An Uncommon Woman

by Laura Frantz

  Bent on the smokehouse, she took a step toward the open cabin door when the hard, shuddering thwack of an axe stopped her. The thud had an odd sound unlike her brothers’ wood chopping. The jarring thwack came again, right outside the door. It sent her back a step. A dark form filled the doorway that had been so flooded with light but a second before. It reminded her of an eagle’s shadow in passing. Her bare skin turned to gooseflesh.

  A lone Indian looked at her, tomahawk in hand, one moccasined foot clearing the threshold. His eyes were like flints in his lean face. Half his features were swathed red, the other half painted black. A bold paw print—a wolf’s?—marked his left cheek. The garish display nearly tore a scream from her throat.

  He circled behind her, the hard thwack against the cabin’s outer logs continuing. He’d not come alone then.

  Lord, spare us.

  Her legs twitched. She fought the impulse to run like a rabbit before a red-tailed hawk. Slowly, the intruder prowled through the cabin, poking at this or that with his tomahawk. A string of dried beans rustled like a rattler. A basket of cleaned wool was emptied. With one menacing sweep of a tawny arm, their prized salt-glaze pitcher tumbled from its mantel perch and shattered with a fearsome clatter.

  Her back pressed against the cold hearthstones, Tessa watched him, riveted to his tomahawk. If she turned her back to him, mightn’t she find that terrible weapon sunk into her scalp? She had no means to fight with but an iron poker. Her rifle rested nearer the Indian than she.

  The warrior passed outside the cabin, taking her rifle with him. Woozy, she leaned into the trestle table, Pa’s fate taking hold of her afresh. God was here. God was near. Yet terror held the firmest grip.

  Clenching her shaking hands, she looked at the steaming pot ready for the mush she’d been about to make. Outside, the tomahawk throwing continued, accompanied by loud, wrathful voices. Would they hack the cabin to pieces?

  The wolf-marked Indian was at the doorway again, a hand on the hilt of his scalping knife. Tessa turned her back to him against her will, dumped the cornmeal she’d ground into the waiting pot, and stirred it, as she would have done had she been making supper for her brothers.

  Would she meet a bitter end before this hot hearth?

  Excruciating moments ticked by, the mush finally made. Raising a hand, she pushed back a strand of damp hair before heaving the pot off the crane and moving toward the door. Bypassing the Indian, she now faced nearly a dozen outside. They regarded her with steely silence, their painted features and ready weapons nearly buckling her knees.

  An empty sugar trough rested at the edge of the garden. She set the pot down and turned into the springhouse, a squat Indian following. When she emerged with a crock of milk, he poked a finger into the creamy top and tasted it, shadowing her as she poured the mush into the waiting trough. Thick and hot, it spread down the length of the wooden vessel in a pale stream, then mixed with the milk she poured next. Setting her jaw against her rising panic, she went back into the cabin to fetch molasses and spoons.

  She knew her brothers. Surely these redmen were the same. A full stomach was far better than an empty one. Her very life depended on it. Hardly aware of what she did, she handed each Indian a spoon before adding molasses to the trough of mush. Were these men Shawnee? Wyandot? Lenape? Stepping back, she dredged up one of the few words Keturah had taught her.

  “Mitsi.” Eat.

  The warriors’ watchful intensity switched to momentary surprise. Again every eye was upon her.

  “A-i,” one brave uttered. What that meant she did not know.

  She gestured to the steaming trough. They soon ringed it, dipping their spoons with relish. All seemed hungry, even famished. When one grew especially greedy, he received a rap on the head with a tall Indian’s spoon and a terse warning, as if he’d violated some rule of Indian decorum. Unbidden, Tessa felt a beat of amusement.

  At a whippoorwill’s trill on the path to the fields, a fresh fear overtook her. If her brothers came into the clearing . . . Though she’d delayed the danger, she couldn’t shake the certainty something dire was coming. Some soul-crushing moment where both the past and the future would be forever altered.

  The trough emptied. The spoons were dropped onto the ground. The warriors were all looking at her again as if silently deciding her fate. One gave a shrill war whoop, turning away the instant Ross came around the barn.

  Dear Lord, not Ross!

  “Run!” She took a step toward him only to collide with the tall Indian, who blocked her way. With a practiced ease, he slipped a cord around her wrists, bound her hands behind her back, and pulled the rawhide so tight she winced.

  Ross came on, straight toward her. As if he could help her. Save her. His rifle was in one hand, the barrel pointed at the ground. What could he do against so many Indians? She well knew what they might do to him.

  Something more than these warriors had bleached his face the hue of new linen. Her gaze fell from his stricken expression to his shirt. A scarlet stain covered one sleeve, another splash of scarlet across the shirt’s front. Was he hurt? Nay.

  Another brother.

  Had the Indians come upon Jasper and Zadock in the fields before coming here? She saw no dangling scalps. Two Indians strode toward Ross, one wresting the gun from his grasp. Ross let it go without protest, his odd gaze still on her. He was trying to keep peace, protect her, not provoke them into a fury.

  Her voice broke. “What about the others?”

  He shook his head as if unwilling to say. Or so eaten up with grief he could not. His scarlet shirt bespoke much. He stood still as he was put in a neck noose, his hands bound like hers.

  Two braves entered the smokehouse and emerged with a ham and other provisions. At that instant she was shoved from behind, past the garden and around the back of the springhouse and into the woods. One look back at Ross earned her another shove, this time so hard she nearly fell. In the melee of the moment came the distressed whinny of horses. They were her brothers’ prize mounts, now being rounded up by the Indians.

  Their party waded through the shallow water, her stockings and shoes sodden, the hem of her skirt making walking a chore. If her hands were free she’d leave a trail, bits of fabric from her threadbare apron, along the way. As it was she could only press her heels deep into the ground once they left the water to try to mark her hasty passage. A broken branch here, a trampled flower there.

  The Indians were having trouble with the horses, high-strung mounts, all but Blossom. Tessa could see the concern in their dark faces as they attempted to curb the stomping, rearing animals. One brave mounted and was thrown. With no bridles or saddles or even a whip, the most that could be done was drive them forward till they tired. The stony creek bed soon bore the harsh clatter of hooves.

  The tall Indian seemed to have charge of her. He led the party, his stride strong and purposeful. His muscled, swarthy skin bore a sheen of something rank, some grease. Bear fat. Coupled with the hot air, the strong smell spiked her wooziness. She tried to match his pace. Her life depended on it.

  Clay, Clay.

  Never far from her thoughts, he’d been all but forgotten in the nightmare of the last half hour.

  Lord, help him get to us. We might have a chance if Clay came . . .

  For now, Ross consumed her, his stricken face betokening some unspeakable grief. Deep in her spirit she sensed at least one of her brothers was with Pa. Not knowing who plunged her into the blackest pit, her mind and heart racked with angst.

  Their party vanished over the brow of the hill that marked the boundary of Swan land, pressing farther west than she had ever been before. Up creeks and streambeds that left no trail, past waterfalls spilling from clifftops like a giant pitcher poured from on high, through laurel thickets she could not admire and ripe whortleberries she could not pick. Once, her foot caught on a grapevine and she stumbled, nearly pitching headlong into the tall Indian. He turned midstride, never slowing, his look forbidding. She’d oft he
ard the tragic penalty for falling behind, for slowing them in their dash to distance themselves from any settlers in pursuit.

  In time they mounted the horses, which were now trail worn. Bareback, she missed her familiar saddle. Strength ebbing, she clung to Blossom’s mane to help anchor her atop the unforgiving ground.

  These red warriors were untiring, taking to the heights like goats. One of their party scouted ahead to inform them of danger, one behind to watch any approach from the rear. The bony ridge was dry, the sun pulling to the west and throwing a veil of gossamer light over the unbroken forest below. She tasted dust, her throat so dry she could hardly swallow. That beloved spicy-sweet scent of autumn had taken hold, but now it held a bitter taint. She rode toward the setting sun, dazed, winded, and disbelieving.

  ’Twas milking time, that sweet, earthy half hour atop her small stool, head pressed against the cow’s warm side, the noisy stream of white steady inside the dark pail. But here and now they were making a sort of rest stop beside a miserly trickle of creek due to some fuss about a gun.

  Ready to drop from exhaustion, Tessa leaned against her mount, eyes burning from too much sun and dust, finding no solace in the spectacle before her. Ross stepped up to the Indian with the broken musket, taking the weapon in hand like it was his own, his rapt expression an aggravation to Tessa.

  Tears of fury blurred her view. Long minutes ticked by, followed by some tinkering, and then a pleased grunt and unintelligible word signaled the stolen weapon was fixed. The surrounding Indians eyed Ross with unmistakable respect. New interest. Her beleaguered spirits simmered. ’Twas the first time in memory she’d been vexed by her brother’s resourceful bent as he helped the very Indians who might have killed Pa, who no doubt had dispatched another Swan this very day, who might well strike them down next. Turning, she spat into the dirt, earning a wicked glance from the wolfish warrior.

  29

  The field of winter wheat was sun-drenched and silent, the heated August air already blackened by buzzards. Wolves would be next, yet Clay had no time to think about a burial. His aim was to get to the Swan cabin even as horror slowed him at the spectacle of death right here. Two of the Swans’ horses had been killed in the harness, their unwieldy bodies collapsed atop untilled ground. A severe struggle had played out, a brave fight. The upturned earth and shattered gunstock led him to Jasper’s broken body, a wad of black hair still clenched in one callused fist.

  While armed men took care of the burial, Clay raced to Swan Station with a small company of settlement men, Westfall included. As Bolt jumped a split-rail fence and came down hard, Clay tried to brace himself for the wrench of what was yet to come. Cyrus had escaped when the Indians struck in the field, running to alert the fort while Ross backtracked to the Swan cabin. No telling what had transpired with Tessa and her other brothers.

  A breathless dread spiked as Clay drew nearer the homestead. No smoke curled above the tree line where the cabin and outbuildings lay. The place was as silent as the field. His restless gaze swept the clearing for any carnage. The open smokehouse door foretold raiding. Jude cautiously looked inside, the shake of his head negating a closer look.

  The ground at the cabin and corral bore a great many moccasin and hoof prints, leaving off toward the westernmost woods. But the trail was quickly washed away in the creek. A few deeply placed heel marks leading to the water’s edge confirmed his suspicions that Tessa and at least one other had been taken captive, the horses stolen.

  Zadock roamed about with a loaded rifle, calling for Tessa in that wrenching way a bereaved brother would, as if expecting to come upon her body as he had his fallen brother.

  Clay studied the disturbed ground that led into the woods. “Let’s waste no more time.”

  No telling when he’d return to Fort Tygart. Though the fort was weakened in the absence of even a few men, more prey to attack, they had a formidable supply of powder and bullet lead.

  Clay pressed upward, leaving the valley, knowing the raiders would eventually take to the heights, where travel was easiest and ambush unlikely. The search party followed with a frightful noise. He half wished he was alone and could overtake the Indians, pick them off one by one from the rear in a silent, deadly pursuit. Yet this might well spell death for Tessa. ’Twas a treacherous chase. Even the best plan might fail, the outcome tragic and irreversible.

  His gut churned, that odd breathlessness causing a sharp twinge to his ribs. Fear cut into him, never so personal as now. Not since the attack on his own homestead so long ago, the tattered memories jumbled into a tight knot he couldn’t unravel, had he been so jolted. He felt naked. Exposed. Nearly helpless. Everyone here knew how he felt about her. Their hand holding and walks within fort walls, the heaven-sent day they’d spent berry picking outside them, bespoke much. And even now they were watching to see his reaction if the worst happened.

  Though these men didn’t know his underlying fight with what Maddie called the lie, they knew he loved Tessa. And she had been wrenched from his life as surely as if his loving her had propelled her there, proving once again that whatever he set his heart upon was shattered.

  Almighty God, please.

  The brokenness that had begun inside him long ago, only half mended, now fractured anew. As he rode at a furious pace, all manner of things flew through his head till he seemed naught but a barrel rolled downhill, every bump and crash jarring loose a tormenting possibility. Scalping. Burning. Worse.

  A man can only take so much.

  Spent, he finally paused at a spring to let Bolt drink. Precious moments ticked by, each widening the distance between himself and Tessa. He could only imagine her fear, her shock. Her captors were traveling fast, leaving little trail, and intent on putting the wide Ohio River between them. Only then would the chase slow on the Indians’ part.

  Still they pressed on, the ridge showcasing a spectacular crimson sunset that was lost on him. Soon darkness would overtake them, and they must eat. Rest the horses. Mayhap split ranks if warranted.

  When the time came, Jude dropped to his haunches beside Clay as the horses were watered and the men ate from pouches of jerky and meal.

  “Been ridin’ hard now for hours.” Jude wiped his brow with one of Maddie’s neatly sewn handkerchiefs. “You’ve had plenty of time to think things through. What’s the gist of it?”

  “A war party of ten or twelve. Lenape, likely. Tessa among them. Thank God we’ve come upon no corpses.” Clay swallowed, too bestirred to take the jerky from Jude’s outstretched hand. “They’re traveling fast, mayhap all night. They might divide at some point, try to fool us, or lie in wait and ambush us.”

  Jude expelled a heavy breath. “I hate to ask, but do you think . . .”

  Clay nodded. Tamanen. He wouldn’t speak his name. Not without it leaving a bitter taste.

  Lord, let me be wrong.

  But in his spirit he believed the Swans were marked by their association with him, that somehow Keturah was a part of that. No doubt Tamanen wanted to cut short any chance of happiness Clay had in future, that his rage at the whites was at its most personal in seeking revenge for Clay’s turning against the people who had raised him. Whom he’d betrayed by not returning to them when he had the chance.

  “Don’t think overmuch,” Jude said. “Just pray and keep followin’ hard after them.”

  The misery of the moment was so acute that Tessa swung between fury and fear. When she could not take another step without a drink of water, a bubbling rage made her nearly shout at her captor’s tawny back, “Mënihi.” Give me a drink.

  ’Twas what Keturah had said to them early on, before she recalled the white words. Tessa’s strangled demand brought a halt to their frenzied pace, the wolf-marked warrior turning to regard her with a menacing gaze that faded to cold irritation. Her own ire darkened to sorrow when he removed a strap from about his neck and thrust at her a flask she knew all too well.

  Jasper’s. Had it been just this morning she’d made him switchel?
Though the drink was quenching, it still hurt to swallow. Her oldest brother was no more. Deep in her spirit she knew. If she’d grasped this day was to be his last, she would have embraced him when she’d handed him the flask, taken a long look at him in the golden haze of daybreak, made sure there were no lingering hard feelings between the two of them.

  With effort, she swallowed a second mouthful, then hung the flask around her own neck before the steady gaze of the wolfish warrior. Would he jerk it free? With a small smirk, he faced forward, studying the sky and giving her a moment to glance back, seeking Ross. He was at the rear of the column, looking as haggard as she felt. Her heart twisted anew, her earlier aggravation long gone. She yearned to go to him, comfort him. Free him. The neck noose cut into his skin, making a circlet of blood about his throat. If he fell he was in danger of being dragged by the horse in front and trampled by the one behind, both the most excitable of the Swan mounts.

  Near full dark they came down from the ridge to the forest floor. Here the Indians spoke in low, quick exclamations as if agreeing on a camp for the night. She dropped to the ground, her petticoats cushioning her near fall. Across from her, Ross sat beneath a bent willow, brambles and briars raising red welts on his exposed skin. He was missing a shoe, his bare foot raw. Her own shoes had rubbed blisters, but in her dazed state she was only now aware of the throbbing ache.

  The tall Indian bent to untie her hands, another doing the same with Ross. She passed the flask to Ross, stumbling over a root in her weariness. Though the desire to run was strong, they hadn’t the strength to get away. As if sensing this, their captors treated them almost carelessly, tossing them a pouch of parched corn while they feasted on the smokehouse stealings, turning their backs to examine the guns they’d taken.

  She had no appetite, yet without food she could not endure another day’s journey. Her mouth worked slowly, finding the maize strange and dry. Before the third swallow she fell into an uneasy sleep, head pillowed on her arm.