Time dragged as shouts and wails drifted up from the river and cornfields. An occasional scream rose in the night. Babies cried. A woman wept, her sorrowful lament raising gooseflesh on Shannon’s arms. She was terrified that something terrible had happened to either Storm Dancer or her father.
Flynn had been down in the village, probably asleep when the attack had happened. Guilt weighed heavy on her shoulders. How could she remain here while the two people who meant most to her in the world might be injured or even dead? And what of the others? Little Woodpecker and sweet Dove who had shown her such kindness? Not knowing what was happening was torture. Only a coward would put her own safety first.
When she could stand it no longer, Shannon climbed the steep bluff to the hut where she and Storm Dancer had made love. It was a difficult ascent. Twice, she lost her hold and slid back. Her fingernails broke off on the rock, and gravel bit into her knees, but she wouldn’t give up, and finally dragged herself over the top.
She ran around the hut and stared down the hill. To her disappointment, she could see no more from here than she could from the ledge below. How could Storm Dancer expect her to remain here when she could picture him struck down, blood spilling from his body?
The scum who had attacked her hadn’t been French; he’d been English, and no soldier. His clothing, what she’d been able to see of them, had been typical frontier wear—fringed hunting jacket, leather pants. She couldn’t imagine why Englishmen would attack a peaceful Cherokee village, especially since the English were so eager to have the Cherokee join their side against the French.
If Storm Dancer hadn’t come in time, the man might have caught up with her. She had no illusions about what would have happened to her. Indian or not, he would have raped her, and afterward, once he knew that she was a white woman, he would have had to silence her so that she couldn’t tell what he had done to her.
Her time with Storm Dancer had been the most wonderful experience of her life. She’d come to him a virgin, given him what she should have saved for her lawful husband. But she wasn’t sorry. The price for this one night might be high, but what he’d given her was beyond cost. She would remember it and cherish it always.
It wasn’t as if she were helpless. She had the rifle and knew how to shoot it if she had to. Could she do such a thing—to save herself—even to save someone she loved? Aim a gun at someone and pull the trigger?
She didn’t know.
She wasn’t a violent person. She hated fighting, couldn’t remember ever hurting another human. She would make that decision when she had to. She might be soft of heart, but she was no coward, she told herself as she made her way down the steep path toward the cornfield.
Reaching the edge of the forest trail, Shannon hesitated at the edge of the trees. She listened, but heard no more shots or screams, but there were fires in the village, and she guessed that some of the houses were burning. A woman sang a heartrending lament that could only be mourning for the dead.
Cold reason settled over her, and she wondered if the rifle she carried for protection was loaded. There was only one way to tell. She pointed the gun into the air and pulled the trigger. There was a dull thud and powder flashed in the frizzen pan, but the weapon didn’t fire. She would have to fix that before she took another step.
With trembling hands, she went through the motions to reload the long rifle. It was a skill she’d learned at Flynn’s knee and perfected at Saturday turkey shoots held at Klank’s tavern, where she’d loaded pistols and rifles for guests during competition.
Not that the tavern gave away any real turkeys as prizes. Once there had been a cantankerous one-legged goose, too old for roasting or laying eggs, but the favorite awards of the day were kegs of moonshine for the best shooters. Usually, Mistress Klank ordered her to drain off some of the whiskey for use at the bar and refill the keg with vinegar, a spoonful of pepper, and a little black powder for flavor.
Still, Shannon had no trouble reloading the dead man’s rifle in pitch blackness, and that trick might save her life. “In for a penny, in for a pound,” she murmured. Anyone who saw the weapon in her hands and meant her harm would assume she’d shoot, so she may as well have the option.
Armed, she straightened her shoulders, and taking a deep breath, ventured into the cornfield. She’d not gone more than twenty paces when something big crashed out of the darkness. She stopped short, certain that whoever or whatever it is must see her coming.
Holding her breath, she waited. The thing took a few steps closer. She couldn’t see what it was, but it was huge and alive. Grunting, knocking down cornstalks…Was it a bear or a mountain lion? It was big enough. Her stomach plunged. “Stop where you are,” she said.
The thing snorted, squealed, and lunged toward her.
Shannon lowered the rifle barrel. “Stop, or I’ll shoot,” she warned. She didn’t really expect a bear or a mountain lion to heed her command, but she was long past thinking clearly. The words just spilled out of her mouth like ale from a broken pitcher.
A heartbeat later, she made out the silhouette of a horse’s head in the gloom. A horse! She’d nearly shot one of the village horses. “Whoa, whoa,” she soothed as she lowered the rifle.
The animal kept coming. A warm nose thrust against her shoulder and shoved hard. Shannon tried to hold her balance, tripped and fell back, landing on her bottom in the soft soil. The horse made a snuffing sound, pushed his nose in her face, and sneezed.
“Ugh.” She tried to push the animal’s head aside, but it pushed the big head forward, knocking her flat a second time. “Go away. Stop it,” she protested.
The horse nickered plaintively.
Shannon used the gun to help herself up. There was something familiar about the shape of this horse—not a horse, but a large pony. “Badger? Is that you?”
The pony nudged her again with its nose. With a sigh of relief, she hugged the animal’s neck. The pony was trembling. “You’re scared too, aren’t you?” Badger puffed air between his slobbery lips. “Maybe you—”
“Shannon?” Storm Dancer came toward her from the direction of the river.
“Are you all right?” she demanded.
“Yes. But your father is searching for you.”
Storm Dancer’s voice was brusque, almost a stranger’s, unlike the man who’d held her so tenderly hours ago.
“I think he’s hurt.”
“Is it serious?”
“Go to him. He’s at the far end of the dance ground.”
“Were many people hurt?”
“Too many. Eleven dead.”
“Cherokee?”
“Eleven.” He shook his head. “This man does not count the cowards who come at night to murder sleeping children.”
“Are they still here?” She peered into the darkness. “Are you sure—”
“The warriors drove them off. We go after them now.”
“You, too? Do you have to—”
He grasped her shoulders. “Go to your father, Shannon. It is not safe for you to be here now. You are English.”
“And it was Englishmen who attacked the village,” she finished for him.
“Yes. Return to the post and stay there.”
“But we had nothing to do with this. You know that—”
“I know that those who have lost fathers and sisters will seek revenge. Go while you can. No one will harm you tonight. By tomorrow, it may be different.”
“I don’t understand,” she persisted. “Why would Englishmen attack the Cherokee?”
He embraced her. His chest was bare, and she could feel the beat of his heart through her thin leather cape. “I do not know,” he admitted. “But I know that we will follow those that did not fall. And we will kill them if we can.”
“Wait. There must be some other way.” She looked up into his face. “No one would expect you not to defend yourself when you were attacked, but if you follow them, if you take justice into your own hands, more English may come to avenge t
heir deaths. The killing will go on and on.”
He kissed her. For the space of a heartbeat, she thought her plea had touched him, but then he released her and stepped away. “Go, Shannon.”
“I won’t let you do this. What about us? What we shared?”
“One night, that was ours. It is over. You have one trail to follow. I have another.”
“I know that’s what we said,” she answered, “but I can’t let you go like this.”
“It is over between us.” He moved away from her. “Farewell, my heart. Live well. I will not forget you.”
“Just like that? You’re walking away from me?”
“Find a good man with white skin. Have him build you a home and father strong children for you, far from these mountains. Return to your own land, daughter of Truth Teller. Go before the rains here turn to blood.”
“Shannon!”
Her father’s shout came from the edge of the village. She turned toward the sound, and when she looked back, Storm Dancer was gone. Shaken, too numb to cry, she hurried toward Flynn. The pony followed her.
“Da?”
Flynn ran to her and wrapped his arms around her. His grip was so tight that it took her breath away. “I was afraid.” He choked up. “I was afraid that you were one of the…” He squeezed her harder. “I couldn’t find you.”
“Da, I can’t breathe.” He released her and she inhaled deeply, her thoughts tumbling. “Badger ran into the cornfield,” she stammered. “I was afraid and—” She touched his face. “Are you hurt? Someone said you were hurt.”
“Ball grazed my head. Knocked the wind out of me. Ye know me, girl. I always did bleed like a stuck pig at the least scratch.”
“It must have.” Her father’s voice still sounded strained, and his breaths were heavy. “But I’m all right. I heard the shots…and I…and I ran…” she said. “People were killed, weren’t they? Who—”
“Aye, people died. White and red. Damn whoever conjured this devilment up to a fiery hell. The Cherokee won’t sit quiet. You hear those war drums?”
She did. The beat was urgent, primitive, and unsettling, unlike the celebration earlier. There were angry cries as well.
“Calling for blood,” Flynn said. “It’s best we go. Now.”
“But the white men who attacked the village. They could be out there. What if we come across them on the way home?”
“We take our chances. I fought beside the Cherokee tonight, but some won’t remember that. A woman I knew, came to the post regular, Painted Turtle, she’s dead. And that girl you saw at the river when we arrived. The one with no clothes on? Feather Blanket was her name. She died right beside me. Split Cane’s old husband took a musket ball through his head. She lost a grandson, too, a wee lad.”
“But maybe we could help with the wounded. If you fought for them—”
“Don’t matter. All that matters now is the color of our skin. Later, maybe, cool heads will remember. For now, I want you out of here.” He caught hold of the rope around the pony’s neck. “You take this animal to the river.” He pointed. “Let him drink, and wait for me there. Keep quiet. Speak to no one if you can help it.”
“Where are you going?”
“My horse, if I can find him. They tried to run off the livestock, but two of the young lads risked their lives to scatter the lot.”
“Will the other Cherokee villages rise? Will this mean war with the English?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. I—”
War hoops pierced the night. Loud shouts came from the trees. Someone cried out in pain.
“Come!” Flynn said. “Let’s go while—”
Torches flared. A group of Cherokee men and women poured from the village. Several young men spotted her and her father and ran toward them. Shannon recognized Gall among them.
“You must come,” he called, raising a torch high. “They have taken a white prisoner.”
Flynn scowled in the firelight. “I want no part of this. My daughter and I will go and leave you to it.”
One of Gall’s companions said something in Cherokee. Shannon couldn’t understand his words, but the meaning was clear. He brandished a spear at them.
Flynn glanced at Shannon. “Sorry I am that I brought you, darlin’. This is bad luck. I don’t want you to see this, but I don’t think we have a choice.”
“I’ll be all right,” she answered. “We’ve done nothing wrong. We have nothing to be afraid of.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Two more warriors joined Gall and the man with the spear. One wore a bloody head wrap; the other nursed a wounded shoulder. None seemed particularly friendly. Gall motioned toward the village. “Come now,” he urged.
“What will they do with the prisoner?” Shannon asked.
Her father put an arm around her protectively.
“They will burn him,” Gall said. “He will face the council’s judgment, and unless someone speaks for him, he will die.”
“But that’s not right,” she protested. “Da? Can they just burn…”
“He must die,” the brave with the head wound said. “And he may not die alone.”
Chapter 11
A wild-eyed woman dashed out of the darkness and grabbed Shannon’s arm. Shannon tried to pull away, but an angry young man caught her other arm. Flynn roared and dove for him but two more warriors seized him, wrestled his rifle and weapons away, and began dragging him toward the village. Gall hobbled alongside, talking loudly, hopefully attempting to quench the crowd’s lust for revenge. No one seemed to hear him, or if they did, to care.
The Indians were shouting in their own tongue and Shannon couldn’t understand them. Someone shoved her roughly from behind and she stumbled. Only her captors on either side kept her from falling. Frantically, she looked around for Storm Dancer.
More men and women hurried from the town and joined the angry throng. One enraged youth, barely fifteen, shook his fist in the air and howled a chilling war whoop. Hostile cries rose from the shadows.
“Courage,” Flynn urged. “We’ll be all right.” A woman spat in his face and shook a length of firewood at him. He spoke to her in Cherokee, and she lowered the weapon and began to cry.
Not knowing what they were saying was horrifying, and Shannon vowed that if they survived this night, she would learn the language. She raised her head and tried to keep from showing just how frightened she was. Where was Storm Dancer? How could he let this happen to her? He’d said he was leaving the village, but he couldn’t be gone yet, could he? He must have known what would happen to her and her father.
Suddenly, the crowd around them stopped short. Indians stepped back to allow a battered old woman to approach. Shannon stared at her. One side of her face was swollen and bloody. A gash ran through her thin hair, and one leg was streaked with blood.
“Split Cane,” Flynn said. “She’ll put this right.”
The matriarch raised a bloody walking stick. Her bear-claw necklace was gone, and the earring had been ripped from one torn earlobe. Still, the plump headwoman radiated power, causing the younger braves to shrink back. The bereaved mother holding Shannon’s arm released it. Even Gall seemed intimidated.
Split Cane waved the stick. The seasoned warriors scowled but stepped away from Flynn, who nodded and touched his forehead out of respect for the headwoman. “Much obliged, my lady,” he said in English, and then quickly switched to Cherokee.
Split Cane’s lip was bloody, one eye swollen nearly shut and rapidly turning purple, her thin hair caked with dirt and something dark and wet, but so regal was her bearing that she might have been a Spanish queen seated on her throne. “Have shame,” she rasped in English to those gathered around her. “Truth Teller is brother to Cherokee.”
“His skin is white,” a woman dared.
Split Cane turned a hard gaze on the speaker. “It matters not. Truth Teller’s heart is Cherokee.”
An old man hobbled to the circle and said something.
<
br /> “Truth Teller killed one of the English dogs to save my life,” Gall translated. “I saw him slay the scalp hunter.”
Split Cane looked at Flynn and spoke softly.
“Take your daughter,” Gall translated. “Go in peace, my friend. Return to your home and stay until I tell you it is safe. And forgive angry hearts who forget Cherokee laws of hospitality in their sorrow.”
The headwoman pointed at Gall with her staff of office. “This man will guide you home,” she said.
Flynn nodded. “No need. I know the way, lady.”
Ignoring him, the old woman pointed at two more men and gave a command.
“Pine Martin and Black Walnut must come with us,” Gall explained. “Split Cane says if one finger on Truth Teller’s hand is harmed, we all pay with our lives.”
Quickly, a boy led her pony, Badger, forward and Flynn motioned for Shannon to mount. To her left, Shannon saw another group dragging a battered white man toward them. “What will happen to the prisoner?” she asked her father. But Flynn had already grabbed the pony’s rope and was leading her forward. Those who had been so quick to seize them now rushed toward the other captive. Gall limped beside the pony.
“Da?”
More shrieks and whoops echoed in the night air. Scowling and reluctant, Black Walnut and Pine Martin fell in behind the pony. Someone stepped from the darkness and pushed Flynn’s rifle, powder horn, and shot bag into his hands.
“Will they kill the prisoner?” Shannon asked. Where was Storm Dancer? Why hadn’t he come to help them? Had he already gotten so far away that he hadn’t heard the angry mob?
“Don’t look back,” Flynn said.
A woman brought a horse, not her father’s, but he mounted it and nodded his thanks. Gall and the other two braves found animals. Faster than Shannon would have thought possible, they had left the village behind and pressed on into fog-shrouded meadowlands.
High-pitched shrieks from the camp made her stomach churn. “They will kill him, won’t they?” Shannon said.
“He will burn at the stake,” Gall assured her. “But his dying will be slow.”
Cherokee Storm Page 12
