An Uncommon Woman

by Laura Frantz

  She awakened to Ross holding a bayoneted musket, head bent as he examined what looked like a broken hammer. The wayward cub! Would he continue to help those who might well fire the musket at him when fixed? Or stab him with the bayonet? The urge to cry out for him to stop was once again stifled by sheer, jaw-clenching will. On he worked as daylight eroded, the Indians observing closely as he repaired the old gun.

  She lay still, eyes closed, trying to grasp for the good amid the bad. How thankful she was not to lie on cold winter ground. Though the snow might leave a plainer trail, bitter weather might be as dangerous as the tomahawks and scalping knives glinting in the last of daylight. In winter food was scarce, blankets hard to come by . . .

  When the wolves began to howl, she awoke again. Around her Indians slept, dark, still lumps in the moonlit night. Two stood watch. If her feet weren’t bound, she’d try to flee. Jump atop one of their horses hobbled nearby. As it was, she could only slap at insects bedeviling her as she lay. Ross was just across from her, tied to a tree, head lolled onto his chest in slumber.

  In and out of sleep threaded one unceasing thought. Clay, come to me.

  Was he even now on their trail? Had he been the one to bury Jasper? Her heart could hardly hold the weight of it. Pa had been too much. Just when they’d begun to make a sort of peace with his empty chair, the pipe and tools and clothes remaining, now this. Yet her life, their lives, were made up of a thousand little losses. Even Keturah’s leaving and Ma’s remarrying were losses too, holding more sadness than joy, leaving a lonesome place. Some said ’twas the way of the frontier, to take and take again. She’d never make peace with that. Wouldn’t life on the Monongahela be the same? Wasn’t the city safer? If Clay was beside her . . .

  Life with Clay would be different, aye, because he was different, so far apart from the ragged-edged frontiersmen she’d known. Somehow his Indianness and his whiteness melded to form an experienced, honed survivor of both worlds. Much like Keturah, he was a breed apart, the best of both worlds.

  Holding that close, she slept, only to be awakened before daybreak as they took to the trail again, this time at a breakneck pace as if the Indians sensed someone was overtaking them. There was no denying the spiked tension, the heightened wariness. She was equally aware of the Indians’ capacity for sudden violence. Short-tempered, almost childlike in their impatience, they had little tolerance for any show of weakness.

  The woods spun by, the autumn smells and sounds of the forest a brittle blur. They were on horseback again, sparing her blistered feet, but her old homespun dress and stockings were being torn to pieces by briars and brambles as they raced on headlong. Morning became afternoon, and their arduous pace began to tell on the horses. Lathered, stumbling, they kept on, but her mare threw her once. Her body was jarred anew by the tumble, which earned her another menacing look.

  In time they descended onto a flat plain where buffalo wallowed. A river spread before them, bluer and wider than she’d ever seen. ’Twas more than a river, more a great divide between the world she’d known and the world yet to be. They paused on the bank of a rock-strewn stream that fed into that tremendous river. The Indians were excited now, as if they’d accomplished something by coming here.

  She slumped across Blossom’s neck, fingers digging into the coarse mane. Ross was on his feet just ahead of her, several warriors talking and gesturing as they ringed him. He looked toward her, one bare foot in the water. His linen shirt was little more than a dirty gray rag, his britches no better. Dark hair lay lank about his shoulders, a startling contrast to the Indians’ scalp locks and dangling feathers. Her brother looked small. Bewildered. Beyond weary.

  The leader gave a thrust of his hand northward. The horses were divided, her brother tied on the mount Jasper had favored. Ross did not look back. Slowly he crossed the stream, and her heart cleaved in two.

  With a little cry, she slid off her horse and began a clumsy run toward him.

  If he left, if they were parted—

  A hard hand spun her around. The tall Indian loomed over her, his painted face so near she smelled his fetid breath. “Ikih!” The commanding word held a warning. He jerked her toward her horse, lifting her onto its broad back, and they were on their way west, not northward like Ross and the warriors with him.

  Down the bank she went, plunging into the river’s cold, the current soaking her skirts. There were but six of them now, she at the center. ’Twas getting harder to stay atop her mount. At the end of her endurance, she began to lose hope.

  They climbed the opposite bank, the hoofprints seeming of no consequence now that they’d come such a great distance. Her impressions blurred as they climbed another ridge and then descended into yet another forested valley. Fainting or sleeping, she fell off her horse once . . . twice. They tied her back on with wild grapevine.

  No grief had been so great as this separation from Ross. Greater than Pa. Than Jasper. Had she not tended him more than Ma? Watched over him, rocked him, soothed him day in and day out when he was little, then delighted in his company when grown?

  Stars marked their passage, and a great harvest moon. They pressed on to unknown parts, her hopes unraveling before eroding completely, her prayers unanswered.

  30

  Though passable riflemen and hardy farmers, the rescue party was slowing him. Harassed by worries of their own homeplaces, their mounts plodding rather than pursuing, they looked to Clay for guidance, for success, and thus far they’d met with one obstacle after another. Two horses were lamed, provisions had been lost in a river crossing, a gun had misfired and injured a hand, and one man was fevered.

  At this tempo the Indians would soon outdistance them. Reining in at a salt lick, Clay faced the wearied party. If he was to recover Tessa and Ross, even own a chance at such, he’d have to go ahead of them.

  “I’m going to press on with you at my back as fast as you can travel. Jude is a master tracker and won’t lead you astray. If there’s any question as to your whereabouts or mine, fire a single shot, but only one lest the Indians come down on you. I may be close enough to hear it. One way or another, Lord willing, we’ll reunite.”

  “How far ahead do you think the war party is?” one man asked.

  “A few miles, by my reckoning. We’re close to losing their trail, but I aim to pick it up again.” With that he wheeled round and set off as if breaking a restraint, only Jude realizing his desperation to be free of them.

  His pursuit, the coming confrontation, was about far more than recovering Tessa and Ross. It bore a personal grudge, a festering, that would likely end in the death of himself or Tamanen. He felt to his bones his Lenape brother had been the one to wreak havoc at Swan Station, his killing Jasper and capturing Tessa as close to injuring Clay as he could come. Indian grudges went deep, but so did white. He’d borne Tamanen no ill will till now. And he understood the depth of Tamanen’s success in this. Bringing back a white captive—not just any white woman, but one who was affianced to Clay—bore highest honors. And Tessa might burn because of it.

  The noon sun was hottest atop the rocky ridge, and a copper snake coiled in his path, then slithered away at the beat of Bolt’s hooves. Fear clawed a new hole in him as he lost the trail and then picked it up again in a shadowed draw, pausing to examine a piece of linen no bigger than a flint. A scrap of apron?

  Tessa.

  Unbound and on horseback, no doubt, and clever enough to leave sign of her own. He clutched the fabric in one fist and kept on, eyes stinging beneath the brim of his sweat-stained hat. Blessedly iron shod, the Swan horses left undeniable traces yet were remarkably swift. He’d have to press Bolt beyond anything he’d required of him yet if he was to overtake the war party. And if Bolt wore out, threw a shoe, or was lamed . . .

  Clay left a buffalo trace and traveled a burned section of forest before reaching a tributary of the mighty Ohio. Here a scuffle seemed to have occurred, the hoof prints deep, the party dividing. Dismounting and allowing Bolt a drink,
Clay scanned the opposite shore, knowing he was an easy target in the open. Indecision warred inside him. Which way?

  God in heaven, help Thou me.

  The wrong path could prove fatal to them all. He dropped to one knee on the stony bank, bent his head in a plea for direction. The hot wind shook the trees overhead, the cicadas raucous.

  He mounted Bolt and started into the water, holding his gun high overhead in case of another mishap. His gaze narrowed to the opposite shore, hope rising in his chest.

  There, on a sticker bush at the wood’s edge, was another tendril of cloth. His heart lurched. Tessa. Still alive. Still able to leave a remnant of their swift journey, providing clear direction as to which way she had gone. The sign was nothing short of miraculous, somehow escaping her captors’ unwavering scrutiny and confirming the trail he must take. He broke through the brush with renewed haste, his confidence seeming to spur Bolt on as well.

  Was their reunion almost at hand? Any wrong move on his part might prove disastrous. He was one man against what looked to be five or better. He could get a couple of strategic shots off that might let her get out of harm’s way before he reloaded and took aim at the rest. It helped that she had that frontier quick-wittedness, one of many reasons he admired her. Her life depended on his response—and hers.

  He ducked to escape a low-hanging branch, his thoughts crammed full of her even as his gaze swept the forest floor. Time had never been so precious. He needed to find her, hold her tight. Take her to Fort Pitt out of ruination’s way and marry her. Resign his post. He ached with the weight of his love for her and the uncertainty of the moment.

  The sunset was a crimson smear, the murmur of thunder distant. Coming to the bottom of a gorge crisscrossed with fallen timber, he inched past a noisy waterfall, leaving Bolt hobbled out of sight. A high, sharp whinny of another horse sent him to his knees. It had come from just over the rise as it led out of the gorge. Crouching low, he moved upward, higher, his breath coming in repressed bursts, the hungry hours honing his senses.

  His aim must be true.

  The bay horse’s high whinny overrode the murmur of thunder. Tessa’s worn senses sharpened even as her guard shoved her down behind a laurel bush, her face to the earth. Around her the other Indians quickly took cover, weapons pointed toward the rise looming over them. Her pulse quickened as her painted captor stood over her, moccasined feet firmly planted on her loosened hair to keep her pinned.

  The forest seemed to be holding its breath, waiting. Even the birdsong ceased. Tessa lay motionless, scalp taut as her hair was yanked, the laurel’s blooms pressing against her with bony stems.

  Lord, I want to live. Let this come to a quick end.

  Two Indians circled back, climbing up the hill through dense brush so stealthily they made no sound. As they stepped closer to the top, treeing in their ascent, nary a twig snapped or a leaf rustled. Her skewed view took in what she could.

  Her captor shifted, the ache to her scalp heightened. Thunder threatened louder but the rain withheld. The horses behind them grew more unsettled, at risk of bolting. At the bedrock of her awareness came a sense of dread. Not her own but the Indians’. Keturah had told her of the Lenape’s fear of Clay. She had not understood, yet she felt the Indians’ wariness. Clay had come for her. Was crouched somewhere behind that rocky, leafy rise. Knowing it, sensing all that was at stake, she felt at once a thrill and terror.

  The Indians raised their guns as they took positions behind brush and trees. All but the man who stood over her, firmly fastening her to the ground, his own rifle raised. She had no doubt he’d use the tomahawk and scalping knife at his belt if it came to that.

  So exhausted was she bodily that even her thoughts were sluggish but for one ongoing, hope-filled plea.

  Almighty God, help Thou me.

  His Quaker roots wouldn’t give him any peace, their “Thou shalt not bear arms” a constant reproach. But how many men, even Friends, caught in the crux of saving a loved one or not violating a tenet, would choose the latter? Clay peered through a spicewood thicket, able to see down into the bowl-shaped hollow from his position, though the Indians could not see him. But they were ready, guns raised. If fear had a smell, it was here, both his own and theirs. His for Tessa. Theirs because they feared more than his rifle, steeped in superstition as they were.

  Summoning all the life within him, he let out a hair-raising war whoop. It had been his rallying cry, his call, when he was with the Lenape in battle. Never had he used it against them till now. One Indian broke and ran at the sound, the rustle of brush eliminating one target, at least. But Tamanen stood his ground, as did the other warriors, muting Clay’s fleeting burst of pleasure. Their horses scattered, nervy about the thunder of both guns and skies. Slowly, Clay raised his rifle, intent on the man who held Tessa to the forest floor.

  Keturah’s Indian husband. His own Lenape brother.

  Emotion rose up and clouded his eyes, and he silently cursed the weakness. He stayed stone still when a shot rang out. The ball nicked the tree nearest him, widely errant of its mark and spraying bark. They meant to call him out of hiding, end his advantageous position.

  Shifting a bit to the left, he trained his sights on Tamanen, who was well hidden behind a thick maple. He could make out Tessa’s dress, her slim silhouette on the ground below him. The humbling sight steeled his resolve. Tamanen was a good two hundred yards distant, but Clay’s charge of black powder could reach farther. A hot wind smacked him, unseating his hat and threatening his aim. He closed the frizzen and cocked the hammer. The slight click seemed to echo, a forewarning of the trigger pull.

  When Tamanen’s dark head appeared for a spare second, Clay fired. The charge tore through the narrow hollow like cannon fire.

  “Run!” he yelled at Tessa.

  Amid the bellow of white smoke, he got off another shot, this time at the warrior climbing up the rise nearest him. The warrior toppled backwards, crashing through brush, his bare body rolling till a stand of laurel caught him. Out of the corner of Clay’s eye came a flash of indigo. He raised up ever so slightly to better see down the narrow defile. In that instant a shattering pain rent his skull, sparks exploding in his brain like a hammer on a red-hot anvil. Before Tessa could get to him, his world went black.

  Bile shot up Tessa’s throat as she watched Clay drop. Frantic, she rolled from beneath the tall warrior, his body partially covering hers when he slumped to the ground, her fingers catching the sharp edge of his tomahawk. Blood ran from her clenched fist, staining her filthy skirt scarlet. The shock of it set her heels on fire. With a last look over her shoulder at the warrior’s still body, she clawed her way up the draw, clear of the Indians still firing.

  Head a-spin, she made it to the top of the rise where she’d seen Clay fall, blood and dirt beneath her fingernails, a sticker bush tearing one side of her petticoat away, the rise and fall of her chest excruciatingly tight. She had no weapon, yet never was one so needed. Before her, at the very top of the hill, a now roused Clay grappled with a warrior in a deadly struggle.

  A cry rose in her throat, so winded it was more a feeble screech. Blood pulsed from Clay’s skull, making a scarlet mask of his eyes. Lying on his back, he held the warrior’s upraised hand with its long knife in a slippery grip, seconds away from the knife’s fatal plunge.

  Desperate, Tessa looked about for a stick or a rock to hurl at his enemy. Fingers curling around a sharp piece of limestone, she pulled it free of dirt and fallen leaves. Careful to come at the warrior’s back side, she crept toward him, nearly dropping the heavy rock. The deathly struggle played out before her gaze, Clay’s hand slipping down the bare arm of the Indian as if losing its grip.

  A musket ball whirled past, so close she heard its whistle. Stumbling then righting herself, she kept on. In one frantic heave she brought the rock down on the Indian’s exposed scalp with all her might. He stiffened, arms outflung before he toppled backwards. In one swift motion Clay grabbed for his rifle on the grou
nd before reaching for her and pulling her behind a rocky outcropping.

  Raising a shirtsleeve, he swiped at his eyes before reloading and firing a final time. Unable to look, Tessa kept her head down, his hard-muscled body like a wall in front of her.

  Once the smoke cleared, the forest was still as a grave.

  Her heart, so bruised over Ross and what she was sure was Jasper’s fate, fractured anew in the eerie lull. But Clay, God be praised, was alive, every fiber of his being so tense he had the look of a skulking panther. Lord, have mercy. His head wound fretted her. He needed it bound and cleaned. She tore at her ripped petticoat, freeing a long piece that would serve.

  “Stay still and let me see to your wound.” Her voice was a whisper. She didn’t want to touch him without warning in the heightened state he was in. Shifting to her knees, she tried to wipe his face clean before winding the makeshift bandage around his hatless head.

  They hunkered down for a good quarter of an hour. She could see the fallen Indians, including the one she’d brained with the rock. Guilt licked at the edges of her conscience. Utterly spent, she wanted nothing more than to lay down atop the rough ground and sleep. Her throbbing hand beat along with her heart, giving her little rest.

  As the sun flickered behind a bank of thunderclouds, new noises turned them on edge. Brush being trampled. Horses nickering and snorting.

  When she saw Jude’s worried face appear, she nearly wept with joy. The search party soon framed him. Two of the men began rounding up the stolen horses while others stripped the fallen Indians of their weapons.

  Famished, thirsty, she took the jerked meat and canteen Jude thrust at her without a word of thanks. Her only thought was for Clay. She in turn passed him the offerings, but he simply shook his head. She ate, taking tiny bites, as Clay descended the draw to where the wolfish warrior had fallen. Several Lenape had been killed. One had run.