Black Eagle

by Gen Bailey

  But Black Eagle was speaking to her now, and he said, “Was it you who saddled your pony for me this morning?”

  “No,” she replied. “Why?”

  He frowned. “No reason. But it was already done. Perhaps Thompson completed the task.”

  Marisa gave Black Eagle a knowing look. “Thompson? When has Richard Thompson done anything on this trip without being asked first? More likely,” she added, “it was Sarah.”

  “Nyoh, I’m sure you are right, but perhaps I should ask her, if only to settle my mind.”

  “Mohawk!” It was Thompson bellowing, and Marisa couldn’t help wondering why the man couldn’t seem to address Black Eagle by his rightful name. “I need help over here, Injun,” Thompson continued. “Damn nag won’t stand still.”

  And Black Eagle, slanting her a look, said, “Stay alert,” under his breath and went to do as bid.

  “Sarah, look there! Did you see it?”

  Sarah drew her horse to the side of the path. “No, what was it?”

  Both women, who were sitting sidesaddle, leaned forward, to stare into the forest glen. Marisa said, “I believe it was a bear.”

  Sarah shivered, and straightened. “If so, then ’tis the first we have seen on this trip. And here I was, hoping we would not come across any a’tall. What kind of bear?”

  “I little know,” said Marisa, as she too straightened up in her seating. “I hardly had a glimpse of it. ’Twas standing over there,” she pointed, “in the dell. But when it saw me looking at it, it turned and sauntered away.”

  “Good. Let us hope that you frightened it.”

  “Yes,” she said, though personally she thought that was unlikely.

  It was still early morning. Gone was the rain that had plagued them last week, and in its place was the most glorious sunshine a person could hope for, the kind that made a person glad to be alive. It was as if Nature were making amends for what might have been her anger this past week or so.

  On this day, the fragrance of pure oxygen was in the air, and sunlight was bouncing off droplets of moisture, which still clung to the leaves and the bark of the trees. The ground was muddy and slick, but the clouds overhead were fluffy and light, and the land looked as if it had been washed anew. Black Eagle had once again taken the lead, and was at present so far ahead, that Marisa could no longer see him.

  For a moment, she panicked. If something else should befall them, was he close enough to avert a disaster? But then, common sense prevailed, and she assured herself that her worries, and his, were unfounded. Her step-uncle had hired Thompson personally, and while he might be many things, her guardian was not a killer, nor would he hire a killer. Although there was that Pennsylvania town . . .

  That they were still traveling during the day seemed to indicate that they were still within safety. For this, she was glad. Riding through enemy territory was likely to be more of a trial than she had ever anticipated. It was odd how, in Albany, the reality of the trail had seemed so much easier.

  Albany. Thus far, with the track before them and the beauty of the landscape to take her attention, the journey was serving to put Albany and the problems there behind her. Indeed, it seemed to her as if the more distance that intervened between herself and the town, the less Marisa thought of her step-uncle’s displeasure with her. Perhaps when she returned to Albany, John Rathburn, too, would have had the space and the time to shake off his animosity.

  At least Marisa hoped so.

  Looking forward again, she found that she could still not see Black Eagle, and she discovered that she missed watching his figure. On that thought, she sighed. What was to be done about him? About them?

  Nothing, she answered her own question forthwith. Nothing was to be done about the two of them. Love him, she did. There was no denying it. But as regards any future with him, there was none. On this fact, she would remain firm.

  Suddenly she slipped backward in her seating. “Oh! Sarah!”

  “Marisa! What is it?”

  Marisa’s saddle gave, and as she slipped farther backward, she reached out for Sarah when it appeared she could not keep her seat. She screamed. As though from far away from herself, she heard Sarah echo her scream, watched as Sarah rode toward her, as Sarah reached out to her. But it was too late.

  Her mount shimmied, neighing, and then it reared. Marisa held tightly to the reins, using all her strength to pull herself up. Sarah, meanwhile, had come up beside her and was reaching out to grab the reins.

  Sarah was trying to help, attempting to settle the animal down. However, her actions only served to pull the reins out of Marisa’s hands.

  Thrown off balance, Marisa grasped for her mount’s neck, but she missed and in a split second realized there was no preventing it. She was going to fall. No sooner had the thought manifested itself than she plummeted off the animal, landing between the two horses. Reaction made her scream once, then again, until she hit the ground with a loud ump, her left hip and elbow taking the majority of the impact.

  Her position, however, put her squarely between her own and Sarah’s horse, a very dangerous place, and it took no genius to realize that all that stood between life and a trampling was Sarah’s ability to calm both horses.

  Sarah might be, and was, the most wonderful person of Marisa’s acquaintance, but Marisa knew her friend was not an expert horsewoman. She simply lacked the experience.

  “Whoa! Whoa! Stay down!”

  As though in slow motion, Marisa listened to Sarah’s voice, knowing that her attempts to keep the animals calm wasn’t working. There was panic in Sarah’s intonation, and the animals sensed it. Marisa’s horse reared yet again, barely missing Marisa as its hoofs hit the solid ground. The action also tugged the reins out of Sarah’s hands.

  What was bad had suddenly turned worse. Marisa’s horse was now fully out of control. Bringing her arms up instinctively to protect herself, Marisa hugged the ground, expecting the worst to happen at any moment. But the worst never came.

  “Whoa! Whoa! Down, boy! Down, boy!”

  It was Black Eagle. It was strange how split-second thinking had her wondering if Black Eagle and his name-sake shared more than a title in common. How had Black Eagle sprinted back to them so quickly? He had been so far in the lead, that it seemed impossible that he should be here now.

  Though she expected to be tramped at any moment, Marisa yet looked up to witness that Black Eagle had gained control of her mount’s reins, that he had jumped onto her horse’s back, and that he was exerting every ounce of his strength to settle the animal.

  It was impossible. Marisa thought it was so. Yet it worked. Though his strength was surely tested, Black Eagle’s voice remained calm, soothing. Under Black Eagle’s guidance, the animal settled down, and what had started as a near tragedy turned melodramatic. Almost at once, and contrarily, as though nothing untoward had ever happened, her horse quieted and commenced munching on the grass at its feet.

  But Black Eagle wasted no time. No sooner had the horse settled down, than he jumped off the animal, turned the reins over to Sarah, and rushed back to Marisa.

  He knelt down next to her, and though he said not a word to her, he ran his hands over her everywhere. It was nothing personal, he was merely checking for injuries, and Marisa understood this, yet she found herself basking beneath his touch, wishing for more.

  When he was satisfied there was no outward injury, he asked, “Are you hurt?”

  “A little,” she answered, noting that her voice shook. Still, using her one good arm, she brought herself up off the ground, situating herself into a seated position. “I fell on my hip and my elbow.”

  “Can you move them?”

  “I’m not certain.” She raised her arm. It was sore and it hurt, but it seemed she could move it. “My arm appears to be all right,” she said. “Can you help me to stand?”

  “Not yet,” he said. “When you are ready, we will get up. For the moment, collect your breath.”

  She nodded. “
I little understand what happened. One minute I was sitting safely astride my horse, the next I was falling. I hadn’t moved or done anything to cause it.”

  Black Eagle shook his head, but he was looking elsewhere, and when she followed his line of vision, she saw that he was staring at her saddle, frowning at it.

  “Lass, are ye well?” It was Thompson, big, sweaty and surly Thompson, who was trudging toward them. He was leading the pack horse behind him, but as soon as he saw her on the ground, he dropped its reins to rush toward her. “What has happened to ye?”

  He was the last person she wanted to see, yet she kept her voice civil, when she said, “My saddle would not hold me and I fell.”

  “Yer saddle would not hold ye?”

  Marisa watched as Thompson glanced around the clearing. His gaze alit onto something, and he strode toward the object, which was lying about thirty feet away from Marisa. “Is that the one?” he asked, pointing.

  Marisa looked up to see what he was referring to.

  “Yes,” she said, “that’s my saddle.”

  Thompson squatted down next to it, appearing to study it. At length, he picked up the two leather straps that were used to buckle the saddle into place. They were clearly severed.

  “This be the problem, lass,” said Thompson. “’Tis the fault of the leather cinches. They be old and insecure. This saddle should never have been used. Did ye check it, lass?”

  “Well, no.” But Black Eagle had done so this morning, she added to herself. Or had he? Hadn’t her nag already been saddled?

  Marisa turned her attention toward Black Eagle, who had come up to his feet during this exchange. There was a look about him that appeared to be stoic, and as though to further the impression, he said nothing.

  “Ye, Mohawk, come here,” demanded Thompson.

  But Black Eagle remained where he was.

  Thompson ignored that fact. “Did ye check over the cinches?”

  Black Eagle nodded.

  Thompson stood to his feet, and he was frowning as he took in Black Eagle’s measure. He said, “This be yer fault, Mohawk, since it was yer duty to ensure the safety of these animals, as well as the quality of their equipment. Did I not hire ye to do this? Did I not make it plain to ye?”

  Black Eagle didn’t answer. Instead he glared at Thompson.

  “Do ye see this?” Thompson held the ends of the leather in his hand. “It be an accident waitin’ to happen. They be old and withered. By God, man. The lass could have been kilt dead. Why, I’ve a mind to give ye a sound whipping.”

  Still Black Eagle said not a word. Nor did he flinch. Instead, he leaned calmly against his musket, which he had positioned on the ground next to him. His look at Thompson, however, was not pleasant.

  “Sir Eagle?” Marisa said, as she came up to her feet without assistance, though she did notice that she couldn’t put her full weight on her hip. She said, “Sir Eagle, you did check them, didn’t you?”

  Black Eagle nodded.

  “Then ye are clearly to blame,” spat Thompson. “Why, I ought to whip ye where ye stand—”

  “There will be no whipping of anyone on this trip. Not now, not ever,” said Marisa. “After all, little harm was done. I’ve had another adventure, but I am on my feet and ready to continue traveling, if it is possible to do so without a saddle.”

  “Ye, Mohawk! Gimme yer blanket for the lady!”

  Black Eagle didn’t move. Instead, he faced Thompson and the two men stood off against each other, staring at one another as though a battle waged between them.

  Marisa, gazing alternately between the two men, said brightly, “Why, that’s a good idea. Sir Eagle, may I use your blanket for a saddle? The one that you are wearing draped against your shoulder?”

  But Black Eagle didn’t answer. Nor did he argue. He said, “You will not need it.”

  Marisa opened her mouth to speak, possibly to refute him, but it was unnecessary. Black Eagle went on to elaborate, “We will go no farther this day. Prepare to make camp.” And without awaiting a reply, he took up his musket, turned around and strode away.

  “Damn!” muttered Thompson. “It be the middle of the mornin’! Damn Mohawks! This be no place to make a camp!” As he leaned over to the side of the path, he spit on the ground.

  But gross as the action was, as was the man, himself, Marisa hardly noticed. As she watched Black Eagle’s retreating back, she realized she hardly knew what to think. Old cinches could be dangerous, and Black Eagle was in charge of the horses and their equipment, but it didn’t ring true that he could be negligent; he, who seemed to be always aware and in command of himself and the world around him.

  Besides, hadn’t he said himself that he hadn’t saddled the horses this morning? Who had?

  Thompson? Sarah? But did that even matter if the cinches, themselves, were old and worn?

  It felt wrong to doubt Black Eagle’s competence. He was the man she loved, the man who had come to her defense three times already.

  But then, look at who was accusing who. Something about this was wrong, but what that was, she didn’t know.

  Thirteen

  It was obvious to Black Eagle what had happened, and it was almost certain that it had occurred this morning. Someone had saddled Miss Marisa’s mount, not out of a sense of duty or assistance, but rather with the hope of diverting his attention away from a problem.

  Certainly, he had performed a routine check of the equipment. But with the saddle already in place, he had missed this.

  In the confusion of handling Thompson’s mare this morning, Black Eagle had overlooked asking Sarah if she had saddled the animal. Clearly, this had been a mistake, for had he done so, he would have realized that she hadn’t accomplished it, and that something else was afoot.

  Of course, Black Eagle hadn’t expected to have to give the saddles undo attention. Hadn’t he observed their ill repair at the beginning of their trip? Hadn’t he demanded and received new saddles? There shouldn’t have been a problem.

  But there was.

  Briefly Black Eagle looked up from his work to take note of his surroundings. He had positioned himself on a large, flat rock that was situated next to the Lake-that-turns-to-rapids, a body of water that skirted their camp. As he looked westward, across the cool, clear water, he reminded himself of the lake’s deceptive nature.

  The lake was aptly named. Farther to the west the pool made a sharp turn and began to flow downstream. From that moment on, the character of the water changed from one of calm negligence, to one of sharp rocks, waterfalls with white-crested waves, deep currents and eddies. It was known to his people as a watery grave, and thus it was a place to avoid, especially since here, a little farther to the east, was a calmer water. A place made for easy crossings.

  Across the water, his attention centered on the deep, dark forest that characterized that part of the country. It was a territory that bordered between Mohawk and Abenaki land, and since it was fused between the two warring tribes, the forest was not frequently used by either Mohawk or Abenaki hunting parties. Thus there would be weeds and undergrowth that would make their travel difficult.

  But it was still the best route to take, if they continued onward. He had hoped to discourage the women from leading their horses through such a place. But seeing their dependency on their trunks, which contained their dishes and clothing, he had abandoned that hope.

  Glancing back toward his work, he examined the cut leather. At least the damage was repairable, he thought, and he set himself to work. Gradually, the familiarity of the chore, as well as the calming sound of the water hitting the shoreline, allowed his mind to wander.

  Marisa’s screams from earlier in the day echoed in his memory. The sound had been heart-stopping, and taken as a whole, amidst the neighing and commotion of the horses, he had thought the women were under attack.

  And so they had been, but not from a wandering war party. No, the assault today was something more sinister; at least with a war party, one kn
ew and could understand what he faced. Not so this enemy.

  The scene that had met Black Eagle, had been a vision he didn’t want to relive, yet the memory kept replaying in his mind. There Marisa had been, huddled on the ground between two horses, one of them with its hooves raised high in the air, ready to trample her.

  Even now, he didn’t like to consider what might have been, had he been a trifle late. But one thing was certain. What had happened here this day was no accident. Though the leather had been cut to appear jagged and to give the impression that wear alone had severed it, it was evident to Black Eagle that these straps had been deliberately slashed.

  It had been for this reason, and this reason alone, that he had issued the decision to make camp early. Not only did he require the daylight to inspect the damage done and to ponder over the probable cause, it would also be easier to mend the saddle in the light of day.

  As he continued his work, he noticed that the women had come to sit close by to him, and he listened to them at their work; they were at present engaged in preparing the midday meal. Their feminine chatter was a familiar sound, and the background noise of their voices served to quiet his thoughts, at least a little. For a moment, he let his mind drift from what was really plaguing him, to the women. What would they say, what would they do, if he suggested that they return to Albany?

  At present it seemed the only safe alternative for them, and he would put his concerns to them as soon as possible. To continue onward would be insane: This had been no accident.

  It was also evident to him that the culprit was Thompson. Who else could it be?

  What Black Eagle didn’t understand was why. Why was Thompson sabotaging their trip? As its master, wasn’t it his duty to ensure their safety? And if Thompson were guilty—and he had to be—was he not then capable of anything?

  Out of the corner of his eye, Black Eagle noted that the two women ceased their work. Arising, Marisa took off in the direction of the horses, opposite him, perhaps to check their food supply, while the other woman, Miss Sarah, approached near to him, her direction headed toward the water. As she came in closer, however, she hesitated, then stepped toward him. She said, “Sir Eagle, is the saddle able to be repaired?”