Ice Princess

by Judith B. Glad

  William hit him in the chin with the butt of his spear. As Muller fell, gagging to the ground, William leapt to the side and slashed the ropes holding Flower captive. He handed her the spear and yelled, "Run."

  Muller had pushed himself upright and had a knife in his hand. William drew his own. Crouched. Waited.

  "No man's ever beat me in a knife fight," Muller said, again in that gentle voice. "Neither will you." He reached into his boot and pulled a second knife, this one long and slim.

  William feinted, but Muller was faster. A line of fiery pain went down William's knife arm.

  You remember all the tricks Mist' Em taught you, boy. You got maybe one chance. If he cuts you again, you won't have none.

  He stooped, grabbed a handful of dirt and pebbles, tossed them into Muller's face. The long knife whizzed by his hand so fast and so close he felt the wind.

  Muller kicked, and his toe connected with William's knife hand. Fingers numb, he felt the haft slip from them.

  "I'll cut you, boy. I'll geld you. Then I'll hamstring you." Muller laughed. "When I get through with you, you'll be beggin' to tell me where that gold is."

  At William's command, Flower ran, on legs shaking and weak from being tied. She was well into the woods when she realized he was not behind her.

  She ran back to the circle of boulders. Cautiously she peered between two of them.

  They were fighting with knives. William had one, Muller two.

  Even as she watched, Muller kicked William's hand, knocking his knife free. He showed no fear, as Muller described all that he would do, to make William reveal the source of the gold.

  Flower drew back her arm. William's spear felt as if it were an extension of her arm. Of her hand.

  Although her muscles were tensed for the throw, she could not make them move. Her arm shook. Her hand ached.

  She could not force herself to throw the spear.

  She could not kill again.

  Muller laughed. "Where's the gold, boy? Tell me now and I'll kill you clean."

  William did not answer, but stood tall and proud. Waiting to be tortured. Waiting to die.

  He will not die!

  Putting her whole body behind the throw, she cast the spear.

  Chapter Twenty

  William faced Muller, waiting for the final thrust of the bloody knife. He'd die like a man. A free man.

  A rattle of stones came from behind him, and then he felt a faint wind on his arm. In the next instant, a sharp, smooth spear had skewered his enemy.

  William was right behind the spear. He drove it deeper into the belly of Muller, the man who would have killed him. Drove it deep and left it there, skewering the man to the ground.

  Muller looked up at him from eyes already dulling with death. "Where's the gold," he said.

  "A long ways from here, like I said. In a cave, where you and trash like you ain't never gonna find it."

  "Nigger bast--" His face went slack. His body seemed to sink into the dirt.

  "Is he dead?"

  William turned and saw Flower standing just outside the boulders. Her face was white and strained. Even from where he stood, he could see how her whole body was shiverin'.

  "He's dead." He bent over and picked up the two knives, his and Muller's. Then he saw the other one, the long, skinny one, dark with blood. He picked that one up, too. "You want his clothes?"

  Her expression answered him. "I would not touch them."

  The long slash on his arm had stopped bleeding, but when he knelt beside Muller's body, it pulled open and a thin trickle of blood ran down his arm and dripped on the man's black pants. He ignored it as he searched the pockets. A few pennies and a folding knife in one, a hole in the other. In the shirt he found a map, folded up, that showed the road across the mountains. "Wish we'd had this before we come," he muttered. He tucked it into his possibles sack.

  "Are you coming?"

  He looked up at her, standing in the shadows at the edge of the woods. Her skin was streaked with dirt and bruises was already showing at her wrists and ankles. She still looked like the prettiest thing he'd ever seen. When he pushed himself to his feet, he discovered sore places he hadn't paid attention to before. "All done," he said, giving the body one last look. "We ought to bury him."

  "We can come back," Flower said. She turned and led the way back into the forest. Her naked body seemed to light the way.

  Feeling tireder than he could recall, William said, "I left the pup watchin' the feller with the earrings. Reckon he's et him yet?"

  "I hope not. His belly would ache from eating such filth." She looked back over her shoulder. "He was the clerk at Fort Boise. Bickelow."

  "The one you almost gutted?"

  She looked back again, and this time she almost smiled. "The very one."

  "Sure wish I hadn't stopped you." Just then he remembered the shotgun. "Hold up a bit." He fetched it, then caught up with Flower. When she looked a question at him, he said, "I figured to give it to that friend of yours, the one what helped carry me away from Muller."

  "No sense in letting it rot away here," she agreed.

  Beowulf was still at guard. When they arrived he lunged at the man, snapped his jaws together just short of the clerk's nose, then sat back on his haunches and grinned.

  Flower had stayed out in the woods, hidden behind a screen of small trees. "I will take his shirt," she called.

  "You hear that," William said, prodding the man with one toe. "She wants your shirt."

  His answer was a curse.

  Beowulf stepped forward, upper lip lifted, his fangs showing.

  Bickelow pushed himself upright, favoring his arm. William could see it was still bleeding a bit. There was half a dozen punctures in it.

  The shirt stank of tobacco and sweat, but he figured it was better than her goin' nekkid. He took it to her.

  "William, watch out!" she cried just as he passed the shirt through the brush.

  He turned, but wasn't quick enough. A knife buried itself in his arm, up high towards his shoulder.

  He was still turning when Beowulf leaped. And this time his fangs found the throat.

  William doubted he would ever forget the terror and the torment in that scream.

  The scream died away into a gurgle. He watched, fascinated, while Beowulf shook the man as if he weighed no more than a big jackrabbit. And then there was no sound except the dogs' growl and the soft whisper of wind in the treetops.

  "My God!" Flower whispered from behind him.

  The dog shook the body once more. Dropped it. Turned and scratched dirt over it, as if it was a pile of shit. His mouth was red and wet with blood.

  For a moment, a wolf looked back at William out of golden eyes, then Beowulf wagged his tail. As if he's showin' us what a good dog he is.

  "Hold still."

  He became aware that Flower was holding his arm. He did his best to be still while she pulled the knife free, while she wrapped the cut tight with a strip of cloth from the tail of Bickelow's shirt.

  "We must find something cleaner as soon as we can," she said. "No telling where this shirt has been."

  She picked up Bickelow's knife, held it out to him. "There is food in their camp," she reminded him. "And horses."

  They searched the saddlebags, finding several small bags of coin, a fancy pipe with a curved stem, and some earrings.

  "Pearls," Flower said, holding one pair in her palm. The creamy spheres seemed to glow in the pale sunlight. "We are not the first they have robbed."

  "We's the last," William said with satisfaction. He piled all the food together--coffee, cornmeal, half a loaf of sugar, and another flitch of bacon. When he found a plug of tobacco, he added that to the pile. Since they'd lost their mule, they'd need supplies to take them to The Dalles.

  Flower found a pair of almost-clean britches and a plaid shirt in one saddlebag. They must have belonged to the youngster, William thought, seeing how well they fit her. What happened to him?

 
"We must release the boy," Flower said, as if she'd heard him thinking. "I hope I can find him."

  They left the horses and went looking for the youngster. It took a while, but when they called out, he answered. He was all but hid under one of the saplings Flower called hemlocks.

  "Where's my brother?" he demanded, before they even got him out in the open. His face was tear-streaked, but he stood up to them like a wrathful kitten.

  "Which one's your brother?" William said, wondering what kind of brother would bring a youngster along on a job like this. "What's your name?"

  "I'm Ethan. Ethan Bickelow. Ruben's my brother."

  "He's dead. So's Muller."

  The youngster's eyes widened, his chin trembled. Then he took a deep breath. "Good!"

  "Didn't you hear me, boy? I said your brother's dead."

  "I heard you," Ethan Bickelow said, wiping a dirty hand across his mouth. "I'd have killed him myself if I could've. And Muller. I'd like to have cut him, let him bleed to death slow."

  Flower stepped up beside the youngster. "They hurt you," she said softly. "But they will not do it again." She touched his arm, and William saw how he flinched away from her hand.

  William wished the bassards had died harder.

  "Why were you with them?" Flower asked.

  "Ruben said if I went along, he'd give me some money. He said they was gonna rob you, then turn you loose. It sounded so easy. Just scare you--Muller said you was so scared of being sent back South that you'd tell where the gold was just to get loose."

  "They lied to you," Flower said. "They were very bad men."

  Ethan bit his lip, snuffled. "I knew that, but I didn't want to think about it. I ain't seen Ruben for a spell, but I'd heard things about him." He rubbed his wrists. "And Muller, he was mean. Real mean." He touched his cheek, under the swelling around his eye." I was scared of him.".

  "You will find that gold honestly come by is far less dangerous than trying to take it by force or intimidation," Flower said. "Now come. It will be dark soon, and I do not want to spend another night up here."

  "You're lettin' me go. Just like that?" Ethan sounded like he was about to cry.

  "I won't tie you up 'til we beds down, but I ain't leaving you loose to kill us in our sleep, either," William told him. "Let's move."

  William and the youngster dragged Muller's body away from the stream and covered it with rock, since the soil was too thin to dig into. They buried Bickelow where he'd died, in a shallow grave piled with boulders. When they was done, William asked Ethan if he wanted to say any words over his brother.

  The boy shook his head, lower lip caught between his teeth.

  William clasped his shoulder for a moment, not sure himself what to say.

  That night they slept in the same clearing where the three ruffians had caught them, two--no, three days past. In the morning they gave Ethan Bickelow his brother's knife and some bacon and sent him on his way back to Oregon City on one of the horses.

  "You have a choice now, young man," Flower said, as he tried to thank her for not killing him. "You can follow your brother's path, and probably die by violence, as he did. Or you can go back and make something of your life. You return to a land where there is opportunity for any man willing to work. What you do will decide your whole future."

  When he'd ridden down the trail, William said, "I feel a little like we turned a rattlesnake loose."

  "A possibility." Flower shrugged. "He is young, though, and shocked. Perhaps he will chose a different path."

  She turned her back and faced up the trail. "Let us go home, William. I am tired of seeking something that does not exist."

  * * * *

  They found their mule contentedly grazing near the edge of a marsh just below the steep grade. Although one gunnysack of supplies had been torn open, only some cornmeal and a package of pilot bread had fallen out. With horses to ride--William gave in to Flower's persuasion--the return journey across the mountains seemed shorter, easier. Even so, William kept wanting to travel faster.

  He was going home.

  Flower was quiet most of the time. He let her be, but worried. Something was eatin' at her mind. He hoped she wasn't changing her mind about going back with him.

  The hillsides were dry and the air shimmered with heat the day they reached the Wasco village on Chenoweth Creek. Has Itswoot's lodge was empty. It looked abandoned. A woman told them he'd taken his family downriver to live. William wondered if the whites had given him trouble after his drunken act in town.

  The moon waxed and waned while they traveled to the valley of the Grande Ronde. When they arrived, they found a gathering of trappers and their families, along with a big Injun camp.

  Marie's wedding had been moved forward--she and Auguste would be parents by midwinter--and Flower insisted they stay for the festivities.

  Hilaire was at home, but was planning on returning to his Wasco relatives in the spring. He had chosen the Indian way, and was no longer pulled in two directions.

  To Flower's delight, Windchaser was in Jacques' pasture. "I knew you would mourn her loss," Hilaire said, "so I gave Tenas Eena the mule and said I would claim the mare for my reward." He grinned at William. "But the shotgun is better. You may have your horse back."

  She knew he had never intended keeping her mare, but she said nothing. This way everyone was content.

  Flower distributed the gifts she had bought for Hilaire, Marie and Jacques, and refused to tell them any more than that she had changed her mind about going to England. Being haunted by the events on the mountain in her dreams was enough. She would not relive those horrible moments by speaking of them.

  She wanted to go to William, to sleep in his arms, but she could not. Until she was sure of her own feelings, how could she risk hurting his?

  One night she sat late, staring into the fire, long after he slept. I love him. So why can I not give him my pledge?

  As if written in the flames, she saw the answer.

  I am still running away. That is why. I don't go back to Cherry Vale because I love him, but because I believe I can be safe there.

  And that is not fair to William. If I cannot go to him heart-whole and filled with hope for the future, I should not be his wife.

  "His woman," she whispered, hearing his voice say the words.

  Oh, how she wanted to be his woman.

  They swam across the river into Cherry Vale at the end of September. The leaves had not yet begun to turn, but the grasses were golden and dry, the chokecherry bushes heavy with ripe fruit.

  I feel as if I have truly come home, Flower thought, as they started across the wide meadow below Hattie and Emmet's cabin. I have never belonged anywhere before as I belong here.

  What a difficult lesson this was for me to learn. Perhaps I will treasure it all the more for the cost.

  She reached for William's hand, smiled up at him.

  Hattie's shriek rent the still air. She burst from the cabin and came running down the hill, laughing and calling to them. Moments later, Emmet also appeared, cautiously carrying his long rifle.

  Hattie was beside herself, hugging them in turn, demanding an account of their adventures, asking why they had taken so long to get here. Emmet merely smiled his slow smile and said, "Took you long enough to bring her back," as he hugged William.

  The next afternoon Flower rode beside William, up the valley to where it narrowed then opened again into another meadow. "Over there's where I figure to build," William told her, pointing across the river. "'Less there's someplace you like better."

  She looked around. Mountains rose steeply to the west, north, and east. South was the Lachlan cabin, less than an hour's ride away, yet far enough that it might as well be in another country. Flower laughed aloud.

  "What? Something funny?"

  "No." She saw his worried frown. "Well, yes. I was remembering something Dr. McLoughlin said. Did you know that there is nowhere in England that is more than seventy-five miles from the sea?"
<
br />   "That's funny?"

  "It is only if you live someplace like this. William, do you know how far it is to Fort Boise?"

  "Three, maybe four days' ride." He shrugged. "I never did figure out miles."

  "Why should you, when all distances here are measured in days, not hours? It is at least seventy-five miles to Fort Boise, half the distance across England."

  His expression told her that he had no idea of what she was talking about.

  "I wanted to go to England be cause it was safe, yet I never thought about what so many people living in so small a space could mean. And how many of them might be like Muller and Bickelow? Like Pyzen Joe?"

  "Thought you said they had laws, so folks was protected from the likes of them."

  "I did. And you heard what happened to Everett's wife and son." She opened her arms, as if to encompass all that she saw. "Can you imagine that happening here?"

  "Not if Mist' Em and me has anything to say about it. Nobody the likes of them bassards is ever gonna get past the first fence. If Dawg and Beowulf don't stop 'em, we will."

  "But how many would even find their way here? Seventy-five miles, William! Four days' ride. That in itself is better than any number of laws, any walls and barricades."

  He dismounted and pulled her from Windchaser's back. Enfolding her in his arms, he said, "You think too much, woman. Look out there. That's what you oughta' be thinkin' about. Where you wants your house built."

  As simply as that, she saw the shape of her future.

  "Will you live in it with me?" she said. In all the time she had known William, he had never slept under a roof.

  "You try and keep me out," he said, wrapping his arm around her. He pulled her close against him, staring out at the valley over the top of her head. She leaned back, her body as pliant as a willow withe. The awful stiffness she'd held herself with was all gone.

  A hawk screamed and they both looked up. It circled high above them, riding the wind, free and wild.

  Just like me, he told himself. "I's... I'm free," he whispered into her hair.

  She nodded and clasped his hands, holding them against her. "No," she said. "Not any more. You belong to me."