Season of the Warrior (A Wilderness Giant Edition Western Book 2) by Robbins David

Author:Robbins, David
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: american wilderness, the rockies, david thompson, us frontier fiction, nathaniel king, shakespeare mcnair, western fiction ebook, us mountain men, winona king, zach king
Publisher: Piccadilly Publishing

Chapter Thirteen

Nate King awakened with a distinct, uneasy feeling that something was wrong. He lay still for half a minute, listening, sorting the sounds to determine if there were any out of the ordinary. A few crickets were chirping. Close by someone was snoring. He heard someone else toss in their sleep. Since the sky was still dark and the first resplendent rays of sunshine would not appear for perhaps half an hour, the birds had not yet commenced with their morning ritual of singing with boisterous abandon.

Slowly Nate rolled over and surveyed the camp through slitted lids, feigning sleep in case hostile eyes were watching. Winona and Zach were slumbering peacefully to his left, Shakespeare off to his right. Not far from Winona slept Diana Templar. Across the charred remains of the fire lay the giant, Jarvis, and Eric Nash. Only Fletcher and the marquis were missing, and they were both on watch.

Nate shifted position again and gazed toward the horses. Or rather, toward where the string of tethered animals should be, because as he faced in that direction he was shocked to see every last horse was gone. Flabbergasted, he looked right and left, unwilling to accept the testimony of his own eyes. Then he sat bolt upright, grabbed the Hawken, and cautiously rose.

Jarvis snorted and mumbled something in his sleep.

Staying low, Nate moved to the cottonwoods fifteen yards away. The first thing he saw was the long, buff-colored rawhide rope that had been stretched between two of the trees now lying on the ground like a stricken snake. It had been cut at both ends. Turning, he walked the length of the rope, trying to make sense of the few tracks plain enough to see in the dim light. That was when he spied the feet.

A pair of black boots was jutting out from behind a nearby thicket.

Dreading what he would find, Nate edged to the thicket. In the dark the large black stain on Fletcher’s chest resembled ink more than it did blood, and the wide slit in Fletcher’s throat resembled another mouth more than it did the fatal cut made by a razor-sharp knife.

Pivoting, Nate sought sign of the marquis. He didn’t raise a cry as yet, because he didn’t know if the Blackfeet were still close at hand; doing so might initiate an attack. Bent at the waist, he crept in a circle around the area where the horses had been tied, and in a patch of high grass he nearly tripped over the body.

William Templar, son of the Duke of Graustark, was on his face in the grass, a pair of arrows sticking from the center of his back.

Nate crouched and gently lifted the marquis a few inches for a better look. There was a big welt on Templar’s forehead, possibly put there by a war club. He touched a finger to William’s neck and was surprised to discover a pulse.

Suddenly, to Nate’s rear, there was a footstep. He whirled, bringing the Hawken to bear, his thumb freezing on the hammer when he saw who it was.

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