Winter Hunt by Jack Hanson

Author:Jack Hanson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2010-03-01T00:00:00+00:00

15

SINCE HE WASN’T going anywhere for a while, Barlow lay there for a long time, assessing his condition. His head still hurt but it was not much more than a minor distraction. His shoulder was painful, but when he was able to move it a little—which wasn’t much because of his bonds—it didn’t seem to be broken. It would not hamper him too much in a fight, which was looking more and more likely if he were to get out of here.

As for his situation—it didn’t look good at all, and he knew it. Still, he was determined to get out of this village before the Comanches could begin torturing him. Just how he was going to do that was yet to be seen. He had no weapons; didn’t even know where they were. Same with Beelzebub, though if it came down to it, he could as easily ride a Comanche pony if he had to. He’d miss the mule, of course, but that would be the least of his concerns. Without weapons, he was in serious trouble. That was the main problem, since he probably would have to fight his way out of here. For that he would need weapons to have any chance at all of success. And even if he didn’t have to battle his way out of the village, without weapons he would be in serious trouble out on the prairie. He would be unable to hunt, unable to defend himself if the Comanches came after him.

Then there was also the matter of his possibles. Most he could probably live without—even a few smaller necessities such as his folding knife and tobacco—though he did not relish the thought. But without his sleeping robe—or some stolen blankets—he would most likely freeze to death before he got more than twenty miles from here.

Barlow fell asleep after a while, worn out from his working over his situation in his mind, as well as from the residual pain from his head wound. When he awoke, his mind was clear, but his way out of here still was not.

He was hungry again, and he wondered if the Comanches were planning to starve him to death. That would be a hell of a way to die, he thought. But a couple of hours later, they brought in a bowl of the same type of buffalo stew as he had that morning, though he quickly found out this was considerably less tasty and mighty spare on the meat. He guessed that since the Comanches were going to kill him, they didn’t have to worry about feeding him.

When the boy of about twelve warily entered the lodge with the bowl of food, Barlow asked, “You speak English, boy?”

The boy gave him a quizzical look, which Barlow took to be a negative. The youth—who would, Barlow presumed, go on his first hunt and maybe even his first war party in the spring—set the bowl down a few feet from Barlow.

The white man jerked his arms to his side as far as he could and with his chin sort of pointed to the rope binding him.

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