Lord of the Wolves

by S. K. McClafferty

  Cat-Man Jacobs reached for Sarah, but she shrugged him off. “Please, he may be hurt.”

  Despite her struggles, he seized her wrists, looping a rawhide noose over her hands and drawing it tight. Then, without a word, he started off, dragging her along behind him. Sarah bit back a cry of pain as she struggled to keep pace with him. Her gaze constantly drawn to the cliffs which towered over the river.

  Could a man really make such a leap and live?

  Was it possible that Kingston had emerged from the fall unscathed? If he had, he would almost certainly come for her, a prospect that Sarah found just as chilling as the alternative, for he had more to fear from the Huron than she.

  He was their enemy, and as such, they would try their level best to take his life.

  During the hours that followed, they marched steadily toward the northeast. The afternoon bled slowly away and evening came silently on.

  Sarah hardly noticed. She had long ago ceased to think. All of their energies, all of her powers of concentration, were centered on keeping the rawhide noose from cutting off her circulation. The pace set by Cat-Man Jacobs was grueling, but because of Kingston’s teachings, Sarah kept up.

  She scanned the path ahead for obstacles and walked like a Delaware woman, her movements swift and sure, her demeanor uncomplaining, though every muscle groaned with effort to maintain the relentless pace; and when the Indians came to a halt, she gave a silent thanks to God and asked for the strength she would require to see her through another day.

  The campsite Cat-Man had chosen was high atop a hill, an advantageous perch from which they were afforded an unobstructed view of the surrounding countryside. It seemed obvious that they feared being followed, but by whom? Did they believe, as she did, that Kingston had survived the leap from the cliff? She wanted to believe it for it gave her heart cause to hope, and hope just now, was especially hard to come by.

  Night came quickly. Cat-Man Jacobs tied Sarah’s tether to a sapling and sat down with the others to eat. Sarah sat off to one side in the darkness, listening to the rise and fall of the conversation without knowing what was said.

  When the Indians had concluded their meal, Cat-Man came and stood over her. “Le Loup Blanc Femme. Manger.” He dropped a deerskin pouch into her lap, making motions with his hand to lips that indicated she should eat.

  “Merci,” Sarah said. She took up the pouch as he walked away and poured some of the pouch’s contents into the palm of her hand. It had the consistency of coarsely ground meal, but it smelled strongly of bear fat. She wrinkled her nose as an acute wave of nausea surged through her, horrible and quick, inundating her senses, vanishing as quickly as it came and leaving an intense hunger in its wake.

  She ate a small portion of the meal, tucking the remaining away for morning, and curled on the ground like a cat to sleep. Somewhere between her troubled dreams and wakefulness, Sarah felt an unnatural chill wash over her and opened her eyes to see Caroline standing a few paces away, the bundle that was Kingston’s babe clutched tightly to her breast. Her pale eyes were brimming with compassion. Take heart, she said without moving her lips. Be strong, for Sauvage’s sake. You are his salvation.

  Sarah struggled up as the vision shimmered eerily, then, quickly faded. “Caroline!” Sarah whispered. “Please, wait!”

  But Caroline Sauvage was gone.

  Chapter 14

  The second day Sarah spent in Cat-Man Jacob’s company was as intolerable as the first. Hour after hour, Sarah trudged after the Huron. If she lagged a step behind, the rawhide tether grew taut and sliced into her wrists. When she quickened her pace and drew too near, her senses were assaulted by the odor of bear grease and campfire smoke that clung to her captor’s skin and the mysterious nausea of the night before returned with a vengeance.

  The illness struck with savage speed, and then was gone again. That morning, she had been well upon rising, and in the next moment had vomited her breakfast into the weeds while the Indians looked on in disgust.

  Late in the day, the party halted. Cat-Man Jacobs tied off Sarah’s tether, then went to join his companions at the edge of a rippling stream. Their mood was one of great joy, yet Sarah felt uneasy as she watched them wash and apply fresh paint. Then, they shook out the scalps at their belts, readjusted their strouds on their shoulders, and waited for Cat-Man to take his place in the lead. He did so with all the pomp and importance of a conquering prince returning home after a fierce battle.

  Returning home. Sarah missed a step, and Cat-Man cruelly jerked her tether. At last, she understood.

  The raiding party walked from the forest, Cat-Man Jacobs leading Sarah, and the others bringing up the rear. She started as Cat-Man gave the “scalp hallo,” a shrill savage cry issued for each scalp taken, and one to indicate he had a prisoner. Sarah’s pulse was racing as they emerged from the deep shade of the forest into the blinding light of a clearing. They had entered a wide fertile valley, flanked by low, forested hills and bisected by three mighty rivers. The broad, dark Allegheny—on which, at some remote point to the north, Kingston had had his boyhood home—issued from the Northeast and met the smaller Monongahela beneath the walls of Fort Duquesne to form the mighty Ohio.

  The fort itself was small and unimpressive. A stockade fifty yards long and forty yards wide, with picket walls on the water side, comprised the main work.

  How lonely and forlorn it seemed, how out of place, an island outpost in a teeming wilderness. And yet, civilized men had built, and now were housed within the fort, Sarah thought. Men who worshipped the same God she worshipped, albeit differently. If she appealed to them for mercy, would they aid her in gaining her freedom so she could find Kingston? Or would they leave her to the tender mercies of the savages?

  “Do not look to them,” a voice said from a little distance. “They will not aid you in this, your hour of need, Mademoiselle. You are in our hands now, and you must look to me for mercy.”

  To her immediate right and slightly apart from the crowd stood a man, the same man who had spoken, Sarah was certain.

  With the sun slanting in her eyes, she could not see him clearly, but his heavily accented English told her he was a Frenchman. “How did you know what I was thinking?”

  “I know everything,” he said.

  “Only God knows everything,” Sarah replied.

  “I was godlike once, and will be again, very soon.” He limped forward, coming to stand directly in front of Cat-Man Jacobs. As the two began to converse, the crowd gathered ‘round on all sides, blocking out the rays of the afternoon sun. For the first time, Sarah saw him clearly, and her heart gave a queer little jerk before resuming its racing rhythm.

  Had she not known better, she would have thought that it was Kingston embracing Cat-Man, clapping him roughly on the shoulder. But Kingston was gone, and this could only be the infamous La Bruin. Sarah studied him more closely. The physical resemblance between Kingston and Jean was uncanny. They shared the same coloring, the bronze skin, black hair and eyes. Their features were similarly molded, and yet there were subtle differences: the lifting of Jean’s chin as she spoke to the Huron captain that smacked of belligerence, his cocksure stance despite the fact that he favored his left leg, the cold, unfeeling expression in his eyes as he turned back to her, his carnivorous grin.

  “Cat-Man refers to you as Le Loup Blanc de Femme’,” he said, his chilly gaze sliding over her, from head to toe and back again. “Can you possibly know what that means?”

  “My name is Sarah Marsters,” Sarah insisted. “Mrs. Timothy Marsters. I am traveling to meet my betrothed on the Muskingum River. Monsieur Sauvage, the man he calls ‘White Wolf’ was but taking me there as a favor to a mutual acquaintance.”

  Jean stepped closer, roughly grasping her chin and forcing her to meet his black gaze. “It would not be wise to lie to me, Madame. I have little patience where women are concerned, and none at all with women who are anything less than truthful.”

  Sarah swallowed hard. “He was ta
king me to the Shining City on the Muskingum, to my betrothed, Brother John Liebermann.”

  Jean ran the fingers of his free hand down the side of her face, seeming to test the softness of her cheek, the pliancy of her skin. “I find it somewhat odd that a man you barely knew would kill for you, risking his life in the process. Especially, a man like Sauvage.”

  Sarah jerked her chin away from his hand, then turned again to look him in the eye. “Perhaps, after all, monsieur does not know everything. Certainly, he does not know Kingston Sauvage.”

  His smile never wavered. “The question remains: How well does Madame know him?” He spread his hands. “Well enough to lure him here? I do hope so. It’s been a long time since we had a visit, my half-breed brother and I. And I should very much like to look in his eye when I inquire after his little family.”

  “Kingston Sauvage leapt from the cliff into the river,” Sarah replied tonelessly. “And no one has seen him since. I doubt he survived. Ask Mr. Jacobs, if you do not believe me.”

  “The tale that Cat-Man tells is too fantastic to be believed,” Jean said, narrowing his sooty gaze and easing his weight onto his right leg. “He speaks of a great white wolf that sprang upon Tall Trees, the Huron chief, and carried him off the cliff to his death, and then the wolf became a bird of prey, and flew away.”

  She looked at him dully. “And you believe him?”

  “Who can say what is fact and what is imagination when dealing with Indians? They are like children, inventing wild tales to explain away their failures. Yet, in Sauvage’s case, I take no chances. If he lives, he will know that you are in my care, and come for you. And if he comes, he won’t live long.”

  Turning slightly, Jean tossed Cat-Man Jacobs a leather pouch that chinked as he caught it. Coins. Sarah felt a chill slither up her spine. “Ten pieces of silver,” Jean said. “The woman is mine.”

  Cat-Man tipped back his head and let loose with a hideous yelp, then loped into the village, leaving Sarah with Jean. “What happens now?” she asked.

  “Now, I spread the word and wait.” He fingered a lock of hair that had come loose from Sarah’s plait, wrapping it around his forefinger so tightly that Sarah winced. “And you, my plump English pigeon, wait with me. But never fear, if Sauvage proves stubborn and the wait is a lengthy one, I am sure we will find a thousand ways to occupy our time.”

  He summoned one of the young men from Cat-Man’s band and thrust Sarah toward him. “Take her to my hut, and post a guard outside the door, then send someone out to paint the trees along the Warrior’s Path. I want everyone within a hundred miles to know that Sarah Marsters is here with me.”

  Sarah paled. Jean’s threat had been thinly veiled, his meaning clear. She would share in Caroline Sauvage’s fate, at least in part, and with Kingston gone, there was no one to stop him.

  The young warrior led Sarah to a small bark hut and thrust her roughly inside. The interior was dim, and smelled of musky furs. Sarah’s stomach rebelled, and cold beads of sweat stood out on her brow. This time, the feeling of violent illness was not as fleeting. Sinking down, she leaned heavily against a brass-bound trunk, the only furnishing in the hut besides the makeshift bed of furs.

  “Pssssstttt!”

  The sibilant hiss was so sudden, so unexpected, that Sarah jumped. “Who is it? Who’s there?”

  “An ally, and ‘twould seem that ye desperately need one. Come closer. I’ve got something to settle yer queasy stomach.”

  Sarah edged closer to the back wall, and saw a woman through the thin gaps in the bark. She looked like an apparition, with wild locks of iron gray snaking out around her head, and her gimlet green eyes as sharp as any eagle’s. “I be Hergus Samp,” she said, “a guest of his lairdship, the bloody French jackass who calls hisself the bear.”

  “Then you are a captive as well?”

  “Aye, but keep yer voice low. D’ye want ol’ Fester-Leg to hear?”

  Sarah sniffed and shook her head as her nausea increased. “Dear God, deliver me from this strange malady! I have not been well for days.”

  “I wouldna call it strange, exactly,” Hergus replied. “It happens to most, at one time or another. The trick is to get through the queasy times.” The woman’s bony fingers pressed something through the crack. “Chew on this, and swallow the juices. It’ll fix ye right up, and it waen’t hurt the babe none.”

  Sarah gaped at the old woman. “A child? But, it can’t be. I am barren. My husband Timothy and I wanted children, but our union was not so blessed.”

  “Mayhap it were him, and not ye,” Hergus suggested slyly.

  “But surely—”

  “Been off yer feed a good bit lately, ain’t ye?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Queasy stomach, and yer bosoms tender?”

  “Exceedingly so,” Sarah admitted with a troubled frown.

  “Have ye been with a man since ye last had yer flow?”

  Sarah flushed, but said nothing.

  Hergus was not so hesitant. “Thought as much. Now that it’s settled, what about old Cripple Dick? If ye’re nae his paramour, then what’s he want with ye?”

  Sarah swallowed hard, still clutching the herb, and a painful lump clogged her throat. “He intends to use my presence to lure a man name Kingston Sauvage here so that he can kill him. I do not know if the ploy will work. In truth, I am not even sure he still lives.”

  One green eye pressed to the crack. “Did the fair one nae tell ye so?”

  Sarah nodded. “How did you know?”

  “I seen her in the campfire’s smoke, jes like I seed old Cripple Dick an’ his savages before he attacked my cabin. Truth be tole, I seen lots o’ things. ‘Tis a gift the good Lord gave me, or a curse He bestowed, dependin’ on how ye look on things.” She bent a look upon Sarah, her head cocked to one side. “Best be careful ta keep yer secret well hid. Old Fester-Leg’s a mite loose in the noggin’, if you know how I mean.”

  “Jean must never know,” Sarah readily agreed. “His hatred for Kingston is unparalleled. If he were to discover the existence of our child—”

  “That’s why I’m here, deary,” Hergus said, as if she’d read Sarah’s thoughts. “Take this here dirk and hide it under the furs, and if he tries to take ye, slip it betwixt his ribs!” She passed a thin knife through the crack to Sarah, then moved away. “Well, I gots to go, but if I kin, I’ll slip back afore nightfall to see how ye’re farin’.”

  Sarah crouched against the back wall after Hergus Samp left her, contemplating the weapon. Could she use it if it meant protecting herself from Jean? Could she take his life to save the life of her child?

  Her protective instincts toward the baby growing inside her were already strong, yet Christ’s teachings stated unequivocally that taking the life of another was terribly wrong.

  Still clutching the blade, Sarah brought up her knees, resting her head on her arms. She was weary beyond belief. God help her, she thought, for she truly did not know if she had it in her to take the life of another, even to save her own.

  She would pray on the matter, and hope that circumstances did not test the limits of her faith.

  The warriors’ triumphant homecoming did not go unnoticed by the garrison of French Fort Duquesne. Just before sunset, Captain Dumas, the French commandant, accompanied by several of his officers, came from the fort to view the scalps and plunder and to bring presents of good will to their Huron and Ottawa allies, strings of blue beads, and two kegs of brandy.

  Sarah heard screams and drunken laughter, and knew that the victory celebration had begun. Rising, she crept to the door and peered out. At the same time, the guard Jean had posted turned his brittle gaze upon her. Sarah retreated to her corner, hoping that Hergus Samp would come again.

  The old woman was a true friend, an ally among a host of enemies, and then there was Kingston’s babe, like a tiny wavering candle flame deep inside her, a ray of hope and light that must be shielded from those who might try to snuff it out.


  Shielded, yes. Kept secret. Above all, Jean must not guess that she carried his enemy’s seed.

  As if on cue, Jean’s voice sounded from the other side of the hide flap. Sarah shivered, scrambling to slip the knife beneath the narrow pallet. She resumed her former seat as he raised the flap and entered.

  “Bon nuit, pigeon.” His voice had lost its rough, growling quality, and sounded much like Kingston’s—so much so that Sarah glanced sharply up. “Your prince has returned.”

  Sarah watched him, saying nothing. He was toying with her, much like a cat toyed with a mouse before dispatching it, but Sarah didn’t care. Indeed, in a strange way, she almost welcomed it. It was what might happen when the toying stopped that she found truly terrifying.

  He chuckled darkly at her quiet wariness. “What is this? No outstretched arms to welcome me? I am, after all, you paramour’s brother, family, you might say. And brothers are to share in everything. This I learned at the knee of my own pere.” His laughter died away, but a brittle smile lingered on his mouth. “Among other important things.”

  When she still did not reply, he strode to the trunk and flung open the lid. Sarah could not help but notice the hitch in his gait. Her gaze lit upon his left thigh, and the dark smear of old blood that marred his buckskin breeches. As he saw where her gaze had wandered, his face flushed dark. “What in hell are you gaping at?”

  “Nothing,” Sarah said. While he stood scowling down at her, Sarah fought to remember that he was a man, not a monster—despite his evil deeds. “I could not help but notice that you are limping. The blood on your breeches is old, yet the wound in your leg still plagues you. Perhaps—perhaps you should see a physician?”

  With a low and unintelligible growl he reached down and grasped her by the arms, dragging her up against him. “The physician is a worthless sack of offal!” he ground out, his face inches from hers. “Worthless, do you hear me? And if not for the fact that he is a servant of King Louis, I would gladly send him to hell!”