by Pamela Clare
Quickly, he tied the horses’ reins to a nearby tree and had just enough time to grab his rifle, drop to the ground, and aim when a bull charged toward him out of the trees, a spear protruding from its back.
Nicholas held his fire.
Crazed with fear and pain, the animal bellowed, veered to avoid the frightened horses, then disappeared into the forest behind them.
He heard Bethie’s sigh of relief, whispered to her fiercely. “Stay back there, Bethie. Don’t make a sound, and don’t come out until I tell you to!” Then he stood, took up position behind a gnarled oak near the place where the bull had broken through the underbrush.
And almost immediately he heard it—rapid footfalls, labored breathing. Someone was running toward them.
Every muscle in his body tensed, readied to make the most of a surprise attack. A vision of the slain mother flashed in his mind, her eyes staring sightless at the blue sky.
He would not let them hurt Bethie or little Belle.
Then shouting echoed through the trees. “It got away, you fool. Isn’t one enough to fill your belly?”
The language was Delaware. The voice came from a distance.
“I’m hungry, and this is my kill!” The man stood not more than twenty feet away.
Nicholas held his breath, hoping the bull’s crashing and bellowing had been enough to cover the whinnies of the startled horses and praying the baby would not make a sound.
“Forget it, and come back to the fire. They’ll have cooked and eaten all the meat by the time you catch up to that old animal. Besides, I don’t think you sank your spear very deep.”
“Listen, friend. When I sink my spear, I bury it all the way. Ask my wife.”
Both men laughed.
“Well, you chase it down if you want. Go chew on its old hide. I’m going back to the fire for juicier meat.”
Go back. Go back. Nicholas willed the warrior to heed his friend’s advice and give up the chase. The seconds ticked by, each as long as eternity, each weighing the difference between life and death. Go back.
“I’ll come with you, but I want the liver.” Then the Delaware warrior strode off, heading back through the trees, his voice growing distant as he argued with his friend over who would eat which organs.
Nicholas let out the breath he’d been holding, didn’t move until he was certain both men were far out of earshot. Then he strode silently over to Bethie, who sat behind the rocks, clutching Isabelle to her breast, a rock gripped tightly in her free hand. He knelt before her, pulled her into his arms, whispered. “It’s all right, Bethie. They’ve gone. But we need to hurry. Can you ride farther tonight?”
She nodded, looked at him questioningly. “Are they the same ones—”
“I think so. We need to get out of here.” He helped her to her feet, took her arm.
But she didn’t budge. “W-why didn’t you kill them?”
“If I had, the rest of the Delaware war party would know we’re here now, wouldn’t they? And they would come after us. Trust me, Bethie. We must go!”
They rode until Nicholas was certain Bethie could ride no more, headed for a site he knew ensured them protection from the Delaware. An ancient burial site made up of several mounds and surrounded by a heavy growth of trees, it was a place of loathing for most Indians, who believed dark spirits stalked among the mounds. The war party would not follow them there.
“Come, love.” Nicholas lifted Bethie from her saddle, steadied her until she found her footing. He laid out their bed of furs while she changed the baby. He had no sooner covered her with the bearskin than she was fast asleep.
Quickly, he tended the horses, rubbed them down, gave the mares each an extra ration of grain, picketed them at the edge of the glade where a little spring fed into a tiny stream. It had been a hard day’s work for the animals, and tomorrow would only bring more of the same.
But it wasn’t the horses that worried him. It was the Delaware. Though he had hinted at it, he hadn’t spelled out for Bethie what he feared lay ahead of them or why it was so necessary for them to move swiftly. The war parties were slaughtering every settler they encountered. But they weren’t taking any supplies. That meant only one thing—they were in a hurry. Why?
It was this question that filled Nicholas’s mind each day, kept him awake at night.
Then there was the recklessness with which they seemed to be traveling. They left clear tracks plain enough for a child to follow. And just this evening, two Delaware warriors had shouted to each other in what ought to have been dangerous territory. What had given them such confidence?
There was one answer to both questions that made sense. They were on their way to an important gathering, and they believed themselves surrounded by allies. Was it possible that they were converging with other war parties for an attack on Fort Pitt? Were they so certain of victory that they felt the Ohio Valley was already won? Had they joined together in such overwhelming numbers that their boldness was driving them to carelessness?
Shingiss had warned him last winter that the nations of the northwestern wilderness were joining forces to drive whites out. Nicholas was now certain that if they didn’t hurry, they would arrive at Fort Pitt only to find it already under siege—and their access to it blocked. But even if they reached the fort, they would not be safe. If Fort Pitt was not already under siege by the time they arrived, it soon would be.
Nicholas had wanted to lead Bethie and her baby to safety. As the days passed, he began to fear he was only leading them into greater danger.
* * *
“I hate to wake you, Bethie, but we need to keep moving.”
She felt Nicholas kiss her cheek, struggled to wakefulness from a dreamless sleep.
By the time she’d finished her breakfast of roast chicken and corn cakes and fed Belle, Nicholas had the fire out, the saddlebags packed, and the horses ready.
They followed the river as it made a sudden sweep northward toward its joining with the Allegheny and Monongahela rivers, keeping as usual to the cover of the trees. But they hadn’t ridden far when they came across the burnt ruins of another farm.
Nicholas dismounted. “Stay here, Bethie. I don’t want you to see this.”
But Bethie didn’t need to get any closer to realize what she was seeing. Lying in the grass around the charred remains of a cabin were several human bodies, the air above them thick with flies. She turned Rosa’s head away from the slaughter, drew air deep into her lungs, fought to keep her breakfast.
Nicholas was soon back, his face grim. He strode over to his stallion, mounted. “This happened a few days ago.”
She fought her queasiness, tried to be strong. “D-do you think it’s the same ones?”
He drew alongside her. “No. This band is much larger—I’d say perhaps as many as thirty warriors. But they’re headed toward Fort Pitt just like the others.”
“’Tis the uprisin’ you spoke of, is it no’? These attacks cannae be mere chance.”
He nodded. “It’s time we forsook the river and rode across country straight for the fort. We can reach Fort Pitt by dawn if we ride hard. Can you manage it, Bethie? It will be long and rough, and there’s likely to be trouble.”
She looked at him through eyes filled with trust. “I will go where you lead and do my best no’ to be a burden.”
He reached across, cupped her cheek. “You’re not a burden.”
They turned their horses to the east and rode through hilly, forested country. Despite the need to cover ground quickly, Nicholas kept the horses at a walk, unwilling to risk riding headlong into an encampment of warriors or finding themselves in an ambush.
They passed two more burnt farmsteads before noon, though there were no bodies at the second. As the two farms were located fairly close together, Bethie suggested that perhaps the occupants of the second farm had heard what was happening to their neighbors and had fled.
They had fled, but they hadn’t gotten far. Nicholas spotted their bodies a half mi
le from their home. He led Bethie in a wide arc around the carnage.
It was early afternoon when he motioned for Bethie to stop.
Something didn’t feel right.
Zeus snorted, jerked at the reins. The stallion’s ears twitched, faced back.
Behind them.
They were being tracked.
Quickly, Nicholas read the landscape. Unsure how many men were approaching, he needed a defensible position. Then he kicked in his heels, urged Zeus to a canter. “Hurry, Bethie!”
A half mile ahead of them two steep hills rose from the ground. He knew that a small brook ran between them down a narrow gully, a natural place for travelers to water their horses—and the perfect spot for an ambush.
It took only a few minutes for them to reach the brook. Nicholas reined the horses to low-hanging branches near the water, grabbed his rifle, shot, and powder, then helped Bethie dismount.
“Nicholas, what—” Her eyes were wide, her face pale.
“We’re being followed. Quick. Up here.”
Leaving the horses as bait, he took Bethie by the hand and led her up the steep hillside, showing her how to step only on stone so as to leave no trace. Quickly, he chose the best spot, a rock overhang that gave him a view of the entrance to the gully.
“You stay here. Keep the baby quiet and out of sight. Here’s a loaded pistol. Don’t use it unless I’m gone and they find you—”
“But where—”
“I’ll head back down, lay a false trail for them, then hide. When they move toward the horses, I’ll attack. Don’t give yourself away. With one saddle to three horses, they might think I’m traveling alone. If they kill me, you stay hidden until they leave, then head due east toward the fort. Don’t waste time burying me. Do you understand?”
“Aye, but leave me one of the rifles. I can shoot, Nicholas.”
Nicholas had expected her to show fear, and there was fear in her eyes. But her face also showed grim resolve. An image of her standing before her cabin, alone, frightened, and very pregnant, leapt into his mind.
I am no’ wantin’ for means to protect myself!
He handed her the weapon. “Very well. It’s primed and loaded. But you are not to use it except to save your own life, do you understand?”
“But what if you’re—”
“No! Fire only to save your own life! Once you fire, they’ll know where you are, and they’ll come for you. They’re experienced warriors, Bethie. You’ll have two shots, maybe three if you reload quickly.” He placed his extra powder horn and a leather pouch of lead balls, on the ground beside her.
Bethie settled a sleeping Belle under a nearby tree, lay down on the rock, took up the rifle, and watched as Nicholas made his way carefully down the hillside and back to the horses. He stomped clumsily about in the mud. Then, deliberately stepping on the underbrush, he strode down the creek and disappeared.
He’d been out of sight for only a moment when she saw them—five Delaware warriors crouched at the mouth of the gully.
Chapter 17
Bethie lay flat against the rock, hardly daring to breathe. She watched as the Indian men walked silently into the gully. Two held rifles. The rest carried war clubs and knives. One had small tufts of hair hanging from his belt.
Her stomach lurched. Human scalps.
Five against one. She searched the hillside across from her, searched for some sign of Nicholas. Did he know he was outnumbered? Could he see they carried rifles?
She glanced over her shoulder, saw that Belle had awoken and was sucking her thumb. She would be hungry soon. If she began to cry . . .
Bethie closed her eyes, muttered a silent prayer.
When she opened her eyes again, the warriors were directly below her. They moved cautiously, their heads turning as they searched the hillsides.
Her heart stopped dead.
One seemed to look directly at her, his gaze sliding over her like a breeze.
She knew the moment they saw the horses. Their attention shifted to the animals, and, crouched and ready to fight, they moved forward with more confidence. One bent down, traced the footprints Nicholas had left for them to find, gestured to the others. Four moved forward toward the horses, while the fifth, the man with the scalps on his belt, backtracked, disappearing up the hill into the trees.
Two pistol shots split the silence.
A knife whistled through the air, sank into flesh.
A cry. A grunt.
Three of the Indians fell to the ground.
Nicholas sprang from nowhere, grabbed a rifle from one of the men he’d shot, swung it at the fourth, who leapt out of the way.
Bethie saw Nicholas flip the rifle, aim it, fire at his attacker’s belly.
Nothing happened.
It hadn’t been loaded.
In horror, Bethie watched as the Indian gave a hair-raising cry and rushed in on Nicholas, war club in one hand, knife in the other. He swung the club, aimed for Nicholas’s head.
There was a crack of steel on wood as war club met rifle.
Nicholas deflected the blow, leapt neatly back to avoid the knife.
And then she saw.
The fifth man, the man she had forgotten, the man with the scalps, stalked Nicholas from behind.
He stepped out from behind a tree. Raised his rifle. Cocked it. Took aim.
Nicholas!
Another shot rang out.
Isabelle screamed.
Below her on the hillside, Bethie saw the man with the scalps crumple, fall to the ground, slide lifeless down the hillside in a flurry of leaves.
Nicholas stared up at her, surprise and fury on his face.
So did the remaining Indian.
Only then did Bethie realize the shot had been hers.
Nicholas wrenched his attention off Bethie, back to the surviving Delaware, took advantage of the man’s distraction to deliver a skull-crushing blow with the rifle butt.
The man fell to the earth, as good as dead.
Nicholas retrieved his pistols, pulled his knife from its temporary sheath deep in one man’s chest, wiped it clean on the man’s breeches. As the rush of the fight began to fade, his anger fused to a sharp edge.
She had defied him. She had fired the rifle, given herself away, put herself and Isabelle in danger. Had he not been clear with her? She was only to fire to save her own life, not to protect him. He could protect himself.
He found her sitting beneath a tree, a crying Belle clutched tightly to her breast.
She met his gaze, her violet eyes bright with unshed tears. “She willna quit cryin’. I’ve tried nursin’—”
He reached down, took Bethie by the shoulders, pulled her to her feet. “What in the hell were you doing? You could have gotten yourself and Belle killed!”
She blinked the tears away, glared at him. “I had to stop him. You didna see—”
He felt the last thread of his temper snap. “I told you to fire only to save your own life! If you hadn’t hit him, I’d have been dead anyway—and those two men would have known you were here! They’d have come for you, Bethie, and there’s no way you’d have been able to reload fast enough to hit them both! Don’t you understand?”
“L-let go of m-me!”
Whether it was the tremulous note in her voice or the strange look in her eyes, something broke the force of his anger. Then he noticed things he hadn’t seen in his rage. She was trembling from head to foot, her legs so wobbly she’d have likely fallen if he had released her. Behind her tears, her eyes held a haunted, tormented look he’d never seen there before. But it was a look he recognized, a look he’d seen in countless young soldiers’ eyes.
She was in shock.
She had killed a man, and her mind was struggling to cope.
Anger turned into a fierce protectiveness. Nicholas pulled her into his arms, careful of little Belle, who was still crying, and pressed his lips to her hair. “You foolish, brave woman. I know men who couldn’t have made that shot. You’re a
lot stronger than you seem.”
“I—I dinnae feel very strong.” Her voice was thick with tears.
He stepped back, cupped her face in his hands, wiped her tears away with his thumbs. “Strong isn’t about how you feel, Bethie. It’s about what you do. It’s no small thing to take a man’s life, no small thing to risk your own. You just did both.”
“D-did you feel this way, too, the first time you . . .”
The first time he’d killed.
They’d been crossing the Monongahela. The French had been waiting in ambush, had opened fire. Nicholas had returned fire, hit the young French soldier in the chest—some mother’s son. He’d had brown hair.
Nicholas hadn’t slept that night. But as the years had passed, he’d almost grown accustomed to killing. He derived no pleasure from it, but he was long past feeling remorse. Killing was part of life on the frontier. A man killed, or he died. And Nicholas had killed so many.
But Bethie was a young woman. She hadn’t chosen to live here, but had been brought to the frontier by her fool of a husband. Until now she’d never had to take a life. Nicholas had hoped to spare her this.
He met her shattered gaze. “It’s never easy, love.”
The throaty squawk of a raven brought him back to the present. They were not safe here.
“Come, Bethie. We must move on. The sound of gunfire might well draw the rest of the Delaware down on our heads.”
* * *
They covered ground quickly, headed almost due east through unending hills and forest. Bethie tried to ignore the queasy feeling in her stomach, tried to banish the image of the Indian she’d slain from her mind. She couldn’t think about it now, not when there might be thirty Delaware warriors on their trail.
Nicholas wanted to press on until they reached the fort, and she would do her best not to be a burden, though the road be long. She was tired of fear, tired of danger, tired of running. The sooner they reached the fort, the sooner she would be able to rest.
She adjusted Belle’s weight in the sling, tried to shrug the ache out of her shoulders. The baby was asleep again, her tiny thumb in her mouth, the fresh air and the motion of the horse better than the sweetest lullaby.
