by Beth Trissel
Reed bellowed, his arm awash with blood. Wicomechee wanted to sever the hand that had dealt the blow to Charity. So still she lay. Her silence called to him unbearably.
Again, he tore his mind from her and circled his wounded adversary. He closed in, tomahawk raised.
Reed's meaty fist shot out and caught him on the jaw. Ears ringing, his chin throbbing, Wicomechee staggered back. He shook off the blow and jumped aside as Reed's blade stung across his chest, slashing his shirt and grazing his skin.
"Not fast enough, old man,” Wicomechee snarled.
Blood trailed warmth down his chest, but the demon Long Knife was far more stained. Wicomechee kicked out and hurled Reed back a few stumbling steps. Seizing the opportunity, he struck his bad arm again.
Reed screamed, dropping the tomahawk with useless fingers. But he showed no intention of awaiting his death when one good hand remained.
With the wrath of an injured grizzly, he charged and grasped Wicomechee by the throat. Fingers like saplings tightened around his neck. The mountainous bulk forced him back toward the ground. He struck wildly at Reed's back. The blade didn't cut in deeply enough to finish him. Struggling under the crushing weight, gasping for air, he went down.
Reed bent over him, eyes lit with hate. “Got you now, you bloody savage,” he panted. “You killed my friends. I'm gonna choke the life out of you, Mechee. That's your name, ain't it? You're the Mechee she cried for."
Reed's sneer blurred in a red haze and Wicomechee envisioned Charity's tearful eyes seeking him, her mouth crying his name. Would she wake to find him dead and Reed hovered over her?
"Stupid bitch,” Reed ground out.
The foul word fueled a surge of rage in Wicomechee that flooded new strength through him. He glimpsed the shock in Reed's tight face as he threw him off and scrambled to his feet. “Red Bird is all that's good! All that's sweet!"
He could have lifted the giant over his head and tossed him down a ravine. Instead, he struck her abductor with his fists and drove him back—ever back. He drew his knife. And lunged, thrusting it up between the stunned man's ribs. “Die with her name in your ears. Red Bird. My wife."
A choking grunt rushed from the giant and he slumped forward with a rasping gurgle. His inert body pressed heavily against Wicomechee. He shoved Reed off and he thumped to the ground. Red with blood, breathing raggedly, he staggered to Charity.
She lay where she'd fallen beside the treacherous stone. She could be fast asleep but for the unnatural way she was positioned, her body tucked up, face so white, except for the ugly purplish-red mark on her forehead and the welt on her cheek. Terror unlike anything he'd ever known seared him. He could battle a hundred men and not feel as weak as he did now.
He knelt and pressed trembling fingers to her throat. He found her pulse. Not strong. Blackest dread gripped him as he touched crimson-stained fingers to the evil bruise on her forehead. This injury wasn't one he possessed the knowledge to cure. He doubted even the wisest medicine man did. She lay beyond the reach of any healing root or plant.
Wrenching grief tore through him. Reed might as well have plunged the knife into his heart. With a cry from his innermost depths, Wicomechee gathered her in his arms. “Don't leave me, Red Bird. I am with you and will not leave you."
He sagged back against the stone cradling Charity to him.
Time lost all meaning. He had no idea how long he remained like that...minutes or hours. He only knew that all color and joy had gone from his world. Revenge brought him no peace. All that mattered now was the faintly beating heart of the woman he clutched. And he dared not let go. If he did, she would surely fly away. Somehow, he must will her to stay.
His will was strong. “Stay with me, Red Bird. Stay with me.” Hot tears slipped down his cheeks and over her chilled face. Again and again, he entreated her and kissed her cool cheeks.
Dusk cloaked the trees when Posetha walked through the clearing and stopped before Wicomechee. He regarded him through his tears. Posetha's gaze dipped to Charity.
"I left none alive,” he said, his voice weighted with pain.
Wicomechee nodded. It made no difference now.
"Red Bird, she lives?"
"Just.” Wicomechee waved at the body of the man who had caused this black despair. “Get the big Long Knife from my sight."
Posetha grasped Reed by the ankles and dragged his grisly bulk behind the hemlocks. He hauled the other corpses across the grass to join him, each one swallowed up by the shadows. Wicomechee hugged Charity to his heart as Posetha built a fire. Then his friend took two blankets from the packs and held one out to Wicomechee.
He carefully wrapped Charity in the woolen cloth. “She dislikes the cold,” he said dully.
Posetha draped another blanket around Wicomechee's shoulders, and sat beside him. Neither of them spoke. The wind whispered in the trees. The first stars appeared overhead. More came out until the whole sky glittered with lights—lights Charity should've shared with him. Her excited voice did not rise at the blazing streak that arched across the sky. The lonely brilliance seared Wicomechee's soul.
Distant wolves howled at the great moon rising through leafless branches. One full moon circle had passed since Wicomechee first took Charity captive. In that time she'd come to mean all to him. He softly kissed her cold face. “Do not fear the wolf, Red Bird. Posetha has made a fire."
"Perhaps she knows it burns,” Posetha offered.
"Who can say?"
Night wore on, as did their sorrowful vigil. Wicomechee reached under the blanket and clasped her limp fingers. She should have squeezed his in return. He remembered the first time she'd pressed her uncertain lips to his and tears flowed unrestrainedly. He hadn't thought she'd find the courage to kiss him, but she had, and he thought of that blissful night only a few days ago when she'd joined herself to him. Each precious memory twisted the knife more deeply into his tortured heart until he groaned in anguish.
"I gave my promise to protect her. Yet she saved my life. I failed her."
Posetha clasped his shoulder. “We could not strike any sooner. You saw how closely the Long Knife held her."
Bitter rage seethed in Wicomechee's despair. “And how he touched her, my sweet wife. I should have fallen, not her."
"Red Bird's love for you is great, Wicomechee. She would not want to weep over you. Would you wish this pain on her?"
"Never. The big Long Knife swore to send me to hell. He has succeeded. Am I not in torment?"
"She breathes still,” Posetha reasoned.
"So faint is that breath. How can I help her?” Wicomechee pressed his cheek to Charity's cold skin. Never had he felt so desperate. “She grows more chilled. I am losing her. If she flies I will swiftly follow."
"No. You, alone, carry the blood of your grandfather. If you take your life, will not his heart be torn from him?"
"As mine will be if I must live without her."
"Are you not my dearest friend and brother to Waupee? How can we bear to lose you? Be strong,” Posetha pleaded.
An owl hooted overhead. He and Posetha sucked in their breath and stared at each other. Firelight bared Posetha's dismay, his face a reflection of the icy horror that had laid hold of Wicomechee.
As if in response to this dark omen, Charity uttered one barely audible word. “Craig."
Wicomechee gripped her. “No. Do not fly to Craig, Red Bird. Come back to me. Charity—” Choking on her name, he turned to his friend. “I must pray. Have you tobacco?"
"Take all.” Posetha spilled the fragrant leaves from his pouch.
Wicomechee snatched up the sacred leaves and cast them into the fire. The pungent tobacco mixed with the wood smoke. He followed the ascending smoke through tear-blurred eyes. “Manito, hear me. Do not take my wife. Spare her life. Was it not you who gave Red Bird into my hands?"
Sobs overwhelmed him and he could not speak. But he would not let her go. He'd never let go. Posetha closed his arm around his shoulder and wept with hi
m.
Again the owl hooted. Wicomechee lifted his head and saw great snowy wings sail across the sky silhouetted against the yellow moon. Had the spirit of his precious wife flown with this ghostly bird?
"Does she yet live?” Posetha whispered.
In dread of what he would find, Wicomechee pressed his fingers to Charity's neck. A faint, but detectable pulse still beat beneath his trembling hand. He shifted his fingers to her chest and felt the slight rise and fall of her breathing. “She lives,” he said, in unspeakable relief.
Posetha gulped in air as though he'd just pushed his head above water. “I feared she was gone."
"She is weak, yet with me still.” Wicomechee poured his will into drawing her ever nearer.
Bright constellations arched across the clear sky and set below the horizon. New ones appeared in their place as they kept watch. Wicomechee brushed the hair from Charity's neck and felt again for her pulse. “She grows stronger. Listen,” he whispered with excitement.
Posetha bent his head near her chest and waited. “I hear her breathing! Is she still so cold?"
"Yes. Yet not so much as before."
"I will build up the fire."
The low flames crackled to life with the kindling Posetha fed them. The orange glow shone against the gray edging out the blackness as predawn light silvered the woods. Charity stirred, an almost imperceptible shifting, but Wicomechee was attuned to her every move.
"Come to me, Red Bird,” he urged with his very soul.
She turned her head slightly, as though in response.
"Come Charity."
A faint moan escaped her lips.
"I am here. I wait for you, Red Bird."
And then, with unspeakable joy, he heard her whisper his name. “Mechee."
Posetha clapped him on the back. “She is returning to you."
Streaks of rose tinged the eastern sky in the beginnings of a glorious dawn.
"With the sun."
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Chapter Sixteen
Five days later
Clouds the color of lifeless coals overhung the ridges. Raw breezes blew under Charity's skirts and flapped her cloak and the blanket she clutched around her. The cold wind chased rust-brown leaves and heaped them into crannies among the trees like squirrels’ nests. If only she could tuck down into a snug burrow to escape this bone-chilling damp. She longed for a cheery blaze and an end to this interminable day, but the end wasn't in sight.
After her horrific ordeal, Wicomechee and Colin both thought it best to try and catch up with Outhowwa's party, there being more safety in numbers. Failing that, they wanted to reach the village as soon as possible. Rather than allowing her time for an extended recovery, they'd spared two days and pressed on. This day was the worst since her injury.
She stood on the creek bank as the two men waded out into the brown torrent. Wicomechee staggered in the flow swiftly rising to his waist. “Too deep! Cross further ahead!"
Colin stopped behind him and waved the others back. Muga and Posetha turned away from the swollen stream and led the string of pack ponies taken from the trappers back up the bank. The blanketed heads of both children bobbed above the docile piebald, one of Muga's charges.
The two men slogged from the water, climbed between the moss-edged stones, and paused in front of the quiet gelding.
Emma sat atop the big horse clutching Mary Elizabeth in the folds of her blanket. Her face, partially hidden by the crimson cloak, creased in concern as she gazed down at them.
"You're soaked through, and ‘tis such a raw day."
Puddles collected at their feet, but Wicomechee shrugged.
Colin stomped his moccasins to shake off the excess moisture. “Don't fret, sweetheart. We've suffered worse."
Wicomechee arched an eyebrow at him and teasing touched his eyes. “When was this?” Colin smiled wryly.
It was beyond Charity to understand how they could joke when she was so wretched and they were far wetter.
Emma shook her head at them and shifted her focus to Charity. “You look all in. Want to ride with me again?"
"That jostling bothers my head. I'll stay with Mechee."
"This pace is too harsh for her, Colin,” Emma protested.
"I wish we could stop, but we can't make camp here."
Wicomechee nodded. “We must find another place to ford."
"No use standing here freezing our you know whats off.” Colin took the reins and started over the trail after Muga and Posetha.
Wicomechee and Charity fell in behind, and it was all she could do to put one foot in front of the other. He closed his hand around her arm and helped her along the outcropping that blocked access to the water. Weshe followed, better mended from his wound, it seemed, than she.
A red-tailed hawk shrilled overhead and flapped from a tall chestnut, partly veiled in the haze. White-capped sparrows fled its talons, darting into the heavy boughs of a spruce. The evergreen stood out among the barren branches covering the ridge, witness of winter's inevitable approach.
Aunt Mary had said she wanted Charity wed before snow flew. It seemed the iron-willed woman had gotten her wish, though not at all as she would have wanted. If only her aunt could know Wicomechee—but, no. It was hopeless. Charity was cut off from her people and home, and couldn't join the past with the present. Her uncertain future lay with this man whose strong arms lifted her over the limb blocking the trail.
On and on the line of stones persisted, and the narrowing path forced her to walk behind Wicomechee. Laurel hedged them in from the right; the rocks prevented any outlet to their left. Fixing her gaze on his newly acquired deerskin coat, she followed him like a beacon, his back the focus of this bitter trek. But the stones seemed determined to outlast her limited reserves. She heard water tumbling beyond the wall. Perhaps the stream was fordable now. How to know?
The path wore on, dipping and rising again, strewn with obstacles of all sizes. No opening emerged in the unyielding barrier. She stumbled over a log, lurching down onto her knees, and slumped on the hard trail. “Mechee!"
Weshe licked her hand while Wicomechee squeezed between the damp stone and returned to her. “Come. We will soon find a place to cross."
It wouldn't matter if only a few yards remained. There wasn't a step left in her. She cried weakly. “I can't."
He knelt and closed his arms around her. “Reach deep inside. Find strength."
She pressed her face against his coat, inhaling his unique scent mingled with wood smoke and the cold forest. “You march me like a soldier."
"Not soldier. Shawnee warrior."
"What difference? Both are tireless."
He cupped her icy cheek. “All men tire."
"Not like me. You don't."
"I have no injury. Go just a little further."
"No. Let me stay here."
"We will find a better place to camp.” He stood and pulled her to her feet. “Ouishi cattoui, be strong."
Her unsteady legs threatened to give out.
"I will help you."
"How? The trail's too tight."
He stepped ahead of her and reached an arm behind his back. “Take my hand."
She grasped his fingers like a lifeline. They made slow progression. A woodpecker hammered at the dead oak looming above them like an enormous corpse. Wicomechee turned and lifted her over a chunk from the decaying giant. Retaking her hand, he walked on.
Above the wind and water she heard a man shout something in Shawnee. It sounded like Muga. “What did he say?"
"Stones are soon gone. We can cross now."
"Thank heavens!"
Wicomechee helped her beyond the last of the rocky wall then half-led, half-carried her to the bank. She leaned against him, her chest heaving. Posetha was midstream with three ponies. Brown water rushed by just below his waist, lower on Muga waded a few yards behind him. Legs tucked up, the children clung to their pony while Colin sloshed behind them leading Stuart.
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"I will carry you over,” Wicomechee said to Charity.
"What of Weshe? He might be swept away."
"You hold him. I hold you—"
A chilling shriek, like a woman's tortured scream, shattered the late afternoon gloom.
"Meshepeshe,” Wicomechee hissed. “Panther."
Her heart lurched, and Weshe growled.
Many settlers had seen the ravages these devil cats made on their livestock. Some had lost children to its powerful teeth and claws. The horses whinnied sharply. Empowered by the rush of fear, Charity stood without swaying as they scanned the dimly-lit trees on the opposite bank.
Again, the terrifying scream rent the air.
The pack ponies went wild. Posetha fought to control his charges, but they tore free in a mad scramble up the bank. Muga snatched up the children and just kept them from toppling into the current. His panicked ponies thrashed to shore.
Stuart snorted and tossed his head, but stayed as he was. Emma clung to his mane with one hand and her tiny infant with the other. “Will he throw us?” she cried.
Colin didn't even glance at the gelding. His focus, like Wicomechee's, was on the hazy trees across the stream. “No, darling. Stuart's steady as they come."
Charity wasn't so sure. “If he tosses Emma, she could lose the baby in this rough water. Nor can she swim."
"Waupee's horse has much courage—there,” Wicomechee pointed. A large, black panther crouched on a high branch ready to spring on the ponies. “I despise to kill him. But I must.” He leveled his musket.
Charity grasped his arm. “Stuart may bolt if you fire."
Before Wicomechee could speak or knock her hand aside, Colin snatched his musket from his shoulder and fired.
The explosion discharged near Stuart's head, but he adhered to his training as the feline menace plunged to the ground. Charity sucked in her breath. Wicomechee stared slack-jawed at the fallen panther then at his English brother.
Feet stretched out before the fire to dry his sodden moccasins, Wicomechee sat with his friends and James. How good to be in jovial company with the promise of a decent meal before him. The gloom of the day had lifted and the night was cold, but not bitter. Stars shone amid the clearing clouds.
