This Fierce Loving

by French, Judith E.

  “Pah,” he answered with disgust. “You are ignorant, woman. You know nothing.”

  “At least I’m not scared of a horned owl.”

  He set off up the hill. They’d not gone more than a hundred yards when she heard a snort, almost the same sound a pig makes. “What . . .”

  “Halt,” he said, moving away from her. “Stay right where you are and be quiet.”

  “But . . . Oh!”

  The bear rose out of the underbrush on two hind legs and kept rising. He went up and up, until she thought he must be the size of a team of oxen. Her cry died in her throat as the massive brown creature waved huge front paws with long, hooked claws as creamy-white as old ivory. The animal threw back his head and roared, a deep, rumbling growl that turned her bones to jelly. His small eyes were yellow and piglike—his head as big as a wagon wheel. His red mouth flashed curving teeth that were the stuff of children’s nightmares.

  She wanted to run. Every instinct for survival bade her run, but she couldn’t. The bear swung his great head in her direction, wrinkled his nose, and sniffed the air. His bloodshot eyes rolled from side to side, and Rebecca knew that he was searching for her exact location.

  He growled again, bellowing out a challenge. The sound made her tremble with fear. Then from the corner of her eye, she caught a flicker of movement, and Talon’s tomahawk quivered in the trunk of a pine tree. The bear turned and snorted, then dropped to all fours and charged across the clearing, faster than Rebecca could ever believe he could run.

  When he reached the tree, he rocked back on his hind feet and struck the tomahawk a mighty blow with his right paw. The shaft shattered and flew through the air like straw in a blast of wind, and with the ruined weapon went a piece of the tree trunk as thick as her thigh.

  For what seemed an eternity, the beast worried the pine tree, slashing at it and biting chunks of wood with his teeth. Then he sniffed again, lifted his head, and waited motionless, clearly listening.

  A Shawnee war cry rang out from almost the same spot where Rebecca had first sighted the bear. Enraged, the bear snorted, emitted a deep cough, and stood upright again.

  “Maxkw!” Talon shouted. “Come, you lazy pig! Come!”

  The bear charged again, racing toward Talon with a roar like thunder. But halfway to his tormentor, the animal stopped short and swung his head around.

  “Maxkw!”

  Rebecca’s terrified gaze met that of the bear. Then he squealed and swung toward her. Talon’s rifle spat lead and smoke and a great puff of fur rose from the bear’s spine.

  Panic spilled through her veins. She fled into the woods. Behind her, she could hear the bear’s guttural snarl. She could feel the earth shudder under the weight of his feet.

  “Climb a tree!” Talon yelled.

  A second shot vibrated through the forest.

  She looked frantically for a tree with branches low enough to grasp, dodged around a pine that seemed too small, and slammed into a cedar.

  Branches were snapping behind her. Rebecca could almost feel the bear’s hot breath on her neck. She grabbed a limb and pulled herself up as a great force smashed into the trunk.

  “Arrrannngg!” The bear’s roar deafened her.

  Bark and twigs scratched her face and hands, but Rebecca didn’t stop. She climbed higher. The tree swayed and groaned, but she didn’t look down. She fixed her eyes on a patch of white cloud outlined in azure blue sky and kept going. The tree shook so hard that debris rained around her. She lost her grip with one hand, but held fast with the other.

  When she had gone as high as she could, she glanced down into the face of the bear. He was trying to climb the tree after her.

  She screamed and the bear uttered a horrendous growl. His mouth opened and the sickening rotten meat odor floated up to hit her face. He raised a paw to strike at her.

  “Talon!” she cried. “Talon!” Then the branch she was clinging to snapped with a dull crack and she began sliding down toward the bear.

  Chapter 10

  Time slowed as Rebecca tried desperately to hold on to the slippery, snow-covered tree trunk. The blue sky and the green pine needles overhead flashed before her eyes. The bear’s growls deafened her. She tried to scream, but sheer terror paralyzed her vocal cords and she could not utter a sound.

  I’m going to die, she thought. Mother of God, I’m going to be eaten alive by this damn bear and leave Colin lost in this wilderness . . .

  And then she was falling. She hit the ground hard; her head slammed against the tree. Everything went black. Was it night? Had minutes passed or only seconds? Pinwheels of light spun through the murky fog. She fought to regain consciousness. The bear? Where was the bear?

  She could hear him roaring. His snarls shook the forest. She could smell him. But where . . . Wiping snow and bark from her face, she tried to stand. Her head hurt but—

  Sweet Mary and Joseph! The bear was only a few yards away. He reared high on his back legs and raked the air with terrible claws. His maw gaped open as he thrashed from side to side and tried to throw off the man on his back.

  Talon! His war whoop rose above the snarls of the bear. His blood-soaked arm rose and fell, driving a knife into the massive animal’s neck over and over.

  It was impossible. No mortal could cling to such a raging beast. And yet he did. Naked but for his loincloth and leggings, hair streaming down his back, soaked in a river of blood, the Shawnee warrior rode the bear like a burr on a bull’s neck.

  The bear was crazed. He knocked down trees and clawed the earth. Each time the knife blade struck his flesh, he moaned in pain. Blood poured from his mouth in a river; his eyes were blinded with it.

  The tendons on Talon’s arms and naked back stood out like ropes; his contorted face showed the strain of the unequal contest between man and animal that could only end one way

  Unless . . . Cold reason flooded Rebecca’s mind. Talon would die, and then she would die—horribly—unless she intervened.

  To reach one of the fallen rifles she had to cross the open space, the place where the bear raged. If he saw her, she would have no chance. But if she remained where she was and did nothing . . .

  She willed herself to take a single step. Her body seemed not to belong to her but to another. She was a wooden puppet. Her muscles refused to obey.

  And then the bear gave a mighty shrug and Talon went flying through the air. He landed on the trampled snow and the bear threw back his head and howled in triumph. Then the bruin’s blood-streaked eyes focused on his tormentor, and he lumbered toward him.

  Rebecca dashed toward the rifle, raised it to her shoulder, and pulled the trigger. There was no sound but the dull click of the hammer.

  Empty. Of course—Talon would have fired off the shot before charging the bear with only his knife. She looked around frantically for the powder horn and hunting bag.

  The bear struck Talon a horrendous blow. Talon’s body was lifted off the ground and thrown. He fell like a sack of wheat and lay still. Down the length of his back four ribbons of scarlet unfurled. The bear cocked his head as if listening and sniffed the air.

  Rebecca dumped the contents of the hunting sack on the ground. She would not look at the bear. She would not think of Talon. She would load and fire the rifle.

  She could do it. She had done it before. Bite the lid off the powder flask, hold the rifle away. Measure powder into the barrel; place the patch over the end, seat the ball and tamp. Her stiff fingers seemed made of wood as she loaded the frizzen pan with fine powder, lifted the rifle to her shoulder, and sighted in on the raging bear.

  He had struck Talon a second time; now he prepared to finish him off with his teeth. The great head hovered over the man’s crumbled body.

  “Bear!” Rebecca shouted. “You bear! Have this with your tea!”

  The shaggy body swayed; the reddish-brown head turned and red pig eyes sought her out. The smell of blood was heavy and cloying in the air; Rebecca could almost taste it.

 
; A low, rumbling roar spilled from the bear’s throat. He rose up and took one step toward her.

  One shot, she thought. If I miss this one . . . The bear lowered his head and she squeezed the trigger.

  The sound of her weapon firing was lost in the bear’s growl. He kept coming—coming at her like a crazed mountain. She gripped her rifle and closed her eyes.

  “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for me now,” she whispered. She waited for the death blow.

  She opened one eye and watched him fall at her feet. Rebecca sprang back as the bear pawed weakly at the ground, then gave an almost human moan and went limp. He shuddered and the single eye that remained glazed over. Her shot had taken out the other neatly.

  She poked at the animal with the rifle barrel, but there was no more movement. “Bear?” she cried, half in triumph, half in hysteria. “Are you dead?”

  Tears spilled down her cheeks and she dashed them away. Cautiously, she circled the outstretched bear and walked to the man.

  Was he dead as well? He lay sprawled on his side, one arm flung over his head, his ruined back open to the sky. He still held his knife in his clenched fist.

  “Talon?” She dropped to her knees beside him and took his limp hand in hers. “Talon?” He felt so cold. Could any man be so cold and live? Could any man lose so much blood and survive?

  She put her hand over his mouth, but she couldn’t feel any movement of breath. She glanced at his back and her stomach turned over. The bear’s claws had cut him to the bone. Snow was caked over the wounds, but the blood seeping through it was bright red.

  Did you still bleed if you were dead? she wondered. She scooped up fresh handfuls of snow and packed it against the torn flesh. He gave no sign that he felt either pain or the cold.

  “Talon? Damn you, you son of a bitch! Don’t think you can die on me and leave me out here alone. I won’t let you. Do you hear me?” she shouted. “I won’t let you.”

  She rocked back on her heels and looked around. It would be dark soon. She was cold. She needed a fire and shelter if she was to survive. But if she took the time to try and make a fire, Talon might die of loss of blood.

  “Might die? Might die? You fool,” she admonished herself. “He’s already dead. You can see that. He’s already dead. You’ve killed the futtering bear, but he’s going to have the last laugh after all. By morning, you’ll be as dead as the two of them.”

  The sound of her voice in the now silent clearing seemed louder than the bear’s growling. Anyone who heard her talking to herself would think she was as mad as May butter. Her head still ached, but the giddiness was leaving her.

  Reluctantly, she left Talon’s side and gathered up both rifles, the packs, and the fur cloak he’d thrown off. She carried them to where he lay. Then she draped his robe gently over him.

  “Are you alive?” she murmured. His face was dirty and blood streaked, but untouched. His eyes were closed. She cupped his cheek in her hand and leaned close to see if she could feel any warmth. “Talon,” she whispered.

  Nothing.

  An uneasiness threatened to push her over the brink to true madness. If he was dead, she was lost. If he was dead . . .

  She shook her head. She wouldn’t let him be dead. Fool that he was, savage, barbarian—he was her only hope of reaching the settlements again.

  “Oh, Talon.” She sighed. It was more than her own safety that plagued her. She didn’t want him dead . . . not just for her sake, but for his.

  She cared if he lived.

  The thought hung in the air defiantly.

  “I don’t care,” she said.

  But she did. No amount of lying to herself could change it. He was her sworn enemy—the man who’d burned her farm and vowed to kill her husband. But he was also the man who had leaped on the back of a bear to save her life when he could have run away. No, she didn’t want Talon to die. What she did want, she would face later. For now . . . She exhaled softly and began to pack his wounds once more with snow.

  His back was the worst, but a single claw had ripped open his flesh on his right arm from shoulder to elbow. A glancing blow had gouged his chest, cutting deep to expose his collar bone. She tried not to think of the poison those claws had carried. She would stop the bleeding now, if she could, and worry later about infection.

  She took hold of his right hand and tried to pry free the knife that he still gripped as tightly as if it were an extension of his arm. The wicked steel blade was sticky with blood and hair. “Let go of the knife, Talon,” she said. “It’s all right. The bear is dead. You can let go of the knife now.” His fingers were as cool and hard as ivory. “Let go,” she repeated.

  She thought she heard a groan.

  “Talon?” She shook him. “Talon?” She slid her numbed hand inside her coat, then when it had warmed a little, pressed it against his chest to try and feel a heartbeat. Still nothing.

  “Damn you,” she muttered. “You’re doing this on purpose.” The bleeding was slowing. She wondered if the snow was doing the trick or if he really was dead.

  Reason was returning. Her vision had cleared. Suddenly, everything that had been hazy with soft edges and softer colors slipped into place. “Talon is alive,” she said to herself. “A dead man can’t bleed.”

  She looked around her. The sun was much lower than it had been. She needed a fire, but not here where the wind would keep a spark from catching. There! She saw an enormous fallen cedar a few yards away. The trunk reached nearly to her chest and a huge branch curved around to make a natural shelter. There, a small fire might ignite and flourish, and the boughs would provide some relief from the frozen ground.

  Again, she left him. Quickly, she began to gather wood for her fire. She found the head of the tomahawk and used it to scrape away rotten bark to reach the dryer inner lining. At home, this had been Colin’s job for years. Boy that he was, he’d taught her how to find the driest wood when it rained. I wish I had you with me now, she thought fervently. I need you, Colin.

  But she had only herself. And if she made a mistake, there would be no second chances.

  When she had all her tinder and fuel, she crouched down beside the cedar log, took flint and steel from Talon’s pack, and set to work to build a fire.

  Her first attempt failed, as did her second and her third. On the fourth try, the tiny spark brought curls of smoke from the cedar bark, but no flame. But on the sixth, her spark flared, ate through the tinder, and began to burn. Patiently, she added twigs and then sticks the thickness of her finger. When she was satisfied that the fire was a good one, she braced it with larger branches and went to drag Talon to the shelter.

  His waist was so slender that she wouldn’t have believed that he could be so heavy. Futilely, she pulled and tugged at his dead weight before seizing on the idea to roll him onto the cloak and slide that across the snow. As she pushed him over onto his stomach, he groaned.

  “You are alive, you son of a bitch,” she said. But her heart leaped, and she felt the same sudden joy that she’d felt when her feet had touched solid ground after so many weeks on the Atlantic.

  She began to drag the cloak, an inch at a time, toward the fire. She was halfway there and it was pitch dark when she slipped on the frozen ground and fell flat on her face. And when she lifted her head, she found herself staring into the slanting yellow eyes of a mountain lion.

  Simon Brandt stepped away from his friends at the fire and moved into the darkness of the surrounding forest. A fierce need had come over him after the incident with the Delaware this afternoon, and he could not sleep until he’d satisfied the racing in his blood.

  They’d stayed at the fort just long enough to see Medicine Smoke kicking from the end of a rope, then nineteen militia men and one Ottawa scout had set out to find Fire Talon’s Shawnee and take back Rebecca. The commandant had retreated to his bed, pleading illness and refusing to dignify the execution with his presence, but Major Brooke had brought out enough soldiers to make a good show.

 
The Nanticoke had died quickly. His neck snapped when they’d dragged the Dutch cart out from under him, but the old man—Talon’s father—hadn’t been so lucky. His hanging had been slow and painful, and Simon had enjoyed every moment of it.

  The weather had held, and he and the boys had made good time, reaching Coverdale’s trading post by high noon. They’d been careful not to make mention of Medicine Smoke’s hanging when they stopped for a bit of ale and pork pie. One of Coverdale’s boys had married a Miami squaw, and another had a Delaware woman for a wife. Simon didn’t want either Injun woman learning of the shaman’s death. If they knew, word could travel tc the Shawnee faster than the militia could march. So long as Fire Talon believed that Medicine Smoke was alive, the old man could still be valuable to them.

  At Coverdale’s they picked up three more good men. Two were farmers, looking to settle farther west as soon as the country was clear of hostiles. Jeb Steiner was the third man, a German preacher—as much a dyed-in-the-wool Injun hater as Simon had ever seen. Jeb carried a long rifle he’d named Gabriel; it had twenty-three notches carved in the stock, one for every Injun scalp the preacher had taken.

  In midafternoon, the militia had come across a Delaware hunting camp, three braves, two kids, and a young squaw. One of the bucks had come out grinning with his hand in the air in a peace sign. Amos Dodd had put a musket ball right through his hand just before Davy Clarke had shot the Injun in the gut. The fight didn’t last a quarter of an hour. When it was over, all the men and the young ones were dead. The boys had taken sport with the woman. Her screams were near loud enough to raise the dead.

  He’d taken no part in the rape. He didn’t mind what other men did; he had his own reasons for not joining in—reasons that went back as long as his feud with Fire Talon.

  Nigh on to ten years the two of them had tried to kill each other, and he had to admit he’d never come up against another hostile as wily as Fire Talon. They’d both been little more than lads when they’d first come face to face. He’d wished many a time that Fire Talon had been in that church with his kin when they’d burned it.