Dorothy Garlock - [Wabash River] (3 page)

“Howdy.”

“Howdy.” Rain swung into the saddle and moved the horse away from the spring.

Suddenly, one of the men lunged forward and grabbed the bridle, jerking the bit cruelly. The horse squealed with pain and tried to rear, but the man clung until the tortured horse realized that resisting caused the pain.

“Well, looky here, Hopper. This’n ain’t nothin’ but a wet-eared kid!” The ruffian grinned at Rain. His tobacco-stained lips spread, showing stubs of rotting teeth. The putrid odor of something long dead wafted from his unwashed body.

“A kid ain’t got no business with a horse when we ain’t got nothin’ but this here heathen to tote fer us. Ain’t that right?” The other man jerked on the leash around the Indian’s neck.

A coldness grew at the back of Rain’s neck, and then a thin wave of heat washed over him. He knew with certainty that they meant to kill him and take his horse and gun. John Spotted Elk had always said to trust his own instincts. Rain’s dark eyes studied the men. He did not want to kill them, yet he did not want to die.

“I’m takin’ this here horse. We done ’bout wore that Injun down to a nubbin. I’m goin’ ta have me that gun, too.”

The man lifted his brawny arm to sweep Rain from the saddle. In the same instant Rain’s hand lifted as swiftly as a striking snake. The long, thin blade he held glinted briefly in the sunlight before he plunged it into the man’s throat.

“I don’t think so,” he hissed as he withdrew the knife and focused his full attention on the other man, who was trying to get his gun in position to fire while still holding on to the leash.

The Indian jerked just before the gun was fired at its target and the shot went wild. Rain felt a sharp sting on his earlobe as the bullet struck him. He lifted his rifle, coldly took aim and fired back. The force of the load knocked the trapper backward. In his death throes he pulled on the leash and dragged the Indian with him. As the exhausted Indian fell, the thong looped over the huge pack drew the noose tighter about his neck.

While the shots still echoed through the hills, Rain leaped from the horse, raced to the choking Indian, cut the thong and set the man free to breathe. Then he quickly reloaded his rifle, as both Juicy and Farr had told him to do immediately after firing. The two trappers lay sprawled, their arms flung wide in that last minute when death came sharply. Rain held a cloth to his ear to keep the blood from running down his neck and looked at them. A strange calmness took possession of him.

“It was them or me,” he muttered aloud.

The Indian, a Shawnee from a village in the north, helped him bury the men. Then, taking the dead man’s gun, the Indian silently slipped away, leaving Rain with the pack of valuable furs.

Rain traveled west and sold the mink, otter, marten, sable and fox furs in Saint Louis to Manuel Lisa’s Fur Company for a considerable amount of money. He banked the money with the company and went to work as a crewman on one of the keelboats that traveled up the Missouri River.

He grew to be a man in a hard land where only the strong survived.

Rain’s thoughts came back to the present. His long fingers touched the lobe of his ear, feeling the nick left there by a bullet fired during that first year. Since that day by the spring he had lived by the gun and the knife, killed swiftly and mercilessly, but only in order to save his own life. He had little hope of dying peacefully in bed. Perhaps someday he would die quickly, if he were lucky, he thought now as he munched on the tough meat and drank the hot broth. He had chosen his way of life, and he had lived among men who understood no other.

Rain kept his two fires going, counting on the heavy snowfall to absorb the smell of the woodsmoke so that it would not lead the hunter to him. He sat between the fires during the long afternoon hours. When finally darkness set in and he became drowsy, he spread his blanket on the warm ground and went to sleep.

He awakened suddenly. The wind had died with the coming of dawn. The silence was eerie. He lay without moving except for the hand that slid to the scabbard against his thigh. Slowly he drew his knife and palmed it. He heard again the sound that had awakened him, the scrape of something against the frozen brush outside his shelter. He thought for a moment that some wild creature was seeking the warmth of his fire, then he noticed the twitching ears of the horse. Born and bred in the mountains, the dun had a strong survival instinct.

Rain rolled out of his blankets. He had lived by his own instincts for a long time. In the hard years behind him, he had learned that things were not always as they seemed to be. He had known careless men and had helped bury some of them.

Head up, listening, Rain waited. The firelight cast a rosy glow inside the cave. He edged out of its light. The brush that covered the entry began to move. Rain inched over until he was behind the horse’s rump.

Suddenly the brush was swept away and a man lunged into the cave, rifle in hand. At that instant Rain sent his knife spinning through the air with the precision of a well-aimed bullet. The blade pierced the man’s shoulder, the force of the blow turning him halfway around. He cried out and fell back. The rifle dropped from his hands. Desperately he grabbed for his gun, but it was out of his reach.

Rain walked out from behind the horse, his rifle ready. He didn’t know why he had, at the last instant, aimed high. Such consideration for his attacker would get him killed. Yet in the instant when he glimpsed the boy’s face, he had known he couldn’t kill him. Even though it was a mere boy who was trying to kill him, he told himself cynically, he would have ended up just as dead. Someone like this boy would kill him someday.

Rain’s face assumed the mask of stillness worn by the Shawnee he had lived among when he was young. His black brows remained straight and unmoving, his dark lashes shaded his eyes against the snow’s white glare. His face was as immobile as if it were etched in stone.

That the wounded boy was a long way from being a man was apparent from the smoothness of his cheeks. He had fallen back against the deadfall. Blood stained his worn wool coat and seeped on to the snow. Rain looked down at him, hating him for delaying his journey, hating him because now he’d have to take care of him. The frightened face that stared up at him was that of a half-starved kid.

“Go ahead. Kill me!” the boy snarled.

“I should have,” Rain said coldly. “Why were you trailing me?”

“You ought to know, you . . .” The boy sank his teeth into his lower lip and refused to continue. The silence lasted for a full minute. Finally he said, “Well . . . what’re ya waitin’ for? If yo’re agoin’ to kill me, do it!”

“I can wait. I can get my knife after you bleed to death,” Rain answered without emotion. He saw the look of terror contort the young face. “You can tell me who sent you or I’ll leave you to die right here in the snow.”

“The army man,” the boy blurted. “Said he’d give me fifty silver dollars if’n I brung in that ear of yores with the nick in it.”

“You’d murder a man for fifty dollars?”

“I’d kill ya for free, ya bastard!” the boy yelled, his voice echoing in the ravine. “Yo’re one of ’em that killed my folks . . . my sisters . . . my brothers—”

“Who said I did?”

“The militia, that’s who! They’re huntin ya—” Tears flooded the boy’s eyes and he began to shake. His bare hand clenched into a fist, coloring the snow with his blood.

Rain knelt down beside him, and before the boy could guess his intentions, jerked the knife from his shoulder. The youth let out a cry, squeezed his eyes shut and cringed.

“I’m not going to kill you. Open your eyes, damn you! Tell me who sent you after me. If I ride off and leave you here, you’ll be dead and stiff as a board in a few hours.”

The boy’s eyes flew open. They were filled with lethal hatred. “I won’t tell ya a goddamn thing . . . ya murderin’ scum!”

Rain sat back on his heels and studied the young face. The boy was hurt and scared. He was also full of hatred.

“You were sent to kill a murderer.” It was a statement, not a question.

“A white man who’d ride with Indians to kill ’n rape women ’n girls is worse than . . . than . . .” The words clogged the boy’s throat and he ended with a sob. Although his eyes were filled with tears he glared at Rain defiantly.

“Where did this happen?” Rain asked quietly.

“Ya know where, damn ya! Up on the Missouri.”

“How far up?”

“Up near Franklin.”

“I was there in August.”

“Ya were there in September, too!”

“I spent September with Nathan Boone.”

“Yo’re a liar! The Boones wouldn’t have nothin’ to do with the likes a you.”

“Do you want to lay there and argue about it? Or do you want me to help you with that shoulder?”

“I don’t need . . . ya . . . to . . .” The boy’s jaws shook so hard he couldn’t talk.

“Stubborn and proud. Being proud and bullheaded won’t keep you alive, boy. Can you walk?”

Without waiting for him to answer, Rain got behind him and lifted him to his feet. Then, with a hand firmly gripping his arm, he helped him enter the cave. The boy sank down close to the fire, and Rain threw his blanket around him to retain what warmth his body could develop.

“Where’s your horse?”

“Off to the right a ways.”

Rain snorted. “You didn’t find shelter for your horse? I’ll have to give you a few lessons in survival if you’re going into the ambush business.” He threw more fuel on the fire and waited until it blazed. “I’ll get your horse, then I’ll pack that shoulder.” He led his own horse outside the shelter and tied him where he could paw the snow away to reach the dried grass.

He found the buckskin behind a clay bank, standing with his tail to the wind. Beside a deadfall he found the boy’s belongings: a worn saddle, a bag half filled with grain for the horse, and a couple of ragged blankets.

Back at the cave the boy was too weak to protest when Rain dressed the wound. The wound itself wouldn’t kill the kid, Rain decided, but the loss of blood and the cold might. Afterward he heated water in his cup, poured a generous amount of whiskey in it and made the boy drink it.

“You’ve followed me from Cahokia. Why did you wait so long to make your move?”

“I ain’t tellin’ you nothin’.”

“You didn’t much like the idea of shooting a man in the back, even for fifty dollars. You’d better find another line of work.”

“I could kill ya with my bare hands—”

“You’re not real sure I did it, are you?”

“Captain Perry said ya did.”

“I figured Hammond Perry sent you. Didn’t you wonder why Perry didn’t call in the soldiers and have me arrested? If I was a criminal it would have been a feather in his cap,” Rain pointed out. “He’s not with the militia anymore. He was cashiered out of the regulars a few years ago. I’m not sure why, but old ‘Rough and Ready’ must have had good reason.”

“He’s a captain,” the boy said stoutly. “He works for Major Taylor doin’ secret, important things like findin’ murderers like you.”

“He’s nothing and works for himself!” Rain said and snorted. Then he added, as if to himself, “I knew I shouldn’t have entered that rifle shoot. I saw Perry there. That’s where he pointed me out, wasn’t it?” Rain took off his fur hat and ran his fingers through his dark hair. “But I hadn’t kissed the sweet lips of Black Betty for a long while and I had a powerful thirst. You’re drinking some of my prize.”

“Ya should’ve stayed for the next round. The prize was a night with the town whore,” the boy sneered.

Rain grinned. “I saw her. That’s why I left. I was afraid I’d win.” Rain kicked snow on to the fire to put it out. “Get on the horse. We’ll start out for Quill’s Station. I can’t leave you or you’ll starve or freeze, and I’m not staying here with you.”

“I’m not goin’! I ain’t hookin’ up with no . . . murderer!”

“Listen to me, boy. I’ve put up with your mouth about as long as I’m going to. Call me that again and I’ll backhand you. Understand?”

The boy tried to get to his feet, but his legs wilted under him. He gave Rain a sullen look but accepted his help. Rain boosted him into the saddle, then wrapped his own and the boy’s blankets around him.

“You’ve lost a lot of blood. I don’t want you to die on me, it’s too damn cold to dig a grave.”

Rain followed the frozen creek bed, leading the boy’s horse. His breath and that of the horses rose in clouds. The boy rode with his face buried in the blankets. Even though there was no evidence of activity, Rain exercised caution, approaching every blind spot with care. In the open places he had plenty to think about.

Why would Hammond Perry, Farr’s old enemy, want him dead? Rain had thought it no more than a coincidence when he had seen him again in Cahokia after having spotted him just a few days earlier in Saint Louis. Perry owned several large keelboats that took freight downriver to New Orleans and smaller ones that went up the Missouri and the Arkansas. It was said he also owned stores in a half dozen forts up and down the rivers. Nathan Boone had told Rain that Perry had been in Arkansas for the past year. Was he planning to move in and set up a trading post on the Arkansas River below the fort at Belle Point? Rain wondered.

Hammond Perry and Will Bradford, Rain remembered, had both served in the Ninth Military Department with headquarters at Belle Fontaine, fifteen miles north of Saint Louis. Will Bradford had been ordered to ascend the Arkansas River to the Poteau and build a fort at Belle Point—the important job Perry had hoped to get—but instead he had been dismissed shortly after Bradford and his company left on their assignment. If Perry had learned that Rain had gone to fetch Will’s bride, that was probably the reason he had set the kid on him. Anything, Rain decided, was possible when Hammond Perry was involved.

He glanced back at the boy. How like Perry to get a down-at-the-heels kid to do his dirty work! He had actually convinced the boy Rain was one of the raiders who had killed his family. To a backwoods kid, a rich man like Perry must have seemed as reliable an authority as the governor of the territory, Rain mused. He didn’t blame the boy for trying to kill him, but he wasn’t going to let him keep him from spending Christmas at Quill’s Station.