Chapter 17
Lyle Tate’s world narrowed to the biting pain of hemp rope around his wrists. His arms throbbed from being pulled behind a wooden post. His shoulders were screaming, and his muscles were quivering with every shift.
The Shoshone warriors hadn’t spared him a glance after dragging him to the center of their makeshift camp. Children stared as if he were some coyote caught in a trap. Now the fire crackled, sparks flicking into the darkening sky. Tate sat chained, bruised, and already plotting.
His lips were dry, split from earlier blows. He worked his tongue over the cuts, then spat into the dust, glaring at the figures across the fire.
“You think this’ll hold me?” he rasped. “I’ve chewed through tighter binds than this. You all act like you’ve won something.”
Black Wolf stepped closer, crouching until Tate could see the paint across his cheekbones and the glint of a bone knife at his belt. His voice was deep when he spoke to him. “You speak too much,” he said. “Better save breath. You will need it.”
Tate forced a smirk despite the swelling in his jaw. “Is that right? And what’s the plan? Beat me until I confess something? Kill me outright? You think that makes you better than Vanburgh?”
Red Hawk emerged from the shadows behind the fire. He was older, and his eyes were unforgiving. “No,” he said. “Not better. But not less, either. You brought poison to our water, fire to our hunting grounds, made our children sick. You are alive only because Hawk said so.”
Tate spat again, straining against the ropes. “Hawk’s a fool,” Tate replied. “He thinks he’s clever, dragging me out here. Just buying time before Vanburgh crushes him. And you? You’re wasting your chance. I’ve got information . . . plans, names. I could help you.”
Black Wolf’s gaze narrowed. “Help? Your tongue is a snake. Always moving. Always lying.”
A woman stepped into the firelight, her long braid tied with red cloth. She jabbed a finger toward him. “Kill him now,” she said. “Why wait? Why let his lies spread?”
Tate barked a laugh, leaning back against the post. “See? You’re scared. You wouldn’t be shouting for my blood if you weren’t.”
Her hand snapped across his cheek, sending his head reeling. Blood sprayed from his lip. Tate groaned, tasting grit.
“You hit like a mule,” he muttered.
Black Wolf seized his hair, jerking his head back to the sky. “Better than a bullet in the back,” he said. “We take time. You suffer. Then you tell truth.”
Tate forced another grin, though his jaw ached.
“Truth?” he asked. “You couldn’t handle the truth. Vanburgh’s coming, with more men than you can count. And when he does, you’ll wish you’d listened to me.”
Black Wolf shoved him away, and Tate sagged against the post.
Red Hawk stepped forward with his arms crossed. “Let him live,” he said. “For now. Poison in words, yes. But poison can teach. We will hear him. Then decide.”
“See?” Tate chuckled quietly. “Finally, someone who gets it. You keep me alive, I’ll tell you what you need.”
The woman hissed. “He lies.”
Black Wolf’s gaze flicked toward her. “Maybe. But lies show us who he is. Let him speak. Then, chains or fire . . . that is our way.”
“Keep me breathing, and I can tell you when Vanburgh’s men move,” Tate said, leaning forward despite the ropes. “Where they hide dynamite, how they plan to take Eagle Rock.”
“He will not save you,” the warrior said, glaring down at him. “No one saves you.”
“Maybe not,” Tate said, licking blood from his lip. “But if I go down, I’ll take every one of you with me. Kill me, and Vanburgh wipes this camp. Let me live, and maybe you get a chance to fight back.”
The woman struck him again, harder. His head snapped sideways.
“You think we fear death?” she asked. “We have already lost. My brother drank your poisoned water. He died with black lips. And you laugh.”
“I didn’t—”
“You did,” she spat. “You carried barrels. You took gold. You made choice.”
Red Hawk lifted a hand, silencing the camp. His gaze fixed on Tate, unreadable.
“You will speak,” he said. “Tomorrow, before sun. False words, and your blood feeds earth. True words, and maybe you live longer. That is all.”
Chains rattled as a warrior knelt, tightening the bonds around Tate’s ankle and fixing a heavy iron shackle to a post driven deep into the dirt. Tate cursed, thrashing.
“Damn you all! You can’t keep me like an animal!”
The warrior shoved him down. “Animal fights. You beg.”
Laughter rose from the shadows again, mocking. Tate’s cheeks burned hotter than the fire. Hours passed, and the camp settled into a rhythm. Meat was roasting, and the murmuring voices enveloped him. Tate sat bound as rage simmered in his chest.
He muttered to himself like a madman. “Hawk thinks he’s clever,” he said. “Thinks dumping me here solves his problems. He doesn’t know Vanburgh like I do. Vanburgh will come. He’ll come for me.”
“Vanburgh will not come,” Black Wolf said quietly. “He does not care. You are a tool, already broken. He leaves broken tools behind.”
The words hit harder than the blows. Tate’s smirk faltered completely. “You . . . you don’t know him,” he said, his voice wavering.
Red Hawk leaned back. “We know enough. And we know you. Sleep, snake-tongue. Tomorrow, truth will burn from you like fever.”
Tate knew the Shoshone would kill him if he stayed. Patience had run out. His mind raced as he twisted against the ropes binding him to the tree. Every shift sent a jolt of pain up his arms. It was now or never.
“You move too much,” a warrior hissed, club across his shoulder. “One wrong move and you’ll break your bones.”
“I don’t care,” Tate spat. Blood streaked his cheek. “I care about leaving alive. Think the ropes scare me? Wrong.”
The warrior’s eyes narrowed. “Black Wolf has patience, but it is not endless. Another word, another motion—”
“Another motion?” Tate pulled sharply at the ropes. Pain shot through his wrists. One more motion toward freedom.
A twig snapped behind him. Tate froze. This was it. Not one second of hesitation.
“I’m leaving,” he whispered. The ropes rattled. “There’s nothing you can do to stop it.”
A guard stepped closer with his knife drawn. “You think you can get away?”
“I already am,” Tate muttered, twisting the ropes again. Fibers groaned under the strain. Sweat and blood mixed on his skin.
The warrior lunged, club swinging. Tate ducked and rolled across the dirt. Pain flared up his arms. He sprang to his feet and scanned the shadows.
“You won’t escape!” another tribe member shouted.
“I already have,” Tate whispered. With a sudden jerk and twist, the ropes binding his wrists gave way. He snapped free from the tree. The metal shackle bit at his ankle, but it did not stop him.
The camp erupted. Men shouted. Sticks and knives clattered. Tate’s heart hammered. A thrown stone grazed his shoulder. He ignored it.
“You underestimate me!” he shouted, ducking beneath a branch. “I’ve survived worse. I always survive.”
“You think the chief will forgive this?” a guard shouted.
“Forgive me?” Tate snarled. “I don’t need forgiveness. I need to live. And I will.”
Another club grazed his shoulder. He rolled, ducking behind a fallen tree. The confusion of the camp worked in his favor. They hadn’t expected him to move this fast. They didn’t see him coming.
“You can’t escape the spirits,” a warrior hissed.
“The spirits don’t bind iron,” Tate muttered, pressing along the tree line. The shackle dragged behind him, clanging against rocks and roots. Pain shot through his leg with every step.
He slid into a shallow ravine. Spears and sticks whistled past. He twisted and rolled. Every move was calculated. One guard lunged. Tate spun, his elbow catching the man’s ribs. He sent him sprawling.
The rise ahead promised escape. A blade swung at his head and missed. Tate kicked a stone at the attacker’s feet and pressed on.
Dust swirled. Lungs burned.
“Stop! Don’t let him—” a guard screamed.
“Too late,” Tate muttered, ducking behind a boulder. He counted four pursuers. The rest were too far to reach him quickly.
A spear grazed his arm, burning through his sleeve. Another club whistled past. Tate rolled like his life depended on it. And it did.
Two guards tried to flank him. Tate dove into a narrow gap between rocks, crawling low. One knife cut shallow into his leg. He rolled again and reached for the nearest weapon.
When he found some loose debris on the ground, he sent it into their faces. They staggered. He darted into thicker underbrush.
“Where is he?” a warrior shouted. “He cannot—”
“He moves like the wind!” another cried.
Tate pressed deeper into the trees. His shackle was dragging. Every branch and root was a threat he dodged.
Another tribe member lunged from the shadows. Tate sidestepped and used all his strength to send his shoulder into the man’s stomach. The momentum pushed him forward through the trees. He sprinted the last stretch to a ridge opening onto scrubland beyond.
Tate looked back once. The camp behind him swarmed with shouts and curses. Firelight flickered.
He dropped into the shadows beyond the ridge. The shackle dug into his ankle with every step. Then he vanished into the trees.