The Bearwalker's Daughter

by Beth Trissel

  Regarding the rules, apart from completing the course, there were few. Shooting opponents off their mounts was frowned upon. Uncle Thomas and Kyle Brewster were the two men appointed to observe the far end of the track and see the tree was properly rounded. Beyond that lay the dark woods.

  Every skilled horseman in the district and possibly some not so adept had turned out to battle for the prize. As Jack had no money for the entry fee, Grandpa McNeal paid his way. It seemed to Karin that the curt Scotsman had softened a little toward Jack and wasn’t as quick to rebuff him as he’d been only a short while ago. This made her dare hope Jack might eventually be accepted among these hardheaded people, but she knew how great the challenge was among clannish folk.

  Then she saw him canter into the milling throng of horses and riders. Which was more magnificent, Jack or Peki, was at first difficult to say. The stallion’s frosted roan coat shone in the sunshine, splendid to behold. But Karin couldn’t take her eyes off of the rider.

  Jack wore the green, blue-fringed hunting shirt Neeley made him, closed at the waist with his father’s belt, the sheathed knife and tomahawk at his side. Leather breeches fitted his long muscular legs, complimented by elk skin leggings and high-topped moccasins. He’d pulled his glossy brown hair back beneath the wide-brimmed hat and epitomized masculine perfection, frontier style.

  Reining in Peki, he searched the crowd until he spotted Karin. His gaze locked on hers and held her in his grasp. A wave of unladylike desire washed through her. He smiled in a flash of white teeth, sinking her even further into a volatile sea of sensations.

  Her memories of last night were blurred, the line between reality and the dream world unclear. But it came to her in a tingling rush that she’d had an enticing encounter with him. And it only made her want him all the more.

  The multitude around her seemed removed, even the race course and the other riders faded. She saw only Jack. No matter what he’d done in the past, this shining man embraced her future, if he survived the race and the locals. She wanted him to win this hard-fought run in the worst kind of way.

  Taking off her crimson scarf, Karin darted forward. Surprised glances followed as she held it up to him, a token of regard bestowed by one treated as royalty among them. He bent low in the saddle and took it from her outstretched hand.

  “Thank you, sweet lady,” he said like a true knight, and wrapped the brilliant cloth around his neck.

  With a wink that darted more quivers through her, he swung Peki back to the stamping mounts, tossing their heads and chewing their bits.

  What had she done? Every hard-bitten rider angled his narrow stare at Jack. Maybe it wasn’t her. Word of his part at Blue Licks might have spread. But she hadn’t eased the tension any.

  Joseph sidled his leggy mare among the other mounted men. He swiveled his head from Jack to Karin and back to her. Unbridled resentment burned in his eyes. This was distinctly about her, and there was nothing she could do to alter it, or to aid Jack.

  The honor of officiating rested on Grandpa who stood on the wood block at the start of the course. In his hand he held a pistol. “Now lads, get ready.”

  Horses and riders lined up at the edge of the field until he was satisfied they were equally spread along the verge. A near frenzy of anticipation rippled through the side-stepping mounts. Holding the excited horses in place was a challenge. Coiled tension tightened the muscles of their hindquarters. Flared nostrils snorted steam in the chill air. Ears alternately pricked forward, and then laid back in a threatening scowl at a fidgeting neighbor crowding too close. Arched necks and quivering flanks gleamed with nervous sweat.

  Jack and Peki were in the middle of the pack next to Joseph. “Get over, damn you!” a rough fellow hurled at Joseph.

  He grudgingly strong-armed his barely constrained mare a few high stepping paces toward Jack, shoving Peki further aside. The horse to Jack’s right gave a warning squeal and kicked out a leg. Peki lit into the beast, nipping him on the neck and ending the dispute.

  “Git that black-hearted demon back, you godless Tory.”

  Karin nudged Sarah. “It’s Jeb Tate.” She watched in breathless tension to see what Jack would do.

  Heads turned, further charging the already tempestuous atmosphere. Karin clasped Sarah’s hand. Rapt onlookers bent forward.

  Jack stared the insulting intruder full in the eyes. “Say that again,” he invited, slicking his knife from its sheath. With Peki steady beneath him, he let go of the reins. Grasping Jeb’s shirt, he bunched it up and jerked him forward. Blade to his throat he asked, “Are you quite through?”

  The red-faced fellow nodded, backing down in the same manner his beast had done. Jack let him go with a look of contempt.

  A grunt of approval ran through some of the crowd. Others appeared sullen, resentment at this outsider in their baleful eyes, reminiscent of a rooster’s before it flew in attack. But Karin didn’t care about them. “Jack was wonderful,” she crowed to his shaky mother.

  Sarah’s white face made stark contrast to her crimson wrap. She managed a nod. “Dear Lord.”

  Grandpa’s lips twitched. He raised his hand and shouted, “At my signal, my boys!”

  A smoky blast erupted from the barrel. The teeming assembly surged forward at a furious gallop. Turf flew under dozens of hooves. Karin kept her eyes fastened on Jack and the red beacon at his neck.

  “Go, Jack McCray! And may God go with you!”

  ****

  Jack sped Peki through the thundering herd, Karin’s heart-felt sendoff swelling in his chest. Wind whipped his hair and his shirt. The tightly woven cloth made a decent barrier against the cold and he was hardened to most chill. The scarf she’d awarded him flapped bravely at his throat like a flag. He’d been uncertain how forthcoming she might be about their secretive betrothal, partially coerced from her by Neeley, but her open tribute exhilarated him more than the pounding run.

  Not a wolf in sight and the day was perfect for racing. Maybe Shequenor had decided to let these wild Scotsmen finish him off. Being out in front of all the others wasn’t Jack’s immediate aim. For now, he’d hang back slightly and let the race take its toll on the unwitting. That would thin out the competition.

  The first to go were two riders whose mounts galloped too closely together and collided. The disoriented horses careened out of control. Both men flew from their saddles down onto the trampled grass. Over and over they rolled until coming to a halt. Their mounts were intact enough to bolt across the field while the men scrambled up. Curses rang out.

  Jack drummed on past the unfortunates. He glanced at Joseph riding on his left, his face set in hard lines. Fleeting memories returned of Joseph as a two-year-old running after him and the adoration he’d had for his big brother.

  Joseph was only a few years older than Karin. They’d practically grown up together. He must consider her his by close association, nor could he help but fall in love with her. How could any man resist? Jack surely couldn’t and was helpless to undo the grievance he’d unintentionally done his brother.

  Just a little way ahead of him, a horse stumbled in a groundhog hole. His rider launched skyward. Peki sprang around the latest casualty, as did Joseph’s chestnut mare.

  A burly fellow in a leather cap wrapped with bearskin and hung with a white deer’s tail beat a path through the pack by whipping riders on either side. “Git out the way!” he hollered, wielding a crudely made crop.

  “God damn!” Jeb Tate swore at the blow landed on him by the bigger man.

  Locks of lank red hair hung to the aggressor’s massive shoulders above a deerskin shirt. Stained leggings wrapped the trunks that served him for legs and he wore tall buckskin moccasins. Here was a crude mountain man without scruples to any except his own, who could eat acorns and survive in the frontier like a native.

  ‘White savages,’ many called this primitive sort of Scots-Irishman, possessing all of the Indians’ vices and none of their virtues. Jack had fought his kind during the
war and it didn’t do to underestimate them. They’d wade through rivers of blood to win a battle, rarely took prisoners, and often hung the poor blighters if they did. Now this Celtic warrior was after the purse. His big red gelding, raw-boned like the beef cattle that grazed this land, snorted vengeance.

  The ornery cuss laid his strap across the arms of other riders. Men jerked, swearing. Horses flinched as the whip bit into their sweaty necks. One rider in a coat resisted the cutting blows on his sleeves. He made a grab for the crop with a gloved hand. The Celt dealt him a stripe across his cheek.

  “You bastard!” the outraged man bellowed.

  He struck out at his tormentor—too late. The red gelding sped ahead in a streak of pure meanness.

  Glancing back at Joseph, Jack saw his jaw gritted. He’d set his furious sight on the usurper. In that instant, he knew Joseph was going after him. Only little brother didn’t know what Jack did. Joseph had stayed behind, working the homestead with Mister McNeal during the war while the older men went off at various intervals to fight. Jack saw nothing wrong with that and the McNeals were grateful, but the young man wasn’t as prepared as he ought to be to tackle this kind of nastiness.

  Jack shook his head at him. “Don’t. Let me.”

  Joseph cast an indignant glance at him. “Let you do all? Take all!” Spurring his mare, he charged ahead.

  “Damn foolish!” Jack urged Peki to follow on his tail.

  Joseph streaked through the parting ranks. The men seemed willing to let him tackle the troublemaker and save them the bother. They’d simply regain the lead later, but Jack doubted Joseph realized that either. All his single-minded brother saw right now was the punishing Celt plowing on ahead.

  “Stop, Joseph!” Jack yelled.

  “Hell no!”

  Belligerent pup. Jack kicked Peki into a surging gallop. The horse’s long legs swished through the grass as they sped after Joseph.

  In ground-covering strides, Joseph’s mare charged alongside the red gelding. “Get away!’ the oaf barked, lashing at him with his whip.

  Jack glimpsed the bloody streak across Joseph’s cheek. The next stripe would swiftly follow. And worse. He might lose an eye. Or his life.

  Clasping the reins and a clump of the mare’s mane in one hand, Joseph punched the renegade with a balled up fist. He cuffed him on the chin, but failed to unseat the stout man. In a blur of fists, the Celt struck him in the jaw.

  Joseph reeled to the side and only just managed to hang on to his mount and his seat. Scarlet ran from his split lip. “Damn you!” he shouted, struggling to right himself and fly again at his attacker.

  Enough. He’d get himself killed. It fell to Jack to save his brother’s ass—not that Joseph would thank him.

  Urging Peki’s brawn in between the battling pair, he pushed the more slender mare and Joseph out of the way. “You want to fight?” he demanded of the mountain on Big Red. And dodged the crop as the whip sliced through the air. He sprang Peki to the side to avoid the sting of leather, then darted the horse back.

  Again the whip flicked with the hiss of a snake. It bit at his arm, but he had his blade ready. With a slice of the knife, he opened a gash on the fleshy hand that wielded the weapon. The wound was deep enough.

  Howling like an outraged beast, the injured man loosened his hold on the whip. Jack knocked it away. It hit the ground and the man bellowed, “Son of a bitch!”

  Jack drove his fist into the gaping mouth. A partly rotted tooth dislodged under his knuckles. He let fly a second punishing blow to an already crooked nose broken in another fight. His opponent faltered.

  “Come on!” Jack yelled at his staring brother.

  Laughter sounded from other riders sweeping by the infuriated lout—then a cry. “He’s got a pistol!”

  “Damn.” Jack let Joseph and the others gallop past him. Swinging Peki around, he tore back at the bloody-mouthed reprobate brandishing a rusty pistol. It might not even fire properly. Then again, it just might.

  Jack whipped out his tomahawk and hurled it in calculated revolutions at the firearm. In a clank of metal, the blade knocked the pistol to the grass— nicking the holder’s fingers in the process. The man was fortunate to retain his hand after the way he’d behaved, but howled as though he’d lost it.

  Hearty cheers broke out behind Jack.

  He swept Peki over the turf straight at the horse and bloodied rider. The stallion unleashed a high-pitched challenge at the gelding. Big Red snorted in apprehension, emasculated in the face of overwhelming male prowess. Eyes bulging in disbelief, the mountain man bolted out of the way on his wary mount.

  That done, Jack bent low in the saddle to retrieve his tomahawk—a weapon he was never without. It lay on a slight rise in the field. Leaning well down over the horse and hanging on with his legs, he snatched it up and slung it back at his side. Then reclaimed his seat.

  Digging in his heels, he wheeled Peki around. He’d fallen behind in the race, but not as much as he’d expected. Incredulous onlookers hadn’t been able to resist the temptation to pause long enough to see how this confrontation played out. Now that they knew, they kicked their horses back into action.

  Peki could fly. Hadn’t Jack said as much? He easily caught up with the retreating pack.

  Joseph glanced back over his shoulder. The grudging respect in his eyes told Jack he knew a good service had been rendered, the glower in his face that he wished he’d been the man who’d done the deed. So much for appreciation.

  Jack didn’t really expect any. Now, the race commenced in earnest. He galloped the stallion at the old sycamore jutting up into the sky like the mast of a ship. How satisfying the rhythmic drum of hooves.

  One moment, the towering tree appeared before him. He urged Peki behind it on the tail of other riders rounding the silvery gray trunk. The next instant, Jack found himself and his horse enveloped in smoky-whiteness as if they’d galloped into the clouds.

  Where had all the swirling mist come from? He couldn’t see more than a few yards ahead. What in hell was going on?

  A chill crawled down Jack’s spine. Maybe Hell was the right word for it.

  Hazy trees in the woods beyond the sycamore seemed to crowd in on him. He’d swear the forest was advancing, but trees couldn’t move. The dense fog claimed more and more of his surroundings like some vile plague.

  How could he be trapped, just like that, in mere moments by vapor? And where had everybody gone? Somehow, he’d been removed from the rest of the riders.

  Even in heavily veiled woods Jack had found his way before. Now, he wheeled Peki around and around in the cloud. He circled the horse back again, trying to get his bearings.

  The alert animal pricked his ears and blew out his breath through flaring nostrils. Intuitively, Peki seemed to know they should be racing back across the meadow, not lost in this mist that sprang on them like a panther lying in wait. But the whiteness had claimed them as surely as a predator took its prey.

  The stallion’s sharp whinny warned of an approaching creature in the whiteness. Man or beast?

  Suspecting the latter, Jack drew his knife, much preferring the musket he’d left behind. He hadn’t thought it necessary to carry the cumbersome weapon into the race. Mister McNeal had discouraged him from shouldering its weight with the promise that he and Thomas would hold off the wolves should they appear.

  Odd thoughts snaked through Jack’s heightened senses. Tendrils of doubt entwined with the fear coiled in his gut. Were the McNeals in cahoots with Shequenor and helping to plot his demise?

  No. That couldn’t be. They despised each other.

  Wait—was it possible they hated Jack even more? Was that the reason his stepfather paid his way in the race, to get him up here? And the mountainous Celt, had he been inserted into the pack to provoke Jack into a fight in the hopes that he’d lose? No one had counted on Joseph’s challenge and Jack’s intervention.

  Again, Peki whinnied. This time, a guttural growl answered his nervous warning
.

  Cold fear twisted Jack’s gut. He looked closely. A black nose the size of a man’s fist protruded through the green haze of a hemlock’s lower boughs. The fisted snout poked all the way through. With an ear-shattering roar, a huge bear charged head and shoulders from the underbrush. Peki danced wildly as the grizzly snarled to hideous life.

  Shequenor. It had to be.

  He rose up on his hind legs and pawed the hazy air. His malevolent stare fixed on Jack. The force of those eyes was hypnotic. He couldn’t seem to lift a finger. Surely, he would die in those great toothy jaws.

  With a high-pitched cry, Peki sprang away into the mist. The bear charged after him, snapping at his heels. Ever closer the incensed grizzly came with the speed of a horse. He gained on them until the stallion had no option but to turn and face his attacker. He reared to his full height, shaking his head, hooves pawing wickedly.

  The stalwart horse must wonder why his master was suddenly so ill-equipped to join in the battle. For the first time in his life, not only was Jack not fighting, he tumbled head over heels from the saddle. He, who’d always kept his seat no matter what, felt the air rush from him as he thudded on the ground. If it hadn’t been for the turf softening his fall, he might be out cold. As it was, he lay on his back gasping like a stranded fish.

  Peki strove to defend him. Rearing up, he struck at the bear with powerful hooves. He drove him back, but not before Jack heard, Bring her to me, NiSawsawh.

  A shot exploded behind him. “Jack! You all right?”

  He recognized the voice of Thomas McNeal. Karin’s favorite uncle ran up to him and knelt with a smoking musket in hand. Thomas bent over him, consternation crinkling his eyes. “I saw a bloody great bear. Has he clawed you?”

  Jack shook his head and groaned. Any cockiness he’d had at his victories today paled in comparison to the force he’d come up against now.