Pyke cursed and kicked him again. “You are fortunate that I am not permitted to kill an unarmed, injured man, as a soldier and gentleman.”
Wolf Tongue looked at him with eyes widened by anger. Nederwue smiled gratefully. “Thank you, sir, you are a true Christian. Bless you.”
He could not take this man prisoner, nor could he let him go, nor could he kill him in good conscience. Damn Nederwue for putting him in this bloody position. Pyke saw no conscionable way out of this predicament.
He took his foot off the man’s wrist and kicked the musket out of his reach. “Though, I won’t stop my companion. You came for his scalp, so he will decide your fate.”
“Hold, sir! I have a wife!”
Wolf Tongue fell on Nederwue and slashed his throat.
After, the Wolf Tongue retrieved his tomahawk and began to loot the bodies. Pyke let him at it.
“That surely alerted Azariah,” he said to the darkness. He itched to creep back to the camp to spy on them again, but he also knew that all their men would likely be awake and watching for intruders now.
Wolf Tongue looked up as he pulled a poorly-made knife from Nederwue’s belt. “So. Do we give chase now? Or wait and follow once they settle?”
Pyke stifled a curse. His heart still beat like the Lenape drums and he wanted this bloody mission finished. But trotting into Azariah’s camp in the dead of night, with them alerted to Pyke’s presence would not finish his mission for the good.
“They are waiting to see what we do now. So we wait. Two hours.”
Pyke retrieved the muskets the men had dropped as Wolf Tongue sorted through their persons.
“You surprise me,” Wolf Tongue said.
“How?”
“You let me kill that man. He was English.”
“He was Dutch.” Pyke shook his head, frustrated with himself. He’d let his anger get the better of him and allowed the Indian to kill a fellow Christian. But really, there had been no other way. “If I had arrested him, his fate would have been the same. And we could not leave him.”
Pyke looked to the west, though all he could see were slivers of black and silver through the bare trees. There was no doubt Azariah had heard the gunfire at only a few hundred yards away.
“Damn them,” Pyke said. “Damn them.”
Seven – To the Cliffs
Wolf Tongue sat on his haunches beside a remnant heap of snow, scrubbing the coarse chunks against his fingers to remove the blood. He’d had blood on his hands before, but never a man’s. He stared at the gummy coagulation around his fingernails for a moment before he grabbed another fistful and scraped at his hands with it.
He was truly blooded now. It had not been what he had expected. He’d thought that Pyke’s insane plan would go awry and he would fight for his life against Storm-of-Villages’ men. The sudden appearance of the quhanstrono had changed everything. Instead of lying in wait before the battle, it had come on so quickly that Wolf Tongue hadn’t had time to think before he was slicing into a man’s neck.
The men intended to kill him. He knew that. He had had no choice, at least until that final man. But even then, the killing had come easier than he’d imagined. In fact, it had come easier than hunting a deer or rabbit. When he hunted game, he anticipated the kill. He felt each moment of the hunt, and the fear in his prey’s last moment. Then he thanked the animal’s spirit and the jogah who brought him good fortune, food and fur.
This had been different.
Perhaps because no deer had ever intended to scalp him.
He stood and brushed the remnants of the snow from his fingers. He shook them to help the warmth return and brushed his palms on his leggings as he turned to Pyke.
“Do the others have anything useful?” he asked as he knelt down beside another of the dead and rolled him to his back.
Pyke frowned. “I do not loot the dead.”
“They would have taken what we have, including our scalps. Let’s be quick. If we’re to catch Storm-of-Villages, we should move soon.”
Pyke sighed and shook his head. “No,” he said. “Not tonight.”
Wolf Tongue eyed the man, wondering at the strange look on his face as he stared out after the distant camp where their quarry had been. There was a tightness around his eyes and a frown that spoke of frustration. Then, he looked back to the dead men around them.
Wolf Tongue let his shoulders relax, though he hadn’t noticed the tension before. “You think they, too, lie in wait for us?” he asked.
“Wouldn’t you?”
Wolf Tongue smiled. The quhanstrono was probably right. The sound of gunfire had scared Storm-of-Villages enough that he’d probably already vanished or else sat with their muskets ready. Now that he knew someone was nearby, he was unlikely to be happy about it.
Wolf Tongue returned his attention to the corpse. The man had a heavy steel knife and a bag filled with extra lead balls, bits of string and only a few other provisions for a short sojourn in the wilderness. He had planned on returning home quickly. His jacket and pants were soaked through with gore and mud and far too small for Wolf Tongue.
“So what would you do?” he asked without looking up. “I don’t know whether Storm-of-Villages had horses, but if so, they’re easier to track.”
Pyke was silent for a long moment, so long that Wolf Tongue looked up at him again. The soldier still looked to the west where Storm-of-Villages had been. When he did not say anything, Wolf Tongue turned to another of the dead and resumed his work. As he sifted through the jacket of another man, he thought aloud: “When you scare an animal, it goes back to its home. If those people were right about his camp on a cliff, I know the area. Two day’s walk from here if the weather’s good.”
The second man had less of use on his person, and even what he did have Wolf Tongue had no desire to carry with him: a shoddy knife, an ugly powder horn that was nearly empty, and only a handful of shot and salted meat. He did, however carry a water skin. Wolf Tongue had to lift a fistful of hair to slip the strap away from his body, then he let the man’s head slap back against the ground with a thud. The skin sloshed hollowly as he lifted it, half-full. He stood and took a long swill, again surprised at the sweetness of cider, though this man’s had a slightly sour flavor. He replaced the cap and again looked to his silent companion.
“You didn’t need to stand with me. You could have left them to me and gone on your own for Storm-of-Villages.”
Wolf Tongue tossed the skin to Pyke who caught it without taking his eyes off the Susquehannock. He thrust his jaw at the quhanstrono and said, “It’s my turn to offer you a drink.”
Pyke either grimaced or hid a smile, Wolf Tongue could not tell in the settling dark. Then the man removed the stopper and raised the skin to his lips. As he drank back the liquid, Wolf Tongue turned to another of the dead to sort through his belongings. Over his shoulder, he said, “They would have heard it and run if I’d had to fight alone anyway.”
***
The night was cold, but dry. Wolf Tongue feared an icy rain that would soak beneath his deerskin and blanket faster than any snow would. Again, Gohem held the water in the clouds, but unleashed a breeze that made him shiver. He readjusted his fur cloak and pushed another branch into the flames between him and Hugh Pyke.
He didn’t agree with Pyke’s idea to start the fire, but now that he sat with his feet pushed toward the warmth, he certainly appreciated it. The fire illuminated the glade just on the east side of the hill where he and Pyke had retired to get away from the dead scalpers. It threw shifting orange light against the trees that encircled them before dancing out to disappear among the dark of the forest.
Wolf Tongue looked again to Pyke. He said he didn’t like to loot the dead, but he didn’t resist when Wolf Tongue offered him some of the food, a blanket, a powder horn and extra lead balls. Except for the men’s torn and bloody clothing, they’d taken it all and what each didn’t keep on his person, Pyke had stowed on his saddle at Wolf Tongue’s insistence.
When you’ve got a full belly and a fish jumps into your hand, you don’t throw it back. You smoke it for later. Now, the soldier reclined with his back against his horse’s saddle and absently picked at a lump of bread.
Wolf Tongue shifted on his buttocks and glanced once at the musket lying next to him. “You are sure this fire is safe?”
Pyke looked up. “Like I told you. If you scare a man away, he likes to know where you are. You say you know where Azariah is going?”
“If he goes to the cliffs, I do.”
“Then let him think he knows where we are. If his people see our fire, they will think we are not after him and they’ll relax.”
Wolf Tongue shrugged. “I think you’re right. They are too few to come hunting for trouble when they don’t know what it is. More likely they’re sitting in the trees waiting to see if we give chase or else well on their way back to their camp.” He winked across the fire. “But don’t blame me if you wake up next to your fire with a knife in your neck.”
Pyke pulled himself up and gathered his new blanket over his shoulders. “If they return, I’ll unleash my Indian on them again and you can tear their throats out as you like.”
Wolf Tongue swallowed. He had killed those men easily, but the memory of the last one sat like lead in his chest. The man had been wounded and unarmed and had screamed and kicked as Wolf Tongue knocked his hand away and opened his throat. There felt to be little glory in that type of killing.
Little glory, but bloody justice against a murderer.
Wolf Tongue ignored the memory of the man’s frantic flailing and turned his eyes back on Pyke.
“You still intend to meet Storm-of-Villages alone?”
Pyke rubbed at his face with one hand before answering. Despite his apparent comfort by the fire, Wolf Tongue noted that his other hand did not stray far from his pistol.
“I do, though I fear he would not do me the courtesy.”
“Why?”
“It is a matter of honor.” Pyke shifted and stabbed at the fire with a stick. “I’ve said it before. I am no murderer.”
“He is. If you don’t want to be eaten by the bear, you must speak the bear’s language.”
Pyke’s eyes flicked up from the fire and stared at Wolf Tongue. The orange light flickered there and the soldier spoke through clenched teeth. “He must be brought to justice, and God will stand beside me when I face him. But I will not murder him in his sleep. We will find his camp, come in quietly and I will call him out as a man of honor to answer for what he’s done. Then may God judge us both.”
Wolf Tongue stared back for a fistful of heartbeats before he shrugged. “Do what you will and I will help how I can. I have sworn my blood oath that I would see this thing done, even if your god judges your plan a bad one.”
Pyke snorted and shook his head, though it seemed to Wolf Tongue that there was only mild annoyance in the gesture and no angry retort as there’d been in previous days.
“Get some sleep, quhanstrono. I’ll make sure no knives find their way to you.” Wolf Tongue said. Pyke hesitated, nodded, and then curled beneath his blanket with his pistol and sword by his side.
Wolf Tongue rummaged through his satchel and retrieved a packet of tobacco. Slowly, he fed bits into the fire. As the dried leaves soaked in the red from the coals, a cleaner, pungent smoke curled from them and he began to pray. He prayed to the all the jogah of the area, the tiny folk of the wood, who could help or hinder him. He hummed a prayer to those of the trees and the earth and even to the odhow, who guarded the dead. He whispered to Hahgwehdiyu, the Creator, that he might clear a way for Wolf Tongue and let him fulfill his oath. He sent his prayers into the night, hoping they might be carried to the heavens in the sacred smoke.
As he finished his prayers, he sat back and took his gaze from the boiling red of the fire. For an instant, he thought he saw a shiny reflection of flames in Pyke’s eyes, but then it was gone. The soldier’s eyes were closed and he rolled over so that his back was to Wolf Tongue.
He thought again of Pyke’s plan to face Storm-of-Villages. If the quhanstrono wanted himself killed, that was fine. But Wolf Tongue had mingled his blood with fire and smoke to his gods and others with an oath to see Storm-of-Villages dead. If Pyke’s duel failed, Wolf Tongue’s soul would forever languish in pain.
He rose to stretch his legs. The extra distance from the fire made the wind on his scalp especially cold. He resettled his fur cloak over his head and held it in place with one hand while the other lifted his musket. Wolf Tongue slipped out beyond the fringes of the firelight to stand guard.
***
“It looks like they camped here last night,” said Wolf Tongue. The bulge in the rock to the west was a good shelter from the wind and the ridge offered a clear view of most of the area around the river. Patches of grass were smoothed down as if men had slept along the lee side of the outcropping.
“I count four bedrolls,” said Pyke, eyeing the indentations. Wolf Tongue grunted his agreement. “Good,” continued Pyke. “That means they aren’t overly spooked. They settled enough to rest for the night. Maybe they’re relaxed enough that they won’t shoot us from the trees now.”
Wolf Tongue looked to the soldier for a sign of levity, but Pyke still stood with one hand on his sword’s hilt and the other holding his horse’s reins while he scanned the ground. These quhanstrono had an odd sense of humor and Wolf Tongue was rarely sure whether he was missing some joke.
Instead of answering, the Susquehannock turned and surveyed the area. It certainly seemed that Storm-of-Villages was headed to the area Wolf Tongue thought he would. The trail they’d found, though slight, led north and slightly west to the river, which ran out of the north. From where he stood now, he could see its flow like a great snake spotted with flecks of white. It parted the forest for miles in either direction, until the scraggly brown and green mix of unleafed and evergreen trees enveloped it around a bend at either horizon.
For some unknown reason, Fox’s Smile came to his mind and Wolf Tongue felt a tightening in his abdomen. She would be back at the village still, waiting for him, carrying on with her life without him. He wondered what it would mean if he did not return at all. The fight yesterday had been brutal and fast, and only now did he wonder at the prospect that it could have gone differently.
He did not fear death. He had prepared as well as he could for the many trials he would face after his spirit flew. What he dreaded more was the thought that he would leave Fox’s Smile and her soul would ache the way he knew his would without her.
Wolf Tongue shook his head and turned back to the trail as he reminded himself of his oath. Finish this, or else his soul would be crippled in the next life.
“They still head north toward the cliffs,” Pyke said. “How much farther? I want them to let down their guard, not have enough time to leave again.”
“Don’t worry,” said Wolf Tongue. “If they still go that way, it’s only another day’s walk. And they don’t seem to be moving very quickly.”
The two moved on, slowly picking their way through the forest and over the rocky terrain they had found. The trees had spread out now with paces of scrubby brown bracken and bent grasses between them. And all over loose, shifting rocks the color of sand.
Wolf Tongue led to keep his eyes to the ground for signs of Storm-of-Villages’ passing and also to watch for threats ahead. Their quarry now knew he was hunted, perhaps, and Wolf Tongue had been taken unaware when the scalpers had come to them. He had no desire to be unprepared again, especially against Storm-of-Villages.
They trudged slowly, Pyke’s horse now becoming even more burdensome as they picked their way among scrambles of rocks. Wolf Tongue noticed that even when he had to lead the horse through freezing mud the quhanstrono seemed always accept the hardships of the trail with a stony face.
As they descended yet another pile of scree among the trees, Wolf Tongue looked to his companion, who walked sideways to lead his horse through the unsure footing
.
“Why do you hunt this man?” he asked. The sound of his own voice seemed odd after spending most of the day in silence. The sun had burned off the cold of the morning and now he could feel a glaze of sweat along his collar and under the straps of his bags.
Pyke glanced at him once, then back at his feet. “Azariah? I have orders from the Colonel.”
“That is all? One man tells you to do a thing and you do it?”
“I am an officer in His Majesty’s Army. I am duty-bound to follow my orders.”
“And if you disagree with your leader?”
Pyke did not raise his gaze, but Wolf Tongue noticed a definite change in his carriage. His shoulders tensed as he hesitated in his step. Even the sound of his breath changed.
Wolf Tongue cocked his head as he regarded the strange quhanstrono. Could it be?
“You do disagree,” he said slowly. “About what?”
Pyke forced a breath through his nostrils and stopped. He wiped one hand along his forehead to remove sweat, then turned to face Wolf Tongue. He said nothing for a moment, then, “Why are you here?”
“Because the English can’t find their way through a forest and only speak languages of dead people.”
Pyke continued to watch him in silence and after a moment Wolf Tongue snorted and turned to continue down the slope. “I’m here because of a woman,” he said.
Pyke made some indistinct noise, though of understanding, encouragement or something else, Wolf Tongue did not know.
“Her name is Fox’s Smile,” said Wolf Tongue and even he heard a grin strain his words. “Our chief’s daughter. We are to marry, but her father does not like me. Though, in truth, that doesn’t matter.” Wolf Tongue jogged a dozen steps down the last of the hill and onto more flat ground among the trees.
“Why? Her father surely has an interest in her marriage?”
Wolf Tongue snorted and remembered his last moments with Fox’s Smile. She’d offered to marry him and leave the village if need be. Perhaps he should have accepted her offer instead of tending to this quhanstrono. At least then he would be warm at night.
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