Elias turned his mount, backtracking a ways. She followed, admiring his scouting sense to move out of range. If they could hear someone else’s horses, that someone else could hear theirs as well.
Elias swerved off the road past a stand of birch, then stopped several yards into the greenery.
Mercy waited for Livvy to crawl down before she dismounted. “Here’s your chance. Go do what you must, but don’t be gone long.”
The girl nodded, then darted off.
Giving his horse leave to nibble at the spring shoots, Elias stepped close to her. “Did you hear that?”
“I did. You think…?”
“If it is not Rufus, then we have come a long way for nothing. You stay here, and I will scout it out.”
“But I—”
He laid his finger on her lips. “You are better equipped to deal with Livvy than I, should she have needs. I shall be back shortly.”
The set of his jaw left no room for argument.
But as soon as Livvy returned, Mercy handed off the care of the horses. “Think you’re able to wait here by yourself?”
Blue eyes blinked up into hers. “Yes, Miss Mercy. I’m not afraid.”
“You’re a brave girl, Livvy.” She reached out and squeezed the girl’s arm with a light touch. Truly the girl would make a fine scout herself. “Thank you.”
Then she turned and followed Elias’s trail. Ah, but he was good, even when he wasn’t trying. It took all her powers of sight to follow his scant markings of a bent branch or flattened bit of weeds.
The farther she went, the louder the sounds of horses grew. She caught up to Elias on silent feet just behind a screen of elderberries near the side of the road. The scowl on his face as she scooted next to him could make a bear tuck tail and run.
Ahead, on the other side of the shrubs, a male voice tightened into a whine. She and Elias crouched lower and moved in to peer through the branches.
A small clearing opened beside the road. At its center, a wagon—their wagon—sat with its back end toward the elderberries, maybe ten yards ahead. They couldn’t see Rufus, for he was likely at the front side, but no need. His distinct voice, carping about a need for fresh venison to roast, churned Mercy’s empty belly.
A deep voice answered Rufus’s complaint. “If young buck wants meat, then he should hunt it himself.”
The words twanged with a distinct accent, one that slapped her hard. Wyandot. Would they never be free of those villains?
“Yer the blazin’ hunter, ain’t ya? I oughta see that your pay is docked, you no-good piece of—”
Mercy turned away. She’d heard more than enough.
Elias followed her out, and together they backtracked far enough to confer in whispers. They stopped next to the gnarled roots of an old oak.
“What’s the plan?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
Her jaw dropped. Had she misplaced her trust? Matthew not only would’ve concocted their tactical offense but also would’ve been working out a sharp defense just in case.
Elias smirked. “Nothing until dusk, that is. Semi-darkness is our best asset.”
She couldn’t argue with that and would have suggested it herself. “Then what?”
“Seems pretty straightforward, unless Rufus and his, er, reluctant friend move the wagon. I will crawl in the rear opening of the canvas, dig out that weapon, then hie myself back to the cover of the elderberries. Assuming I make it that far undetected, I shall head back to you, Livvy, and the horses.”
“Oh, no.” She folded her arms. “I am not sitting back there waiting to find out what happens.”
“Mercy, if I am discovered or that weapon scratches me while I am unloading it—”
“All the more reason for me to be here with you.”
A sigh ripped out of him. “All right. But if I do not make it, promise me you will get yourself and Livvy to safety. As near as I can tell, we are not far from Schoharie.”
“Agreed. I will go tell Livvy, then return.”
He nodded.
But that small task took longer than she expected. A horse had wandered off, for Livvy hadn’t properly hobbled the animal. Then the girl had wandered off, her tummy upset from their scant diet. And by the time she grabbed a chunk of jerky for herself and settled the horses for Livvy to await her and Elias’s return, the sun lay low on the horizon, ready to dip down for a good night’s slumber.
She hurried back to Elias’s side in the long line of shrubs. He studied her face a moment, concern etched into the creases at the sides of his eyes. She smiled back assurance. A twinge of sorrow stabbed her. How often had she wordlessly communicated so with Matthew?
They hunkered down, waiting for more shadows to blanket the clearing. She still couldn’t see Rufus or his companion, but she could hear Rufus’s complaining. The other man’s grunts. The crackle of a fire. And the ever-present jingling of bridle and harness…wait a minute.
She edged to the far side of the shrubbery, just before it tapered to nothing near the road, and ignored Elias’s hand signals for her to return. From this angle, she glimpsed the horses—still attached to the wagon. What in the world? Surely they would not be traveling tonight in the dark…would they? But if so, why make a fire? For there, not far in front of the wagon, a fire blazed, outlining Rufus and a large, broad-shouldered man, both sitting in front of the flames.
Frowning, she turned back toward Elias when a new sound stopped her flat. Pounding hooves. Coming down the road, straight for Rufus’s camp. She peered past the elderberries. A black horse turned off the rugged track as the last of day’s light bled out. The rider was nothing but a shadow—a round, fat blob of a shadow.
“Blast it, boy!” The voice sounded of crushed gravel with a slight slur, giving the speaker away. “What’s this?”
Mercy gaped at Elias. Though it was hard to read his face through the maze of dark branches, she could make out the whites of his eyes opened wide. What the devil was Brigadier General Bragg doing here?
The thud of the stout man’s feet hit the ground, and she turned back to watch. Rufus sidled up next to him.
“What’s what, Pa? I got the gold here, just like you said. Shoot, I got even more than what you expected. So what for do you got your britches all bunched up? Forget to pack an extra bottle, did ya?”
The general’s arm shot out. The slap echoed sharply in the early evening air. Rufus staggered from the blow, a string of ugly expletives unraveling from his mouth.
“You’re a wastrel and a stain. Were you not my son—and it pains me to call you such—I’d not have included you in on my scheme. By heavens, stand straight when I’m talking to you!”
The first real flicker of understanding and pity for Rufus kindled in Mercy’s heart. No wonder he abhorred the world around him, for what a world to have grown up in. Perhaps the real villain here was—and always had been—the general.
Rufus managed to straighten, though he didn’t pull his palm from his cheek. And she didn’t blame him. It had been a good wallop. Mercy glanced to where the Indian had been sitting, but that side of the fire was now empty. Was he as disgusted by this wrangling as she?
“I’m not talking about the gold.” General Bragg swung out his arm. “I can see the wagon’s there, you dullard.”
Rufus turned aside and spit. “Then what you all riled up about?”
“Tell me, boy, how far will we get when those horses won’t pull tomorrow, all because of skin rubbed raw from a night in a harness?”
“Well, I thought—”
Crack! Another mighty slap split the air. This time Rufus dropped to one knee.
Near to her, a crouched shadow slipped out from the shrubbery line, darting toward the back of the wagon.
Elias.
Mercy sucked in a breath, then breathed out a prayer. And so it begins, eh, Lord? Please, God. Keep him safe.
Elias ran full-out for the wagon, rage lighting fire to his steps. The general had been the one behind thi
s? That drunken lout of a scoundrel! What a plan. What a horribly devious plan, stealing the stolen gold…that the French had purloined from the English. He smirked as he pulled himself up over the backboard. Indeed, the greed of men knew no bounds.
He landed lightly, taking care to move without a sound as he worked his way toward the front of the wagon. Night hadn’t fallen hard yet, making the shape of two crates easy to spy. He ran his fingers around the bottom edge of the first one, seeking the notch he’d cut into the box. Outside, the Braggs’ voices continued to argue.
“Did you pay off the Indians for their trouble?” the general rasped.
“Yeah, about that…”
“Speak up!” The smack of palm against skin once again erupted.
Rufus swore. “If you’d quit hitting me long enough, I’d answer. Dash it!”
“Time’s wasting, boy.”
The pad of Elias’s finger dipped into a notch. Victory. Pulling out his knife, he wedged the blade into the crack between lid and crate. Then slowly applied pressure, bit by bit, so as not to creak the wood. A precaution maybe not necessary what with the quarrel raging outside, but better to be safe.
“I got the wagons to the clearing like you said, Pa.” Rufus’s voice pinched tighter. “But a blasted band of Frenchies was nearby. The old man and the traitor got it into their heads to bury the gold and ride out past ’em, as if we were nothing but the travelers we were s’posed to be.”
A huff rasped from the general. “And?”
Tucking his knife back into his belt, Elias lifted the lid and set it aside atop the rest of the loose cargo. The back of this wagon, filled with pouches of trade silver and bars of gold, surely was an eerie dragon’s den. Since the crate in front of him had never been opened, household goods made up the top layer. He reached in and, as quickly as possible, began removing random blankets and other frontier necessities, working his way down to the gold.
“By the time we got back to the glade,” Rufus continued, “them redskins were hornet mad for the delay. I lit out of there and waited till Running Wolf returned with the horses. Then we loaded the gold—all of it. Worked out better than what you planned. We did not have to pay Red Bear one coin for the use of his braves.”
The general grunted. “So the others are dead, yes?”
“The old man and that half-breed woman were killed straight off. The traitor ain’t nothing but bones and rope by now, having been tied up in the woods.”
Rage shook through Elias. The general had knowingly sent them to their deaths? It took all his restraint to keep from running out and choking the life from both men. What a wicked, filthy scheme!
He shoved his hand into the bottom of the crate, then pulled back just inches from the small leather packet at the bottom. If he grabbed the thing willy-nilly and a sharp point of the metal cut through the casing into his skin, he would be the dead man the Braggs expected him to be. His fingers shook, and he drew a deep breath to steady them, then reached again.
“And where is Running Wolf now?” the general growled. “You were to wait until I arrived to pay him.”
“Flit! I can’t keep track o’ no Indian. They wander like cats.”
Elias pinched the edge of the packet and retrieved the deadly thing. It seemed forever ago when he’d first hidden the thin piece of buckskin, wishing beyond anything for a thicker chunk of hide to contain the bits of metal. But just as now, there’d not been a spare minute, with the other French soldiers working so closely to him. He’d been blessed to have slipped the packet from inside his waistcoat without being seen or getting cut.
Ah Lord, would that You might bless me now as well.
With his free hand, he opened the flap on the pouch slung over his shoulder, then eased the packet inside. The deadly bits of metal could weigh no more than ounces, but all the same, the danger pressed down on him. One mistake, one tiny prick, would mean a death like none other.
Trepidation quaked through him, his fingers trembling like a rheumy old man’s as he tucked the packet farther into the pouch. The cries of the children, the women’s ragged screams, even the pathetic whimperings of the men who’d succumbed to the poison haunted from their graves. He could hear the sounds now—would hear them to his dying day. And Lord willing, that wouldn’t be today.
Withdrawing his hand, he closed the flap of the pouch and turned to go.
“As usual, a backwards job by you, boy.” The general’s voice carried a grudge, and Elias listened carefully to pick up further information as he edged his way to the back of the wagon. “But I suppose you did get the cargo here. The blame will still land hard on those fools I sent with you, should anyone care to look into it…but by then, we’ll be long gone.”
“So I done good, Pa?”
Just before Elias slung his leg over the backboard, he hesitated, then turned back. Bending, he swiped up a pouch of trade silver and tucked that into his bag as well. The money could come in handy for the last stretch of their journey.
“Quit your groveling,” Bragg roared. “And for heaven’s sake get those horses unhitched!”
Elias straightened.
The horses spooked—and the wagon lurched.
He plummeted backward, out the canvas opening.
Mercy clapped a hand to her mouth to keep from crying out. Elias whumped to the ground, flat on his back, wind no doubt knocked from his lungs. Two heads turned his way from up near the horses. Two guns were immediately primed and cocked.
And two curses rang out in unison.
“Blast it, boy! If you riled up that Indian and he’s stealing us blind, you will have the devil to pay.”
She pressed her hand tighter against her mouth, smashing her lips, stopping a scream. Run, Elias. Run!
He rolled, then stood, staggering.
“We’ll see about that.” Rufus hacked up a wad and spit, then advanced.
So did the general.
She bit her tongue, trapping the warning scream about to launch from her mouth. Narrowing her eyes, she studied the angles of the dark shapes, from horses, to wagon, to shrubbery, and the position of each man. Elias could still make it to the safety of the elderberries unseen, but only if he sprinted now.
As if reading her mind, he crouched to take off—
Out of the shadows from the other side of the wagon, the tall shape of a broad-shouldered man shot out. The Wyandot.
His musket barrel trained on Elias.
Mercy felt her heart stop, knowing it may never beat again if the lifeblood of Elias drained onto the ground right in front of her eyes. Better that she die here and now.
She dove out of the elderberries toward the road and broke into a dead run. If she could draw their fire, Elias might live—and so would many other men.
If.
Elias had a split-second glimpse of a musket barrel before he snapped his gaze upward and stared into cold black eyes. Violence lived there—but so did intelligence. Slowly, he lifted his hands.
“My brother, do not do this.” Elias spoke in Wyandot. “I am unarmed. Come with me.” He jerked his head toward the elderberries.
The Indian—Running Wolf?—stared back, impassive.
Rufus and the general’s feet pounded the ground, growing closer.
“Why should I?” The man spoke in the people’s language as well.
Elias gritted his teeth. Exactly. Why? He’d need a whopper of a reason, for clearly this man sold out to the highest bidder, to have aligned himself with the Braggs…and therein might lie the solution. He’d have to up the ante.
“I offer you something more honorable than the tainted trinkets of the English dogs. Hear me out.”
Footsteps thudded impossibly loud. Rufus swore. The general wheezed. Any minute now they would be swinging around the back of the wagon.
Running Wolf was a rock-hard shadow, not speaking, not moving.
Sweat trickled between Elias’s shoulder blades. Was this where he’d die? Shot down in front of Mercy?
God
, please.
The gun barrel lowered—slightly—but it was all the affirmation Elias needed. He sprinted toward the safety of the hedge, the warrior behind. It was a compromising position, running with a loaded weapon at his back, but if the man were going to kill him, he’d have done it by now—and may still if Elias didn’t come up with something better to offer him.
Think. Think!
They tore into the cover of shadows just as Rufus’s voice rang out, “Ain’t nothin’ back here, Pa. Blasted Indian musta stumbled to the woods to take a—”
“Spare me the details,” the general gruffed out.
Elias turned to Running Wolf and—heedless of his better judgment—offered the only bargain he could think of. “If you bring those two men in to Fort Edward, you will get more than gold. You will get a trade, for they are wanted by the English for murder, thievery, and abandonment. Is not the life of Six Fingers worth more than anything the whites can promise you?”
The duplicity of what he suggested tasted like ashes. Six Fingers was a scoundrel of an Indian, and he’d been glad when he heard the villain had been captured. But if freeing the one gained him his own freedom, the lives of so many more would be spared.
The man narrowed his eyes. “Six Fingers has been captured?”
“Why do you think I am here? I was sent to tell you this.” Inwardly, he winced. That was a stretch.
“By who?”
“Red Bear.”
And that was an outright lie—one that grieved him to his core. Oh Lord, forgive me. Again and again and—
An ululating screech ripped a hole in the quiet, coming from the direction of the road. The cry of a warrior…a woman warrior.
Mercy.
His own cry caught in his throat. What the deuce was the woman doing? Why attract attention to herself?
The crack of a musket fired, and then he knew.
She was drawing fire away from him and doing a blasted good job of it.
Another shot split the night.
The sharp report reverberated in the air, shaking Elias to the marrow of his bones. Flay the woman for such courage!
He speared the warrior with a scowl. “Go, now! Before they reload. This is your chance to vanquish those men and free Six Fingers.”
The Captured Bride Page 26