Through the Fire (The Native American Warrior Series)

by Beth Trissel

Was this the same man who’d laughed with her and loved her so tenderly? He battled with the fury and strength of ten, but he’d said he would fight like a bear to reach her. She was certain he knew exactly where she was now. Not at all where he’d wish her to be.

  His extraordinary battle prowess couldn’t quash her dread that a blade or musket ball would bring him down. The smoky jumble of men slashing each other with tomahawks and scalping knives surged between them. The writhing bodies of the injured fell across those who’d never rise again while the victors rushed whooping at their foes.

  The screams of the dying rose alongside shouts of triumph. All the horrific cries raked at Rebecca’s ears. She was unable to block them with her bound hands.

  Though the carnage sickened her, she couldn’t look away and sought for Shoka in the hellish upheaval. Her pleading “Let him be all right, let him be all right,” became a chanted invocation she feared to let go unvoiced.

  Men from Fort Warden swelled the ranks of an enemy bent on taking the life of her warrior husband. With her heart lost in Shoka’s she couldn’t cheer them on, yet she didn’t wish them to fall.

  Captain Bancroft crossed his short frontier sword with Capitaine Renault’s—the clash of metal lost in the uproar of musket bursts and crackling wood. The gory pandemonium before her might have been avoided if Bancroft had agreed to a parley with Renault. As it was, his fort burned an infernal orange and billowing smoke befouled the sky while women and children ran screaming from the flames. At least the Catawba’s sudden arrival had given them the chance to escape.

  Wabete surfaced in fighting too close for muskets. Brute strength and skill with the tomahawk were all that mattered now. She shuddered with each deadly blow the powerful warrior rained down on the big man who’d cursed her. If Wabete were lost today, Shoka would be devastated. Wabete was proud and demanding, even scornful, but he dearly loved his brother and had given her a grudging respect.

  She found herself entreating God for his life then cringing as he chopped his opponent in the side of the neck and drove a blade up under his ribs. The big man’s dying gurgle was lost in war cries.

  Lieutenant Remy loosed a blood-curdling yowl and hurled himself at a Catawba warrior. The two were swept up and lost to sight. Not before Rebecca glimpsed a man totally unlike the adoring cook who’d taken such pains over his stew. The red-coated Skaki plunged into the thick of battle, his bizarre sense of humor buried now somewhere behind a face twisted into a wild-eyed, murderous mask.

  “Oh, God, why don’t they all just stop?” Rebecca longed for an end to this horror. But it only intensified.

  The Shawnee were pushing the Catawba and the remaining frontiersmen back directly toward her and Tessa. If the two women didn’t escape this battle now, they’d be engulfed by it. Rebecca had to get Tessa to move. Thirsty and exhausted, she had little strength left to tackle the girl’s obstinacy.

  Wilting under the hot sun, she shook Tessa’s shoulder. “Get up! Do you truly wish to be trampled?”

  “Becca! Becca!”

  She spun in disbelief at her sister’s shout. Even more unbelievable, was the sight of Kate flying toward them on Capitaine Renault’s black stallion. Dear Kate with her terror of warriors was riding into battle for her.

  “Kate’s coming, Tessa!”

  She looked around with red-rimmed eyes. “Your sister?”

  “Yes. Come on. Kate can get you away.” Rebecca scrambled up and hauled Tessa with her. “Lean on me.”

  Tessa hobbled under Rebecca’s support without resisting, the hysteria momentarily extinguished by Kate’s arrival.

  Kate’s small hands hauled on the reins. “Ho!”

  The stallion halted in front of Rebecca, pawing the ground and snorting. Kate exerted her usual control in spite of the discord breaking around them. How splendid she looked, her glossy brown hair cascading over her and her gown tucked up, sitting astride the magnificent animal’s bare back, her shapely legs pressing his black flanks. She seemed very like an angel descending into hell.

  Rebecca hoped Renault wasn’t too distracted by Kate’s spectacular arrival to keep a close eye on his opponent, a fine point he’d hammered home to Meshewa. She had no desire to see him killed and her sister’s heart broken.

  “Thank heavens you’ve come!” Rebecca shouted up to her.

  Kate bent low over the horse’s neck, the question in her deep brown eyes. “Uncle Henry?”

  Rebecca shook her head.

  Kate grimaced and stretched her hand down to Rebecca. “Here. I’ll help you mount.”

  Rebecca held up her bound wrists. “Not like this.”

  Kate frowned. “Who bound you?”

  “Bancroft. There’s no time to explain. Quick, Tessa, give me your good leg.”

  Rebecca squatted on the ground to give the girl a boost from below while Kate towed her up from above. Between them they managed to hoist Tessa up behind Kate. The bewildered girl wrapped her arms around Kate and clung wild-eyed.

  The horse whinnied a warning at the men rushing toward them. “Go on! I’ll follow,” Rebecca urged.

  Kate scanned the melee closing in on them. “Marc’s alive! Hurry, Becca!” she called, wheeling the impatient stallion around.

  He kicked up clods of turf as he bore their young cousin to safety and the burden weighing Rebecca lightened a little. Her ill-fated mission had fallen far short of her hopes, but she’d fulfilled her promise to Logan.

  Chapter Fifteen

  White-hot knives of pain stabbed Rebecca’s side. Pushing on, she raced after the black stallion carrying Kate and Tessa to the trees she’d left behind mere hours before. If she made it into the woods at the same place they’d entered, she should be able to find the camp. But what of Shoka?

  Tormented by his perilous state, she whirled around toward the turmoil behind her. Grayish-white smoke from gunpowder and the burning fort clouded the bodies scattered over the field like rag dolls. Praying Shoka didn’t lie among the fallen, she squinted against the stinging air to seek him in the jumble of men.

  Tortured seconds passed as she stood, her eyes searching. If she didn’t spot him in a moment she’d run back and—there! She saw him and the tomahawk slashing at his head.

  Her heart lurched into her throat as he dodged the lethal blow and sliced his blade across the attacking warrior’s arm leaving a scarlet streak.

  A swift kick hurled his howling opponent back. His tomahawk upraised, Shoka rushed at a second brave, fighting his way to her.

  Musket fire blasted right behind her. She didn’t dare stay where she was. Catawba warriors were firing to shield their retreat toward the trees on the other side of the meadow.

  Frontiersmen loosed a volley of shots and ran back to cover behind the flaming fort where the women and children had already fled. She hoped they were safely reunited, but her prayers were fixed on Shoka. She spun around to run and collided with a Catawba brave tearing past her. She reeled into the waves of men.

  They shoved her out of their way, and she staggered, crying out as her bruised body hit the ground. She sagged on the grass, too winded to move. Scores of moccasins flew past just inches away from her head.

  “Shoka’s woman. You have no pistol now.”

  It was a voice she’d hoped never to hear again, dripping with scorn. She looked up in dread.

  Tonkawa stared down at her. Slitted eyes glinted in his green and black painted face, his powerful body silhouetted against the smoky sky. The silver brooch in his scalp-lock braid gleamed in the single ray of sunlight piercing the haze. Here was a demon sprung from hell.

  “Come,” he bit out.

  “You can’t take me!” With strength borne of panic, she kicked her heels into the turf and scrambled back.

  Tonkawa lunged at her. She tried to roll to the side to escape his hand. He clamped hard fingers around her arm and jerked her to her feet.

  She twisted, kicking, to escape the vise of his grip, but she had little more effect on him than a flappi
ng bird. “Shoka! Shoka!”

  Tonkawa swung back his arm and struck her across the face with the back of his hand. “Be still. I will kill you.”

  She staggered in his hold, tasting blood where her teeth had cut into her cheek. “You can’t keep a dead woman.”

  “Nor can Shoka. You wish to live? Give me no trouble.”

  This menace would take her life, regardless of any desire he might have for her. Ceasing her struggles, she went where the clamped fingers on her arm determined, across the clearing away from her longed-for camp and into the woods with other Catawba warriors bent on escape.

  Somehow Shoka would find her. She clung to this thread of hope as the trees closed in around them. The noises of battle diminished and faded altogether.

  The trail narrowed to a ribbon by encroaching bramble thickets. Tonkawa released her and spurted ahead. Still, he imprisoned her between himself and the men following behind and forced her to a grueling pace that alternated between a sprint and a trot.

  Though fear pounded in her burning chest and frantic mind, the rush of energy sustaining her soon waned. Her lungs were near to bursting, each breath a whistling pang below her breasts and between her shoulder blades. Shooting pains skewered her sides, and her calf muscles cramped. She’d never endure this punishing hike if they had far to go.

  Branches whipped her neck above the heavy cloak as she tripped over roots and fell into a clump of trees. A considerate hand—definitely not Tonkawa’s—pulled her back onto the trail from behind and nudged her forward.

  She stumbled on, her awareness fading to the demands of a body pushed too hard. The men finally slowed to a fast walk. It was all she could do to keep up with them. The gurgle of cool, refreshing water beckoned unbearably.

  She called out to Tonkawa in a parched whisper. “May I have a drink?”

  He shook his scalp lock in silent refusal.

  “Please. I’ve had nothing for hours.”

  He hissed her to silence and she shrank at his glare.

  Biting back further pleas, she willed herself not to provoke him into killing her before Shoka came. She cringed at the thought of him finding her in a pool of blood. As the hellish minutes passed into what had to be hours, her resolve and stamina ebbed even more. She sweltered in her wool cloak. Every breath caught in her dry throat and she often lost her footing.

  Her wits hadn’t deserted her entirely, though. With the Catawba warriors surrounding her, she couldn’t risk anything obvious, like tearing strips from her petticoats to leave a trail for Shoka. But long strands of her hair found their way onto nearby branches, and wherever the earth was soft or mossy she stepped down with extra vigor. Her leather shoes left distinctive impressions, unlike the men’s moccasins.

  Her blood would leave marks too, she thought, groaning as she fell again, scraping her hands and knees on the stones. Tears spilled and she struggled to rise. The branches overhead spun, and at last her legs gave out.

  Tonkawa stopped. He regarded her coldly. “Get up.”

  She tried pushing herself up on jittery arms and collapsed back onto the trail. “I can’t.”

  “You wish me to kill you now?”

  “I fear you will, anyway,” she said in despair.

  Through the blur of tears, she saw him draw his knife. The blade was dull in the heavy shade, somehow more menacing than if it had been flashing in bright sunlight. This was it, then. A brutal death and Shoka couldn’t save her.

  She rolled her eyes in agony at the circle of strange men who’d be her final witnesses. They were silent. Not a hint of approval ran through them.

  With the anguish of the condemned, she angled her head at the warrior behind her, choking out a plea. “Help me.”

  His face remained dispassionate, but a tall younger brave pushed past him. Sympathy touched his brown eyes, and admiration. Perhaps it was he who’d steadied her before.

  She reached trembling hands toward him. “Can’t you see I’m English?”

  He nodded. “I see.”

  “Then help me.”

  He bent down, clasped her arm and pulled her up. Head awhirl, she swayed against his bare chest. A sob of relief escaped her as he wrapped a protective arm around her. But she wasn’t out of danger yet.

  Tonkawa dug his fingers into her shoulder. “You are woman to Shawnee warrior. Shoka killed Kutcin, my brother. For this he must pay.”

  She could barely speak. “With my blood?”

  “His is not spilt.”

  “Many fall in battle. My English husband lies dead. I am innocent of your brother’s death,” she reasoned in an anguish of words.

  “Shoka is not innocent. Your life will pay for his.”

  She clung to her newfound protector as tightly as a bound woman could while Tonkawa tried to wrest her away. “Don’t let him kill me. Please.”

  The young man tightened his hold on her with one arm and shoved Tonkawa backwards with his other. “Iya igware wahari.”

  “Yakri ware,” Tonkawa hissed at the defiant youth.

  “Iya kuritcure, Tonkawa.” Whatever her defender had said elicited muttered agreement from the warriors who clustered around them and she sensed their restlessness at the delay.

  One man urged Tonkawa forward, bouncing on his toes with edginess. “I will have payment for Kutcin’s life,” Tonkawa said in her ear. With that, he wheeled and stormed ahead.

  The others sidled past them. “Safe now,” her protector comforted her in halting English. “Cave not far. Come.”

  She wanted to comply. Her legs were so weak she feared she couldn’t stand unaided. “What is your name?” she whispered.

  “Skizenoh.”

  “Skizenoh. I can’t take another step.”

  As tired as he also must have been, he scooped her up. “I will carry you.”

  His voice sounded distant as she succumbed to the fog enveloping her.

  ****

  Bone-weary fatigue and tormenting thirst left Rebecca adrift in a peculiar state, neither deeply asleep nor awake. The final leg of the Catawba retreat could have taken twenty minutes or two hours. She had no idea. Her next real awareness was of a hand softly shaking her, and a man’s quiet voice.

  “We have come. Wake, lady.”

  Lady. The word reminded her of Meshewa.

  She stirred from her grogginess and looked up into Skizenoh’s concerned brown eyes. The outer rim of each iris was encircled with green, giving them a hazel cast like Meshewa’s.

  Despite the dread and disorientation knotting her stomach, she smiled at him tenuously. “Thank you, Skizenoh.”

  His eyes opened wider and he smiled back, almost as if struck by her warm response. Again, she thought of Meshewa.

  “Can you stand?” he asked.

  “I’ll try.”

  He lowered her to the forest floor covered with a layer of hemlock needles and kept a secure arm around her. He pointed past a stand of maples. “Cave is there.”

  Warriors were disappearing into the branches just ahead of them and she sensed the men still behind her. There was little use in pleading with Skizenoh not to make her go. With his support, she walked shakily across the waxy green leaves creeping through the humus.

  The barest whiff of wintergreen drifted up as they trod on the small vines and swept her back to thoughts of Shoka that threatened to overwhelm her. Tears blurred her sight of the boulders mounded up against the tree-lined ridge.

  A rough hole in the brownish rock, barely wide enough for them both to pass, served as the entrance. This cave must be small, she thought, with a wave of panic. Tucking herself against Skizenoh, she ducked inside. Torches made from pine knots flickered on ledges in the limestone walls. The makeshift light dimly illuminated the ground-down grit and stone underfoot in the modest chamber. But it seemed this wasn’t their destination.

  Wanting to turn with each step, Rebecca stuck by Skizenoh. He followed warriors venturing more deeply into the cave and climbed through another opening in the rock.

/>   She swiveled her head in awe. Like a great unearthly chapel, this vast chamber opening up before her made the cave Kate had sheltered in seem but a cupboard in comparison. Even the light from the fully stoked campfire burning in the center of the cavern didn’t fully reveal the vaulted ceiling. The smoke from the blaze did not settle as it would have in a contained space but was carried aloft on unseen currents.

  More torches lit the nooks and shelves in the limestone, guiding her eyes to the back of the chamber where she glimpsed a second, poorly lit opening. It seemed to lead to another room. She had the sense that much of this netherworld remained unseen. A chill ran through her and not just because of the cold damp.

  Everywhere she looked strange shapes hung from the ceiling or sprouted from the floor, their smooth surfaces glistening with the dripping wetness that had formed them. None were the same, even to the hues that colored them—early white, deep yellow, rose-pink. Some of the formations rising from below met those suspended from above in bizarre unions. Here were the sculptures of a madman, ornamenting a grotto so unearthly she wondered if she were dreaming it.

  The fragrance of venison roasting over the fire and the voices of the men sitting around it were real enough.

  The handful of warriors left behind had all in readiness for their discouraged comrades now returning from battle. Though she couldn’t understand their words, she guessed from the newcomers’ faces that an accounting of the day’s losses was being given. She also had a grievous tale to tell, but it wasn’t one likely to meet with any sympathy here and her physical needs clamored for attention.

  Cold droplets from the stalactite hanging above her dripped down onto her head. The trickle of water caught her ear. Thank heavens this strangest of worlds had ample moisture. She glanced around for the source. The torchlight caught rivulets of water spilling down the rock walls and collecting into a shaded pool.

  “Skizenoh, water, please,” she prompted.

  “Come.” He led her over the deep channels carved in the stone and held her steady when she slipped.

  Tonkawa glared at her from where he sat near the campfire as they walked past him. His wrath pierced her back like needles, but her thirst overtook her fear and she strained toward the pool.