“But why send to Philadelphia?” the colonel asked. “If you want blankets, we have some here that you can—Oh.” His face turned from white to tallow. “You specifically want . . .”
“Exactly,” Brooke agreed. “Smallpox kills more hostiles in a month than we can in a year.”
“But smallpox cannot distinguish between combatants and women and children,” Pickering said. “Surely, you don’t want to . . .”
“The cost of war,” the major said. “If the Indians would see reason and move back across the Ohio, this wouldn’t be necessary.”
“I can’t be responsible for . . .” Pickering began hesitantly.
“You will be responsible for nothin’,” Simon said. “I tole ye. Me and my militia, we’ll tend to the dirty work. Ye sit here in the fort and wait. By spring, yore problems will be over, and all this land will be open for white settlement.”
“But the treaty?” Pickering argued. “What about . . .”
“We don’t need a treaty if there aren’t any hostiles to make it with,” Dodd said.
In the next room, a half-breed laundress paused in the act of stripping the sheets from Colonel Pickering’s bed and crept close to the door on moccasined feet. She brushed aside a long hank of greasy black hair and pressed her face to the door.
Her eyes were bloodshot from last night’s bout of drinking, and her mouth tasted like a chicken run. She was no longer young, and her once firm breasts swung when she walked. Ready Mary they called her at the fort. She had once had another name and another life, but she rarely thought of that. In fact, she rarely thought of anything but her next meal and where she would find another mug of whiskey, but the word treaty had broken through her stupor. Ignoring the obvious danger, she listened to the ongoing conversation.
“I don’t know,” the commandant said. “There’s our prisoner to think of. You insisted that we hold him until he signed the agreement, ceding the land in question to the crown, and now . . .”
“Yes, Brandt,” the major said, rising to his feet. “What do you propose we do with old Medicine Smoke? From the looks of him, he’s close to death already.”
“Hang him,” Simon said.
The colonel’s eyes widened in surprise. “Hang him?”
“Yes, hang the bastard,” Simon snapped. “He’s of no use to us if he won’t sign and useless if he’s dead.”
“Then why kill him?” Pickering asked.
“Would ye see white women kidnapped up and down the frontier?” Simon answered sharply. “He’s a party to the deed—as much to blame as his son. Hang him, I say, and hang the Nanticoke as well.”
“But if this Fire Talon offered to trade Mrs. Brandt for his father,” the colonel said, “shouldn’t you arrange her release before . . .”
“The only bargain I’ll give Fire Talon is a quick trip to hell,” Simon said. “These Injuns see any weakness in us, they’ll set the frontier aflame. We’ll trade with Fire Talon if it comes to that—we just won’t tell him his old man’s a little ripe.”
“Yep,” Dodd agreed. “An’ if ye don’t kill the Nanticoke, he’ll soon get word to the Shawnee that Medicine Smoke is dead.”
“I don’t know . . .” Pickering said. “It seems dishonorable . . . not something his majesty’s forces should . . .”
“If it will insure peace for the settlers and safety for our soldiers, then Brandt’s plan is a solid one,” Major Brooke said. “Your mission here is to subdue the area, Colonel. The decision is yours, of course. You are the commandant. But if you ask for my opinion, I say let the Free Virginia Militia handle this matter.” He pursed his full lips and brought both palms together, then brushed his chin with his joined fingertips. “And if anything goes wrong . . . ,” he smiled wryly, “no one can attach any blame to you or to high command in London.”
“This isn’t easy to decide,” Pickering said. “Mrs. Brandt’s life may be lost if we make the wrong decision.” He glanced toward the door. “There’s a terrible draft in this room. Does anyone else notice it? This is going to be another foul day, I’m certain of it.”
The major motioned to the orderly, who draped a heavy dressing robe over the colonel’s shoulders.
“Thank you, Wales,” Pickering said. “I believe the fire needs additional fuel, as well. This accursed place is as drafty as a barn.”
“Not so drafty as where my wife stands this morning,” Simon put in. “And if she dies, ye kin be sure a lot of complaints will be made to London.”
“It’s best to finish this quickly, sir,” Brooke suggested, pouring Pickering another glass of port. “You should be in bed. I don’t like the sound of your cough. Mister Brandt and his militia have had a lot of experience with these natives. A good military leader knows when to delegate . . .”
“Exactly my feelings,” the colonel said. “Do what you think best, Mister Brandt. Do it quickly, and without involving my troops. Godspeed.”
“Aye,” Simon replied thickly. The hate in his gut was so fierce it drove steel needles into his vitals. “Godspeed.” Godspeed Fire Talon’s death and Rebecca’s. And Godspeed the last Injun from this country straight to the bowels of hell.
Chapter 9
Rebecca hadn’t thought of her mother’s death in days. Now, since the memory had returned so vividly this morning in the cave, her mother’s dying face haunted her. Automatically, she put one foot in front of her, following Talon’s moccasin prints in the crusty snow. But while her body continued moving in a steady rhythm, her mind was fixed on the past.
They had gathered their belongings and left the campsite before the sun was fully up. For hours they had walked west—at least she thought it was west—over rugged terrain and among trees so massive that she felt dwarfed by their size.
The day was bitter, but the forest blocked the wind. She felt only occasional gusts of cold wind and heard it whistling through the bare winter branches far overhead. Now and then, evergreens bent and swayed, lending the rustle of their snowy boughs to nature’s symphony.
Rebecca had to admit she was warm enough. Talon had given her a second pair of knee-high moccasins to slip over her own; these were hard-soled, in a fashion she hadn’t seen Indians use before. Under the Huron’s military coat she wore a short, fringed squaw’s dress of thick green kersey and otterskin leggings with the fur inside. On her hands were fur mittens, and a wolfskin robe covered her shoulders and laced close around her face.
He was dressed much more simply: high moccasins, leggings and loincloth, a vest, and a fur wrap. One arm was bare in the frigid air, and he wore nothing on his head. A rifle was strapped to his back; he carried a second in his right hand. Talon was further weighed down by his tomahawk, knife, hunting bag, powderhorn, and the hunting bag of possessions she’d carried from the cabin. Still, she was hard pressed to keep up with his long strides.
They had not spoken for more than an hour. She didn’t know or care what his thoughts were—hers were back in Ireland with her lost childhood.
Her father’s accident had brought an end to her former existence as surely and swiftly as Fire Talon’s attack on Simon’s cabin. In one brief day, she had gone from adored child to an Irish housekeeper’s bastard girl. It was weeks before she was to realize the extent of the disaster, but only hours until she noticed that the servants looked at her in a different way and villagers whispered behind her back.
Her mother had been devastated, too overcome by grief to offer much help with funeral arrangements or even legal matters. It fell to Rebecca at thirteen to send for a physician and a Protestant minister, and after the funeral, to write to Father’s solicitor in Dublin.
James Gordon had been wise enough to leave a will, and loving enough to provide handsomely for his wife, his son and daughter, and the unborn child that Mary Caitlin carried. He had supposed that his family in England would not be pleased to see the bulk of his substantial estate go to his mistress and children. But he hadn’t realized just how far his cousin would go to rob the bereave
d family of everything.
Cousin Abner had descended on them in record time, bringing with him an entire household of relatives and servants. They had taken over her father’s house like a horde of hungry fleas, creeping into every corner and setting everyone’s nerves on edge. Her mother, always so strong and articulate—the woman who had ridden horseback up until the day of Colin’s birth—made little objection. Instead, five months gone with child, she took to her bed.
In a week, Cousin Abner had dismissed her mother’s physician and appointed his own. Cousin Resolve, Abner’s wife, settled her own children into Colin’s nursery and pushed him out. Rebecca had taken him into her bed, grateful for the company. From then on, her baby brother had been her responsibility.
The new physician drew the shutters in her mother’s bedchamber, declared that she was suffering from a melancholy of the spirit, and prescribed laudanum three times a day. Her mother’s cheeks had gone from rosy to gray, her unwashed hair became tangled, and her sparkling eyes dulled. Soon, she wept day and night. She was unable to bear the sound of Colin’s laughter or look into the little face that was so much like his father’s.
Cousin Resolve had hinted that the bedroom with the rose-tinted windows, the one Rebecca had slept in since she was tiny, was too grand for a housekeeper’s daughter. And when Rebecca had reminded Abner’s wife that they were merely guests in her mother’s household, Abner had caned her severely.
She had not been ignorant. She had known of the Penal Laws enacted by the English crown against the Irish Catholics. To name but a few of the restraints placed upon those who followed the old religion, there were the following:
A Catholic was forbidden to hold public office, engage in trade, enter a profession, or vote.
A Catholic could not buy land, lease land, or inherit land from a Protestant.
Practice of the Catholic religion was forbidden. Catholics were not permitted to attend mass. They must attend and support the Protestant church. Priests were to be hunted down like criminals.
Catholics were forbidden to educate their children at home, enroll them in school, or send them abroad for an education. Catholic teachers were also outlawed.
A Catholic could not stand as a child’s guardian, and Catholic orphans must be raised as Protestants.
Her father had warned her how dangerous it was to be a Catholic in Ireland. To protect his children, he’d had both Colin and her christened in the Anglican faith—hours after her mother had had them christened by a priest. By law, if not in their hearts, she and her brother were Protestant. Dadda had counted on that to keep them safe and preserve their inheritance. He had named his solicitor and friend, John Ledger, Esq., good Protestant, as their legal guardian.
But an English judge had set aside the guardianship of honorable John Ledger and replaced him with Cousin Abner. Shortly after that, Abner produced a second, later will giving him everything, and she, Colin, and their mother were stripped of all they owned. Rebecca—and even John Ledger—had suspected that the new document was forged, but no one paid them any mind.
The following day, her mother—who had not stirred from her bed for weeks—had somehow walked the length of the house in her night rail and tumbled down the steep old steps that led to the kitchen.
Her mother’s grave was not yet green when Abner signed indentures for her and her brother and sent them off across the ocean to the American Colonies . . . where she had met Simon and become a wife too soon.
What would her mother think? Would she blame her for losing Colin? Did she know from heaven’s gate that Colin was missing? And had her eyes regained their bright—
“Stop!”
Talon’s order brought Rebecca up short. Startled, she looked around her. She had been so intent on her memories that she’d forgotten where she was. “What . . .” she began.
“Chitkwesi! Be quiet. Listen.” He pointed to a nearby tree. The bark had been sliced and torn just above her head level.
She stared at the oak, then dropped her gaze to the trampled, muddy snow below. Bear tracks. Big ones. She glanced around uneasily. The animal that had made these marks in the snow would go to four hundred pounds.
“Do you smell him?” Talon whispered.
Rebecca sniffed the air. To her surprise, she did catch the faint stench of rotten meat lingering in the cold stillness.
He eased back the hammer on his rifle. “Can you not sense maxkw’s pain?” he asked her.
She shook her head. Other than the tracks and the marks on the tree, everything seemed peaceful.
Talon closed his eyes for a few seconds and went perfectly still. Then his eyes snapped open. “Back,” he said urgently. “Move back the way we came. The wind carries our scent to him. We’ll try and circle around.”
She looked at Talon with questioning eyes. “Simon always said a bear would run from a man, given half a chance.”
“Most bears. Maybe not this one.” He knelt and examined the tracks. “See here. Maxkw walked on four legs; here he rose on hind ones. It is a male in his prime, fat and ready to go into his long sleep. Why then does he behave unnaturally?”
“I don’t see that he has,” she answered. “Bears claw tree bark to get at the insects underneath.”
“But he should be slow, sleepy. See there.” Talon pointed to a yellow stain in the snow. “He makes water.”
“So?”
“And again there.” He pointed to a spot about twenty feet away. “He is confused, this bear. His paws are not injured. He walks without a limp, yet is angry. He rips the tree in fury, not in hunger.”
Her eyes narrowed in disbelief. “You can tell all that from these tracks?”
He made a quick motion with his hand for her to be still and they retreated in silence back down the gentle incline. They followed their own trail for nearly a mile, and Talon kept his thumb on the hammer of his gun all the way. They walked quickly, and his eyes scanned the forest for any movement. It was evident to Rebecca that the signs of the bear had disturbed him greatly, and she couldn’t help being puzzled. Talon hadn’t seemed so vigilant when they were fleeing the enemy war party.
Finally, he seemed satisfied that they’d come far enough. He turned off the faint game path and led the way across country, around a burned out section, through an open meadow, and over a narrow stream, before starting up the mountain once more.
Rebecca’s legs ached. Her feet hurt, and she was hungry. She didn’t see the need for retracing their steps and making this long jaunt over rough country just to avoid a bear that probably would have lit out running as soon as he smelled humans. She wondered if it was possible that the great war chief, Fire Talon, was afraid of bears. If he was any kind of shot at all, he should have been able to bring a bear down with the rifle he was carrying.
“I thought the Shawnee were great hunters,” she murmured, half under her breath.
“What?” He spun around and stared at her. “What did you say?”
She stood her ground. “You’re afraid of that bear, aren’t you?”
“The man who does not respect maxkw does not live to see his hair turn gray.”
“Simon killed two or three every winter for their hides, meat, and fat.”
Talon stiffened. “Do not speak to me of Simon Brandt.”
“I am his wife.”
“And will be his widow—if you can’t hold your tongue.”
“You’re wrong! Simon will see you dead.”
“And that will please you?”
“Yes . . . no. I don’t know,” she admitted honestly. “Maybe it would.”
“Your hate runs deep.”
“You’ve burned my house, kidnapped me—done something with my brother . . . I don’t know what. Why shouldn’t I hate you?”
Some of the hardness seeped out of his features. “I asked Fox—the man who brought the warm clothing for you—about the boy. He said no one has seen your brother or the warrior who captured him.”
“If you knew Colin was de
ad, would you tell me?”
Talon nodded. “I would tell you. It would not give me pleasure, but I would tell you the truth.”
She swallowed. “I wish I could believe that.”
“Believe what you will.” He shrugged, and his face became a granite mask once more. “Come, enough talk. We have far to go before the sun sets.”
“Where are you taking me?”
He didn’t bother to answer. He simply started off. She followed, knowing full well that to be alone and without shelter in these mountains at night would mean her certain death.
The uphill climb grew steeper. Low brush and scrub trees clung to the rocky soil, interspersed with larger pine trees and cedar. Rebecca found herself scrambling to keep up. She removed her fur mittens, tucking them into her coat for safe keeping. The slope was so rugged that she had to take hold of branches and protruding rocks to pull herself up.
Once, Talon offered his hand to help her over a particularly rough spot. For an instant, she nearly refused his assistance, but he waited, dark eyes expressionless, hand extended. Against her better judgement, she clasped his fingers. His touch was warm and strong and—she had to admit to herself—oddly comforting.
Ignoring the curious fluttering sensation in the pit of her stomach, she let him lift her up. When her feet rested on level ground, she pulled free. He let her go instantly.
“You are welcome,” he said.
She felt her cheeks grow hot. “Thank you.”
“I did not . . .” He broke off as a huge gray owl rose flapping from a hidden branch and flew off over their heads.
Startled by the sudden appearance of the bird, Rebecca gasped and threw her hands up over her head. Talon uttered something in his own language and his face grew grim.
“A bad omen,” he said. “Kok hose does not hunt by day.”
“It was just an owl,” she said, as her heartbeat slowed. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of owls too.”
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