Fear Weaver (17 page)

Fetid breath fanned Nate’s neck as Norton sought to sink his teeth into Nate’s throat.

Nate did the only thing he could think of; he smashed his head into Norton’s face. Cartilage crunched, and moist drops spattered Nate’s brow. Howling, Norton leaped back, shaking his head to clear it.

His arm a blur, Nate sank the tomahawk into the lunatic’s head.

Norton stiffened. Arms rigid, his eyelids fluttering, he tottered. His mouth worked, but no sounds came out. Like mud oozing down a rain-soaked slope, he slowly oozed to the ground. The convulsions he broke into were brief. A last strangled gasp was the last sound he ever made, and then the last of the madmen died.

But Nate wasn’t done yet. There was still the mad-woman to deal with.

Placing his foot on Norton’s chest, Nate gripped the tomahawk handle, and wrenched. He wiped the blade clean on the grass, then gathered his weapons and began to reload. He had finished with the Hawken and was about to load the flintlock when a shot cracked in the distance. On its heels, faint but unmistakable, came a scream.

Fear filling his breast, Nate raced for the cabin. He told himself that Agatha wouldn’t be foolish enough to open the door or undo the curtains, that she knew better than to put herself and Tyne at grave risk. But then he remembered the other times she hadn’t heeded his advice, and he pushed himself to run faster.

Branches tore at his buckskins. A low limb tried to gouge his eye. Nate plowed on, heedless of the cuts
and nicks. He had come a long way and it would take much too long to reach the cabin. By the time he got there, whatever had happened would be over.

Still, Nate didn’t slow. He ran until his lungs were fit to rupture and his legs throbbed with pain. He ran until he was caked with sweat from his hair to his toes, and on the verge of collapse. And then the cabin and the corral were only a dozen yards away.

Nate almost called out. But that would give him away. Slowing, he crept forward. The horses hadn’t been harmed or let loose, thank God. To be stranded afoot in the Rockies, the old trappers liked to say, was a surefire invite to an early grave.

Nate came to the front of the cabin, and froze. From inside came humming. A chill rippled down his spine. He had to will his legs to move.

The front door was closed, the curtains were still tied shut.

Muffled voices caused Nate’s heart to leap into his throat. At least one of them was still alive! He darted to the door, hunkered, and put his ear to it.

“—what you intend to do with us? And this time I would be grateful for an answer, if you don’t mind.”

Nate had rarely heard a sound as sweet as Agatha’s angry voice.

Philberta’s titter was laced with lunacy. “Here we go round the mulberry bush, the mulberry bush, the mulberry bush. Here we go round the mulberry bush, on a cold and frosty morning.”

“If I never hear another nursery rhyme for as long as I live, it will be too soon,” Aunt Aggie said.

“Rain, rain, go away, come again another day.”

“Damn you, Philberta. Enough is enough. Talk
plain and simple, not your gibberish. What do you intend to do?”

Nate heard Philberta laugh. Judging by the sounds, Agatha was over near the fireplace. Philberta was nearer.

“My, oh my. What a tart tongue you have, dear Aggie. And you always on your high horse about not swearing in front of the children.”

“So you can talk normally when you want to?”

“Billy, Billy come along and I will sing a pretty song.”

“Why have you tied me in this rocking chair?”

“The better to keep an eye on you, granny,” Philberta said, and snickered.

“I demand you cut me loose.”

“There was an old owl lived in an oak, wiskey, wasky, weedle. And all the words he ever spoke were fiddle, faddle, feedle.”

“Answer me another question,” Agatha prompted. “How is it you’re not as insane as your sons? You have lucid moments, do you not?”

“Are any of us ever lucid?” was Philberta’s response. “As for the why, I suspect it’s because they ate more of the thorn apples than I did. I liked the mushrooms better.”

Agatha suddenly asked in alarm, “What are you doing there? Take your hands off Tyne.”

Dread choked Nate’s breath in his throat. He gripped the latch and lightly lifted but the door wouldn’t open. The bar was in place.

“Didn’t you hear me!” Agatha cried. “It’s bad enough you hit her with that horse pistol. She’s lucky you didn’t split her head open.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t call it luck. She should come
around soon, and the moment she opens her eyes, I will send her to join her father and mother and sister.”

“Damn you, leave her be! Why are you dragging her toward the pantry?”

Nate didn’t wait to hear any more. He remembered what was in the pantry. Rising, he went to throw his shoulder against the door, but then he had a better idea. He darted to the window and compared its width to the width of his shoulders. He could make it. Taking half a dozen quick steps back, he set the Hawken down, lowered his head, and hurtled at the red curtains.

Inside the cabin, Tyne screamed.

Throwing his arms out in front of him, Nate dived through the window. The curtains proved no hindrance. They tore free under his weight and wrapped around his head and shoulders. He landed on his side, and rolled. For a few anxious moments he imagined Philberta about to shoot him as he struggled to free himself from the red folds, but when he cast them aside she was in the pantry, one arm around Tyne’s waist and the other at the girl’s throat, trying to hoist a struggling Tyne up and impale her on the meat hook.

“Nate!” Aunt Aggie cried. Ropes bound her wrists to the arms of the rocking chair and her ankles to the legs. Blood seeped from a bullet wound in her right shoulder.

Philberta saw him. A look of raw hate and crazed ferocity came over her. Suddenly screeching in rage, she lifted Tyne off the floor and turned her so Tyne’s back was to the meat hook.

“No!”
Nate flew toward the pantry.

“Mr. King!” Tyne wailed, kicking and twisting, tears streaming down her face. “She’s going to kill me!”

Not if Nate could help it. He was not aware of drawing his bowie but it was in his hand when he reached the pantry door.

Philberta couldn’t lift Tyne high enough. Suddenly flinging the girl against the shelves, she reached behind her. When her hand reappeared, she held the two blood-spattered knitting needles. “I’ve had enough of you!” she shrieked, and was on him in a whirlwind of flying arms and needles.

Parrying with the bowie, Nate gave way. He wanted Philberta out of the pantry and away from Tyne. His ploy worked. Snarling and hissing, Philberta came after him.

Nate retreated faster. He bumped into the table and shifted to dash around to the other side to put the table between him and Philberta. But she was too fast. A needle sliced into his arm. She raised her other arm to stab him in the face. That was when he drove the bowie into her chest, clear to the hilt. Philberta gasped, and threw her head back. The gasp became a gurgle as Nate twisted the blade, severing her heartstrings.

Philberta looked at him and the light of insanity faded from her eyes. Or so Nate thought until she said, “Little Bo-Peep has lost her sheep.” And then she was gone.

Nate pulled the bowie out and stepped back. Suddenly Tyne was there, throwing her arms around his legs and crying into his buckskins. “She’s gone,” Nate said. “It’s all right.” But it would never be completely all right for either of them, ever again.

Aunt Aggie cleared her throat. “When you two are ready, I am tired of sitting in this chair.”

Nate picked up Tyne and carried her over. A few strokes and the deed was done. Aggie took the girl in her arms and held her close, and together they walked out of the cabin into the clear bright light of day.