Maklin had reined around and drawn a pistol. “Is he dead?”
“I hope not.” Quickly, Nate got his rope and cut off a short piece to bind the warrior’s ankles. He didn’t bind the hands. He stripped the Pawnee of weapons, squatted, and smacked the man’s cheek several times. Ever so slowly, consciousness returned. The warrior looked about in confusion, saw Maklin with a pistol trained on him, and scowled.
Nate’s fingers flowed in sign language. “Question. You called?”
The warrior didn’t reply. He appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties and had streaks of black and red war paint on his face.
Nate tried again. “Question. You called?” This time he added, “I no kill you talk.”
The warrior glanced at Maklin, then at Nate. His hands rose. “I called Elk Horn.”
“I called Grizzly Killer.”
“I know. I wait kill you.”
“Where Kuruk.” Nate actually used the signs for “man called Bear.”
The Pawnee’s hands stayed on his chest.
“I want end fight,” Nate signed. “I want fight Kuruk man and man.” Among some tribes a personal challenge had to be accepted or the man who was challenged bore the taint of cowardice.
“Question. Why.”
“I may-be-so kill him. Him may-be-so kill me. You and warriors go Pawnee land.” Nate was offering to end it one way or the other. He held little hope they would accept and the warrior’s attitude dashed it. The man’s face hardened and his next movements were sharp and angry.
“You kill Beaver Tail. You kill Horse Running. You kill Shoots Two Arrows. Now we kill you.”
“Question. No peace among us.”
“You enemy,” Elk Horn signed savagely. “No peace now, no peace tomorrow.”
It was the same as saying that as far as the Pawnees were concerned, they wouldn’t stop trying to rub Nate out while they were still on this side of the grave. Nate sighed and signed, “I try be friend.”
Maklin had been watching intently. “That’s why you let him live? I could have told you it wouldn’t work.”
“I’m not fond of killing.”
“Sometimes a man has to. He isn’t given a choice. Remember that talk we had about seeing your family again? You better accept you are in this to kill or you won’t.”
The hatred in the Pawnee’s eyes was eloquent proof the Texan was right.
Nate drew his bowie and cut the rope around the warrior’s ankles. Then he slid the knife into its sheath and signed. “You go now.”
“What are you doing?” Maklin demanded.
“I won’t shoot an unarmed man.” Nate stood, snagging the Hawken as he rose.
“Damn it, pard. He’ll only try to kill you again.”
“We’re letting him go,” Nate insisted.
The warrior was looking from one of them to the other. He coiled his legs and sat up.
“Blunt is right about you. You’re too damn decent for your own good. But I can’t let you do this.”
Nate stepped between them. “I said he could go and I’m a man of my word. Lower your flintlock.”
Maklin just sat there.
“I’m asking you as a friend.”
With great reluctance, the Texan let the pistol sink to his side.
“Thank you.” Nate glanced over his shoulder and saw that the warrior was rising. He smiled to show the man had nothing to fear, but the man didn’t return it. Hate was writ on every particle of his face. “Go,” Nate said, and motioned.
The Pawnee started to turn. Suddenly he lunged and scooped up his knife. With a cry of elation he leaped at Nate, the blade poised for a death stroke.
Maklin’s pistol cracked.
The ball missed Nate’s shoulder by an inch and cored the warrior’s eye. The splat was followed by the thud of the body hitting the ground.
“So much for being nice.”
Nate stared at the body. He was sick of this, sick of the death. “I forgot about his knife lying there.”
“I didn’t.”
“You expected him to try again, didn’t you?”
“Let’s just say it didn’t surprise me.”
Nate looked up. “I’m in your debt again.”
Maklin chuckled. “One of us had to use his head. And then there were four.”
Nate went to climb on the bay. “His horse must be nearby. We should look for it.”
They did, with no success. They did find tracks, though.
“Look here,” Maklin said. “The rest rode off and took his animal with them.” He scratched his chin. “I wonder how they got in front of us. I’d have sworn they must be miles to the southwest by now.”
“They saw us turn back and circled around,” Nate speculated. “It must have taken some hard riding.”
“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. They sure do want you dead.”
On that grim note they rode on. By late afternoon they were within a mile of the Valley of Skulls. Both they and their horses were worn out.
Nate was surprised the Pawnees hadn’t tried again, and mentioned as much.
“They’ve lost too many warriors,” Maklin said. “They’ll be more choosy about how they do it from here on out.”
Suddenly their horses whinnied and shied. Nate heard a rumbling and realized the ground under them was shaking. It lasted for about half a minute, long enough to rattle every bone in his body and leave the horses half spooked.
“An earthquake,” Maklin spat. “Damn, I hate this geyser country. The sooner I am shed of it, the better.”
“Let’s hope the Shakers are all right.”
“Those idiots? It would serve them right if the earth opened up and swallowed them.”
“Sure it would. You don’t really want them dead.”
“I am not you, Nate. I don’t spare my enemies and I don’t suffer fools.”
They neared the mouth of the valley and drew rein in consternation. Borne on the breeze came screams and cries.
Chapter Sixteen
It was like riding into a nightmare.
Hissing steam rose from cauldron after cauldron. Pools of hot water were bubbling and roiling, some so violently that they spewed hot drops into the air. Part of the corral had broken and horses and mules were running loose. Oxen were milling and lowing. The wagons were undamaged but not the buildings. The roof on the female quarters had partly collapsed. So had the upright timbers on the building under construction and it now lay in ruins. People were scurrying every which way, Shakers and freighters alike. Wails of lament rose with the steam, as well as pleas for succor.
Nate brought the bay to a gallop. He swept past the freight wagons and the parked Conestogas and drew rein. Vaulting down, he ran to catch up to Jeremiah Blunt and Haskell and five other freighters who were running toward the female dwelling.
Blunt glanced at him. “You’re just in time. The roof fell on some of the women. They need our help.”
The doorway was clogged with female Shakers, many wringing their hands, some praying. Blunt shouldered through and Nate followed to where a crossbeam had cracked and come down. From under it jutted a woman’s legs in a spreading scarlet pool.
“Good God!” Haskell exclaimed.
Farther in it was worse. Half the rafters had split in a large room where the women prepared meals. Nearly a dozen women had been in it when the earthquake struck. Some had been crushed to pulp. Others were alive but pinned by the weight of the fractured beams.
Arthur Lexington and other male Shakers had freed one young woman who was writhing in agony; from her knees down, her legs were splintered bone and mashed flesh.
Jeremiah Blunt barked commands and his men leaped to obey. They ran to the largest of the beams. Part of a woman was visible, her shoulder and arm and one leg, intact and untouched. Working quickly, the freighters put their backs to lifting the beam so Nate could get the woman out. Puffing and straining and grunting, they raised the massive weight by slow degrees. The instant it was high enough, Nate pulled. The woman came out from under easily enough, what was left of her.