Wilderness double editio.., p.32
Wilderness Double Edition 20, page 32
Scar began to circle back around, as he had done before. The Feather Heads were doing exactly as he wanted. They had let themselves be drawn into the forest, where they were always so easy to slay, and now were blundering after him in their typically clumsy fashion. He could hear them even though they tried to move stealthily, and lifting his nose, he pinpointed exactly where they were.
Scar stopped circling and padded toward the sound of Wood Eater Head’s Mane. Only a few more to kill and he could go off to end his days in peace. He had not slain all the Feather Heads there were, as he once intended, but he had made them pay dearly for what they did to his mother.
The Mane was near. Scar slowed and crouched, his belly scraping the ground as he crept along until he could see Wood Eater Head, and behind him, now bunched close together, the Feather Heads. They had learned from the fate of the other two.
Scar tensed his body. Soon the black Mane would be abreast of where he was hidden. A short sprint, and he would bowl it over and dispose of Wood Eater Head before Wood Eater Head could use the thunder stick. He dug his claws into the ground and girded himself for his rush.
Nate’s mouth was so dry, he had to swallow twice to moisten it. Every nerve was jangling; the griz could come roaring out of the undergrowth at any second. He would only have time for one shot, and then only if he spotted the bear before it reached him. He thought he saw something off among the pines, the outline of a hump starting to rise, but when he peered closer, it wasn’t there.
The Utes were only a few steps behind. Moving shoulder-to-shoulder, each warrior faced in a different direction so the rouge couldn’t get at them without being seen.
The bay nickered and looked off toward the spot where Nate thought he had glimpsed a hump. They had passed it and Nate twisted around, thinking the griz had been there all along. But there was nothing, nothing at all.
Where was Scar?
The dizziness again. The roiling of his stomach. Scar had started to rise to launch himself at his enemies when another wave of weakness struck him and he had to sink onto the ground, as helpless as a day-old bobcat. It was the worst attack yet. He thought that maybe this was the end. That his desire to kill these final few two-legs would go unfulfilled.
Gradually, though, the vertigo and the churning faded, leaving Scar with a bitter taste in his mouth and a burning sensation in his chest. Wood Eater Head and the Utes had gone on by. Slowing rising, he watched until they were out of sight. Two of the Feather Heads had been walking backward and would have spotted him if he emerged sooner.
Scar shadowed them. The hissing had stopped, but he was terribly light-headed. He could collapse at any moment.
Images of Caregiver and his siblings filtered through Scar’s mind. Of his mother affectionately nuzzling him. Of snuggling against her for warmth in cold weather. Of wrestling Mean and Nice. How he missed those times. How he wished they had never ended.
More dizziness struck him, but it wasn’t quite severe enough to bring Scar to a stop. The contents of his stomach tried to come back up; he swallowed them down. He must act, and act now, or it would be too late.
“Where is he?” Neota signed when Nate glanced back. “Why does he wait?”
Nate had been wondering the same thing. The horizon was swallowing the sun, and soon it would be dark. They would be lucky if they spotted the grizzly before he was breathing down their necks. Maybe that was the reason Scar was holding off. Maybe Scar was waiting for night to fall so he would have the advantage.
A clearing opened before them. Drawing rein in the center, Nate turned the bay sideways so Scar could not reach the Utes from that side without going through him.
“Why did you stop?” Neota inquired.
“We should make a stand,” Nate proposed. And here was as good a spot as any, with eight to ten feet of open space between them and the trees.
The Utes looked at one another. Neota directed a few comments at Niwot and motioned for the youth to move closer to the bay, but Niwot answered harshly and stayed where he was.
That was when the bay’s ears rose and the big black gazed northward, back the way they had come. Nate probed the gathering darkness but saw nothing that would account for it. One of the Utes suddenly took a step in the same direction, tilted his head, and said something that caused the others to stiffen and raise their weapons.
Then Nate heard what the Ute had heard: the distant crack and snap of undergrowth. It grew rapidly louder. Something was barreling toward them like a mad bull, plowing through everything in its path. From the racket it sounded like a herd of stampeding buffalo.
Nate raised his Hawken.
Tree limbs were breaking with retorts like gunshots. Brush splintered and popped like fireworks. The crackling swiftly swelled to a crescendo, and under it all beat the increasingly heavy thud of ponderous paws.
Off in the darkness a moving mountain appeared, hurtling toward them with the speed of a fur-covered comet. A pair of blazing coals were fixed unblinkingly on the clearing, and on those in it. Nearer and nearer they came, as louder and louder rose the din.
The bay chose that moment to nicker and took a prancing step to one side. Nate glanced down to make sure that the horse wasn’t about to run off, and when he glanced up again, there was Scar, hurtling out of the dark and across the clearing, his bulk seeming to blot out half the forest. Two barbed shafts flew to meet him. Neota and another warrior hurled their lances. But they might as well have thrown pebbles.
Nate rushed his shot. The grizzly was almost to the Utes when he squeezed the trigger. He couldn’t have missed at that range, but Scar didn’t break stride. At full speed the bear slammed into Neota and the others, scattering them like chaff in a gale. Nate grabbed for a pistol but couldn’t clear his belt before Scar slammed into the bay with the impact of a battering ram.
A high-pitched squeal rang in Nate’s ears as the horse was smashed out from under him. He was upended and smacked down on his left shoulder hard enough to jar the breath from his lungs. He heard the bay squeal again, and fearful the grizzly had it down, he shoved up onto his knees and drew both flintlocks.
The bay was on its side, struggling to rise, easy prey for Scar, but the grizzly wasn’t after the horse. Scar wanted the Utes. Niwot and another were on the ground, too dazed to stand. Neota was on one knee. The fourth man had stood but was shaking his head to clear it. He didn’t see the grizzly surge onto its hind legs, didn’t see the huge arms that enfolded him in an unbreakable hug.
Nate levered to his feet and ran to the right for a clear shot. As he raised a pistol, Neota leaped between them, onto the bear’s broad back. Clinging with one arm to the hump, Neota buried his gleaming knife again and again.
The warrior in Scar’s clutches fought desperately to break free, but his hands were empty and the best he could do was rain ineffective punches on Scar’s bloodstained neck and disfigured face. A snap of Scar’s razor teeth severed one of his arms at the wrist. A second bite tore half his neck away. He sagged, the life fading fast from his eyes, as Scar flung him aside and turned toward Niwot and the other warrior still on the ground.
Neota let go of the bear’s hump and darted around to stab Scar in the chest. He was much too close. A backward sweep of Scar’s forepaw catapulted him head over heels into a pine tree.
Nate aimed at Scar’s right ear and fired. The grizzly staggered but still would not fall. The third Ute picked that moment to stand and send two arrows, swift as thought, into Scar’s ribs. Roaring ferociously, Scar lunged and closed his jaws on the warrior’s head. The outcome was as horrendous as it was final.
Scar dropped onto all fours and turned toward Niwot. The youth was on his knees, nocking an arrow. Scar had only two steps to take to reach him, but Nate got there first. Jamming the second flintlock against Scar’s hairless cheek, Nate thumbed back the hammer and squeezed the trigger. He never saw the blow that lifted him off his feet.
For a few seconds Nate lay stunned, but only for a few. He looked up to see Scar lumber toward him. Niwot had darted out of reach and was letting fly with shaft after shaft, trying to stop the bear from reaching him. He had lost the Hawken and both pistols, but he still had his Bowie and his tomahawk, and unlimbering both, he rose into a crouch.
Part of Scar’s face was missing, and blood was pouring from his new wounds in a torrent. Indestructible, unstoppable, he rose onto his back legs.
Nate sprang, arcing the tomahawk high and thrusting the Bowie low. Both sliced deep, and he ducked under a paw that nearly took his head off. Skipping to one side, he sank the Bowie in to the hilt. Fetid breath assailed him and he ducked a second time. Above him, Scar’s teeth gnashed on empty air.
Nate leaped back and set himself for the bear’s next rush. It was slower than before, so slow that Nate sidestepped it and drove the tomahawk into Scar’s head, behind the ear. A claw nicked his buckskin shirt.
Scar roared, or tried to, then swayed like a tree cut off at the roots. Nate dived to the right as the rogue crashed to earth, narrowly missing him. Straightening, he raised the tomahawk but checked his swing. There was no need.
The scourge of the central Rockies was dead.
Neota limped out of the trees, a knot on his forehead the size of a goose egg. “It is over,” he wearily signed. “Truly, finally over.”
“The last of the great ones,” Nate said aloud, He surprised the two Utes, and himself, by kneeling and placing a hand on what was left of Scar’s head. “There will never be another like him.”
“That is good,” Neota signed. “One was more than enough. My people will honor you for generations.”
Nate felt no joy, no elation. Instead, a peculiar sadness came over him. Shaking it off with a toss of his head, he began collecting his guns. The bay was across the clearing, upright and unhurt.
Niwot came over, carrying a pistol.
“Thank you.” Nate had to admit that the youth had performed bravely and might not be the complete dunderhead he had branded him as. But he should have known better.
“When we reach the village, Grizzly Killer, I would like to talk to you about your daughter—”
About the Author
David L. Robbins was born on Independence Day 1950. He has written more than three hundred books under his own name and many pen names, among them: David Thompson, Jake McMasters, Jon Sharpe, Don Pendleton, Franklin W. Dixon, Ralph Compton, Dean L. McElwain, J.D. Cameron and John Killdeer.
Robbins was raised in Pennsylvania. When he was seventeen he enlisted in the United States Air Force and eventually rose to the rank of sergeant. After his honorable discharge he attended college and went into broadcasting, working as an announcer and engineer (and later as a program director) at various radio stations. Later still he entered law enforcement and then took to writing full-time.
At one time or another Robbins has lived in Pennsylvania, Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Montana, Colorado and the Pacific Northwest. He spent a year and a half in Europe, traveling through France, Italy, Greece and Germany. He lived for more than a year in Turkey.
Today he is best known for two current long-running series - Wilderness, the generational saga of a Mountain Man and his Shoshone wife - and Endworld is a science fiction series under his own name started in 1986. Among his many other books, Piccadilly Publishing is pleased to be reissuing ebook editions of Wilderness, Davy Crockett and, of course, White Apache.
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Scar stopped circling and padded toward the sound of Wood Eater Head’s Mane. Only a few more to kill and he could go off to end his days in peace. He had not slain all the Feather Heads there were, as he once intended, but he had made them pay dearly for what they did to his mother.
The Mane was near. Scar slowed and crouched, his belly scraping the ground as he crept along until he could see Wood Eater Head, and behind him, now bunched close together, the Feather Heads. They had learned from the fate of the other two.
Scar tensed his body. Soon the black Mane would be abreast of where he was hidden. A short sprint, and he would bowl it over and dispose of Wood Eater Head before Wood Eater Head could use the thunder stick. He dug his claws into the ground and girded himself for his rush.
Nate’s mouth was so dry, he had to swallow twice to moisten it. Every nerve was jangling; the griz could come roaring out of the undergrowth at any second. He would only have time for one shot, and then only if he spotted the bear before it reached him. He thought he saw something off among the pines, the outline of a hump starting to rise, but when he peered closer, it wasn’t there.
The Utes were only a few steps behind. Moving shoulder-to-shoulder, each warrior faced in a different direction so the rouge couldn’t get at them without being seen.
The bay nickered and looked off toward the spot where Nate thought he had glimpsed a hump. They had passed it and Nate twisted around, thinking the griz had been there all along. But there was nothing, nothing at all.
Where was Scar?
The dizziness again. The roiling of his stomach. Scar had started to rise to launch himself at his enemies when another wave of weakness struck him and he had to sink onto the ground, as helpless as a day-old bobcat. It was the worst attack yet. He thought that maybe this was the end. That his desire to kill these final few two-legs would go unfulfilled.
Gradually, though, the vertigo and the churning faded, leaving Scar with a bitter taste in his mouth and a burning sensation in his chest. Wood Eater Head and the Utes had gone on by. Slowing rising, he watched until they were out of sight. Two of the Feather Heads had been walking backward and would have spotted him if he emerged sooner.
Scar shadowed them. The hissing had stopped, but he was terribly light-headed. He could collapse at any moment.
Images of Caregiver and his siblings filtered through Scar’s mind. Of his mother affectionately nuzzling him. Of snuggling against her for warmth in cold weather. Of wrestling Mean and Nice. How he missed those times. How he wished they had never ended.
More dizziness struck him, but it wasn’t quite severe enough to bring Scar to a stop. The contents of his stomach tried to come back up; he swallowed them down. He must act, and act now, or it would be too late.
“Where is he?” Neota signed when Nate glanced back. “Why does he wait?”
Nate had been wondering the same thing. The horizon was swallowing the sun, and soon it would be dark. They would be lucky if they spotted the grizzly before he was breathing down their necks. Maybe that was the reason Scar was holding off. Maybe Scar was waiting for night to fall so he would have the advantage.
A clearing opened before them. Drawing rein in the center, Nate turned the bay sideways so Scar could not reach the Utes from that side without going through him.
“Why did you stop?” Neota inquired.
“We should make a stand,” Nate proposed. And here was as good a spot as any, with eight to ten feet of open space between them and the trees.
The Utes looked at one another. Neota directed a few comments at Niwot and motioned for the youth to move closer to the bay, but Niwot answered harshly and stayed where he was.
That was when the bay’s ears rose and the big black gazed northward, back the way they had come. Nate probed the gathering darkness but saw nothing that would account for it. One of the Utes suddenly took a step in the same direction, tilted his head, and said something that caused the others to stiffen and raise their weapons.
Then Nate heard what the Ute had heard: the distant crack and snap of undergrowth. It grew rapidly louder. Something was barreling toward them like a mad bull, plowing through everything in its path. From the racket it sounded like a herd of stampeding buffalo.
Nate raised his Hawken.
Tree limbs were breaking with retorts like gunshots. Brush splintered and popped like fireworks. The crackling swiftly swelled to a crescendo, and under it all beat the increasingly heavy thud of ponderous paws.
Off in the darkness a moving mountain appeared, hurtling toward them with the speed of a fur-covered comet. A pair of blazing coals were fixed unblinkingly on the clearing, and on those in it. Nearer and nearer they came, as louder and louder rose the din.
The bay chose that moment to nicker and took a prancing step to one side. Nate glanced down to make sure that the horse wasn’t about to run off, and when he glanced up again, there was Scar, hurtling out of the dark and across the clearing, his bulk seeming to blot out half the forest. Two barbed shafts flew to meet him. Neota and another warrior hurled their lances. But they might as well have thrown pebbles.
Nate rushed his shot. The grizzly was almost to the Utes when he squeezed the trigger. He couldn’t have missed at that range, but Scar didn’t break stride. At full speed the bear slammed into Neota and the others, scattering them like chaff in a gale. Nate grabbed for a pistol but couldn’t clear his belt before Scar slammed into the bay with the impact of a battering ram.
A high-pitched squeal rang in Nate’s ears as the horse was smashed out from under him. He was upended and smacked down on his left shoulder hard enough to jar the breath from his lungs. He heard the bay squeal again, and fearful the grizzly had it down, he shoved up onto his knees and drew both flintlocks.
The bay was on its side, struggling to rise, easy prey for Scar, but the grizzly wasn’t after the horse. Scar wanted the Utes. Niwot and another were on the ground, too dazed to stand. Neota was on one knee. The fourth man had stood but was shaking his head to clear it. He didn’t see the grizzly surge onto its hind legs, didn’t see the huge arms that enfolded him in an unbreakable hug.
Nate levered to his feet and ran to the right for a clear shot. As he raised a pistol, Neota leaped between them, onto the bear’s broad back. Clinging with one arm to the hump, Neota buried his gleaming knife again and again.
The warrior in Scar’s clutches fought desperately to break free, but his hands were empty and the best he could do was rain ineffective punches on Scar’s bloodstained neck and disfigured face. A snap of Scar’s razor teeth severed one of his arms at the wrist. A second bite tore half his neck away. He sagged, the life fading fast from his eyes, as Scar flung him aside and turned toward Niwot and the other warrior still on the ground.
Neota let go of the bear’s hump and darted around to stab Scar in the chest. He was much too close. A backward sweep of Scar’s forepaw catapulted him head over heels into a pine tree.
Nate aimed at Scar’s right ear and fired. The grizzly staggered but still would not fall. The third Ute picked that moment to stand and send two arrows, swift as thought, into Scar’s ribs. Roaring ferociously, Scar lunged and closed his jaws on the warrior’s head. The outcome was as horrendous as it was final.
Scar dropped onto all fours and turned toward Niwot. The youth was on his knees, nocking an arrow. Scar had only two steps to take to reach him, but Nate got there first. Jamming the second flintlock against Scar’s hairless cheek, Nate thumbed back the hammer and squeezed the trigger. He never saw the blow that lifted him off his feet.
For a few seconds Nate lay stunned, but only for a few. He looked up to see Scar lumber toward him. Niwot had darted out of reach and was letting fly with shaft after shaft, trying to stop the bear from reaching him. He had lost the Hawken and both pistols, but he still had his Bowie and his tomahawk, and unlimbering both, he rose into a crouch.
Part of Scar’s face was missing, and blood was pouring from his new wounds in a torrent. Indestructible, unstoppable, he rose onto his back legs.
Nate sprang, arcing the tomahawk high and thrusting the Bowie low. Both sliced deep, and he ducked under a paw that nearly took his head off. Skipping to one side, he sank the Bowie in to the hilt. Fetid breath assailed him and he ducked a second time. Above him, Scar’s teeth gnashed on empty air.
Nate leaped back and set himself for the bear’s next rush. It was slower than before, so slow that Nate sidestepped it and drove the tomahawk into Scar’s head, behind the ear. A claw nicked his buckskin shirt.
Scar roared, or tried to, then swayed like a tree cut off at the roots. Nate dived to the right as the rogue crashed to earth, narrowly missing him. Straightening, he raised the tomahawk but checked his swing. There was no need.
The scourge of the central Rockies was dead.
Neota limped out of the trees, a knot on his forehead the size of a goose egg. “It is over,” he wearily signed. “Truly, finally over.”
“The last of the great ones,” Nate said aloud, He surprised the two Utes, and himself, by kneeling and placing a hand on what was left of Scar’s head. “There will never be another like him.”
“That is good,” Neota signed. “One was more than enough. My people will honor you for generations.”
Nate felt no joy, no elation. Instead, a peculiar sadness came over him. Shaking it off with a toss of his head, he began collecting his guns. The bay was across the clearing, upright and unhurt.
Niwot came over, carrying a pistol.
“Thank you.” Nate had to admit that the youth had performed bravely and might not be the complete dunderhead he had branded him as. But he should have known better.
“When we reach the village, Grizzly Killer, I would like to talk to you about your daughter—”
About the Author
David L. Robbins was born on Independence Day 1950. He has written more than three hundred books under his own name and many pen names, among them: David Thompson, Jake McMasters, Jon Sharpe, Don Pendleton, Franklin W. Dixon, Ralph Compton, Dean L. McElwain, J.D. Cameron and John Killdeer.
Robbins was raised in Pennsylvania. When he was seventeen he enlisted in the United States Air Force and eventually rose to the rank of sergeant. After his honorable discharge he attended college and went into broadcasting, working as an announcer and engineer (and later as a program director) at various radio stations. Later still he entered law enforcement and then took to writing full-time.
At one time or another Robbins has lived in Pennsylvania, Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Montana, Colorado and the Pacific Northwest. He spent a year and a half in Europe, traveling through France, Italy, Greece and Germany. He lived for more than a year in Turkey.
Today he is best known for two current long-running series - Wilderness, the generational saga of a Mountain Man and his Shoshone wife - and Endworld is a science fiction series under his own name started in 1986. Among his many other books, Piccadilly Publishing is pleased to be reissuing ebook editions of Wilderness, Davy Crockett and, of course, White Apache.
You’ve reached the last page.
But the adventure doesn’t end here …
Join us for more first-class, action-packed books.
Regular updates feature on our website and blog
The Adventures continue…
Issuing new and classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!
More on David Robbins
David Robbins, Wilderness Double Edition 20
