Pyke froze. It was unlikely the man could see him through the foliage and he didn’t want to make a sound. He offered a silent prayer to God.
“Or they used a log as bait and crossed the river,” Farkas said.
The short man groaned. “You give them too much credit. They’re exhausted and half dead from cold. Even if they rode a log, they’d be able to move faster anyway.”
Farkas narrowed his hard eyes, scanning the tree line on Pyke’s side of the river. We should split up, Artemis.”
At this suggestion, Wolf Tongue nudged Pyke to get his attention and pointed to a cluster of bushes. The Susquehannock slithered away, more quietly than an ant marching across a leaf. Pyke’s stomach began to tighten, and he felt the dance of butterflies that always came before confrontation. Soundlessly, he again loosened his saber to ensure the blade wasn’t sticking.
The other two men, who’d taken neither side so far, looked hesitantly from Artemis to Farkas. Pyke cursed. So it would be a fight, then.
Artemis said, “No, Azariah’s orders were clear. We stay together to keep our numbers.”
Farkas scowled. “What good is keeping our advantage in numbers if we lose our prey?”
Artemis shook his head. “Orders’re orders. You want to piss off Azariah, go ahead. But I trust his judgment more than yours. He’s got other—”
“I know he’s got other men. In these woods and on the plains and everywhere else. But I’d rather we get these bastards ourselves.”
“Do what you want. I’m following the river,” Artemis said. “You two with me?”
Both men said yes.
Artemis shrugged mischievously at Farkas then left with the other two men. The giant returned his attention to the river and the woods beyond. He seemed to be weighing his options and looked awfully tempted to cross the river, even though that would leave him alone, on the trail of two men.
Pyke gripped his sword and waited for the man to come.
But Farkas did not cross the river. Instead, he whirled and yelled to his men, “I’m coming.” Then he bounded back into the woods.
Pyke breathed a sigh of relief and glanced over at Wolf Tongue, who wore a tired smile.
The Susquehannock waited a moment then crept back to Pyke.
“We had better wait here a moment to see if it’s a ruse,” Pyke said.
Wolf Tongue nodded his agreement. “We’ll follow the river, but we can go into the forest for more cover.”
Finally, some good news. Pyke stretched his legs out under him. They sat in tired silence for a few minutes while the river gurgled past. Pyke himself was lost in the flow of his own thoughts. Wolf Tongue had mentioned soldiers at this town, and Pyke hoped to find some protection and assistance there. Every moment, their chances of reaching the town and obtaining supplies were improving, but what then? After he’d filled his belly and had time to rest, what was the next step?
They were two to Azariah’s troop of twenty or more. He couldn’t go to the Colonel for help, so he wondered if they could requisition some of Wolf Tongue’s fellow warriors.
But thinking that and voicing it were two entirely different things. How could he, in good conscience, ask for the tribe’s help when he could offer nothing in return? The bothersome question died on his lips. He wondered what passed through the Indian’s mind, if the man were having similar doubts.
“You do this thing to impress the Colonel?” Wolf Tongue asked suddenly, catching Pyke unawares.
“I do this thing to marry his daughter. Beyond that, the man’s opinion means nothing to me,” Pyke said, surprised at his own words. “What is your woman’s name?”
“Fox’s Smile.”
At the sound of her name, Pyke was reminded of one of his long-standing curiosities. “Tell me, how are names given in your tribe?”
Wolf Tongue smirked. “There are a number of ways. Some are given by a sachem or friends. Or some are chosen by its owner. Sometimes a man has many, and one name settles like a cloak.”
Pyke watched the river and the opposing woods. The river offered a soothing whoosh. He thought of the Colonel and Azariah and wondered not for the first time how an uncle could send a man to kill his own nephew. Pyke understood the necessity: the Colonel had his position to consider and owed Azariah nothing. The man had made his own bed. Still though, Pyke pondered if there had been another way that didn’t include the spilling of blood. A more Christian way.
“That is not entirely true,” he said.
Wolf Tongue’s eyes came off the river and took in Pyke.
“To marry his daughter. It’s not the only reason I do this now.”
The Susquehannock gave him a knowing smile and pointed at him. “For glory? Your book probably says that is wrong, but it’s not. I came for glory.”
“It is not glory. If done according to the Colonel’s wishes, this deed will be kept secret and I will see no glory. No. I believe we are in the right. I think we bring justice to a man that has lived beyond its reach for too long.”
Wolf Tongue regarded him for a long moment, his expression inscrutable. He waited for the inevitable joke but none came. Instead, the Indian said, “The man’s soul is black, his vision twisted by ambition. When you kill him, you should hold your head high for we have seen him do evil. Imagine how much more he’s done that we haven’t seen.”
Pyke fell back into his own thoughts. All this thought of evil brought him back to his own transgressions. The death of Azariah’s follower. His first duel in the Colonies. His duel with Thornwood.
Some vague, unresolved notion still nagged at the fringes of his mind, refusing to fully reveal itself so he might address it head-on. What was it about that duel? Lieutenant’s Smith appearance had been a surprise, and then the Colonel’s orders had been another surprise. That was the thing he kept circling back to. But before he could put his finger on it, Wolf Tongue nudged his shoulder.
“I think we should move now.”
***
They alternated again between running and walking, making sure to stay far enough away from the river so as not to be spotted by Azariah’s troops. Pyke’s lungs ached with each breath. As the day wore on, the bitter wind returned. But, at least their ruse had seemed to work.
They spotted the run-off creek ahead and left the river entirely. The creek would lead them to the town. But what if Azariah’s men had not taken the bait and were now ahead of them, hurrying to the town?
Wolf Tongue gestured forward—they were both too winded to have a proper conversation—and Pyke followed in step. The Susquehannock stopped short of the creek bank then surveyed the trees around them.
Pyke bent over and put his hands on his thighs to catch his lagging breath. He was weak from the run and not eating all day. He scooped another handful of snow and put it in his mouth. It stung then melted, and he drank it greedily.
“I don’t see them on the road ahead,” Wolf Tongue said, peering through the trees. “We remain hidden while we follow the creek until we’re sure they’re not around.”
“The river bends away from the town. They are fools to follow it. We are lucky. Too lucky.” Something bothered Pyke about that. This had been their plan all along, but still, he did not want to underestimate Azariah and his men again. He’d done so before and it had almost cost them their lives.
“We have had our share of bad luck the last few days, so we are overdue for some good,” Wolf Tongue said. “My father said not to look a gift horse in the mouth. We’re very close.”
“I could eat a horse right now.”
The Indian looked at him strangely. “I told you when we first left to eat your horse, remember?”
***
They followed the vagaries of the meandering creek. Farther from the river, it narrowed and shallowed. Through the break of the trees, Pyke spotted a mill turning, and a muddy road barely wide enough for a horse.
“Does this place have a name?” Pyke asked.
The Susquehannock shook his head. �
�I couldn’t tell you.”
They waded through the knee-deep creek and crawled up the other side of the bank, finally coming out into the open. They had skulked in the shadows so much the past few days that there was a strangeness to using the open road for him.
Pyke’s feet had blistered, and his sweat had cooled so he shivered against the wind. But he was in good spirits. The town was in reach, just in the swale beyond the hill. From here, he could see a few smaller wooden structures. A couple of shanties, probably a necessary.
He wanted to celebrate this small victory, but another of his father’s favorite expressions came to mind: one swallow does not make summer.
Pyke was sorely tempted again to ask Wolf Tongue what his plans were. He could have ordered the man to stay with him, and before their journey, he might have been so inclined. But now? He couldn’t force the man to stay with him on this dangerous mission. Azariah had raised a small militia. It would not be fair to compel the Indian to stick it out with him in light of this new information.
But he needed the man. He could not do this alone. If fault lay with anyone, it was with the Colonel. The man had sent them to the frontier to kill a rogue who rode with only a few fools; instead, they had found a charismatic, dangerous leader of twenty plus.
And, when they’d had a reasonable chance of meeting Azariah, the scalpers from Millers Town had happened upon them at the most inopportune time.
Pyke was beginning to worry he’d have to swallow his pride and return to Jenkins Town to requisition more men. Facing Azariah alone would mean certain death.
Before Pyke could resolve anything however, he was thrown sideways. The cold ground smashed into his ribs, stealing his wind and dazing him. There was another shot fired before he felt the searing pain, as if the smith had lanced him with a poker. He didn’t know where he was hit, but his chest near the shoulder hurt. He gasped for breath as the pain nearly blacked him out.
When he opened his eyes, he saw Wolf Tongue hovering above him with the fading light of the afternoon casting a strange glow on the Indian, as if God had called him into heaven. Pyke drew his sword instinctively, as the Susquehannock brought his tomahawk up.
Pyke tried to get up, but the pain kept him grounded. He rolled onto his side, feeling the stab of being shot, and saw Wolf Tongue charging the creek. The Susquehannock still held his tomahawk high and was rushing to meet two armed men.
Thirteen – The Trail to the Town
Wolf Tongue stared in surprise as Pyke tumbled forward, his fall followed immediately by the throaty crack of a musket. He stood silent for a heartbeat while his mind stumbled to arrange the events. Then, he dropped low and hurried to the soldier’s side.
Already, blood was soaking Pyke’s shirt and he groaned in pain, eyes shut. His breathing was labored, from their run or from the wound, Wolf Tongue couldn’t tell, but Pyke still lived for now.
Wolf Tongue looked up to where he’d heard the shot. He saw two men not far off the road, one of them reloading his gun. The other man came forward with slow steps, his own musket raised to his shoulder and aimed at Wolf Tongue. They were fifty strides away—close enough for a clean shot with a musket.
Wolf Tongue glanced quickly from the men back to Pyke, his mind sluggish from cold and exhaustion. Pyke’s eyes fluttered open and his eyes swam. One of the men called out in English, “Don’t move!”
Rage surged through Wolf Tongue and his mind cleared with a sudden white heat. He leapt away from Pyke with his tomahawk in hand. His mouth opened in a shrill war cry, his tongue trilling a call to Hahgwehdiyu as he ran away from Pyke and to the right.
The man stopped walking and followed Wolf Tongue with the muzzle. Wolf Tongue leapt behind a tree trunk and paused just as he heard the shot. An explosion of splinters shattered a tree just beside him and he leapt again into the open.
“Stop!” called the first man as he rattled the ramrod into the barrel. “Drop your weapons, and you’ll live!”
The man who’d just shot was now frantically trying to reload. Wolf Tongue ran harder, his only thoughts of reaching the men before they could finish loading. He could kill them both if neither had a gun.
He stumbled once over a tangle of thorns, but caught his balance and kept running. The man who’d fired at him was closest and when he saw Wolf Tongue coming near, he stopped trying to reload and took his musket by the barrel. With a growl, the man reversed his grip and swung at Wolf Tongue’s head. Wolf Tongue leapt forward, inside the arc. The impact on his shoulder forced him to the side. He grunted with the pain, but pushed close where the makeshift club would be useless.
Wolf Tongue swatted away the musket as the man tried another swing, then felt another weak punch to his chest as the man fought for distance. Wolf Tongue raised his tomahawk, but the man dropped his club and dove in close, tying up Wolf Tongue’s raised arm. The Susquehannock was more than a head taller and much broader than this man, but his limbs felt weak and tired, or else the man was incredibly strong as he tried to wrest the weapons free.
For a heartbeat, legs twisted against one another, arms wrestled, fingers pushed into faces. Wolf Tongue was again fighting with Kicks-the-Oneida. He was vaguely aware of shouts from somewhere around him. His left hand slipped free and he jammed his knife into the man’s belly and yanked sideways. As the smaller man fell away, Wolf Tongue lashed out with a kick to the knee. The man fell and Wolf Tongue surged forward with a knee to his face. His enemy fell backward into the snow and he turned, ready to sprint for the other attacker.
“Stop, I said!” cried the other man. He now stood, his musket brought up and aimed at Wolf Tongue’s chest. “You drop your weapons and you might live. At least until Storm-of-Villages sees you.”
Wolf Tongue wondered whether the musket was really loaded. No man could reload a musket in the time it took to dash fifty strides. Then again, he had spent time with Pyke and paused behind the tree while the other man shot. And he did not know how long he grappled.
The man flicked his eyes to the man Wolf Tongue had gutted, and when they looked back, they narrowed.
“I said to just fucking drop your weapons, savage,” he hissed. “If it were up to me, I’d put a bullet through your heart so I could sell your scalp to the French. But Storm-of-Villages says to keep you alive. So don’t go giving me any more reasons to send you to hell.”
Wolf Tongue took a step forward. “Icar trizue egh har taken ome enu mah.”
“Fucking savage can’t even speak English!” screamed the man as he jabbed his musket and shuffled forward a step. “You’ll know what I mean when I pull the trigger!”
The end of the muzzle was now only an arm’s length from Wolf Tongue’s chest. The man narrowed his eyes above a mangy half-beard and curled back his lips to show yellow-stained teeth. With a breath, Wolf Tongue stood upright and lowered his hands to his sides.
“That’s right,” sneered the man. “Jacob! You come take these blades off this dumb Indian.”
His order was answered with a low moan. “Jacob! You all right?” The bearded man’s eyes flicked once toward his companion, and it was enough.
Wolf Tongue wrenched his body to the right and brought his tomahawk up. The blade smashed against the man’s forehand and knocked the barrel into the air. An explosion rang in Wolf Tongue’s ears. He twisted again and swung his tomahawk backhand into the man’s face just below the eye with a snick of steel on bone. He thrust with his knife and swung his tomahawk again, and the man tumbled backward, his face and neck a bloody mess.
Wolf Tongue stood over his enemy, his chest heaving and his ears ringing from the blast of the musket. He swallowed, then stepped forward to examine the man. Writhing, but dead soon enough.
He looked back from where he’d come and Pyke now sat upright and leaned on his sword. “Pyke?” he called.
“I’ll make it!” came the answer.
Wolf Tongue sighed in relief, then stepped toward the other fallen man. He was only slightly older than a boy, really,
and lay on his back, thin chest shuddering with quick breaths. Streaks of blood and tears and melting snow smeared his face. His leg was twisted under him and he held one hand to his stomach, though it seemed to do little to staunch the blood that had oozed through his fingers and out to soak the snow around him.
“Please,” he whispered, pale lips trembling. The blood seemed almost completely gone from his face. “I was only doing what I was told.”
“You were told to kill me. Or else my friend.”
“No.” His voice was breathy. “We were only supposed to watch the road into the camp. Bring you back to him if you came this way. But we thought Farkas and his men would catch you first.”
The boy’s eyes listed as if following a swooping bird, then slowly righted again on Wolf Tongue.
“Why did you shoot if we were supposed to be alive?”
A cough. “It was father. You were too close to the town to catch. He said one was better than none.” He shook his head sadly. “But he … he did not believe the visions. He just didn’t want to be indentured anymore. But I know.” His eyes widened and he scrabbled at the snow with one flexing hand. “Storm-of-Villages will make things right. He told me of his visions, and of how this land will be a paradise. Storm-of-Villages will come for me, even after I die.”
Wolf Tongue examined the boy more closely. His knee was already swelling and the Susquehannock wondered whether it would take any weight at all. The wound in his stomach was a tear that wept ugly, black blood. The boy’s guts were torn. Neither his tribe’s holy men, nor the silly medicine of the English would save him with such a wound.
The boy looked back at him as if understanding Wolf Tongue’s thoughts. “I’m going to die.”
“Yes.”
“Storm-of-Villages will come for me.” The boy shuddered as if the words offered some pleasure.
The boy smiled, teeth painted red. Even as his body convulsed with pain, he held on to the horrible grin. “Will you help me? Save me the pain and send me to my Lord.”
He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. The boy was nearly as white as the snow around him.
Language of the Bear Page 17