Filling the water bag, Tipaakke swung it over his head and under one arm and went to perch himself on his favorite rock. Plucking a piece of grass, he wrapped it around a sharpened metal hook and dropped it into the water. Resting his arms on his knees, he jiggled the line, knowing it would look just like a grasshopper caught in the stream. Tilting his head back, he absorbed the sunshine's sweet rays. Visions of Katelyn and his child wafted through his mind as he leaned back to relax.
Hypnotized by the hot sun and thoughts of his life with the fiery-haired white girl, it was several seconds before Tipaakke realized the woods were becoming strangely silent. The birds ceased to call one by one, the squirrels stopped their busy chattering . . . even the insects quieted.
Pulling his line in, Tipaakke dropped on all fours behind the rock and listened. At first he heard only silence and an occasional frenzied cry of a grackle. Something had disturbed the delicate balance of the surrounding forest. The brave's heart beat faster and his palms grew damp as he listened, watching for a sign. Something was definitely awry. He could smell it in the air.
Then he heard movement . . . men's voices . . . laughing, calling out in play. They were moving upstream at an easy pace . . . straight for the cabin.
Tipaakke was off in an instant, his moccasinned feet beating the familiar path toward the cabin . . . and Katelyn. Reaching the open door, he slipped in and pulled it quietly behind him.
"Fox . . . " Katelyn turned from the fireplace where she was checking the cake. She stared at his stricken face. "What's wrong?" Crossing the floor, she tugged at his arm. "Where's the fish?"
He pulled the water bag from over his head and dropped it over hers. "Get your cloak and your knife." His voice was razor edged.
For once, she moved without question. She had never heard fear in his voice like that before. Something terrible was happening; he was afraid for their lives.
Tipaakke strapped his spare hunting knife to his leg and pulled a sleeveless leather vest over his head. "Put out the fire," he commanded.
Katelyn ran to douse the fire with water from the bag around her neck.
"No. Don't waste water. Use a pelt." He spoke in halting English, his sentences laced with Lenni Lenape.
Smothering the fire, Katelyn ran to the table to stuff a bag with anything she could reach on the table . . . dried meal . . . herbs . . . it didn't matter. She knew they were leaving in a hurry. "Tell me, Fox." Her voice was as brittle as his.
"Men moving upstream. Iroquois war party . . . Mohawks." He pushed a handful of arrows into the neckline of the vest behind his head and turned to face her. "Come to me." He stretched out one hand.
Katelyn accepted his hand, squeezing it tight. Unable to speak, she waited for the instructions she knew were coming.
"You must wait until they are well gone. Nightfall, if you have to. Then you must leave. Follow the stream to the bottom of the mountain. Keep the morning sun here." He tapped her right arm. "Mekollaan will come upon you, but if he doesn't go on in that direction. Remember all I have taught you and you will find my village."
"But where are you going?" She clung to him, trying to remember each word he spoke, every movement he made. Somehow she knew she would never see him again. "Don't leave me, Fox. I'll die without you." She threw her arms around him.
He pushed her arms down firmly. "They will probably kill me. But maybe not. Maybe they will take me prisoner." He grabbed her arm and started to drag her towards the fireplace. "Tell Mekollaan what has happened when you reach the village. If I'm still alive, he will find me." He pressed his lips to hers. "I love you, Katie-girl," he murmured tenderly. "Now go."
"Go? Go where?" She stared at him in confusion.
"Up." He pointed at the fireplace. "You'll be safe. Don't stick your head out the top." He pushed her hard. "Now. Your life and our child's depends on it."
She remained absolutely still for a moment, transfixed by his haunting eyes and then she nodded slowly. He was right. She knew he was right. As she turned to the fireplace, something caught her eye. She was across the room in an instant pulling the wolf headdress from the wall. It had been his gift to her . . . proof of her bravery. She tugged the hollowed skull over her head and ran back to the fireplace. "Now I go." Taking one last look at Tipaakke's bronze face, she crouched low to stare up into the chimney. It would be a tight fit. She looked back. "Tipaakke . . . "
"Go," he told her, all tenderness gone from his voice. "If we don't meet again in this world, we will walk together in the dream world." His eyes drifted shut as he listened to her turn and kneel. He couldn't bear to watch her disappear from his life.
Getting down on her hands and knees, she crawled beyond the hearth and stood up inside the chimney. Coughing from the lingering smoke, she stretched and ran her fingers over the stones, feeling for a hand hold. When she found a shallow niche she stepped up, catching her toe on a tiny ledge, and disappeared up inside the chimney. "I love you," she called out.
Tipaakke forced himself to turn away. They both couldn't hide. The Mohawks would know someone was living in the cabin. They would lay in wait for them. And he and Katelyn could never outrun them. The Mohawks were human wolves, only more deadly, more insidious than a pack of wolves. Once the scent of human prey filled their nostrils, the Man-eaters would be unrelenting. A Mohawk brave could run from the great mountains of the Adirondacks to the Smokies in five days. Without Katelyn, Tipaakke could have taken on the soul of his totem, the fox, and disappeared in the depths of the forest he called home. But she would never have a chance. They would devour her like wolves.
Tipaakke slid his knife from its sheath, savoring the sound the cool metal made as it brushed against the hardened leather. His only regret at the thought of making his death walk today was that he would never live to feel Katelyn's skin beneath his touch, leathery with age. He would never sit before a fire with his child and sing the songs of his people's ancient past to him. But only through his death would Katelyn and his child have a chance to live. He smiled sadly. What better way to die, he asked himself, than to die at the hands of one's fiercest enemy?
As he gripped the hilt of the knife in his hand, Tipaakke prayed that he would have the courage to die quietly with dignity beneath the torturous hands of the Mohawks. He must remember that pain could be turned off, just as a man could stop water from flowing out of a clay pot. If he could remain silent, no matter what ingenious form of torture they thought of, they would soon grow tired of the game and kill him.
Tipaakke's eyes narrowed and his breathing became more shallow as he prepared to challenge the hungry wolves. His bronze skin began to glisten with tiny pinpricks of perspiration as he flexed his muscles. Years from now, the women of his enemies would sing songs telling of the courage of the great Lenni Lenape warrior, Tipaakke Oopus.
A brief hint of a smile appeared on Tipaakke's face as he reached to lift the latch on the door. Today is a good day to die, he thought, as he stepped out into the brilliant sunshine to meet his enemies.
Katelyn caught her breath and stretched to reach another crevice in the stones. She felt as if the four mud-mortared walls were slowly closing in on her, squeezing the last bit of breath from her. But she had to climb higher. She couldn't take the chance of slipping. She must find a place to wedge herself in. The scent of the freshly baked bread seeped through her nostrils and she rested her head against the warm stones. Why is this happening to us? I love him! Why can't I be with him to live or die? The pain that tore at her heart made her oblivious to the pain of her bleeding fingers.
Katelyn took a deep breath and began to claw her way up again. Fox was right, she had to do this for their child. For him. Reaching behind her head, she tugged at the wolf headdress that threatened to slide from her head and fall to the hearth to give her away. Above her a patch of blue sky beckoned her. At least I will see what happens to him.
Spurred on by that thought, she inched her way up, higher and higher until her raw fingers caught the lip of the ch
imney. Turning slightly, she propped a leg on the opposite wall and stood straddled. Taking a moment to find her courage, she peered out.
Katelyn's heart leaped beneath her breast, pounding so hard she could hear it. Tipaakke stood only a few feet from the cabin. He had her bow slung over one shoulder and his hunting knife clutched securely in his left hand. The light breeze blew his hair off his shoulders revealing the silhouette of his bronze face.
Movement in the trees caught Katelyn's attention and she turned to catch a glimpse of bright green moving through the trees. She bit her lower lip until she tasted the salt of her own blood. I must not cry out. No matter what I see.
She watched from her tower on the roof as the band of blackhearted warriors descended on her brave. One by one, the Mohawks appeared, each more fiendish than the last. Katelyn had never known true terror until she laid eyes on the first red man that stepped out of the brush.
The flash of green became a waist coat as a warrior raced from the woodsline bellowing a high-pitched war cry, only to stop a few steps from Tipaakke's feet.
Tipaakke leaped into the air, throwing up his hands to protect himself. The Mohawk just threw back his head and laughed. He made no move to attack, just stood there, staring with lifeless black eyes.
Katelyn's blood chilled as she stared at the man in the waistcoat. She recognized the look of murder in the Indian's eyes. He was the most terrifying man she'd ever seen in her life. The right half of his face and head were painted a deep black-green and his bare chest a blood red. On the right side of his head he wore his ebony hair long and flowing. A white stick pierced one ear.
The warrior barked something at Tipaakke, but the words were a meaningless jumble to Katelyn. Tipaakke answered, but spoke too softly for her to hear.
The Mohawk did not like Tipaakke's reply. He growled bearing his teeth like a dog and turned to speak to his companions. Katelyn wondered why they didn't make a move. Why didn't they attack?
Each of the Mohawk warriors was painted in some fashion and wore odd bits of white man's clothing and animal skins. They carried assorted guns and knives on leather belts, and some toted long-barreled flintlocks. There were seven in all. One wore a pocketwatch around his neck on a piece of red ribbon and carried a woman's hog-butchering knife. Katelyn shivered. What fate had the owners met? Remembering well the tales of torture and death by Mohawks, she hoped they had died quickly and with honor.
Slowly the Mohawks closed in on Tipaakke, making a vicious game of it. They tried to aggravate him, force him to fight. A warrior wearing men's breeches picked up a stick and hurled it at Tipaakke's head. When the Fox threw up his hand to catch the stick and dropped it to the ground, the men began to laugh and reached for rocks and sticks to join in the sport.
Tipaakke lowered his head to keep from being hit in the face, but he stood his ground. If he fought back, the Mohawks would surely descend upon him and kill him, but if he played their foolish games, his life would be spared, at least until they grew bored with him. As the rocks flew, he dodged and ducked, surveying the band of warriors, spotting the strongest, the weakest, the most intelligent. A man had to know his enemy to beat him. Tipaakke knew his chances would have been good to get away, killing several, had he been alone. But with Katelyn hiding in the cabin, he would have to kill every man in the raiding party. And he couldn't take that risk.
Katelyn watched, horrified, as the stones were thrown and sticks tossed. When a well aimed rock flew, striking Tipaakke in the cheek and leaving a bright red gash, she almost threw herself out of the chimney.
She wanted to protect her man. She wanted to hurl herself from her haven calling the war cry. She wanted to kill the dogs that threatened to leave her unborn child fatherless. But the lessons Tipaakke had taught her ran deep. The Lenni Lenape in Katelyn knew she must remain still. The logic of the red man told her that if someone must die today, it must be Fox. And she knew at that moment that sometimes it was harder to live than to die.
The leader in the bright coat stepped forward and shouted at Tipaakke. When he made no reply, he turned to nod to his men. In an instant, the Indian wearing the pocketwatch lunged forward with a steel tomahawk.
Metal flashed in the bright sunlight as Tipaakke's knife sliced through the air. The man with the watch howled with pain and leaped back, surprised at the Delaware's fierce defense after standing for such humiliation.
Tipaakke turned to protect himself from a man on the left, but a man on the right knocked his legs out from under him with the barrel of a flintlock and sent him tumbling to the ground. The Fox had forgotten that the Mohawks fought without honor. Having no pride or morals, all was fair. There were no unwritten laws guiding a fight as there were with the Lenni Lenape. Rolling forward, Tipaakke came to his feet, his knife still clutched in his hand. These men were not going to kill him, not yet at least, he could feel it in the air. There was no smell of upcoming death. "Bakkuunda . . . Nahiila-Oopus . . . Come, strike . . . kill the Fox . . . if you can," he taunted. Lowering his center of balance, he crouched, waving his knife to and fro, baring his teeth to growl. The Mohawks liked a man with fierce words.
Katelyn watched as Tipaakke defended himself bravely with skill and ingenuity. He moved with the grace of a swan, and the craftiness of his totem as he waged battle on his enemies. But he did not fight to kill, she could see that in his movements. Why wasn't he killing when he got the chance? She hoped his plan was a good one.
Slowly, Tipaakke tired. It was very difficult to take on so many men and only be on the defensive. As the strength was sapped from his blood, he wondered if he had fought well enough to be kept alive and taken home to their village in the far north. He had heard tell of the Mohawks capturing superior braves to take them home and force them to fight for their entertainment. If they decided to transport him, he would have plenty of time to escape, once he knew Katelyn was safe and far away.
Unabashed tears ran down Katelyn's sooty cheeks as she watched Tipaakke hauled to the ground and kicked and beaten like a scullery dog. She lowered her head to rest it on the rough stone chimney. Swallowing a lump in her throat, she forced herself to look up again. She couldn't abandon Fox, not now. If she couldn't be with him in the flesh, at least she could remain with him in spirit. Why had he given in so easily? Surely he knew they were going to kill him! Slowly, agonizingly, she raised her head, praying his death would be swift and merciful, knowing it wouldn't.
Then, unexpectedly, the leader in the waistcoat began shouting at his men. One by one the Mohawks rose from the ground to leave Tipaakke lying deathly still on the fresh spring grass. The man with the watch gave him a vicious kick as he got to his feet. Tipaakke groaned and his body went limp.
Was he dead? Katelyn wondered. She saw no mortal wounds, only cuts and pulpy bruises. She couldn't believe he could die so easily, but she wished he had.
The man in the breeches and another disappeared into the woods and returned with a straight sapling as thick as a man's wrist. Pulling Tipaakke's limp body into a kneeling position, they began to lace his wrist together behind his back with a length of leather strap. Once his wrists were securely tied, they ran the sapling through his looped arms and shoved him face first back to the ground.
Katelyn's heart twisted beneath her breast as she watched the men lace his feet together in the same manner. Then, she suddenly realized he meant to take him with them. That was how they tied prisoners. They mean to keep him alive! . . . At least for the time being. But if they took him as a prisoner, he would have a chance. If she could get to Hawk in time, he would find his brother. He would find Tipaakke and bring him back to her! If only the Mohawks would spare him long enough for her to get to Hawk.
Katelyn shifted her weight to steady herself as a tiny spark of hope was kindled. The Mohawks were beginning to ransack the cabin now. If she could remain undetected until they left, she'd soon be on her way to find Hawk. She didn't know how far she would have to walk to find him. It didn't matter to her if she had to
go all the way to the village. There was hope now! Maybe Tipaakke would live! Maybe their child would have a father!
As she clung to the rough stones, listening to the bang and clatter of the men below, Katelyn considered making her escape now. If she hung over the side of the roof and dropped to the ground, she could sneak around the back of the cabin and start out for the village. It was a long drop to the ground, but she knew she could do it. She bit her lip in indecisiveness, her eyes returning to rest on Tipaakke's body lying in the grass.
She knew he had told her to stay in the chimney until the Mohawks were gone. But he had thought they would kill him! He didn't know they were going to take him prisoner.
The Mohawks are busy with their looting, Katelyn told herself. They had gone in and out of the cabin several times dumping piles of Tipaakke's precious hides on the ground. She could see the leader in the coat strapping bundles to her pony now. No one would ever see her if she went now.
Then Katelyn smelled smoke. Where was it coming from? She peered over the side, counting the braves. All five were standing near Tipaakke's limp body dividing up their loot. One of the warriors grabbed Katelyn's beaver hat from another and pulled it over his head.
The smell was becoming stronger, the air heavier. Katelyn took a step down to be sure her head wasn't visible from the ground. What did they set on fire, she thought frantically. The acrid smell clung to her nostrils. She saw no smoke.
The cabin! It wasn't enough that they'd taken a prisoner and stolen everything they could find, they'd set the cabin on fire! She clutched the edge of the chimney, her knuckles turning white. What could she do now? If she climbed out, the raiding party would surely spot her!
Smoke began to seep up through the chimney, enveloping Katelyn as she tried to keep from panicking. The fire was spreading fast. She could hear the roar of the flames as she imagined them consuming the interior walls of the cabin. Smoke billowed from below as the Mohawks began to load Tipaakke's precious red fox pelts onto their backs.
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