The Outcast (10 page)

Zach King wished he knew what the Heart Eaters were talking about. One of them had gone back down the mountain, and now the others were having an animated palaver. Zach got the impression that another warrior wanted to go with the one who left, but their leader was apparently against the idea.

Soon they resumed the climb. Zach twisted his head. Lou had turned slightly and was staring at him. She seemed pale and her lips were pinched tight, as they did when she was in pain. “How bad is it?”

“I have a cramp,” Lou said. A bad one, above her hip. Her head hurt, too, no doubt from hanging upside down for so long. Her belly was sore, but not severely. So far she was holding up well, all things considered.

“I am thinking of trying to get away.”

“Tied as you are?” Lou shook her head. “You wouldn't get twenty feet. It will make them mad.”

“I have to try,” Zach insisted. “I've been here before, elk hunting. The next slope isn't open like this one. It's covered with firs. I can lose myself, easy.”

“How?” Lou was skeptical. “Burrow into the ground like a gopher? Climb a tree? Be sensible.”

Zach fell silent. Even tied, he could hop, and if he picked the right spot, say a dense thicket or anywhere the brush was dense, he might elude them long enough to free his hands and feet. Then he could save Lou.

“Nothing more to say? You've giving up, just like that?” Lou's eyes narrowed. “I know better. I know you, Stalking Coyote, and you're still thinking of trying.”

One thing Zach never did—or did as rarely as he could help—was lie to her. “I might not have a better chance.”

“If you feel this strongly about it, we'll try together,” Lou proposed. If she had to die, she preferred to die at his side.

“No.”

“Why not? Haven't you heard?” Lou grinned. “What's good for the goose is good for the gander.”

“It's too dangerous.”

“Oh really? So it's all right for you to risk your life but not all right for me to risk mine?”

“You're risking two lives now. Or have you forgotten?”

“It's all I think of,” Lou quietly admitted. Being told that women could have babies—being told that
she
could have one—didn't prepare a woman for the actual having. It was a miracle taking place in her own body.

The bay climbed higher, its reins in the hand of a stocky Heart Eater. Zach watched the warrior closely, noting how often he glanced back, which wasn't often at all. His bid to escape looked promising.

Lou was wrestling with herself. Zach was right. She shouldn't take chances. If he could get away she had no doubt he would rescue her.

Zach craned his neck, searching for the firs. They shouldn't be far off. He would drop from the bay and trust in Providence.

Lou saw him tense. “Please, Zach.”

“Don't you dare beg me.” It was the one thing Zach had no defense against. He couldn't refuse her anything when she begged.

“I just want you to be careful. For my sake and the sake of our child.”

“Twice the reasons to stay alive,” Zach joked, and regretted it when her features clouded.

Lou indulged in a rare cuss word. “You damn well better. I don't want to raise our child alone. If he takes after his father, he'll be a hellion.”

Zach hadn't thought of that. If his son took after him—good Lord, the trouble he'd given his parents. He put it from his mind for the time being. Shadowed ranks of firs rose above, the trees so high and so close, they were in perpetual gloom.

Fear gnawed at Lou. Her head was telling her that Zach must try, but her heart was fit to burst with worry. She closed her eyes and swallowed, and when she opened them they were almost there.

None of the warriors was looking at Zach. He coiled his legs. Another minute, and they were in the trees, the Heart Eaters in single file, the bay in the middle.

Skin Shredder skirted a log and the rest followed suit.

Zach almost pushed off, but didn't. The warrior right behind the bay could see him. He waited.

A thicket was ahead. Skin Shredder motioned and headed around it, and was out of Zach's sight. Then the second and third warrior. The man behind the bay was looking at the ground, the last one at the sky.

It was now or never. Using his knees, Zach pushed and fell. A cushion of pine needles muffled the thud. As he hit, he rolled and then wriggled behind a fir.

The warrior behind the bay was still looking at the ground.

Zach grinned. When the last Heart Eater went by, he slid backward until it was safe to stand. Balancing on the balls of his feet, he began hopping. But it wasn't as easy as he'd hoped it would be. There were too many downed limbs and waisthigh brush that tangled around his legs.

Zach thought of Louisa and the baby, and redoubled his effort. He must succeed for their sake. He would cut the ropes off and return to give the Heart Easters a taste of vengeance.

In midhop, Zach's left thigh exploded in pain. It felt as if an invisible hand pushed it out from under him, and he crashed onto his back. Fighting waves of agony, he looked at his thigh and discovered why.

The blood-smeared tip of an arrow jutted from his leg.

The Outcast stopped to rest the pinto twice. The slopes were steep, the day hot, and he had not come across water since morning.

The second time, he dismounted to stretch. Far below, the lake was a deep blue oval in a broad belt of green. Above, the lighter blue of the sky was sprinkled by high white clouds.

Wildlife was everywhere. He had spooked blacktailed does and bucks. Once, several elk trotted off at his approach. High on the crags, mountain sheep were occasionally visible. Twice he spied coyotes. Up here they were bigger than their lowland cousins; the ones he saw were almost as big as wolves.

Jays squawked at him. Red finches darted from tree to tree. Chickadees played in thickets. Juncos pecked the ground. He spied an eagle soaring with the clouds, the white of its head like snow.

The Outcast breathed deeply of the mountain air and reflected that of all the places he had been in his travels, he liked this valley best. It was a good place to live. The people in the wooden lodges had chosen well.

The Outcast ended his reverie and climbed back onto the pinto. He resumed his climb, the bay's tracks as plain as ever. Repeatedly, he glanced above him, and when next he did, he abruptly drew rein.

Something wasn't right.

All he saw were trees and brush and boulders. Nothing out of the ordinary about any of it—except he had the feeling that it wasn't. He scanned the pines and the shadows and saw no cause for alarm.

The Outcast had learned to trust his instincts. Often his life depended on them. He heeded his instinct now and stayed where he was. He searched and sorted what he was seeing in his mind for the slightest sign of danger. It all appeared as it should be.

After a while the Outcast tapped his heels. He rode at a walk, the club across his legs. Every patch of shadow merited scrutiny.

A cluster of blue spruce appeared. The trees' bark was dark, the limbs spaced close together. On an impulse he reined wide. He glanced away for an instant, distracted by a red-throated woodpecker that went flying past, and he heard a
twang.
Instantly, he threw himself from the pinto. The buzz of the shaft showed how near it came. He landed on his shoulder, rolled into a crouch, and was behind a boulder before another arrow could seek his life.

The pinto went a little way and stopped.

Placing an eye at the boulder's edge, the Outcast scoured the spruce. The archer was in there, somewhere, cleverly concealed. That there was just one surprised him. They were arrogant, these warriors with their scar tattoos.

The Outcast noted the lay of the terrain. He could not get close to the spruce without showing himself. They might be arrogant, but they weren't stupid.

Squatting, the Outcast mulled his options. He was at a disadvantage in that his weapons were for close combat. How to get close without taking an arrow? Rushing the spruce entailed too much risk. He could stay where he was and let the warrior come to him, but would the warrior be that foolhardy? Probably not. His other option was to wait for dark. Then he could slip into the spruce unseen. But by then the rest of the warriors might stop for the night and would be hungry. He remembered the heart and the bite marks and thought of the young woman, and her belly, and he resolved not to wait.

Scattered about were many small stones. Picking one, the Outcast threw it at the spruce trees. He did the same with a second and a third, throwing at random, hearing them strike and fall. Eight, nine, ten stones, and he picked up another and was about to throw it when an arrow streaked out of the air and missed the top of the boulder by a finger's width.

The Outcast ducked. He had seen where the arrow came from, high in the third spruce on the left. The warrior was well hid, but he was up a tree, which had a disadvantage of its own in that he could not move that quickly.

Flattening, the Outcast crawled toward a pocket of undergrowth. He was only in the open for a few moments, but it was enough. An arrow imbedded itself next to his arm. Then he was in cover and paused.

The Outcast put himself in the other warrior's moccasins. The man would begin to doubt the wisdom of staying in the spruce; he might decide to climb down.

Cautiously, the Outcast raised his head. A limb high up moved. Then the one under it. He had guessed right. He hurtled out of the brush, his legs pumping, weaving in case the warrior stopped descending to notch another shaft. He came to a spruce and dived behind it.

Nothing happened.

He figured the warrior was still descending and hadn't noticed him. Pushing up, he started around the trunk and nearly ran into a shaft that thudded into the bark.

In the time it took the warrior to nock another one, the Outcast reached the next spruce. He put his back to the bole.

Now it was bobcat and grouse, and he was the bobcat.

His eyes darting everywhere, the Outcast worked around the trunk. He could see the tree the warrior was in, but he couldn't see the warrior. The man must be on the other side.

His moccasins soundless on the thick layer of pine needles, the Outcast circled, moving from tree to tree until he had an unobstructed view. The warrior wasn't there. He realized the man must have descended much faster than he thought.

They were both on the ground, and suddenly he was the grouse again.

The Outcast went prone. He had underestimated his enemy. An arrow could seek him at any moment from any direction.

The spruce were as still as death. The breeze had died. The birds had stopped singing. It was as if the forest were holding its breath, waiting for the outcome.

Quickly but quietly the Outcast moved to another tree. It had a wide trunk, and he felt safe in standing. Reaching up, he pulled himself onto a low limb. From there, he climbed to another. He peered around the right side of the tree and then the left. His enemy was nowhere to be seen.

It occurred to the Outcast that he was the one who had been arrogant. They were good, these scarred warriors. Their woodcraft was second to none, including his own. He went to climb down and froze.

A stone's throw away, beyond the stand of spruce, a vague shape crept through the undergrowth. It was the warrior, circling.

The Outcast slid behind the trunk. He was too easy a target. Dropping lightly to the ground, he dashed to another spruce. No sooner did he reach it than an arrow clipped his shoulder. The tip cut his buckskin shirt but not his own skin.

Crouching, the Outcast kept running. He raced out of the spruce and crouched in some brush, unscathed and wondering why. He had expected more arrows to fly. That none did suggested the warrior had used all the shafts in his quiver or had only a few left and wouldn't use another unless he was sure he wouldn't miss.

Staying low, the Outcast stalked toward the spot where he had last seen his enemy. Movement alerted him that the warrior was doing the same. He sank onto his stomach, the club at his side.

A cluster of dogwood moved.

But there was still no wind.

The Outcast gripped the hardwood handle with both hands. He coiled his legs, and when a dark form materialized low to the earth, he sprang. He vaulted high into the air with the club overhead. His adversary sensed him and looked up.

The club fell in an arc.

The warrior brought up his bow. Wood clacked on wood. The Outcast dodged a kick aimed at his knee. He avoided a thrust of the bow aimed at his eyes.

Snarling, the warrior heaved to his knees and grabbed for a long knife at his hip. The blade flashed, down low.

The Outcast sidestepped. He feinted to the left and stepped to the right and swung with all his might. Glinting in the sunlight, the metal spike buried itself in the warrior's eye. The spike was long enough and thick enough that it shattered the socket and penetrated to the brain.

The warrior pinwheeled his arms and kicked like a stricken frog, and went limp.

The Outcast wrenched the spike out. Gore and blood dripped from the metal. He shook it, then faced up the mountain.

There was more yet to do.

Night was about to fall.

Skin Shredder did not want to stop. His intent was to make it over the pass. But at a spring just above the tree line he called for a halt. Splashes Blood got a fire going while Eye Gouger and Red Moon went into the woods to gather enough firewood to last them the night. It was chill this high up once the sun went down, even in the summer. Head Splitter watched the horse and the captives.

His hands clasped behind his back, Skin Shredder paced. He didn't look up when someone began pacing beside him.

“You are worried about Star Dancer?” Splashes Blood asked.

“He should have rejoined us.”

“I will take Red Moon and go look for him. If he has been slain we will avenge him.”

“It would please me better if you stayed.” Skin Shredder refused to risk losing more warriors. Two was bad enough; two was a calamity. His people would say he was bad medicine and shun him.

“He is our friend.”

“One of the best we have,” Skin Shredder conceded. “If he has been killed, I will want vengeance, too. But we have the two captives and the horse to think of. It is important we get them to our village.”

Zach King saw their leader glare at him and wondered why. He had been dumped to the ground near the bay. His wrists and ankles were bound and his moccasins had been pulled off so if he ran, he would lacerate his feet to ribbons on the sharp rocks.

Lou stared at the dry blood on his thigh. “How are you holding up?”

“I keep telling you, I'm fine. They took the arrow out, didn't they?” Zach wasn't being completely honest. His leg hurt abominably, and he was burning with fever. The wound didn't appear to be infected, but he needed to clean and bandage it.

“They
yanked
the arrow out,” Lou amended. It churned her stomach and made her queasy just thinking about it.

“Something is bothering them. The one who went down the mountain hasn't come back.”

“Maybe it's Shakespeare,” Lou said hopefully.

Skin Shredder walked over and kicked her. ‘Be silent,' he signed. No matter how many times he told them, they kept on talking when his back was turned.

Zach surged up off the ground in anger, but he made it only as far his knees when Skin Shredder knocked him back down.

“I'm all right,” Lou said. “Don't get them mad.”

Skin Shredder turned to Head Splitter. “The next time either speaks, hit them with a rock.”

“Hit to kill or to hurt?”

“We do not cut hearts from dead captives.” Skin Shredder went to the fire. He was restless and irritable, and disliked being either. A warrior should have more self-control.

Splashes Blood held up a bundle of pemmican. “We found this in the breed's parfleche.”

Skin Shredder took a piece. The others were already eating. “Give some to Head Splitter.”

Grunting, Splashes Blood started to stand, and stopped. “Why is he standing that way?”

Head Splitter was leaning against the horse. His head lolled and his legs were wobbling. Suddenly the bay nickered and took a step, and Head Splitter oozed to the grass and lay on his side. The firelight played over the arrow that had transfixed him from back to front.

The Tunkua sprang to their feet and moved toward him.

Exactly as the Outcast wanted them to do. By then he was behind them, the club in his hands. He could have killed more with the bow, but there were only four now—and he had seen their leader kick the young woman. He swung, and the metal spike buried itself in the nearest warrior's skull. The warrior stiffened but didn't cry out, and in a heartbeat the Outcast had tugged the spike out and was behind the next. This one he caught on the side of the head. The spike went in the ear and the warrior bleated and died.

The other two whirled.

The Outcast tried to jerk the spike out, but it was lodged fast in the bone. Letting go of the handle, he drew his knife and his tomahawk.

The two warriors drew their blades. The leader barked something and both attacked at once.

His arms a blur, the Outcast slashed, countered, stabbed. They pressed him hard. They were skilled, these two, but so was he. Blade rang on blade and knife rang on tomahawk. The leader cut his arm. The other sliced his side but not deep. He swept the tomahawk around and up and the keen edge sank into the other's throat, splitting the soft flesh and sending a scarlet spray every which way. That left the leader.

Skin Shredder saw Splashes Blood fall, and bounded back. He knew that alone he was no match for this warrior who had come out of nowhere and slain his friends with fierce ease, and as he saw no reason to needlessly throw his life away, he threw his knife, instead, at the warrior's face.

The Outcast ducked. The knife flew over his head, and he straightened to find the leader fleeing up the mountain with the agility and speed of a mountain sheep. He started to give chase but caught himself. To rush into the dark after an enemy who might be waiting for him was foolish. There would be another day. He turned toward the young woman.

“No!” Zach struggled to get between them.

The Outcast walked over to her. He avoided an attempt by the breed to kick him. He looked into her eyes and she looked into his. He saw no fear, not until she glanced at her husband, who was trying to reach him to kick at him again. The Outcast lowered his knife and cut the rope around her wrist and then the rope around her ankles. He sheathed his knife and reached down.

“Don't hurt her, damn you!” Zach shouted.

The Outcast thought she would recoil but she was unafraid. Pressing his hand to her stomach, he said softly, “Do you understand?”

Lou glanced down at herself. His words held no meaning but his gesture spoke volumes. She placed her hand over his and smiled.

The Outcast grew warm all over. His throat would not work. He coughed and stepped back. The breed had stopped trying to kick him and was staring at him in such astonishment, the Outcast laughed. “Take better care of her than I did of mine.”

“What was that? I don't speak your tongue.”

The Outcast smiled at the woman. He collected his club and the bow and quiver of arrows. He climbed on the pinto and rode to the south. The valley was big. At the south end was a mountain that interested him. Perhaps he would stay there a while. Perhaps he would stop wandering.

“What in the world?” Zach blurted.

“I think we have a new friend.” Lou took a knife that had fallen to the grass, and freed him.

Zach was thinking of the one that got away. He dashed to the bay and took his pistol from the parfleche and made sure it was loaded. Then he swung up and extended his arm. “Climb on.”

“But all these dead men and their weapons and whatnot?”

“I'll come back with Shakespeare. Right now I'm getting you home, where it's safe.”

Louisa King tingled with happiness. “Home it is.”