss.

Zach glanced down. Geist hadn’t been lying; there was a fuse, and it had somehow ignited. Sparks and smoke were rippling along it toward Raven On The Ground. At her feet was a small keg with the other end of the fuse attached. Zach let go and turned to try to stomp the fuse out, but Geist slammed the spent pistol against his temple while flinging out a leg and tripping him. Zach fell to his knees. Before he could rise, Geist was behind him, his boots on either side, the pistol against his throat. Zach’s breath was choked off as Geist, holding the pistol in both hands, sought to throttle the life from him.

Zach pried at the flintlock. He tore at Geist’s
hands, but they were vises. All the while, the fuse crackled and hissed, and the sparks were that much closer to Raven On The Ground.

Out of nowhere, a four-legged form appeared. Snarling and biting, Blaze tore at Geist’s leg.

The pressure on Zach’s throat eased as Geist twisted to confront the new threat.

Zach swooped his hand to his hip and drew his bowie. He cleared the sheath and drove the tip down into Geist’s boot and was rewarded with a shriek. He streaked his other hand to his waist and jerked a pistol even as he twisted around. Geist’s head was thrown back, his mouth wide open in a howl. Zach rammed the muzzle of the pistol between Geist’s teeth and fired. The top of Geist’s head spewed hair and brain matter.

Whirling, Zach scrambled toward the sputtering fuse. It was barely a foot from the keg. He slashed with his bowie, but cut the fuse behind the sparks, not in front of them. The fuse was still burning. He threw himself forward and arced the big knife down. The sparks finally fizzled, scarcely inches from disaster.

Winded, and every muscle aching, Zach leaned against the bluff. The wolf’s nose touched his cheek, and it licked his neck. “Blaze,” he said softly.

High above, someone screamed.

The horses were hidden on the far side of the bluff. Near them was a game trail to the top.

Nate King drew rein and was off his bay while it was still in motion. He raced up the slope, dreadfully aware that every second of delay increased the chances of his son being slain. He wasn’t concerned for himself, only for Zach. He pumped his legs like
steam engine pistons and flew over the top with his Hawken to his shoulder, but there was no one to shoot—he saw grass and brush and a few boulders, but that was all.

Nate took several more steps. Metal glinted beside a boulder, and he flattened as a rifle went off. He felt a tug on the whangs of his buckskins. Rolling, he came up next to the boulder, and next to Petrie, who had dropped his rifle and was grabbing for his pistols. Nate rammed the Hawken’s stock into Petrie’s gut. That would double most men over, but all Petrie did was grunt and take a step back. There wasn’t space for Nate to level his rifle, so he swung it at Petrie’s legs. With a nimble bound, Petrie leaped up and over while simultaneously unlimbering his flintlocks. Nate threw the Hawken at Petrie’s face, but Petrie ducked under it. Nate lunged and tackled him. They grappled and rolled. Nate was a lot bigger, but Petrie was solid muscle. Suddenly Petrie had a hand free. He pointed a pistol at Nate’s face and fired. Nate jerked his head aside, barely dodging the bullet. The blast sent pain up his ear, and his hearing dimmed. Petrie clubbed him and his vision swam. They rolled to a stop with Petrie on top.

Nate’s head cleared. His right hand closed around the handle of his tomahawk. He jabbed a finger at Petrie’s eye, but the man shifted and the finger missed. Petrie was focused on avoiding the jab, as he had intended, and Nate took advantage of Petrie’s distraction to sweep the tomahawk up and around. The edge bit into Petrie’s head behind the ear and cleaved skin and flesh and bone as a knife would cleave wax. Blood spurted. Petrie stiffened and screamed like a stricken bobcat, a high, piercing cry of denial and disbelief, and then his body collapsed atop Nate’s.

Nate pushed the body off. He slowly rose, his side sore, his shoulder throbbing. He moved to the edge and gazed down at his son, who was gazing up. “Are you all right?”

“Fine, Pa. Blaze saved me. You?”

“As soon as I get my tomahawk out of his head, I’ll be right down.”