In Running Wolf’s general opinion, the White women of the Dutch Fort appeared ugly and thick-limbed. They covered in high-necked wool clothing and stiff brown bonnets. Their feet were encased in thick black leather that gave them the look of hooves. Worst of all, their faces were invariably dour, and their outwardly suspicious eyes seemed filled with dark malice for his people.
His brother was right, however. This female was out of the ordinary…and in an intriguing sort of way. Her differences had him wondering what she smelled like, and if her woman’s body beneath the boy’s clothing was as fertile as it appeared. Her hair was so very unusual. Would it feel fine and soft, like the ripened silks of summer corn it resembled?
Curiosity bloomed within him. Running Wolf imagined that the rest of her woman’s parts would be unique as well. The sheer force of his sudden male interest was surprising. Again, he blinked.
Crow Beaver poked him sharply in the ribs. Running Wolf scowled back at his brother’s raised eye-brows and mocking glance.
“We must make trade,” Crow Beaver whispered, nodding toward the weapon in the girl’s hand. “It is of no matter that she is female. She hunts like a man and has a musket. It is wise.” He turned and signaled to the four additional braves who remained concealed in the dewy undergrowth behind them.
Their small party had spent several days of trade within the wooden walls of the Dutch Fort along the Great River. The barter was intense, but had remained peaceable. Although the language barrier was daunting, the braves had exchanged many thick, valuable pelts for a musket and gunpowder, two sleek ponies, and many thick, smooth pieces of the Dutch coinage known as guilders.
Running Wolf realized that although the currency was beautiful, it could not protect his people as a weapon would. One firearm had not been a sufficient gain in turn for a long and arduous trek to the Dutch Fort from their village homeland. But, they could find no other willing trader on this mission.
Now, they had stumbled upon a second chance for barter. Their pouches were still heavy with unused coin. Perhaps this female would value such pretty trinkets – much more than a man’s weapon? Running Wolf knew pride for his older brother’s quick thinking.
At Crow Beaver’s signal, the braves formed a semi-circle within the undergrowth, leaving all quivers tied to the loins of their mounts to signify their peaceful intent. Running Wolf felt a moment of tugging hesitation. A lone female hunting in the woods was unheard of. It felt odd to him…like a trap.
The female had not yet detected them. This fact did not surprise Running Wolf at all. She was female, and they were all seasoned warriors. At that moment, her full concentration was centered on the hen-turkey scratching in the open some twenty yards beyond. Crow Beaver lifted a hand. They were to wait.
Running Wolf watched intently as she raised the musket and took careful aim. He saw her shoulders rise and fall as she drew in a steadying breath, before evening squeezing the trigger. The discharge was monetarily deafening. As it faded away into the forest, wisps of blue smoke wreathed the air, leaving it thick with the acrid scent of White gunpowder.
Running Wolf heard her voice, lifting through the dense mist, both high and sing-song with pleasure. The flapping of injured wings told him that she had met her target. He felt a moment of wonder over her talent with such a heavy weapon. In his world, women did not hunt.
The girl wheeled, and in that instant, spotted the waiting braves. She froze in response. They watched her chest rise and fall with quickening breaths. Running Wolf nudged his horse forward and smiled broadly as the Whites did at trade-time, showing his teeth in a silly grimace. He raised his hand in open greeting, certain now that he looked like a fool.
But, when Running Wolf looked directly into her face, the words of welcome on his lips were lost to him. She had the jade-green eyes of a cat, filled now with surprise. Her nose was slim and straight, her lips full and pink, and open slightly as she breathed. Tendrils of blond hair framed a striking face. He stared as the pink flush across her cheekbones drained away until her face was ashen, paler than the flesh of the moon.
This White was terrified. Of him. Of all of them. She raised the spent musket and gritted her teeth, and her nostrils flared. She was visibly shaking now, Running Wolf noted with growing concern. Things were going bad very quickly.
The notion spurred him to action. Make the nice talk he had learned. Make their good intentions known, and swiftly. He squared his shoulders and gave the girl another bright White smile, and spread his fingers, palms upward, to show his lack of arms.
“Keigh willet lenew,” he began, explaining that they were good men. Honorable men. He gestured to the musket on the ground at her feet and poked a finger in its direction. “Checko nijr mijre?”
Crow Beaver nudged his pony forward with a sigh and a pointed glance in his younger brother’s direction. “How can she name a price, when she knows not the Lenape tongue, my lack-wit brother?” he murmured.
Running Wolf scowled at his own stupidity. With a grin, Crow Beaver turned back to the girl, and began an introduction in the halting Dutch words that he had picked up by ear during trade-time. His brother was always a bright one.
In the next instant, Running Wolf felt a sudden cool jet of air burst by his left ear. There was only half a heartbeat to feel a sense of alarm. The deafening boom of musket-fire enfolded them all. Astonishment had replaced the greeting on Crow Beaver’s face. Running Wolf gaped at the smoking hole in his brother’s bare chest. The brave slid from his mount to the forest floor.
It was an ambush. It was death.
The woman was screaming, strange and foreign words. “Nej, Fader, nej!”
With a shriek, Running Wolf wheeled his mount around to face the ambush, his pony’s whirling hindquarters striking the girl to the ground. Yet, he saw only one man – one single White – brandishing his spent and smoking musket like a tomahawk. His face was red, and the whites of his eyes showed.
Before Running Wolf had managed to notch his arrow, another brave’s weapon found its mark, both swiftly and fatally. The dying man slid to the earth just as Crow Beaver had, with only one word on his lips.
“Jenna.”
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