The Scalp Hunters by David Thompson Page A

wouldn’t lose any sleep if they were. They never had seen eye to eye on much.
    Take that slavery business. The reverend had thundered every Sunday from the pulpit about how downtrodden the blacks in the South were and how vile slavery was and how the abominable institution should be abolished. He wanted Rubicon to join the Anti-Slavery Society, but Rubicon refused.
    â€œHave you no conscience, boy?” his father once asked. “Your skin is the same color as theirs. They’re your brothers and your sisters. We must do what we can to ease their plight.”
    Rubicon had laughed. “Ma only ever gave birthto me. I don’t have any brothers or sisters. As for my skin, a bay horse is the same color as a black bear. That’s doesn’t mean the horse should let the bear eat it.”
    â€œYou make no sense.”
    It did to Rubicon. He saw his color as an accident of birth. He could just as well have been born white or red or yellow. So what if other blacks were used as slaves. He wasn’t, and the only one in his world that mattered was him.
    Rubicon remembered how upset his father had been, and grinned. The reverend and his high-and-mighty ways. Always claiming to be right about everything because he lived by the Bible.
    That was another thing Rubicon could go the rest of his days without. He had been sick to death of his father always quoting from Scripture. If he had heard “thou shall not” one more time, he would have screamed.
    Once more Rubicon grinned, but it promptly faded. He had found where his quarry stopped to rest. Dismounting, he squatted beside a hoofprint and pinched some of the dirt between his thumb and index finger. He reckoned he was an hour behind, maybe a little less.
    Hefting his rifle, Rubicon climbed on his horse and used his heels. Venom’s orders were to track them but not show himself. He must wait for the others to catch up. Venom claimed it was for his own safety, but Rubicon wasn’t fooled. Venom wanted to be in on the catch and the kill.
    The tracks continued to the west. Rubicon figured they were making for the foothills. The timbered slopes might seem to offer them sanctuary, but they were fools if they thought they could shake him.When he was on a trail he was like a hound on a scent. He never gave up. He’d follow them to the ends of the earth, if that was what it took to bring them to bay.
    Rubicon rose in the stirrups and scanned the horizon. There was no sign of them. He must be careful not to get too close until after the sun went down or they might spot him.
    His rifle across his saddle, Rubicon rode at a leisurely pace. He came to a gully and went down it and up the other side. Beyond were more, an erosionworn maze that would slow the white girl and her friends. Their tracks led down into another and along the bottom.
    Rubicon wondered about those friends of hers. He’d never run across Indians who dyed their buckskins green. Mostly, Indians wore ordinary buckskins, or breechclouts like the Apaches sometimes did.
    The tracks led around a bend.
    Rubicon was almost to it when his horse pricked its ears. Instantly, he drew rein. He listened, but all he heard was the long grass whispering in the breeze.
    Alighting, Rubicon let the reins dangle and cat-footed to the bend. A familiar tingle rippled down his spine, a sensation he felt when danger was about to break over him like a wave over a beach. He checked the right rim and the left rim.
    A bee buzzed about a flower.
    Rubicon crouched, every sense straining. He noted that his shadow was behind him and wouldn’t give him away when he crept forward. As silently as a stalking cat, he edged around the bend. No one was there. Rubicon started to lower his rifle.
    â€œStand as still as can be,” said the white girl’s voice, “or so help me God I’ll blow out your wick.”
    Venom’s anger grew to where he abruptly drew rein and wheeled his mount. His company