“I’m sorry. We can’t interfere with council business. But we will try to bring Oona with us later.”
“Wait. Do you know how long they will keep me here?”
“Snowberry says she doesn’t know,” Blue Sky replied. “Cardinal must be here to testify at the trial, and she and Gall have run away together.”
“Everyone is surprised, especially Aunt Snowberry. She didn’t think that Cardinal liked him.” The woman stood up and took her son’s hand. “It is a great scandal in the village. Most do not think he is good enough for her. She was always meant for Storm Dancer.”
“Do you think—” Shannon began.
“No, we cannot stay,” Blue Sky said. “We will talk later.”
“Wait!” But they were gone, and Shannon was alone once more. “Please!” she shouted. There were so many questions she wanted to ask…. If only Storm Dancer would return. Then, she knew, everything would be all right.
It had to be.
“You are getting old and fat, Luce Pascal.” A knife flew by the Frenchman’s face and stuck into a tree on the other side of the trail. “If I were not your son, then what?”
“Then I would be in the arms of the angels,” Luce replied in French. “Come out of the bushes. Let me see you.”
“As soon as you lower that rifle,” Gall answered.
Laughing heartily, the little man rested the weapon across his horse’s neck. “You are too late for the war. Or have you come to gather the spoils?”
“Like you?” Gall stepped out onto the path. “What are you doing this far south?”
“The sacred blood of Christ! Haven’t you heard? My trading post was burned to the ground.” Luce sat in the saddle smiling down at Gall from the back of his mule, but he offered no physical show of affection such as Storm Dancer’s father might have done.
Nothing ever changes, Gall thought. He is what he is. “By who? Who is your enemy now, Big Pascal?”
Luce shrugged. His belly was bigger than when Gall had last seen him more than four years ago. His mustache was longer, his hair a little grayer, but his cheeks were just as red, his small eyes as sharp as a rat’s. “Who can say? The British? The Shawnee? The Cherokee? Who knows what enemies a poor trader can have? If he is a poor businessman, he starves, but if he is good, men call him greedy.”
Gall thought he understood most of what his father had said. His own French wasn’t the best, and Luce had an accent that was unusual among most of the Frenchmen Gall had met. He slipped into a mixture of English, French, and Cherokee.
“But why are you here?”
“I heard that the Irishman was dead. Now that the Shawnee have retreated to the north, and the Cherokee have made peace with the English—”
“What? Why haven’t I heard of this?”
“Who can say? Am I an eagle that I can see what you do or where you go? All I know is that Winter Fox met with the English at Fort Hood, and peace was declared between them once more.”
“Were you there? Was my cousin among the warriors? Did you see Storm Dancer?”
Luce made a clicking sound with his tongue. “Him again, is it? You should stay clear of that one. A very fierce man. He will be the death of you.”
“Or I will be of him,” Gall replied.
Luce scoffed. “You are bitter.”
“I have good reason.”
His father waved his hand. “It is not good to always have hate and envy in your heart. Come with me. Help me to start again at the Irishman’s crossing. You can smooth the way for me with the Cherokee.”
“The Tsalagi do not trust you, Father.”
“But you are one of them. You can help me to forge a new alliance. After all, I may be a Frenchman, but I am not political. I care not who controls these mountains, so long as I can turn a profit.”
“And what makes you think the Cherokee will accept you and let you stay?”
“I can offer them something they can get nowhere else. Do you forget that I am a maker of fine whiskey? The young men will come for the fire water, no matter what the old heads say.” The mule thrust its head and bared yellow teeth.
Gall smacked the animal’s nose and it squealed and shied back.
“Careful,” Luce warned. “His kick is worse than his bite.”
“If he kicks me, he’ll find himself roasting over a fire. I’ve heard mule is good.”
“Mule is excellent with garlic, olive oil, and the right wine,” his father agreed. “But today, we have only the mule, and I fear we would be disappointed.”
Gall studied the older man. Luce had a good rifle, a very good knife, an Iroquois tomahawk, and two pack-horses carrying who knew what. His father was rich as well as clever. It could be that his own best interests lay in throwing in with Luce. He did not think that Firefly’s village would be the best place for him now. Especially now…
“Will you teach me to make the whiskey?” Gall asked.
“Certainly.” Luce grinned. “With such knowledge, you will always be certain of having a full purse. Help me build a new post, and I promise you enough trade goods to buy a fat wife, perhaps two.”
“You are heading in the right direction for Flynn O’Shea’s post. Ahead, along this trail, lies Green Valley. There is a settlement of English farmers there. They may shoot you and take all your goods.”
His father chuckled. “You think me such a fool? No, Big Pascal is not.” He patted the leather pouch that hung by a braided strap to his saddle. “I carry a letter from a Quaker merchant in Philadelphia telling the English that I am a fine fellow and a friend.”
“And why would an English merchant give you such a paper?”
“I told him I was not French, but German.”
“And he believed you? You, Big Pascal, known as a friend to the Huron, the Shawnee, and the Oneida?”
“You have much to learn, my son. I have carried this paper for two years, in case I had need of it. And now I do. I must shed my French skin and become someone else. I am no longer Luce Pascal, known as Big Pascal. I am Ernst Klaus, honest merchant from Lancaster in Penn’s Colony. And soon, when more whites come to these mountains, and the Cherokee go west, I will send to Pennsylvania for a good Dutch wife.”
“What of your French woman, the wife you left in your own country, across the sea?” Gall asked.
“Which one?” Luce laughed at his own joke. “Clotilde, the rich baker’s daughter? Or Tienette, the physician’s only child? Wives, my son, are easily acquired and easily disposed of.”
“Like my mother?”
“Your mother was an exception. Her, I loved. But I could hardly take her or you back to France with me, could I? Here, in your own country, is where you belonged. As Clotilde and Tienette and their offspring belong in France. But this is where I shall live from now on, here in North America, and I will need a colonial wife to care for me in my old age. Do you see?”
Gall did see. His French might not be as good as his father’s or any of his French-born half brothers or sisters, but he was smart. He had thought when he’d first laid eyes on Luce that he would kill him. But now he saw what advantage he might gain by accepting his rightful place as the son of German merchant Ernst Klaus.
He would take what he could get from his father, but he would never trust him, and he would never tell him about Cardinal or the other things that he had done. It would not do to give Luce Pascal knowledge to use against him. Gall knew that he was clever enough and devious enough to live in his father’s world. He might even take a white name to go with his new responsibilities. Joseph. He had always favored Joseph.
“I cannot go with you to the English settlement,” he said to Luce. “But if you would have their favor, tell them where one of their own can be found. In the village of Firefly, deep in the mountains, is a captive white woman with yellow hair. She is the daughter of Flynn O’Shea and was taken captive by Storm Dancer when he burned her husband’s cabin.”
“This is true?” Luce demanded, suddenly shrewd. “You
have seen this white captive?”
“I have seen her and spoken to her. Tell them that her hair is yellow and her name is Shannon. Tell the white farmers that the Cherokee mean to torture her as revenge for the murders at Split Cane’s camp.”
His father looked doubtful. “How can this be, when Winter Fox just made a treaty with these English?”
“It can be because I say it is,” Gall pronounced. “And if you want my help to build a new trading post, you must carry this word to the whites. The woman was stolen by my cousin Storm Dancer, and if they do not go quickly to her rescue, she will die at the stake.”
Chapter 26
In the bottom of the pit, Shannon tossed and turned on the bearskin. She could see Storm Dancer. He was lying on the ground…hurt…bleeding. He was pale, far too pale, and his eyes were closed. If she could reach him, she was certain she could help, but no matter how hard she ran, she could go nowhere. He remained just out of reach. “Storm Dancer!” she cried. “Don’t die, please don’t die.”
A torch flared. Abruptly, light flooded Shannon’s rocky cell. She opened her eyes, half-dazed, still tangled in the dream. “What…”
“Can you climb up?”
Shannon recognized Snowberry’s voice. “Yes,” she replied. “I’m sure I can.” She was on her feet as a vine ladder tumbled over the edge of the pit. She seized it in both hands.
“Come up, daughter of Truth Teller,” Firefly called. Storm Dancer’s mother appeared at the rim above her.
The climb was difficult; the flimsy vine twisted and sagged under her weight, and Shannon slammed her fingers against the rock wall every time it swayed. Ignoring the pain, she forced her way up the ladder, one rung at a time. At the top, Woodpecker’s mother, Blue Sky, offered her hand and helped Shannon up.
Shannon dropped onto her knees to catch her breath and looked around. Other women crowded behind Firefly and Blue Sky. One was the scowling councilwoman, Yellow Bead, who had been so quick to condemn her. The old woman no longer seemed angry, only grief-stricken. Beside her stood another council member, a wrinkled bird of a matron with gray eyes whose name was Corn Woman.
Snowberry, Cardinal’s aunt, the kindly woman in whose home she’d been living before they tossed her in this hole, came forward to take Shannon’s hand. “Poor little one,” she murmured.
Snowberry’s eyes were red; her broad face was smeared with ashes, her gray hair chopped raggedly. It was obvious to Shannon that she’d been crying.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
For a moment, Snowberry hesitated, and her lower lip quivered, and then the older woman hugged her tightly. “Be strong,” she said.
“Why are you crying?” Shannon asked.
“Our Cardinal, she is gone.” Snowberry’s voice cracked. “We have lost her forever. My only niece.” Fresh tears welled up in her brown eyes. “My pretty Cardinal.”
“I don’t understand,” Shannon said.
Firefly motioned to her. “You must come with me,” she ordered. “Quickly. There is no time for talk. Storm Dancer lies at the edge of the hereafter.”
Still confused, Shannon tried to understand what Firefly meant by edge of the hereafter, and then the images from her dream came rushing back. “He’s hurt? Storm Dancer is hurt?” Fear constricted her throat. “What’s happened to him?”
His mother’s face reflected the terror and uncertainty Shannon felt. “He calls for you,” Firefly said. Strain showed on the woman’s face. She seemed both older and slighter than Shannon remembered, not nearly as intimidating.
“Take me to him.” In spite of the way Firefly had acted toward her, Shannon felt sympathy for Storm Dancer’s mother. He was her only child, and it was clear that she loved him.
“Follow me,” Firefly said. Even her tone was less commanding. “Please. He may be dying, even now.”
Blue Sky fell in beside Shannon and took her arm as they made their way out of the cave and down the hill toward the village. “We found Cardinal’s body near Ghost Ledge,” the young Indian woman whispered.
“An accident?”
Blue Sky shrugged. “Who can say? She fell or jumped. She must have survived the fall, and then been devoured by wolves. The pack won’t eat dead things unless they are starving.”
Cardinal dead in such a horrible way? It didn’t seem possible. But Shannon had no time to ponder the young woman’s fate if Storm Dancer was in danger. “But how was Storm Dancer hurt? You said Cardinal had run away with Gall. I don’t understand what one has to do with the other.”
Blue Sky shook her head. “No one has seen Gall, but the warriors found Storm Dancer a day’s travel from the village. He had left the others to bring home the message that peace had been declared between us and the English once more.”
“My husband would never have found our son, if it wasn’t for buzzards circling overhead,” Firefly said. “Waiting for his death.”
“They carried him home on a litter,” Blue Sky explained. “He took a poisoned arrow in his thigh.”
“How bad is it?” Shannon demanded. “Will he live?”
“Who can say?” Firefly replied. “Shawnee poison is very powerful.”
Storm Dancer’s mother led the way into the village and down the street to her home. A gray-haired woman stooped through the low doorway and left the cabin. “Is my son alive?” Firefly demanded. “Is there any change?”
“He burns with fever from the poison,” the woman said. “I am not the healer in our village. I have never treated a poison arrow wound before. Who can say if he is strong enough to survive? It lies with the Creator.”
Firefly pointed to the doorway. “Go in to him,” she said. “He calls your name, over and over.”
Shannon rushed in. The lodge was brightly lit by the fire and stank of death. Not infection or bodily wastes, but death. She hurried past the hearth stones to the sleeping platform where the man she loved lay naked on his back. “Storm Dancer,” she cried. “It’s me. It’s Shannon.”
She touched his face. Heat radiated from his body. His skin felt dry, his lips pale. His high, chiseled cheekbones stood out against sunken cheeks. Dark, damp hair spread unbound around Storm Dancer’s head, and his eyes were closed. When she clasped his hand, his eyelids fluttered.
“Shan-non.” Her name rustled like dry cornstalks in the wind.
“I’m here, my love.”
Opening his eyes seemed an impossible task. His lids flickered. She could see him struggling to focus on her face. “Ma-ry Shan-non.”
“Shh, save your strength.” She cupped his face in her hands, kissed his dry lips, and then scanned his bruised and battered body for injuries. A poultice covered the arrow wound on his right thigh, but it was instantly apparent that he had taken more than one injury. A jagged gash ran from his left eyebrow into his scalp, and another bandage on his left arm was soaked through with blood.
Poison, she thought. That’s what Blue Sky had said. Storm Dancer had been struck by a poison arrow. Only poison or blood loss could have brought him to this point. The head injury was nasty, and she didn’t know how bad the wound on his arm was, but it must be the leg that had made him so sick and brought on the fever.
Her heart raced. This was bad, very bad. She could clean minor wounds, bandage, even stitch gashes and clean boils, but Storm Dancer’s condition seemed beyond her level of skill to deal with. She leaned close and kissed his forehead. “I’m here. I’m here,” she repeated. “You’re going to get better. I swear it.”
She turned back to look at his mother. “Who is caring for him? Is there a doctor?” She corrected herself. “A shaman?”
“Our medicine woman has gone to Split Cane’s village to help deliver a baby that is turned the wrong way,” Firefly said. “I have sent for her, but it will be hours before she can get back. I do not know if he will live so long.” Her tone softened. “I cannot deny his wish to see you. If his spirit—”
“No!” Shannon snapped. “No. His spirit is strong. It’s
only his body that’s weak from poison.” Desperately, she tried to think of something to do. “Wait. Oona is here. Blue Sky said that my father’s wife is here. She is a healer. She knows—”
“She is here,” Firefly agreed. “But her mind is like a child’s. She does not speak.”
“She doesn’t have to,” Shannon insisted. “Back at the post, she didn’t speak, but she remembered how to do all sorts of things. She may remember her medicine. Please bring her here. If anyone can help him, it will be Oona.”
Captain Sidwell stood to shake Luce Pascal’s hand in dismissal. They were in Sidwell’s office, a poor, makeshift structure of logs nailed against the south inner wall of Fort Hood. “Thank you,” the English officer said.
Knowing that the information his son had given him was valuable, Luce had turned back to the fort and asked to see the commandant. Apparently, the sudden demise of that Englishman had left Captain Sidwell the highest-ranking officer, and Luce was shown in to see him.
“His Majesty appreciates you coming forward, Herr Klaus,” Captain Sidwell said. “We’ve already received a request from a prominent settler in Green Valley, Yeoman Nathan Clark, to send an expedition to recover his daughter-in-law who was kidnapped during a raid on his son’s farm. We assumed that the woman had been taken by the Shawnee.”
“I don’t know how this Storm Dancer got her, but he’s Cherokee,” Luce said. “It is my understanding that Frau Clark is being held in his home village.”
“Which is to the better,” the redcoat continued. “If it was Shawnee who had her, we could do nothing. Only hope that they might take her north to Canada, where she could be ransomed from the French. If she is a captive of the Cherokee, this changes everything. Are you certain of your informant?”
“Ja. Joseph’s word is good,” Luce assured him. “I’ve known him for years. A most promising young man. Half-white, I understand. He seems to have had some education and speaks English well. I intend to employ him at my new fur trading post.”
“And he is willing to guide a rescue force to this Firefly camp where Mistress Clark is held prisoner?”
Cherokee Storm Page 29
