Lord of the Wolves

by S. K. McClafferty

  The direction of his thoughts lent him a grim determination as he lay Killbuck’s scalp and two others on the desk in front of Captain Albert McCrae.

  McCrae, an officer in the newly formed local militia, gave a low whistle. “Quite a run of luck ye’ve had. Twelve pounds sterling each—let’s see.”

  “Thirty-six pounds,” Kingston supplied. “I need two bars of lead, and two horns of powder. Some salt and a side of bacon.”

  McCrae scratched his balding head just above his ear, then rose to fetch the required items. “Headed for the long hunt?”

  Kingston had wandered to the shelves that lined the walls from floor to ceiling, where a pair of buckskins caught his eye. They were small, the leather as soft as butter, and heavily embellished with blue glass beads across the breast. The same captivating blue as Madame’s eyes.

  A pair of moccasins lay beside the leather garb. Kingston picked them up, thinking of the clumsy leather shoes she wore. The only shoes she owned, and quite unsuited to her travels. In moccasins, she would step more softly, perhaps walk without making a terrible din and alerting every hostile within five miles that a vulnerable Englishwoman was about. Perhaps the garments would help to keep her safe; certainly, they would be more comfortable, more durable than the linen dress she wore, or anything that Cherry could provide.

  He took the buckskins and moccasins from the shelf and placed them on the stack. McCrae started to tally the costs, but before he came to the leather garb, Kingston stayed his hand. “These I will pay for separately; not with blood money.”

  McCrae glanced up, frowning. “But there are ample funds left over.”

  Sauvage removed his shirt and the second bracelet, the mate to the one he’d given to Cherry as barter for Sarah’s accommodations, both of which his mother had given to him long ago. “It should suffice as payment.”

  “Oh, aye. It will suffice.”

  “Good,” Sauvage said. “Now that our business is concluded, what have you heard from the west?”

  Leaning back against the high rim of the tub, steam rising in a cloud all around her, Sarah watched Jessie lay out a linen towel, sponge and soap. “Has Mrs. Vining known Kingston long?” Sarah asked, as casually as she could.

  “Mr. Kingston? Let’s see.” She furrowed her brow, and a look of concentration came over her angular face. “Seems to me they met just before Miss Caroline arrived from the East. Been almost five years now.”

  “Caroline Sauvage?” Sarah lathered the sponge and ran it idly down one arm, pretending indifference, when in fact, she hung on Jessie’s every word.

  “Yes, ma’am. She worked for Miz Cherry for a time. Helped out in the kitchen for bed and board. Then, Mr. Kingston set eyes on her. Wasn’t long after that he made her Caroline Sauvage. Married her downstairs in the parlor, with Miz Cherry and that black rogue de Angelheart standing up with ‘em.”

  Sarah suppressed a smile at Jessie’s characterization of Angel. “They must have been very much in love,” she said, hoping Jessie would elaborate. She was devastated that Kingston was gone from her life, and hungry for talk of him, the mere mention of his name.

  “They was real happy, for a little while. That was before the war, in better times than these. Things sure have changed. Miz Caroline was kilt by that man, Jean Bear, and Mr. Kingston ain’t been happy since. Pains my heart to see him so mad at life, so mad with himself, too.”

  Sarah’s sponge stilled. “Angry with himself? But why?”

  “For the past, child. If Miz Caroline would’ve married someone else, she might be alive today. John Bear kilt her ‘cause she was Mr. Kingston’s bride.”

  “Because they are enemies,” Sarah murmured. “And their history is a long one.”

  “It’s long, all right. Started way back in the cradle.”

  Sarah raised her head, suddenly alert. “What did you just say?”

  “I said it started when they was babies. Happens sometimes, one brother hatin’ the other... just like Cain and Abel.”

  “Kingston and La Bruin are brothers?” Sarah closed her eyes and groaned. “Oh, dear. He said they shared a history, and that his father’s name was Baer. Baer, Bruin.”

  Jessie nodded. “Yes, ma’am. You see, Mr. Kingston daddy never married his mama, ‘cause he already had a wife.”

  “And a son, in Quebec.” A chill raced through Sarah. This changed everything. She finished bathing and rose from the tub, toweled the moisture from her skin and hastily dressed in the chemise and dress Kingston had procured for her. Then, she turned to Jessie. “Kingston was looking for a Mr. Albert McCrae earlier today. Do you know where I might find him?”

  “Cap’n McCrae’s over at the tradin’ post most days. What you want with him? Miz Sarah?”

  Jessie’s voice trailed after Sarah as she hurried down the stairs, through the parlor and into the street. She had to find Kingston before he left town. She had to stop him.

  Chapter 10

  Several rangy-looking specimens lounged on the portico of the trading post, each one dressed in a strange combination of leather, calico and furs, and smelling strongly of tobacco and whiskey, Jack Simmons, killer of women and children, among them.

  Simmons narrowed his eyes at Sarah’s approach and, turning his head, sent a stream of brown spittle to one side of her rose damask skirt. “Ma’am,” he said, tugging his greasy forelock. “Good to see you finally got shed of that no-count half-breed frog.”

  “Mr. Simmons,” Sarah said primly. “You are a pitiful excuse for a man, and unfit to clean Kingston Sauvage’s moccasins.”

  There was a general guffaw and the others thumped Jack’s back with undisguised glee. Cursing, he pushed them off. “Uppity little baggage, ain’t you? It’s that damned Sauvage’s fault. He’s spoilt you fer any decent white man.”

  “Kingston Sauvage is a gentleman,” Sarah retorted. “He does not idle his time away lying about in the shade when he should be gainfully employed. It seems to me, Mr. Simmons, that you would do well to emulate the one you so disdain.”

  Sarah put her nose in the air and made for the door, but as she brushed past the trio, Jack Simmons grabbed a fistful of rose damask skirt, stopping her in her tracks. “Don’t be so hot to make off jes yet,” he growled. “We ain’t done conversin’.”

  Sarah frowned down at the grimy hand crushing her skirts. “For shame, Mr. Simmons!” she hissed. “For shame!”

  “He has no shame, ma’am. And no manners, neither.”

  Sarah turned toward the deep shade of the porch and saw a man saunter into the light. He was neatly dressed in clean garments, though they appeared to be twice mended, and his hawkish face was clean shaven. At first glance, Sarah judged him a cut above the man he now addressed. “Don’t look so put off, Jack. It wasn’t no insult, just plain truth. If you had manners, you’d know you don’t grab hold of a lady’s skirt until you’ve been properly acquainted.” Smiling down at Sarah, he sketched a shallow bow, his sandy forelock falling roguishly across his brow. “Ma’am, Ziggman Black, your humble servant.”

  Sarah returned his smile, relieved to have found a gentle flower of manhood growing among the rank weeds. “Sir, she said. “I thank you for your gallantry.”

  “Your pardon, ma’am, but you should not be roaming about unescorted. To venture out alone, even in daylight, is risky at best. You never know when you’ll stumble across a desperate man—or a rude one.” He nudged Jack with a booted foot.

  Jack Simmons’s companions sniggered at that.

  “Now, then, ma’am,” Black said, “if you’ll just tell me where it is you’re going, I’ll see you safely there myself.”

  “It’s Mrs. Timothy Marsters,” Sarah corrected, then noticing the look of disappointment that crossed his sharp features, she hastened to add, “but my husband is dead. My betrothed, Brother John Liebermann, is one of the United Brethren, dwelling at the Shining City, perhaps you have heard of it?”

  Black scratched his chin. “Indeed, I have. In fact, my line
of work has taken me to the Muskingum a time or two.”

  “And what is your line of work, Mr. Black?”

  “I’m a marriage broker of sorts—a matchmaker, if you will,” Black said, answering the guffaws that erupted from the trio with a hostile glare. “The gentlemen I represent have tired of being alone, and yearn for companionship. For a nominal fee, I locate suitable young ladies and escort them to their new—husbands.”

  “How fascinating. I should like to hear more, but I fear I must be going. I must speak with Captain McCrae.”

  “You have business with Mac?” He sounded surprised.

  Sarah nodded. “The most urgent kind, yes.” She made for the door, but Black stepped up to block her path.

  “What sort of business, if you don’t mind my askin’?”

  Sarah hesitated, then gave way with a soft sigh. “I am looking for Kingston Sauvage. I have it on good authority that he is leaving town, and it is imperative that I find him. I was hoping Mr. McCrae could help me.”

  “Sauvage?” Black said, scratching his head, assuming a thoughtful expression. “Yes, I do believe he was here—what say you boys? An hour—maybe two—ago?”

  Jack Simmons and his companions grunted in agreement.

  “You know Kingston?” Sarah was not sure why she was surprised. There was no escaping Kingston’s reputation.

  “We’ve had truck a time or two,” Black said readily. “Scoutin’ ventures, traipsin’ after stolen horses, and the like. I’m blessed with trackin’ skills, too. You say Sauvage is leavin’ town, an’ we seen him go, ain’t that right, boys?”

  Several sniggers and a loud breaking of wind.

  Sarah frowned at the trio, but Black took her by the arm. “Never mind the boys, Mrs. Marsters. They’re an uncouth lot. Now, like I was sayin’, I’m a fair hand at trackin’, and if you want, I might track down Sauvage for you. He’s only got an hour’s start on us. Could be we can overtake him.”

  “At the risk of being blunt, I would need some sort of reference before going anywhere with you. A lady cannot be too careful these days.” She shot a pointed glance at Jack Simmons. “This town seems to have its share of ruffians.”

  “I quite agree with you,” Ziggman Black replied. “Let’s see.” He rummaged in his pockets and came away with several scraps of rumpled paper. “This here’s a receipt for a gallon of whiskey I won at poker from Bradley Reed over there, but that won’t do.” He pocketed that particular scrap and squinted at the second, hurriedly placing it with the first. The third and final scrap he handed to Sarah, looking pleased.

  Accepting it, she read:

  I owe Ziggman Black five beaver skins and a pint of Kill Devil rum for the delivery of a bride, as agreed upon forthwith.

  ---Harvey Kincaid.

  Sarah refolded the note and held it out to Black. “Well,” she said.

  “Surely it’s proof enough that I am all that I claim to be.”

  “It would seem that you did indeed deliver a bride to the signer of the note,” Sarah was forced to concede. “But—”

  “If it’s my trackin’ skills that concern you, just ask any man in the streets. They’ll tell you that all I’ve said is truth. I’ve a nose like a hound, Mrs. Marsters, but I must warn you, every minute we spend here debatin’ the worth of my skills, is a minute that would be better spent trackin’ Sauvage.”

  Sarah glanced at the river and the blue hills beyond it. Kingston was out there somewhere, intent upon the destruction of his own flesh and blood, a sin against God and nature. She could not let him kill Jean Baer, yet unless she found him, she would be powerless to prevent it. “Very well, Mr. Black,” Sarah said, offering her hand upon the agreement. “You are hired.”

  Black propelled Sarah a goodly distance along the riverbank, past several of the hovels she’d seen earlier, through straggling locust and willow trees. The ground underfoot was soft and sandy. Sarah’s shoes sank into the soil, and she had to struggle to keep pace with the borderman’s long strides.

  They rounded a curve in the stream. Sarah glanced back, but saw nothing but trees. The settlement was out of sight, and she felt the first stir of a niggling doubt. “Should we not have come to the ferry by now? Kingston said that it was just beyond the town.”

  “John Harris’s ferry is just beyond the town, but I don’t care for Harris. We’ll make use of Busted Bill’s ferry instead.”

  “Busted Bill?” Sarah repeated. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of him.”

  “Not to worry, Mrs. Marsters. He’s new around these parts.” He gave her arm a squeeze. The gesture was far from reassuring. Instead, Sarah’s doubts increased. “Perhaps we should go back,” she said suddenly.

  Black’s fingers dug deep into the flesh of Sarah’s arm. “Well, I’m sorry to say that it’s a mite too late for that. I’ve already contracted for a woman, and if I don’t come through with the goods, my reputation as a marriage broker will be ruined. The last one I found for Bill ran away after just a week. He said if I didn’t find someone to replace her, he’d smash my face. I expect that you’ll do well enough.”

  “I am not the source of your difficulties with this man, and I will not be the source of the solution! Besides, I might find Kingston before it’s too late!”

  “It’s already too late,” Ziggman Black told her, pushing Sarah ahead of him through the trees and into what appeared to be a campsite.

  Sauvage stowed his supplies in the barn loft at the rear of the trading post, then took up his rifle and the parcel containing his parting gift for Madame, and set out for Cherry’s boarding house at the southernmost end of the settlement. Since he suspected that it would take a great deal of talk and all of his talents at persuasion to convince Madame to agree to such a drastic change in attire, he had already made up his mind to stay the night in the town and depart at dawn. It would give him a little more time to grow accustomed to the idea of leaving Sarah... and a few more hours in her company.

  Excuses, he had in plenty, enough perhaps to prevent Madame from guessing his true motives for returning to the boarding house: that he was having more difficulty than he had ever imagined, leaving her behind.

  Sarah, his mouse. It hardly seemed possible that a small slip of forthright femininity could have so profound an effect upon his life. Yet, she had. With stubbornness and persistence, she had managed to worm her quiet way past his defenses and touch him as no one else had.

  And he was leaving her, abandoning her to pursue the man who had brought him to this terrible pass. Yet, not without remorse. That perhaps was the driving force that pushed him back to Cherry’s place, that had goaded him into buying the buckskins and moccasins so that he would have a valid reason beyond the obvious, to see her one last time.

  As he approached the log structure that was Sarah’s place of residence, silhouetted blackly against a flaming sky, his strides lengthened and a feeling of anticipation stole over him. He bounded up the front steps and flung the door open. “Sarah?”

  A brass betty lamp burned on a small spindle-legged table, giving off a hot tallow smell. He glanced around and saw no one. He went to the foot of the stairs and bellowed her name.

  The sound of scurrying footsteps came to his ears, and Jessie appeared at the top of the stairs, illuminated by the light of the tallow lamp she carried. “Mr. Kingston! Is that you? I thought you was gone away by now.”

  Sauvage leaned on the banister, Sarah’s gift tucked under one arm. “Would you tell Madame Marsters that I wish to speak with her? Tell her that it’s urgent—no, just ask if she will deign to come down?”

  Jessie frowned. “Miz Sarah ain’t here, Mr. Kingston. She went off before supper to talk with Cap’n McCrae at the tradin’ post, an’ she ain’t come home yet.”

  Sauvage’s head came up. “She’s with Cherry?”

  “Miz Cherry’s down at Miz Ridley’s. Miz Sarah, she went off alone.”

  Sauvage dropped the parcel on the stairs and flung out of Cherry’s parlor, clearing th
e steps in a single bound. He ran to the trading post, but it was shuttered and bolted for the night. A sliver of lamplight showed through a crack in the shutters. “McCrae!” he shouted, rattling the door with his fist. “McCrae, it’s Sauvage! Open the door!”

  The heavy bolt was lifted; the door inched open. “Sauvage, for God’s sake, what is it? Has there been an alarm?”

  Sauvage shook his head. “The woman who came to speak with you this evening about finding a guide to take her to the Ohio country—Sarah Marsters—where is she?”

  McCrae looked perplexed. “No woman has come asking after a guide, and even if one had, I would have sent her away with a bug in her ear. No man worth his salt would be venturing west with a war going on and the hills full of murdering hostiles. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve the books to finish before I can go home, and I should like to get there before midnight.”

  The door clicked shut, and Kingston heard the bolt slide back into place. Cursing, he ran a hand through his hair, then stilled as a dark chuckle issued from the shadows of the portico. “Ain’t so high an’ mighty now, are you, half-breed?” Jack Simmons questioned. “Looks like that lil’ Quaker lass came to her senses and found herself a white man.”

  “What white man?” Sauvage demanded. “You know something about this, Jack?”

  Jack grinned, glancing at the sky. “Fine weather, ain’t it? Not too hot. Not too cold?”

  Sauvage grabbed Simmons by the scruff of the neck, slamming him against the solid log wall of the trading post. “What white man, Jack? Tell me quick, and do not lie, or I’ll tear your tongue out and shove it down your miserable throat.” Simmons winced. Sauvage pushed him harder into the wall. “Talk!”

  “No need to be so cranky, Sauvage,” Simmons said, sounding slightly strangled. “I was just funnin’. Jesus! Loosen up a bit, will you?” Then, “I give, damn you. She went off with Ziggman Black.”