Swinging his spear back and forth, Nate sought to keep them at bay. Both slunk closer, snarling fiercely. He wondered which would come at him first.
Nate needed space to move, space to swing and thrust. He slowly backed away. Suddenly he bumped against a tree. He went to sidle around it, and the cougar on the right took a quick bound, cutting him off. He started to move to the left and the other cougar did the same. He was trapped between them with no way to turn.
Nate tried one more time. “Get out of here!” he bellowed. “Go eat something else!”
All the good it did him. Both cats crouched. Both growled. The cougar on the left started to stalk forward. A split second later, so did the cougar on the right.
Nate had fought mountain lions before. Lightning quick with razor claws and knife points for teeth, they were all sinew and ferocity. He would rather fight a bear than a mountain lion any day.
Their eyes gleamed eerily in the star shine. Their bodies were rigid, their tails stiff. They were focused on him and only him.
Nate eased into a crouch. He gave up the advantage of height to have a better advantage, which he demonstrated when the cougar on the left sprang. A living portrait of grace and power and savagery combined, it bared its fangs to rip and tear.
Pivoting, Nate drove the spear tip up and in. It caught the cat where its throat met its chest and sheared all the way through. The tree at Nate’s back kept the sudden weight from bowling him over.
The cougar screeched once and went limp.
Nate shook his spear to get the cat off, but its body was caught fast. He turned toward the other one— and it was already in midair. Instantly, he did the only thing he could. He let go of the spear and grabbed the cat by the throat and one foreleg as it slammed into him. Again the tree kept him on his feet.
Hissing viciously, the cougar bit and clawed. Pain shot up Nate’s arm. Flashing teeth narrowly missed his throat. Whirling, he slammed the cat against the trunk. Claws raked his side and he felt the moist sensation of blood.
What Nate wouldn’t give for a gun or a knife.
He rammed the cat’s head against the tree. He arced a knee into its ribs. He flung the cougar to the ground, but with the incredible agility of its kind, the cat landed on all fours and was at him again in the blink of a feline eye. It came at his legs and he kicked but it sprang nimbly out of reach.
Suddenly squatting, Nate scooped at the ground. With a screech the cougar launched itself at him, and Nate threw dirt and grass into its face, into its eyes.
The cougar landed and scrambled away, blinking over and over, hissing in rage.
Nate had bought himself a few seconds. But his only weapon, the spear, was stuck fast in the other cat. He looked down, looked right and left, and then he looked up. A low branch was a foot above his head. He didn’t hesitate. He jumped, gained a hold.
The cougar became a tawny streak.
Nate cried out. His pants were torn open. So was the flesh underneath. He tried to draw his legs up but the cat clung on, its claws buried. He kicked and lost his hold and fell. Fortunately the cougar let go and leaped to one side.
It came at him again and he punched at its face. Shrieking, the cat swung a claw-tipped paw.
Nate’s sleeve felt wet with blood. He kicked again to keep the cougar away.
The beast crouched low to the ground, its tail swishing.
Nate swung at the same instant it leaped. His knuckles connected with its nose and the cat fell back, yowling. He braced for another attack, but it unexpectedly spun and bounded off into the inky undergrowth.
Nate stayed where he was. He half suspected the cougar would circle around and come at him from the other side. But the seconds became minutes, and it didn’t reappear.
At last, convinced he had driven it off, Nate unfurled. He placed his foot on the dead cougar, gripped the spear with both hands, and pulled. Nothing happened. He tried again with the same result.
“Is it me or the spear?” Nate asked the empty air. Sitting, he propped one foot against the cat’s chest and another against its throat and put all his weight and strength into wrenching the spear out. This time he succeeded, but the effort left him spent and breathing heavily. He wanted to lie back and rest, but an image of Winona filled his mind and heart with tender yearnings.
Nate got to his feet. The spear became a crutch. Turning eastward, he hiked as fast as he could. He became conscious of blood trickling down his hand and dripping from the tips of his fingers. He hitched at his sleeve, but it was too dark to tell how bad it was, except that some of the cuts were deep.
Dizziness washed over him. Stopping, he waited for the attack to pass. All around were the raucous sounds of the night. When he was strong enough he moved on.
The steady drip from his hand compelled him to seek the river. Kneeling on a gravel bar, he hiked his sleeve and plunged his forearm in the water. Of all his cuts, his arm was the worst. He figured to wash it and stop the bleeding and be on his way. He held his arm close to his face and saw that more blood was welling up. Stopping it would take some doing.
Desperate straits called for desperate measures. Nate roved the woods, gathering downed limbs and dry grass for kindling. Harrod had taken his guns and knife and tomahawk but not his possibles bag. Opening it, he took out his fire steel and flint.
Never in his whole life did it take Nate so long to start a fire. Finally sparks set the grass to burning and he puffed on the tiny flames. But they kept dying. Persistence paid off. Eventually he had a fire crackling. He rolled up his sleeve and examined the claw marks in the dancing light, and winced. He needed stitching but he couldn’t do it himself.
Bunching his sleeve around his elbow, Nate grit his teeth and lowered his arm into the flames. The agony was awful. His flesh sizzled. The smell of blood filled the air. He almost blacked out but didn’t. When he was sure he had stanched the flow, he staggered to the gravel bar and submerged his arm. Blessed coolness relieved some of the pain.
Nate didn’t dally. He was thinking of Winona and the Worths. He looked up to get his bearings by the stars and was on his way. But he took only a few strides when more vertigo jumbled his equilibrium. Tottering, he clutched at a cottonwood, missed, and pitched onto his face.
“Winona,” Nate breathed.
And passed out.
Winona King froze. She didn’t think Cranston had noticed her moving, but she stayed perfectly still as he approached the fire. From under her eyelids she watched him refill his cup and sip coffee. He glanced in her direction.
“What are you looking at?”
For a few anxious seconds Winona thought he was talking to her. She was on the verge of replying when Emala answered him.
“I can’t sleep.”
“I don’t care. Quit staring at me. Turn the other way or I’ll come over there and kick your ribs in.”
“Is it me or my skin you dislike so much?”
“I’ve never liked your kind. Your color, your hair—it’s unnatural.”
“And I suppose whites are fine?”
Cranston motioned at her with his cup. “White is better. White is smarter. White is stronger.”
“Bosh, boy. My Samuel could break you in half without tryin’. There’s not any of you as strong as my Samuel is except maybe that big one.”
“Says you.” Cranston turned his back on her. “I don’t want any more of your jabber.”
Winona got the last knot untied. She moved her legs to see if the blood had been cut off; they were fine.
“I never realized how much hate there is in this world,” Emala said to the young slave hunter. “There’s so much hate, if it was water, we’d all of us drown.”