No. He'd only sneak close enough to investigate, then return. He wouldn't alert the strangers to his presence at all, even if they looked safe. Once he'd seen them, he would come tell the others, and then they could decide as a group if anything should be done about them.
He followed the creek upriver in the general direction of the smoke. It made sense the newcomers would camp near water, and probably at the edge of trees so they would have access to firewood and a break from the wind that sometimes swept through.
Once he passed the first patch of trees, the land along the creek's edge stretched in open grass. It looked like the smoke was coming from just beyond another group of trees in the distance. He’d do best to skirt this open area, even though it would require him to take a roundabout path to follow the tree line—an extra five or ten minutes.
He turned left to begin traveling around the edge of the clearing, closer to the base of a low mountain. Striding at a swift walk, he kept an eye on the distant trees that were his target and the smoke rising just beyond them. There was no sign of figures moving among the trunks.
At last, he reached those woods and stepped into them, keeping his path aimed toward the smoke. The scent was stronger now. They must've use leaves to help start their fire.
A man's voice drifted to him, and he stilled to listen. The rolling cadence of the words had to be the French language, but he couldn't make out what was being said. The man spoke in a normal volume for casual conversation, not a shout or command.
The talking ceased, and French listened another long moment for any other sounds. Only normal forest noises met his ears, so he started forward again, keeping his footfalls light in the toe-to-heel rolling motion Beaver Tail had taught him.
He’d traveled a dozen steps when a motion through the trees ahead stopped him again. There was more daylight there, like at the edge of the woods, and a figure moved across the light. From the shape of the body, it must be a man, but the movement had stilled. One of the trees might be blocking him.
French worked hard to steady his breathing as he debated his next move. He had to get closer, but he needed to stay behind the trees as much as he could. Should he duck lower? No. That would make it harder for him to move quietly.
With his gaze, he traced out his path to another tree wide enough to hide him, then darted forward on quiet feet to duck behind that trunk.
He peered around the tree to check for movement where he'd seen it before. Smoke rose up in a column, which must be the location of their camp. No other movement showed, nor any sounds from the men. Had they left camp? Gone to the river, or maybe to their horses?
He sought out his next hiding spot behind a wide pine, then slipped to it.
One by one, he shifted from tree to tree, checking for movement or sounds from the camp after each advance.
At last, he was only ten strides from the fire, and from this position he could see the area around it fairly well. At least two saddles were stacked beside a tree trunk, with several packs next to them. That meant the men had mounts, either horses or mules. No bedrolls had been laid out yet, nor were there any other signs that they'd made themselves comfortable. They must have arrived recently and only taken time to build a fire before they'd gone…to do what?
He'd have to wait for them to return. Surely they would be back soon, since their things and a blazing fire were all here.
Time passed—maybe a quarter of an hour?—and he strained for any sounds that might signal the men's return. Nothing.
Would Colette wonder where he was? Indeed, he should've started the evening meal before now. Would she worry? Maybe he should have told one of them where he was going. But they might have tried to come with him, and the more people traipsing through these woods, the harder it would be to stay quiet.
At last, the sound of a horse’s nicker drifted from farther upriver. That was the opposite direction from where French’s and the rest of their group’s animals grazed.
Then another whinny sounded from downriver. French cringed. That was one of their own animals, returning the greeting. If the men didn't already know of their presence by the smoke from their fire, that whinny would alert them.
He gripped his gun and tensed for action. He really wanted to get a glimpse of these strangers, but maybe he should go back and warn the others first.
The sound of voices made his decision.
Two men came into view, striding toward the camp with rifles held loosely. They both wore buckskin coats and wide-brimmed hats—somewhat similar to the one Colette wore. The color of their cloth shirts under the leather was the first difference he noted.
The man on the right wore a neutral gray, nearly blending into his buckskin trousers. Much of his face was covered with a thick light-brown beard, revealing the lines of hard living on his face above. He was definitely the older of the two, though maybe not more than thirty or so.
The other fellow sported a much brighter red tunic, and his trousers appeared to be cloth—and new enough that he must have obtained them recently. He also wore dark scruff on his young face—almost black to match his dark hair—though not a full beard like the other man.
When they first came into view, the elder had been speaking, but both fell into silence as they approached camp. Neither appeared to be in a hurry, nor did their gazes turn in the direction of the horse’s whinny. Maybe they hadn't heard it.
The two seemed to be going about the process of setting up camp, one man pulling food out of a pack, the other scooping up loose branches for firewood.
French honed his focus on the guns they'd placed near their packs. Both appeared to be quality rifles. Not the older fusees many of the Indians carried—one more sign these men must have come from the east. Or maybe the northeast in Rupert's Land or the Canadas farther east.
Both men finally settled in beside the fire and appeared to be cooking fresh meat. From their position, he could only see the back of the bearded man and a little of his side profile. A scar at the fellow's temple was shaped like a half circle, like perhaps he'd been cut with the broken round base of a glass bottle. The wound looked to be several years old though, not raised and angry, but not so pale to signal it was from his childhood.
French had a much better view of the other, enough to see how young the fellow really was. Somewhere around twenty years, maybe less.
They only spoke occasionally, and then they said simple things like "Hand me that stick, will you?" and "Getting cold." They both spoke the French language fluently. It must’ve been their mother tongue. And they seemed at great ease with each other, as if the two had traveled together a long time. Or maybe they'd known each other before venturing into this untamed land.
Since the men had settled in, French needed to get back to the others. Maybe these two really didn't mean any harm. Perhaps they simply hadn’t noticed the smoke from his fire, as they didn't seem to have heard the horse’s call. These must simply be trappers or explorers, recently traveled from the east and out to make their fortunes in the vast mountain country.
After a final glance, he turned his focus to retracing his footsteps. Better he focus on caring for the woman God had finally brought back to him.
As Colette stirred the stew, she sent another glance toward the two paths leading out of camp. First the one pointing north, toward the horses. Then the trail to the creek. Where had Jean-Jacques gone, and why hadn't he returned in time to start their evening meal? Not that she minded cooking, not at all. But it wasn't like him to shirk what he considered his duties.
Her gaze landed on Young Bear, who'd settled into his usual place by the fire. Elk Runs and Left Standing had also finished checking their snare lines for the evening and now lounged in camp, waiting for their meal.
Maybe Jean-Jacques was checking their own traps. She'd already done that and secured their catch for the night. Just as she’d told him she would so he could finish the fence for the horses. Maybe he'd forgotten her words.
"You want me to loo
k for him?" Left Standing's voice pulled her focus from the path to the horses, and she glanced at the man.
Should she ask him to? "I don't know where he would've gone. Maybe to check our traps? I told him I would do it, but perhaps he forgot."
The man's attention jerked toward the trail to the horses, and Colette turned her focus there too.
A few heartbeats later, Jean-Jacques appeared through the trees. He carried his gun and the other things he’d left with earlier that day, and the corners of his eyes tugged downward with weariness. Had he still been working on the fence, and she’d simply missed him when she went to check?
She offered him a smile. "Food’s ready. I hope you don't mind that I did the cooking."
Fatigue slid from his gaze as his eyes turned warm. "Not at all. Sorry I left you with the chore though."
As the men scooped out their cups of stew, Cross the River and Hawk Wing padded into camp and joined them at the fire.
She lifted her bowl of warm soup to her face and soaked in the steamy aroma for a long minute before spooning her first bite. She'd cooked corn with the meat to add flavor and texture and hopefully fill their empty bellies a little better than meat alone did.
"We have neighbors." Jean-Jacques’s voice rang above the sounds of eating.
The food in her belly soured as apprehension tightened inside her. She turned her focus to him just as the others did.
"I saw smoke from a campfire a little way upstream and went to see who was there." He met the gaze of each man in turn, then slid his focus to her. "That's why I was gone so long."
Every part of her itched to grip his shoulders and drag the identity of the men out of him, but she forced herself to stay perfectly still and wait.
He shifted his gaze back around the group. "It's two men—Frenchmen, I think. They have horses and carry rifles, but they seem peaceful enough. I didn't make my presence known, and I don't think they saw our camp smoke or heard our horses."
Her insides balled tighter. "What did they look like? Did you hear them speak?"
Jean-Jacques turned to her, his brows dipping in thought. "One was young, maybe around twenty. The other a little older and with a full beard. The older one had a scar on his right temple." He made a motion with his finger in the shape of a half circle.
Dread coursed through her. "A scar?" She managed to make her voice strong, despite the knot in her throat.
Jean-Jacques nodded. "Looked like it came from something round, maybe a broken bottle or a tin can."
Colette couldn't breathe. Her mind flashed an image—of Hugh with stitches forming a half circle to close the skin of his temple. It'd been only a few months after she and Raphael were married. Her husband had gone to retrieve his brother from one of the outlying forts after he killed a man in a drunken brawl.
She'd been so thankful at the time that Raphael hadn't taken after his elder brother’s drinking and wild ways. If only he’d stayed that way.
"Colette? Do you know them?"
The call barely pulled her from the memory, but Jean-Jacques’s other question sent a spear of panic through her.
The time had come. Raphael's brothers had found her—or they would by tomorrow morning. She couldn't be here when they came upon this camp.
But this time when she ran, she had to do a better job of covering her tracks.
She schooled her features to cover her fear. She couldn't let him guess what she was planning. Somehow, she’d have to sneak away without any of these men suspecting she was running. She would need time to cover enough ground before they discovered her absence. After she was gone, maybe Jean-Jacques would return to his wife. Did Susanna still live? Colette was a weakling for not asking. She certainly couldn’t ask him now. She would never know for sure.
He was still watching her, waiting for her answer to his question. A glance around showed all the men were. She'd been silent too long.
Jean-Jacques knew Raphael had been murdered. He'd asked once if she worried that the murderer would come after her. She’d let him think she was, though she’d not lied outright.
Now, he would guess she was afraid of these men. Her silence would make him suspicious. Maybe she could find a way to make him think she didn't really know them.
She forced a thoughtful look onto her face. “You said one of the men was younger? Was his hair light colored, only a little darker than mine?"
The deception burned like bile down her throat. Raphael’s younger brother’s hair was as black as hers was fair, and Raphael's had been almost as dark. Hugh’s was a lighter brown with a reddish tint, a difference her husband had joked about, saying their eldest brother must have been an orphan their parents took in.
Jean-Jacques shook his head, a frown tightening his features again. "It was dark, maybe black."
She forced her expression to ease. "And the other man, you said he was older? About Young Bear’s age?" She hated this deception. Hated the way his features relaxed as he shook his head again.
She'd convinced him she didn't know these men. That they weren't the ones she feared. I'm sorry, Lord. Please forgive me.
None of the burden lifted from her heart. Was it hypocritical to beg forgiveness while continuing with the lie? Of course it was.
But she had to protect these men around her. Had to protect her baby. The only way to do that was to get far away from Hugh and Louis.
Far enough away this time that she couldn't be tracked. Then she would start over…again.
Chapter 19
Colette focused on the steady breathing around her and counted each different sound. Cross the River and Young Bear both snored lightly, so she could discern theirs easily. But she had to strain to pick out each of the others. It must be after midnight by now, and all the men had been breathing steadily for almost two hours.
This was as good a time as any. These men slept so lightly, especially the younger braves, she wouldn't be able to make a single sound.
Lord, help me.
Before going to bed, she'd stuffed her pack full of as much meat as she could carry, as well as her horse's bridle and the possessions most valuable to her. She would have to leave her fur bedding behind, but the one cloth blanket fit in her satchel. Now that the weather was warming into full spring, hopefully that blanket would be enough.
The worst thing would be leaving her saddle, but there was no way she could pick it up and carry it out of camp without awakening the others. The squeaks of the leather would be too loud. As hard as it was to ride for days on end in a hard leather seat, riding bareback—especially at faster gaits—would be awful.
But if one of these special men was killed because of her, that would be so much worse.
Moving more slowly than she ever had in her life, she eased up to sitting. Then—one tiny shift at a time—she pushed up to her feet. Such slow actions were almost painful as her heart pounded in her ears, her instincts screaming for her to run.
But the only way to stay perfectly silent and keep from waking the braves was to ease along no faster than a turtle.
It must have taken her five minutes to pick up her pack and cross the few steps to the first trees. She'd already planned out where she would place each foot on the barren ground. Thankfully, no leaves sounded her presence. Once she walked into the woods, silence would be even harder. She would have to keep moving at this achingly slow speed.
She didn't increase her pace until she’d nearly reached the clearing where the horses stayed. But even then, she kept to a walk. The horses might make sounds if she startled them. Better not wake them until she reached her mare, if possible.
The animals stood in a group, two inside the rope corral Jean-Jacques had made and the others resting nearby, heads lowered in sleep.
As unlikely as it seemed, none of the horses nickered or even made a sound until she ran her hand down her mare’s neck. The horse breathed a gentle hello and sniffed into Colette's hand. Sorry to wake you girl, but this is important.
The mare
took the bridle easily, and Colette led her down into the creek. The braves were excellent trackers, especially Elk Runs, so the only safe place to walk without leaving prints would be the water.
The mare stepped into the creek willingly, and Colette eased in beside her. The icy water stung as it penetrated her moccasins, but she ignored the pain. Beside her, the horse’s hooves splashed with each step.
Colette jerked the horse to halt. This noise would never do. Even with the trees between them, some of the braves might hear the loud sloshing. The men seemed to sleep with one eye open and one ear straining.
She scanned the area in every direction. Could she cover her tracks any other way? They might see the grass trampled down, and the mare would leave an occasional print.
She planned to go southward, opposite the direction where Jean-Jacques said Hugh and Louis were camped. Since she’d had to go north to retrieve her horse, moving south now would take her past their own camp again. So she couldn't go either direction through the creek without passing by one group or the other.
Panic surged up to her chest. Lord, I don't know what to do.
Did she risk the men being able to track her? Or would it be better to keep the mare walking slowly through the creek and try to get past the braves without waking them?
Maybe traveling over land would be best. There was always the chance they wouldn't pick up her tracks, and if they did, perhaps they would choose not to come after her. That possibility didn't ring true in her chest, at least not about Jean-Jacques.
She could cross the creek and ride through the grass until she made it well past where the braves would hear the water. Then she could move back into the creek again so they would lose her tracks completely.
Thank you, Father. That plan would work.
After leading the mare up the far bank, she took three tries to pull herself up on the horse’s bare back. As she settled onto the slippery coat, she missed the security of the leather seat. But she would do without. Taking a tight hold on the mane with one hand and the reins with the other, she nudged the horse forward.
Faith in the Mountain Valley Page 14