“What is this?” Nate asked suspiciously. “Are you stalling so your friend can get away with my daughter?”
The girl in green pointed at the rifle, then at the flintlocks.
“I have no idea what you are trying to get across,” Nate informed her. He tried something else. He touched his chest and said, “Nate.” Then he pointed at her and arched his eyebrows. He repeated the pantomime several times.
The girl’s eyes widened. She placed a finger to the same spot on her chest and said, “Tenikawaku.”
“That’s some mouthful.” Nate smiled and repeated her name slowly, hoping he had caught all the syllables. He touched his chest once more, and waited.
“Nate,” the girl said.
“It’s a start,” Nate said. He indicated her knife, then leaned down and held his hand out to her. “Let’s try this one last time.”
The girl hesitated but only for a few seconds. Abruptly sheathing her blade, she grasped his hand and permitted him to swing her up behind him.
“Hold on,” Nate said, hoping to God he had not just made the biggest mistake of his life.
Tenikawaku of the Nansusequa was awash in a flood of confusion. Too much had happened too swiftly. She was lightheaded, but she attributed the feeling to running into the tree.
Teni was amazed the white man had not killed her. He could have, easily. He had the rifle and the short guns. He had a knife and a tomahawk. But he had made no attempt to use them when she lay dazed and next to helpless. This, after she had tried to impale him with her lance.
Something was wrong, Teni mused. Something was very wrong. The white man was not as she expected him to be. Any man who would abduct a young girl, as this man had supposedly taken Miki, would not hesitate to kill someone who had tried to kill him.
Teni’s hand drifted to the hilt of her knife. She could kill him now if she wanted. All it would take was a quick plunge of the blade low in his back and the deed was done. But she could not bring herself to draw it.
For the moment Teni was content to go with the white man and see what developed. She suspected he was after Dega. The man must know Dega had his daughter. The urgency with which he rode showed how worried he was, which, in turn, showed him to be a devoted, caring father. Suggesting, even more, he was not the kind of person who would take Miki.
The bay flew like the wind. Teni had only ever been on horseback twice in her life and neither experience left her wanting to own one. Horses were too big, too terrifying. As it was, she was so scared being on the bay, she forgot herself and wrapped her arms around the man. He looked back and smiled.
Teni would not have been more shocked if he sprouted wings and flew off. Was the smile relief that she no longer appeared to want to kill him? She met his look, but promptly averted her gaze. He had what the Nansuseqa called strong eyes; eyes that bored through her into her innermost being. They could not, of course, but she sensed in them a wisdom and a kindness that was at odds with everything she had come to believe about whites.
In time they came to a stream. The white man swung his mount upstream, in the direction Dega had gone. The vegetation was not as thick along the bank, and he rode with a speed that left Teni breathless.
Suddenly the white man drew rein. Vaulting to the ground, he searched right and left. Seeking tracks, Teni realized. He found where her brother’s footprints went into the water. They did not come out on the other side.
Teni admired her brother’s cleverness. To elude the white man, Dega would stay in the center of the stream for as long as his feet and legs could stand the cold water.
The white man gazed upstream and then downstream. He was unsure which direction Dega had gone.
Teni knew. It was upstream, toward the clearing and their camp.
Placing a hand on her foot, the white man gestured in both directions, then quizzically regarded her.
“You want me to tell you?” Teni marveled in the Nansusequa tongue. He was incredible, this white man.
Again he gestured.
Teni felt sorry for him. She wanted to help. She sincerely did. But helping him meant defying her father, and while she no longer believed this white man was the enemy her father believed him to be, she refused to betray her father.
The white man’s eyes were on her in mute appeal.
Sadly, counting on him to divine her meaning if not her words, Teni said, “There is nothing I can do. Your daughter’s fate is not mine to decide.”
The man bowed his head.
In a thunderous flurry of pounding hooves, the white mare exploded out of the woods and into the clearing near Nate’s cabin. Shakespeare half dreaded he would find Louisa or Blue Water Woman lying in a pool of blood, with the pair of Indians gloating over her body. But the situation was the exact opposite.
Louisa was framed in the doorway to her in-laws’ cabin. In her right hand was a Hawken, smoke curling from the end of the barrel. In her left hand, as steady as a rock, was a cocked flintlock. Louisa was slight of frame but tougher than steel. Short sandy hair gave her a boyish aspect. Her eyes, as blue as the lake, were lit with fierce fire. “Stay right where you are!”
She was addressing the pair Shakespeare had spent the better part of an hour tracking. The warrior’s green buckskins and the woman’s green buckskin dress showed evidence of much wear and tear. The man was on his knees, his left hand pressed to his right shoulder, glaring defiantly at Louisa. A bow and arrow lay next to him. The woman in the green dress was at his elbow, supporting him.
Shakespeare trotted around in front of them and brought the mare to a stop. “What have we here, Lou?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” Lou said. “Zach told me to hurry over and keep an eye on the place. I was looking out the window, wondering where in creation all of you got to, when these two came running out of the woods. I opened the door and that damned fool tried to put an arrow into me.”
Smothering a chuckle, Shakespeare slid down. It took a firebrand to marry a firebrand, and Lou was a match for Zach. “So you winged him? Nice shooting.”
“I can’t claim any credit. I was aiming for his heart, but I rushed my shot.” Lou stepped into the sunlight. “Suppose you tell me who these green rascals are?”
“I would like to know myself.” Covering them, Shakespeare moved closer. Both wore masks of defiance. “My conscience has a thousand several tongues, and every tongue brings in a several tale, and every tale condemns the pair of you for villains,” he quoted.
The warrior in green licked his thin lips. “What you say, white beard?”
“By my troth!” Shakespeare exclaimed. “The King’s English or some semblance thereof. How now, sirrah, and what is your cognomen?”
“You not talk white tongue?” the warrior asked.
Louisa laughed. She had lowered her pistol but held it trained on the twosome. “That will teach you to babble the Bard.”
For all of ten seconds Shakespeare was at a loss for words. Then he parried with, “Go to, woman. Throw your vile guesses in the devil’s teeth from whence you have them. Old William S. possessed an eloquence of which you can scarcely conceive.”
The wounded warrior looked at Lou. “What white beard say?”
“Even he doesn’t know.”
“That is too much presumption on thy part,” Shakespeare quoted, and turned back to their prisoners. “Permit me to try again. I am Shakespeare McNair. Who might you two folks be?”
“Where daughter, McNair?” the warrior demanded. “That’s what we would like to know,” Shakespeare responded. “Why did your friends make off with Evelyn King?”
“Evelyn King?” the warrior said with some difficulty. “You mean white girl?”
“She’s half and half, although you would never know it to look at her,” Shakespeare said. “Why did you and your friends jump her?”
“Not friends,” the man responded in a strained tone. The wound was taking its toll. “Son, daughter, wife, me.”
“So this is a f
amily affair?” Shakespeare said. “That’s well and good but still begs the question, why?”
“We want daughter.”
“I always wanted a son, but you don’t see me going around stealing one from someone else.”
“No,” the warrior said. “Want own daughter.”
“Sorry, but Evelyn King already has a ma and a pa. You can’t have her,” Shakespeare said gruffly. Their gall was beyond belief.
“Not King girl. Want own daughter.”
Louisa had been listening with great interest to the exchange. “I think he means he has a daughter of his own in the mix somewhere.”
“Is that true?” Shakespeare asked.
Excitement seized the warrior. “Yes! Have own daughter. Want back. Give you King girl.”
“Hold on there, hoss. You think we have your daughter and you stole Evelyn to force us to give your daughter back?” Shakespeare was inclined to regard it as a preposterous lie intended to trick him into lowering his guard, but there was no denying the other’s sincerity.
“Yes! Yes!” The warrior stood and swayed. His wife had to hold him to keep him from falling.
“Before we go any further, do you have a name? And what tribe do you and your missus belong to?”
“My name Wakumassee. Wife Tihikanima. Our people Nansusequa.”
A tribe Shakespeare had never heard of. “Well, I have good news and not so good news. The good news is that neither me nor my friends have your daughter. The not so good news is that I have no idea where she is.”
“You talk two tongues. Wakumassee see axe.”
“Axe?” Shakespeare said, and remembered Nate had mentioned his was missing. “One of ours was stolen.”
The woman in green had been silent this whole while, but now she spoke to Wakumassee and he talked at length. Her repeated glances at Shakespeare hinted that Wakumassee was translating everything that had been said so far. When Wakumassee was done, it was the woman’s turn. “Wife have questions,” he translated.
“First things first.” Shakespeare lowered his rifle. “How about if we patch up that shoulder of yours before you bleed to death?”
Wakumassee did not hide his surprise. “You do for me?”
“Why not? You haven’t hurt anyone yet, and something tells me there is more to this than meets the eye.” Shakespeare went up to them and bestowed his friendliest smile. “What do you say? Truce?”
“What mean truce?” Wakumassee asked.
“I won’t try to kill you and you won’t try to kill me,” Shakespeare explained. “How about it? Come inside and we’ll tend you.”
Louisa interjected, “Are you sure it’s wise? We don’t know these two from Adam and Eve.”
“That works both ways,” Shakespeare said. “I believe them about their girl, and if I were wearing their moccasins, I would be as anxious as they are to find her.”
“Taking Evelyn wasn’t too bright,” Lou remarked. “If any harm comes to her, my husband will be out for blood. We both know what Zach is capable of. He won’t give them a chance to explain or apologize. He’ll kill them before they can so much as blink.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
Wakumassee listened to their exchange in growing confusion and alarm. Confusion because the white woman could have finished him off after she shot him, yet she had not done so, and because the white-haired white man impressed him as being sincerely friendly. Alarm because it sounded as if the one called Zach was a formidable warrior who would not hesitate to kill Dega and Teni if he found them.
Waku let the white-hair help Tihi bring him into the cabin. But he was not as helpless as he let on. His wound hurt, but he had known worse pain, and the bleeding had about stopped. It would be simple for him to grab the white man’s knife and plunge it into the pair before they could stop him, but if the white man was telling the truth, and they did not have Miki, then he had made a great mistake.
Waku’s first mistake had been to trust Reverend Stilljoy. It had cost his people their lives. He naturally blamed Stilljoy and the other whites, but part of the blame must fall on his shoulders. His desire for peace had warped his reasoning. He had trusted without making sure the person was worthy of his trust. Now he wondered if he was not doing the same thing again, only in reverse.
The seed of hatred planted in Waku’s heart by the massacre had grown into a hatred for all whites. A hatred he had nurtured during his family’s long journey to the mountains. Hatred motivated him to lay claim to the valley. It was hatred that fed his lust to kill those already here.
In that respect, Waku realized, he was no different from Reverend Stilljoy. He wanted to kill out of blind hate. Kill people who had done him no harm, just as his people had done no harm to the bigots of New Albion.
Waku was torn inside. Part of him still wanted to slay the one called McNair and the young, dangerous woman, but another part of him, the old part, the part that had always sought peace rather than war, the part he thought dead, wanted to hear them out and then decide what to do.
They seated Waku in a chair. While the young woman heated water, McNair had Waku shed his buckskin shirt, then examined the wound. Waku noted that the older man took great care not to cause him any more pain than was necessary.
Tihi, who had been quietly standing to one side, said, “Ask him, husband. It is important we find out.”
Waku chose his words slowly so as not to make mistakes. “You say not take our daughter?”
“As God is my witness,” McNair said while daubing at the bullet hole. “We don’t make war on children.”
“Then who?” Waku pressed him.
“That is what I would very much like to find out,” McNair answered. “There are a lot of folks in this world who think no more of making life miserable for everyone else than they do of stepping on a bug.”
Once again Waku had to mentally wade through a morass of shades of meaning to get at the right one. The white tongue was hard enough for him to understand. McNair, with his unusual use of many words Waku had never heard before, made it that much harder. “Have enemies?”
“Who doesn’t?” McNair rejoined.
That was not much of an answer but Waku relayed it to Tihi. He should have listened when she said it was too dangerous for them to go from cabin to cabin looking for Miki. He thought the whites and their women and the half-breed and his woman were off searching for the girl. But he had been wrong and Tihi had been right. He should listen to her more.
Coincidentally, Tihi said, “Ask him about their wives.” Waku grunted. She had been curious about them since she first saw them. “Your woman,” he said to McNair. “She Indian.”
“Through and through. She’s the kitchen wench, and all grease, and I know not what use to put her to but to make a lamp of her, and run from her by her own light.”
Once again Waku struggled to make sense of the answer. “Sorry?”
“She would have made Hercules have turned spit, yea, and have cleft his club to make the fire, too.”
“I not understand,” Waku admitted.
“Don’t feel bad,” the white woman said. “No one else understands him, either. But that doesn’t stop him from prattling.”
McNair scowled and leaned down as if to confide in Waku. “I will fetch you a toothpicker now from the furthest inch of Asia, bring you the length of Prester John’s foot, fetch you a hair off the great Cham’s beard, do you any embassage to the Pygmies, rather than hold three words’ conference with this harpy.”
His confusion at a peak, Waku said, “You give me foot?”
The young woman laughed merrily. “He’ll give you his nose and his ears, too, if you ask real nice.”
“Pay her no mind,” McNair cautioned. “She hath more hair than wit, and more faults than hairs.”
“And more lead than both,” the young woman said. “Good sooth, she is the queen of curds and cream,” McNair declared. “If she lives till doomsday she’ll burn a week longer than the whol
e world. She speaks poniards, and every word stabs.”
“I wouldn’t want my blade to rust,” was the woman’s response.
“See? Did you hear? They barb us with their wit and beguile us with their charms. They lead us by the nose ring and trip us when we show the least sloth. I ask you, Wakumassee? Is that any way to be treated? Are we men or mice?”
Waku felt he had to say something, so he said, “Men?”
“I gave up my claim when I discovered I could do as I pleased only so long as it pleased my wife. No wonder I go through life so confused. How about you?”
At last something Waku understood. “I confused too.” In fact, it was safe to say he had never been so confused in his life.
McNair smiled and clapped Waku’s good shoulder. “That’s the spirit! What say that once you’re fit we tip a glass to the Bard and another to all the injustice in this female-afflicted world?”
Wakumassee began to wonder if maybe the white-haired white man, for all his friendliness, was not entirely sane.
Seventeen
A rainbow of emotion had played over Evelyn King. First there was red-hot anger at being attacked, then black fury as she was bodily carried off. Both were eclipsed by the yellow blanch of fear at her impending fate. The fear, though, was fleeting, and was replaced by the pink flush of embarrassment. Then came the ruddy complexion of a volcano on the brink of eruption.
Evelyn struggled mightily at first, but with her arms pinned to her sides and her feet off the ground, she could do little more than wriggle like a worm on a hook. But where an ineffectual worm’s ultimate end was foreordained, Evelyn’s was not. She subsided, conserving her energy and biding her time for when her captors made the mistake of releasing her, as they assuredly would.
The hand over Evelyn’s mouth was firm, but the fingers did not gouge deep, almost as if the warrior who carried her was making a conscious effort not to hurt her. With her back to his chest, Evelyn had not had a good look at his face. All she could tell was that he was tall and sinewy and possessed remarkable strength and stamina.
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