The Soul Survivors Series Boxed Set

by Vella Munn

  Calida didn't belong here. In the past it hadn't mattered to her how many Negroes took refuge in the village. They'd always been given a piece of land to cultivate. All the tribe had required of them was that they turn a portion of their crop over to the Seminoles.

  But this woman had come alone, half dead, taking too much of Panther's time and attention when he should be thinking—

  When Panther walked away from Calida, Winter Rain let out a long sigh. She studied him for as long as she could see him, taking in his long strides, the strength of his back, the proud way he held his head.

  Someday, she prayed, she would be the one to brush and arrange his hair. If he had a wife to tend to it properly, he could wear it long and wrapped about his head in the traditional way instead of cutting it short.

  If he had a wife—her—she would truly be Seminole. Everyone would forget that her father had once been a slave. Getting to her feet, she headed in the direction she'd seen Panther go. Spotting him, she started to call out his name, then stopped herself because he was speaking with some of the village elders.

  She didn't want to love Panther. If someone else had taken her heart, she wouldn't lie awake nights scared he'd be killed before he understood how much she loved him. But he carried himself like a war chief. His voice was deep and low. He smiled at her. Talked to her. Made sure she always had a portion of meat.

  With Panther's arms around her at night, she would no longer mourn her mother, who had been dead for five years. She wouldn't pray that her father would leave Osceola's village and come back to her.

  Turning her back on Panther, she spotted Calida. The slave was watching Panther.

  Winter Rain's belly muscles knotted, and her hand tightened around the grinding tool she still carried.

  Calida didn't belong.

  Wasn't wanted.

  Chapter 7

  Calida straightened and absently wiped dirt from her knees. The day, although not hot, held no memory of winter. In the week since Panther had given her permission to remain in the village, she'd made friends with several of the Negroes, and no one had objected when she asked to be shown how to work the garden that raised so much of their food. Of the eleven coloreds, all but three were men. They accepted her more readily than did the Seminoles, but why should they put themselves out for someone who didn't speak their language and didn't know how to do the simplest things? The Negro women either already spoke Seminole or were learning. That, in part, was why she was working with them this afternoon.

  Her hands stung. Looking at them, she spotted several new blisters. Everyone else, it seemed, had no trouble digging in the rich earth near the creek bed. Her mother's hands were rough, toughened by a lifetime spent working in her master's fields. She should have hands like her mother.

  At the memory, anger and sorrow washed through her. She fought the hot emotions as she'd done so many times since leaving the plantation. If only she could make herself believe Pilar was all right, but she knew Master Croon too well for that. He would have tried to pressure her into telling him where her daughter was. If Master Croon had harmed—

  No! Thinking about that always made her sick with helpless fear.

  From what she understood, Gaitor had left two days ago to observe the army. She'd asked the Negro women where the army was, but their answers had been so vague that she couldn't make sense of them. Panther would know, only she didn't know how to approach him. He seemed so distant. Was it because he resented his debt to her? Hated the burden she represented?

  Forcing her thoughts off the fact that she couldn't change him any more than she could change what she'd done, she realized she was staring at Gaitor. When had he returned? He was so far from her that he wouldn't have heard if she called out to him. Gaitor had worked alongside the healer until her fever broke. He'd talked to her, even held her when nightmares threatened to tear her apart. He was her friend. At least she wanted him to be her friend.

  He wasn't alone. Belatedly she realized that several Seminole men were with him and that they were heading straight for Panther's house—chickee. Leaving the garden, she joined the others who'd been drawn to where Panther lived. She saw Panther step out into the sunlight, saw Gaitor extend his hand, watched as they shook hands and then clasped each other's shoulders.

  Sliding closer, she tried to hear what they were saying. Unfortunately she didn't understand more than three or four words of what was being said. After no more than a minute, Panther held up his hand and pointed toward his chickee. Obviously he wanted to talk to Gaitor in private. She looked around hoping to find someone who could interpret for her, but none of the Negro women had left their work. Winter Rain stood nearby, not that it made any difference since the young mixed breed still had given no indication she understood English. When Calida started toward her and Winter Rain turned her back on her, she felt as if she'd been slapped.

  Knowing she had no choice but to wait until the men were done talking, she went back to work. Her blisters continued to sting, but she refused to give up. Before long, she'd develop calluses and be able to match the speed and efficiency of the others. It felt so good to be well, to be growing stronger with each day. Maybe, if life among the Seminoles toughened her enough, no white man would want her.

  It was afternoon by the time she spotted Gaitor again. She looked around for Panther but caught no glimpse of him. Walking on legs made stiff by hours of crawling around, she intercepted Gaitor. She didn't want to press him into telling her more than the rest of the village knew, but Panther had seemed concerned by what the Negro had told him. If it had anything to do with her—

  "Not you. Least ways not right now," Gaitor said in reply to her question. "But there's trouble brewin'."

  "What kind of trouble?"

  "The army. They's still on the move."

  "And you're worried about that. You and Panther and the rest of the men. Why?"

  "'Cause they's chasin' Indians."

  "Chasing?"

  "The Turtle clan. Maybe they'll catch 'em. Maybe they won't. That's what I cain't say," Gaitor said and then explained that the Turtle clan was in no immediate danger of being overtaken, but that they'd been on the move since last fall, and as a consequence their food supply was low and many of the members were weak and weary. Panther and the other leaders feared the clan would give up if the army kept after them much longer.

  "What would happen then?" she asked. "They—the army men won't harm them, will they? I mean, if they surrender—"

  "I cain't say what they'll do, Calida. They's like dogs what's been kicked too many times. You never knows when they mights bite."

  She'd been a fool to ask the question. Hadn't Panther already told her about the time Master Croon and the men under him had attacked helpless women and children? "What are you going to do?"

  "Maybe nuthin', damnation. Maybe we'll stop them."

  It was the first time she'd heard Gaitor sound so angry. Chilled by his tone, she glanced toward Panther's chickee. She could just see his silhouette in the deep shade. "How? You can't—"

  "Listen to me, Calida. I spent ma whole life thinkin' I was little more 'en an animal. I was like a dog, slinkin' with my tail 'tweens my legs 'til I hated maself. 'Til I couldn' takes it no more and ran. Panther taught me what it is to be a man. He and I's goin' back in the mornin'."

  "How many are there?"

  "The army? More 'en a hundred men. 'Bout that many horses. They's got lots of supplies, much more 'en the Turtle clan does, that's fer sure."

  "A hundred? You can't—"

  "Without horses they's just a bunch of damn fool men wanderin' 'round. That's what Panther wants to study on, whether there's a way to separate them from their horses. Don't you worry yourself none 'bout this, Calida. You's safe here. That's what matters, you's safe."

  She'd like to believe that, to think of nothing except planting corn, but if the army could find the Turtle clan, Panthers tribe might be next. How could they possibly consider stealing horses? Surely
they knew the army would retaliate. "When are you leaving?"

  "In the morning, first light."

  * * *

  Night shrouded the village. Except for occasional campfires and the few stars she could spot through the trees, Calida felt trapped in blackness. Up until the sun set, she'd watched Panther and Gaitor as they prepared for a long time away from the village. They hadn't said much about what they were doing, but even the children seemed aware that something important was taking place. The sight of their muskets and spears and bows and arrows had made her shudder. Master Croon was so proud of his musket collection. Although she'd never handled them, never so much as touched one, she knew what they were capable of. Didn't Panther understand that a spear or knife stood no chance against a musket?

  Master Croon.

  She'd managed to keep him from her thoughts all day, but now that she was wrapped in darkness, he seemed to be everywhere. He'd once been a lieutenant, had commanded large numbers of men. He'd always wanted to do that again.

  Stirring herself, she left the mat of leaves and branches that had become her open-air bed and approached Panther's chickee. Now that she was well, she could no longer stay with the healer and didn't feel close enough to anyone to ask for shelter. Maybe Gaitor, but he'd been gone most of the time. Besides, she was determined not to cling to anyone, to make her peace with the wilderness with its ceaseless sounds and sometimes overwhelming smells. Croon had trapped her within his walls; she loved their absence.

  Panther sat alone, hunched over something he was working on. He didn't seem to need light; maybe his sure hands told him everything he needed to know. She wanted to simply walk up to him and ask her questions, but speaking to Panther took more concentration, more courage than she wanted to admit.

  Light from a nearby fire flitted across his features. Sometimes they were all but lost in shadow; a moment later they danced with red lights. He looked so alive, so intense, so unapproachable. And yet she had no choice.

  "Panther," she whispered. He stared in her direction. Although she knew she had to step closer, she felt safer surrounded by night—the night that such a short time ago had terrified her.

  "Calida?"

  The sound of him speaking her name made the decision for her, and she took the necessary steps. "I know what you're going to do," she said. "Gaitor told me."

  "Sit down."

  When Master Croon said that, there'd never been any question of whether she'd obey, but she didn't have a master out here. Still, she dropped to her knees and studied what she could see of Panther's face. He was like his namesake, dark and mysterious, maybe deadly. "I want to go with you."

  "No."

  Not why would she want to do such an insane thing but simply no. "You don't understand. If Master Croon—"

  "No."

  "Panther, I can't hide forever. I have to know what he's doing, whether he's out there."

  "Women do not go to war."

  War. She stared at his shadowed hands, seeing in them a competence, a sureness that took her breath away.

  "Gaitor and I go to watch and learn, to talk of plans. Later, maybe, we will return with warriors. Gaitor did not see Croon with the other army men, Calida. He was not there."

  "He told you that?"

  "I asked."

  Of course he would.

  "There is another thing," Panther continued. "A thing you must know. One of my scouts went to Croons plantation. He did not see him there either."

  Had the night gotten darker? Barely aware of what she was doing, she scooted closer to Panther and fixed her attention on him. "Maybe—maybe he was gone that day."

  "No. The scout talked to one of the slaves. Croon's father-in-law now lives in the house and runs the plantation."

  A minute ago she'd asked Panther if she could accompany him so she could see for herself whether Master Croon had taken up arms. Still, she'd half convinced herself that he wouldn't leave what he'd worked hard for. She no longer had any doubts.

  "Where is he?" she asked, not because she expected Panther to have an answer, but because the question wouldn't remain inside her. "He—he's friends with General Jesup. The general will let him do whatever he wants."

  "General Jesup." Panther lay down the spear he'd been working on. His hands rested on his knees, the nails biting into his flesh. "Those who commanded the army before him were fools. They knew nothing of Piahokee, its secrets, its dangers. But General Jesup is a fighting man. War is in his heart."

  "Are you afraid of him?"

  Panther didn't answer. Silence spread out between them. She felt the weight of it and deeply regretted having asked her question. Panther was a war chief. From childhood, he'd been preparing himself to lead in battle. If he felt fear, he wouldn't admit it to her. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "It's just that—Panther, I think I've been afraid my entire life."

  His fingers relaxed their tight grip, and she imagined them reaching out for her. Instead of shaking her hand as he and Gaitor had done, he would draw her to him and offer his strength as shelter. Safe within his arms, she would forget what it was to be afraid.

  But he hadn't moved.

  * * *

  Panther and Gaitor left the village before dawn. Panther led the way because his eyesight was keener. Both men carried weapons as proof that they were ready to do battle. Still, their first concern was to try to find a way to stop or slow the army from surrounding exhausted Seminoles and runaways.

  They stopped talking before the sun was high in the sky. Piahokee was their home, but the enemy had invaded it. Silence increased their chance of safety. With each passing hour, the air heated. Finally they stopped at a small creek to satisfy their thirst. Calida had wanted to come with them; she would only slow them down.

  Was that why he'd told her no, or had there been another reason—one that had everything to do with not wanting her to risk her life?

  A war chief doesn't allow other thoughts to take his mind, his eyes, from his goal. Angrily reminding himself of that, Panther scrambled up a moss-hung cypress and studied his surroundings. Much of the land ahead of them was open with only waist-deep grass to delay their progress.

  Smiling to himself, Panther watched Gaitor slip around a young cypress. A man that big shouldn't be able to move as silently as a hunting cat, but Gaitor knew where to place his feet, how to blend in with his surroundings. That, plus his courage and honesty, was why he now called him a warrior. Why they smoked together.

  "You was with Calida last night," Gaitor said, speaking softly and for the first time in hours. "Did you tells her 'bout what Croon's up to?"

  "She knows he left the plantation." He didn't need to tell his friend that Calida believed Croon wasn't done with her. They'd already talked about that and come to the same conclusion.

  "You was gone when she was sick. I thought she was gonna die. There weren't nuthin' left o' her; the fever had burned it all outta her."

  "The healer—"

  "It wasn't him what kept her alive."

  "What do you mean? What did you do?"

  "Not me neither. It was inside her. Her heart, it refused ta stop beatin'."

  "Refused..."

  "She ain't gonna let him git ahold of her again. She'll die 'fore she lets that happen."

  Just as he would.

  "She didn't talk none about it, what happen' to her back there with him. But I know it must have been somethin' awful."

  No more awful than what Gaitor had endured. "No," he admitted. "She doesn't talk about that time."

  "She's still scared. That ain't gonna go 'way anytime soon."

  "How can it?" Panther asked with honesty he reserved for only a few, maybe Gaitor most of all. "All talk is about the army. She feels the unease, the fear. She wanted to come with us."

  Gaitor stopped in midstep, the gesture causing Panther to do the same. "No! She's been through 'nough."

  Gaitor's tone took his thoughts from what he'd been going to say. Intensity gleamed in his friend's eyes, that
and something else. "I wants her safe. I wants things to be easy fur her now she's free of him."

  Safe? Was that true for anyone? The weight of his responsibilities pressed on his shoulders. Added to that was his reaction to what Gaitor had just said. Calida had saved him from a long, horrible death. His debt to her... "She isn't your burden."

  "Maybe. Maybe not. Thing is, I wants her to be." Gaitor glanced around and then started walking again. "She don't have no place to stay. Not so much as a roof over her head. I wants to give her that."

  A roof over her head. Yes, she should at least have that. "Are you thinking to build her one? It might not be safe to stay where we are much longer."

  "I know. There ain't nuthin' we can take for granted no more, is there? Still—what does I say to her? How does I tells her how I feel?"

  Feelings weren't things a war chief dared acknowledge in times of war. Hadn't he learned that from his father and uncles, from the old tastanagee? One made decisions, led in battle. Thinking about the possibility of being killed or watching other clan members die stripped a tastanagee of his courage. Still, his heart felt joy and pain. He laughed when children laughed, sensed himself becoming calm and quiet at the sight of a spectacular sunset.

  "Is 'fraid to say anythin'," Gaitor went on. "I knows she's grateful fur whats I did, but maybe that's all she feels fur me."

  Gaitor had been torn from his wife's side. His arms hadn't held his son for nearly three years. Panther wanted Calida to care for the big, brave, lonely man.

  Didn't he?

  * * *

  Smoke lay heavy in the air when Panther and Gaitor reached Hatcheelustee Creek two days after leaving their village. Dropping to his knees, Panther began slithering through the swampy land. Gaitor followed close behind. Despite the boggy ground and insects, he didn't regret wearing nothing except his loincloth. Clothing slowed a man and increased the chance of being heard, as did all but the most essential of weapons. He carried a knife at his waist; a bow and arrows were strapped to his back. He'd left behind his musket.