Thunder in the Valley Page 12

  Throughout breakfast the giddy slip of a girl Zelda returned and chattered about the upcoming trek downriver tomorrow morning. The affair of last night and the episode with the pistol garnered not a single word of recollection. If either had ever taken place, it seemed true only on my part.

  I went hunting convinced what could be said with certainty about Zelda depended on the moment: today foremost in her thinking was our departure tomorrow; and she’d proved she could load, cock, aim, and fire that damn pistol if need be. About anything else connected with her I was completely puzzled and uncertain. She baffled me time and again.

  After our comings and goings the day before and the lack of game sign downstream on my previous hunt, I headed the opposite direction.

  Johnathan Creek wound and twisted back on itself every whipstitch. In several brush clumps and canebrakes along the bank, I set foot snares and overhanging neck loops that could be checked on my return, and again early next morning. Small game preferring night and dawn feeding might be out anytime in the thaw, desperate for food.

  A mid-morning hunt in brilliant sunshine through snow crunching underfoot added up to less than ideal conditions in which to seek bigger game. But deer and others not hibernating had to eat too. If whitetails had bunched together anywhere nearby, after being snowed in for nearly a week, browse should be getting scarce in their parks. When it was feed or die, even big animals grew careless.

  The creek looped out of sight into narrowing higher ground. I headed uphill and made a stand above the streambed, downwind and screened by brush and tree trunks, rifle across a low oak limb, primed and ready.

  An hour passed. Numbness beset my feet. I propped the rifle against the oak tree and stuffed hands in coat pockets. Even in the midst of the thaw, it was raving cold.

  Low yapping from northward, upstream. I pushed the snow mask above my ear and leaned to listen. Louder barking . . . wolf sound. Brush crackled and a white-tailed doe landed on the frozen creek ice. She jumped forward on three hooves, right foreleg broken below the knee. Wolves flashed to either flank and lunged, fangs bared.

  The larger gray wolf sank his teeth into flesh and ripped downward, toppling the doe. She fell on her side and skidded on the ice. The smaller wolf was at her throat in a hairsbreath. Another powerful ripping of teeth and blood spewed on the ice. The doe jerked and twitched then lay still.

  The wolves tore at their kill. I got rifle and tomahawk in hand. Hope you’re right, Uncle Jeremiah. Here goes! I let out a mighty yell and went down the hillside straight at them.

  Both heads lifted and they stared at me, muzzles dripping red. Seventy feet separated us . . . fifty feet. They growled and snapped their fangs. Thirty feet. More fang snapping and growling. Fifteen feet. Never halting I brandished the tomahawk and screamed aloud. Their will finally failed them and the wolves broke. They scurried upstream right before I decided maybe Jeremiah’s contention wolves were always more afraid of men than we were of them was pure poppycock. I knelt gasping for wind and watched the beasts lope out of sight. They’d circle back and watch from cover, that was their way.

  I rolled the doe on her back and gutted her, then peeled the hide. Heart, liver, quarters, and choice parts I piled on the hide and tied off with a leather thong. I’d been plain lucky taking prime big game without burning powder.

  The sun was past its zenith and camp five to six miles downstream, leaving enough time before good light slipped away to lug the bundle back and start Zelda cooking and smoking meat for tomorrow’ s trek.

  How I wanted to share my luck with her. She had every chance now of getting home. Hunger was the least of her worries. I taken off down the creek ice, already feeling the heat of the cooking fire.

  In my excitement to see Zelda again the bundle on my back weighed less than a feather. Patches of slick ice slowed me a little, but as I neared the rendezvous tree I was almost trotting. One long creek bend remained.

  A pistol fired, barking report echoing in all directions. Zelda had fired a shot. At what? Fear knotted my innards. She would shoot only as a last resort, knowing full well if she missed whatever threatened would be on her before she could reload. I shed the bundled meat and sped down the slippery ice, cocking my rifle as I ran.

  I cleared the creek bend and packhorses blocked the way. Pure panic rippled through me. Great God Almighty, Stillwagon! He’d shown but a day late after all.

  Hasper whatever-his-name fronted the horses, facing away from me. He had the lead reins of the pack train in his teeth and swept his upraised rifle back and forth, trying to draw a bead on someone over by the rendezvous tree. I slid sideways to see over there too, and drew down on Hasper with my gun.

  The immense bulk of Abel Stillwagon’s backside was unmistakable. His legs were thick as tree trunks. Blood stained the buckskin covering the back of his left shoulder. Zelda hadn’t missed with her only shot.

  Abel skipped sideways, light-footed as a deer, and stepped toward the rendezvous tree. “Gotcha, girlee,” he boomed triumphantly and turned slowly toward me and Hasper, dragging a sizable object through the snow with one huge paw.

  It was Zelda, of course. The beefy fingers of Abel’s right hand were entwined in her close-cropped, yellow-brown hair. He jerked Zelda to her feet with out losing his grip. A broad, leering smile curled his lips. The silver ring in the tip of his huge red nose sparkled in the sunlight. “Frolic for tonight, Hasper, my son, frolic for tonight.”

  “That’ll be enough of that,” I said with as much bluster as the fear choking me allowed. I kept my rifle on Hasper.

  A moment of puzzlement and surprise swept Abel’s face. He recovered just as quickly, jerked a long-bladed knife from his waist belt with left hand and pressed the cutting edge to Zelda’s throat, trumping my move slick as a whistle. My rifle should have been trained on him, not Hasper, a man showing me his backside with his gun aiming the wrong way.

  A quiet spell longer than life itself passed.

  Abel sighed. “Once an enemy, always an enemy, young Master Hannar. Turn and shoot him, Hasper. Let us see how much he wants the lassie to live.” A deep laugh of triumph bellowed from Abel.

  “No, don’t—” Zelda gurgled.

  Hasper started to turn about . . . I made my decision. I wasn’t any good to Zelda or myself dead. I dropped the muzzle of my rifle so I couldn’t miss and shot the turning Hasper through the lungs. His gun discharged into the snow as he fell.

  “Lookee here, fool,” Abel shouted.

  I looked. The knife whipped across the bronze skin of Zelda’s throat, stunning me to the quick.

  Abel held her by the hair with one huge hand at the end of a fully extended arm, utterly scornful of the life he’ d just taken. Zelda dangled in midair, the wound in her neck a gaping, jagged, mocking smile of sorts, all her limbs a-sag, lifeless as a wooden doll attached to a string of yarn in the hands of a child. But she couldn’t dance anymore like children made other dolls and suddenly I hated Abel more for that than for killing her, and in the next heartbeat I went plain flat crazy with rage.

  Caution and fear swallowed by blinding fury, I whooped and charged, rifle reversed and held over head for the death blow. Abel stood rock still. His flinty eyes never wavered. The knife whipped again as he cut a wide swath across Zelda’s forehead at the hairline in a brazen attempt to scalp her. More red welled and coursed down her face. I was a madman with one single narrow glimmer of thought: kill the bastard.

  Abel flung Zelda aside, switched the knife to his right hand, and dropped into a fighting crouch. Too crazed for clear thinking, I tightened my grip on the rifle barrel and brought the stock down in a killing arc. Abel blocked the blow with a loglike forearm. The rifle stock shattered and the biggest piece struck his right hand, dislodging the knife.

  My forward rush carried me against his chest. It was the same as running square into the side of a barn. With a snorting grunt fit for a devil, Abel wrapped his huge arms round me, locked his hands behind my back, and bore down with all h
is awesome strength.

  I’d already lost my wind crashing into his chest. My lungs burned. Rising gorge blocked my wind pipe. My eyes turned back into my head. I swam in a sea of red, going nowhere. This was the end.

  Abel’s grip eased and his crouch deepened. He drew in a mighty breath and lowered his head to begin the final squeeze to death. His beard scratched down my face.

  I was lost, without hope. He started to tighten his grip and sour breath from his nose wet my forehead. In a final halfsecond of desperation, even with arms encircled and legs bent at the knee, I realized it was hurt him badly or die. Too spent for butting with my head, I extended my neck and clamped onto his huge red nose with my teeth.

  I put every essence of my being into that desperate bite. I ignored the pain of his crunching embrace and tightened my jaws. My teeth sliced through soft flesh. With the last trace of my wind I strained hard as I could and my teeth met. I ground back and forth once as blackness dulled my senses.

  I was falling. Cold ground soared up and smacked my cheek. Somewhere way off I heard howls of pain. They weren’t mine. Something was choking me. I couldn’t think straight, but I wasn’t dead and I wanted to breathe. I tried to spit and couldn’t empty my mouth. I reached between my teeth with hooked fingers and pulled out a lump. I forced an eye open. In my reddened fingers was the entire end of Abel’s nose, silver ring still in place.

  A roar of pain caught my attention. I raised my head. Abel was on his side, both hands covering his bearded face. Blood streamed between his fingers. A hand shot out and he pulled his knees under him. He was getting to his feet.

  I forced myself to move. He was recovering. Soon as he found me alive, rage would give him renewed strength; he’d never quit till he killed me for what I’d done to him.

  I cast about for a weapon. My gun lay in pieces, ruined. Hasper had triggered his off as he fell. Leastways I seemed to remember that. Abel’s knife I couldn’t locate. Maybe it was under him. What then? I needed a killing weapon and needed it now. I felt my belt. Both my knife and tomahawk were gone, lost in the fight. Abel was trying to stand. I rolled onto my knees and felt around, shaking my head clear.

  My searching fingers finally bumped something cold and hard and sharp, the blade of my tomahawk. I laid hold of the handle and lurched to my feet.

  Abel had fallen back on hands and knees, still overcome by the pain of his severed nose. The effort of standing got my innards jumping. Blackness edged in on me again. I took two shaky steps then another.

  He never did know I was there. Without any hesitation I drew back and buried the blade of the tomahawk where his neck met the base of the skull.

  Abel died without sound or protest. His arms spread apart and he settled on his face. The tomahawk held fast.

  I took a step backwards and the blackness came over me in a wave. I was out cold before I thumped into the snow.

  Chapter 15

  January 19-21

  I was somewhere else for a spell, lost in a black hole. The stomping of hoofs and a horse nickering brought me around. I opened my eyes on a site ripe with violent death.

  Hasper lay on his back, sightless eyes wide open, reins of the lead horse pinned beneath his body. The pack animals had grown restless with thirst and hunger.

  Abel sprawled facedown, a bulky heap capped by the protruding handle of the tomahawk. A wide band of blood had dried on the side of his neck.

  Zelda rested on her side in front of the rendezvous tree, her whole front smeared with red. Her once pretty face was a horrible sight even from a distance.

  My innards heaved and emptied themselves. I turned my head and threw up into the snow. I rolled away from my own mess and chewed snow to cleanse my mouth.

  I sat with arms clasping knees till my innards settled. Abel had bruised me everywhere above the waist, yet no bones grated and my spittle was clear of blood. Every move would hurt for days, but I’d live, no matter how sad and meaningless that appeared there in the last hour of daylight.

  The cold deepened as daylight dimmed. A wolf howled upstream. The lead horse nickered and raked a hoof across the rein pinned under Hasper. His companions stamped and whinnied. Their nerves were fraying. Unless tended to quickly, they’d break free and run off in all directions, taking with them not only the fur cache but also whatever foodstuffs Abel had with him.

  But first, Zelda. I couldn’t leave her body, cut to pieces and uncovered, out in the open another minute. I’d damn well gotten her killed and because of that it wasn’t in me to insult her memory by tending the horses before her, no matter how valuable the animals were.

  I went over to her, legs wobbly, breathing painfully. Abel hadn’t missed putting hurt in a single muscle or limb of my upper parts.

  I knelt on one knee beside Zelda, reluctant to even touch her. Abel’s attempt to scalp her had failed. A bloody furrow showed where his knife had scraped across the top of her forehead just short of the hairline. White bone peeked through the cut. I gently rolled Zelda onto her back.

  The sight of all that blood around her throat and on her chest set my innards churning and I almost missed the fluttering of her eyes. I ignored the movement, counting it as one of the strange things others had seen dead bodies do. After all, I’d watched Abel slash her throat ear to ear.

  I was sliding an arm under her back when her eyelids fluttered again and tried to open. That I couldn’t ignore. I yanked my arm free, pulled her frock back with both hands, and lowered an ear to the cold skin of her bloody breast. I held my breath and listened as close as I ever had in my whole life. Nothing. I pressed my ear harder against the cold skin. Deep inside her I heard a faint thumping, weak but steady.

  She was alive, barely so, but not gone yet.

  I drew back and wiped at the neck wound with the top of her frock. Abel’s knife had sliced from under the ear down the side of the neck, struck the breastbone and skidded sideways atop the bone at the base of the throat, thereby missing her wind pipe, then coursed upward again through the soft flesh on the opposite side of Zelda’s neck. What a relief. The wound was mind-stopping ugly, but not in itself life ending. Most dangerous was the loss of blood from the cuts on her throat and forehead. That might kill her yet.

  I swept Zelda into my arms, stepped inside the rendezvous tree, and lowered her to the buffalo robe beside the fire pit, personal hurts forgotten. An armful of branches stoked embers into a hot blaze. I removed my greatcoat and covered her.

  Doctoring was mostly a mystery to me, but I’d heard and seen enough to know Zelda needed something to spark her, something to warm and nourish her inside, to get her fighting for her own life. I jumped from foot to foot thinking. Corn liquor had done it for Jeremiah and Stepfather. But I had none. Or did I? Hadn’t that been the raw smell of corn liquor on Abel’s breath nearly gagging me as his powerful arms squeezed the last bit of wind from me?

  I hurried out to the packhorses. They were still strung together in the same line, restless as ever. I sidled over to the lead animal, talking gently to him. Once I had hold of his rope halter, I patted him on the flank, untied the bundle on the pack trees straddling his back, and let it fall to the ground.

  Talking all the while, I rummaged through the bundle. No corn liquor. No furs either. Each pouch contained a collection of ornaments and trinkets, necklaces, arm bands, even drinking cups, all made of silver. A whistle escaped my lips. So Abel had traded his corn liquor and gunpowder for far more than just furs and hides—or he’d stolen the silver treasure from the Injuns. Either way the contents of the two pouches was worth a small fortune.

  I moved to the second packhorse, freed his bundle. There I found what I sought. One pouch contained Abel’s food larder. Nestled in the second were two earthen jugs with wooden stoppers. I pried the stopper of one free and sniffed. Sure enough, corn liquor of little age, if judged by the nose-wrinkling smell.

  Back inside, a soft flush spread over Zelda’s ravaged skin. She was soaking in the heat. I held her head in one hand and
tilted the jug. She swallowed but a tad, still enough. The balance spilled down her chin and ran into the open wound on her neck. She twitched violently, a worry-easing sign for me for sure.

  I pillowed Zelda’s head on the rolled edge of the buffalo robe. A wolf howled, closer by, I believed, and a horse whinnied. It was near dark and unless I moved quickly I’d be chasing horses for hours.

  A long night lay ahead. I started a fire with a flaming branch just beyond the rendezvous tree and piled it high with faggots from the gather I’d made while Zelda cried over the deaths of Zed and Zeb.

  Abel’s rifle stood against the far side of the tree, put there as he cornered Zelda with both hands. The weapon matched my shattered long rifle. A quick looking over revealed he’d given his prime gun painstaking attention. A beaded sheath of leather covered the lock and three brass moons decorated the stock.

  The horses and recovery of the bundled deer meat came next. Once I finished dragging the bodies of Hasper and Abel into the brush across the creek, the pack animals settled considerably. Among the furs bundled atop the third horse were hobbles, bells, picket ropes, and ground pegs. I arranged the horses in a loose semicircle facing the fire, ground-reined them on long leads and pegs, then hobbled them. All of them began digging in the snow for browse, hopping about in short jumps as hobbled animals do.

  I fashioned a torch by wrapping the end of a branch with a swatch of fur and dousing it with corn liquor. It was full dark and the moon not yet showing when I went after the bundled deer meat. I beat the wolves there by a whisker. Two pairs of yellow eyes glowed in straggly cover just beyond the fading light of my torch. I retreated with rifle ready.

  The moon rose and I spent an hour or more cutting cane for horse feed in a brake along that last long creek bend above camp, Abel’s rifle within arm’s reach at all times. The wolves stayed clear, not bold enough yet to show themselves, and I finished the cutting and divided the cane amongst the ravished pack animals.