Read Online The High Rocks by Loren D. Estleman - Free Book Online
Authors: Loren D. Estleman
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they were missing was their scalps.
I swung out of my saddle, holding onto the reins to keep the mare from galloping away in its panic. The snow was trampled with footprints. One, a blurred oval such as a fur boot might leave, was nearly large enough for me to stand in with both feet. At first I thought it was a normal print that had grown with the melting of the snow around it, but then I found more of them and I remembered.
I tethered the horse to a juniper bush, pulled off a glove, and squatted to feel for a pulse at the throat of the Indian lying nearest me. The snow was no
colder than his flesh. In his abdomen he sported a hole identical to the one in Brainardâs chest. I inspected the others. Same story, although the holes werenât always in the same place. One of the Indians, a crawler, had a second wound in the back of his head, puckered with powder bums, as if his killer had walked right up to him and placed the muzzle against his skull before pulling the trigger. This time Mountain That Walks had left no one to tell the tale.
My first intimation that I wasnât alone with the corpses came when I heard a squeaking footfall in the snow behind me. I swung around, drawing my gun.
âA mistake, white skin.â The words were grunted rather than spoken, as though torn from a throat that had not used the language in years.
The way out of the pines was sealed off by a semi-circle of mottled horses, astride the bare backs of which sat a dozen fur-clad riders whose features looked oddly alike within the frames of their shaggy head pieces. Their hair was long and black and arranged in braids hanging down onto their chests, their eyes black slits in the glare of the minimal sunlight coming off the fresh snow. They were the corpses on the ground around me come to life. The only difference was that each of them was armed with a carbine, and that every one was trained on me. Almost every one.
The one that wasnât was slung over the shoulder of the Indian in the center, the one who had spoken. This one had a moon face, fleshy for a brave, in which not a crease or a wrinkle showed, making it look like a childâs India rubber balloon with features painted on it. The impression of lifelessness was carried further by the fact that the face wore no expression at all. His mouth was bland, his eyes like dollâs eyes and without brows. They watched me unblinkingly. For all its emptiness, though, the face carried more of a threat than the scowling visages of his companions with weathered rifle stocks pressed against their cheeks and index fingers poised around the triggers.
I returned the Colt to its holster. I needed no more convincing to know that Iâd wandered into a trap set by Rocking Wolf, nephew of Two Sisters and next chief of the Flathead nation.
5
F or two beats after I put away the gun, no one moved. We might have been snow sculptures in that lonely glade. Then, at a signal from Rocking Wolf, the brave mounted at his right lowered his gun and trotted over to me, where he sat looking down at me with an expectant scowl.
âYou will surrender your weapons,â directed the Indian in command. His English was ponderous but correct.
Thinking that it was becoming increasingly difficult for me to hold onto a firearm, I unbuckled my gun belt and handed it up to the brave. There was another long silence while his eyes searched me from head to foot. At length they settled upon the hilt of the knife protruding above the top of my right boot. The scowl became ominous. I stopped, drew the knife from its sheath, and gave it to him, handle first.
While the brave had been engaged in disarming me, Rocking Wolf had nodded again, this time to a savage at his left, who swung past my skitterish mount and hooked the Henry out of its scabbard, then tossed it to his superior. Rocking Wolf caught it in one hand and examined it perfunctorily. With a shrug he handed it to another brave.
âI do not
I swung out of my saddle, holding onto the reins to keep the mare from galloping away in its panic. The snow was trampled with footprints. One, a blurred oval such as a fur boot might leave, was nearly large enough for me to stand in with both feet. At first I thought it was a normal print that had grown with the melting of the snow around it, but then I found more of them and I remembered.
I tethered the horse to a juniper bush, pulled off a glove, and squatted to feel for a pulse at the throat of the Indian lying nearest me. The snow was no
colder than his flesh. In his abdomen he sported a hole identical to the one in Brainardâs chest. I inspected the others. Same story, although the holes werenât always in the same place. One of the Indians, a crawler, had a second wound in the back of his head, puckered with powder bums, as if his killer had walked right up to him and placed the muzzle against his skull before pulling the trigger. This time Mountain That Walks had left no one to tell the tale.
My first intimation that I wasnât alone with the corpses came when I heard a squeaking footfall in the snow behind me. I swung around, drawing my gun.
âA mistake, white skin.â The words were grunted rather than spoken, as though torn from a throat that had not used the language in years.
The way out of the pines was sealed off by a semi-circle of mottled horses, astride the bare backs of which sat a dozen fur-clad riders whose features looked oddly alike within the frames of their shaggy head pieces. Their hair was long and black and arranged in braids hanging down onto their chests, their eyes black slits in the glare of the minimal sunlight coming off the fresh snow. They were the corpses on the ground around me come to life. The only difference was that each of them was armed with a carbine, and that every one was trained on me. Almost every one.
The one that wasnât was slung over the shoulder of the Indian in the center, the one who had spoken. This one had a moon face, fleshy for a brave, in which not a crease or a wrinkle showed, making it look like a childâs India rubber balloon with features painted on it. The impression of lifelessness was carried further by the fact that the face wore no expression at all. His mouth was bland, his eyes like dollâs eyes and without brows. They watched me unblinkingly. For all its emptiness, though, the face carried more of a threat than the scowling visages of his companions with weathered rifle stocks pressed against their cheeks and index fingers poised around the triggers.
I returned the Colt to its holster. I needed no more convincing to know that Iâd wandered into a trap set by Rocking Wolf, nephew of Two Sisters and next chief of the Flathead nation.
5
F or two beats after I put away the gun, no one moved. We might have been snow sculptures in that lonely glade. Then, at a signal from Rocking Wolf, the brave mounted at his right lowered his gun and trotted over to me, where he sat looking down at me with an expectant scowl.
âYou will surrender your weapons,â directed the Indian in command. His English was ponderous but correct.
Thinking that it was becoming increasingly difficult for me to hold onto a firearm, I unbuckled my gun belt and handed it up to the brave. There was another long silence while his eyes searched me from head to foot. At length they settled upon the hilt of the knife protruding above the top of my right boot. The scowl became ominous. I stopped, drew the knife from its sheath, and gave it to him, handle first.
While the brave had been engaged in disarming me, Rocking Wolf had nodded again, this time to a savage at his left, who swung past my skitterish mount and hooked the Henry out of its scabbard, then tossed it to his superior. Rocking Wolf caught it in one hand and examined it perfunctorily. With a shrug he handed it to another brave.
âI do not
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