Shannon had only gone a few steps when Nesting Swan came out of her cabin, smiled, and waved. Although the black woman was still shy, Shannon hoped that in time, they would come to be friends. Both Corn Woman and Snowberry thought the world of Winter Fox’s second wife, and everyone was excited about her pregnancy.
She hurried past several other Deer Clan homes and was about to enter the path that ran through the forest to the cornfields when she heard a woman scream. Instantly, Shannon dropped her basket and turned back. The panicked cry came again.
Shannon ran as fast as she could. A few heads poked out of cabins, but the village was nearly deserted with the men away and most of the women at the harvest. The third time the scream came, Shannon knew that it was Oona.
As she rounded a long dwelling, Shannon caught sight of a boy struggling with Oona.
“You! You!” her stepmother shrieked.
Nesting Swan burst from her house. “Get away from her!” she shouted. “Let her go!”
As Shannon neared the two figures, she recognized the boy. Not a boy, but Gall. Her eyes widened in shock. Gall had Oona by the wrist and a knife in his free hand. He stabbed at her. She twisted and kicked him hard in his bad leg.
“You!” Oona screamed again.
Shannon seized a three-foot-long wooden pestle standing in a mortar beside Snowberry’s house, charged Gall, and wacked him in the head with it. He stumbled and went down on one knee, cursing in French. Oona broke free and backed away, sobbing.
“He did it! He did it! He led the attack on the post. He raped me and killed your father! Gall! He’s a murderer!”
Chapter 29
Gall scrambled to his feet and came at Shannon with his knife. Shannon swung the three-foot-long pestle at him again. This time, the heavy wooden club just missed his hand holding the weapon. He backed away, and Shannon raised the pestle. “Get out of my way,” he said. “Can’t you see she’s dangerous? Someone has to stop her.”
“What are you doing?” Shannon stepped between him and her stepmother. “Why are you trying to hurt Oona?” It all seemed so unreal, almost like a nightmare. But she was wide-awake. She could smell soup burning, hear crows cawing as they flew overhead. The sun was warm on her face, and she was threatening a man she’d believed to be her friend.
“Help!” Nesting Swan called. “Someone, help us!” She darted in to grab the baby and carry her out of danger.
“Hit him!” Oona cried. “Kill him!”
From the corner of her eye, Shannon saw Oona snatch up the knife she’d been using to slice the pumpkin for the soup pot and dart at Gall from the side.
“Murderer!” Oona accused.
Gall slashed at Oona with his skinning knife, but Shannon slammed him across the left shoulder with the pestle and the force of the blow spoiled his aim. Oona hacked at him, and then retreated, leaving Gall to stare down at his arm in disbelief. A thin red line beaded along his skin from elbow to wrist.
“George!” Gall shouted. “Where are you?” Favoring his left shoulder, he slipped a tomahawk out of his belt and swung it menacingly. “Stay out of this, Shannon. Don’t listen to her. She’s possessed.”
From a few houses away, an old woman began to shout. Village dogs barked, and a child leading a colt let go of the lead line, and the yearling pony galloped down the path between the cabins with dogs and boy in full chase.
“Murderer! Rapist!” Oona circled Gall, and then rushed at him again.
He raised the tomahawk, ready to strike.
Abruptly, a stranger broke from the trees and blocked Oona’s charge. When she tried to dodge him, he grabbed her wrist and twisted the knife from her hand. The two grappled, and Shannon attempted to go to her aid, but Gall swung the tomahawk at the back of Oona’s head.
Shannon screamed and flung the club, striking Gall in the side of the face. Blood flew from his split cheek. He lost his footing and fell full length on the ground. His tomahawk went spinning out of his hand. Gall crawled away, clutching his face. Whining, he got to his feet, and ran toward the woods.
Shannon went for his discarded tomahawk, intending to use it against Oona’s assailant, but before she could reach it, Oona stopped struggling and stared wide-eyed into the man’s face.
“Hatapi?” Her voice was hoarse, but Shannon was struck by the thick emotion.
The Indian’s face paled. “Ayee,” he said. “Amimi?”
Shannon took several steps toward them, the tomahawk gripped tightly in her hands, then stopped short when she saw an expression of sheer joy spread over Oona’s face. “Who is he?” Shannon demanded. “Do you know him?”
The man was obviously Indian, taller than she was and husky, but he wasn’t Cherokee. His skin was several shades lighter than most of the Tsalagi; his features were finer, and his black hair was cut straight across. It fell at the nape of his neck, held back from his round face by a leather thong. A single eagle feather dangled at the side of his head.
Oona cried out and threw herself into the stranger’s arms. He caught her and held her against him. Tears spilled down his pockmarked cheeks. “Nemis, nemis,” he said, over and over.
Shannon glanced back to see Gall fleeing into the trees. She lowered her weapon and cautiously approached Oona and the man. “Who are you?” she asked in Cherokee.
Oona began to weep. Her whole body trembled with the force of her crying, but she clung to the man, stroking his face and hair. “This is…this is my…my brother.” Her voice was hoarse and weak, but Shannon could understand every word. “My brother lives.”
“This is your brother?” Shannon asked.
“Yes,” Oona said. “Yes, my only brother.”
Shannon looked from one to the other. Oona was obviously upset, but she seemed perfectly sane. Something had happened to break the spell that had held her stepmother mute. Could it have been the sight of Gall? Or was it that he’d attacked her? Had his attack brought back the awful memory of what happened to her at the trading post?
“I am Strong Bow,” the man said in heavily accented Cherokee. “A scout for the English redcoats. They call me George Hatapi, but I am Strong Bow. And this is my beloved sister Amimi, who I thought was long dead.”
“You’re not Cherokee,” said Nesting Swan suspiciously. She came closer, still clutching Acorn in her cradleboard. “Are you Shawnee?”
Strong Bow grimaced and spat on the ground. “I am not Shawnee.”
“He is Delaware, as I am,” Oona managed, between sobs.
“We have not seen each other for many winters,” he added. “My sister was taken captive long ago. I searched for her, but men told me she was dead.”
Oona squeezed his hand. “I have…always believed that he was…dead too.”
“You have led the English here to this village?” Nesting Swan asked. Fear filled her eyes, and she looked around nervously.
Strong Bow hugged Oona again and then pushed her gently away. “Listen to me, sister. Take the women and go into the forest. Now. Quickly. There is danger coming.”
“What danger?” Shannon asked. Gall had run away. Other than the curious faces of her neighbors, she could see nothing to alarm her.
“The English soldiers,” Strong Bow told Shannon. “Gall and I guided them here to trade for your release.” He gave her a long appraising stare. “You do not look like a captive. You are not a captive here, are you?”
“No. I am the wife of a Cherokee. I am Cherokee,” Shannon declared proudly.
Oona’s brother scowled. “The redcoats will not understand. They will take you back.” He pointed at Nesting Swan. “And that woman with the black skin. They will never believe she is Cherokee. If the English see her, they will seize her for a runaway slave. And her child, as well.” He gestured at the brown-skinned baby in Swan’s arms.
“Acorn is mine!” Oona protested. She took the child from Nesting Swan. “No one will touch my baby.”
“Yours?”
“Her adopted child,” Shannon explained. “The
baby’s parents were killed, and your sister has taken Acorn for her own.”
“I did not give birth to her,” Oona said, “but she is mine. The Creator has given her to me in place of my own lost infant.”
Strong Bow nodded. “It is the Delaware way. A child needs a mother.”
“And a mother with empty arms needs a baby,” Shannon said. Strong Bow looked into her eyes, and she saw regret in his compassionate gaze.
“We were told you were stolen from your white husband.”
“I wasn’t. I left him.” Shannon wasn’t about to explain the circumstances here. “What is the danger you spoke of?”
“They are coming,” Strong Bow said. “There is no time for talk. Your white husband comes with the English soldiers to buy you from the Cherokee. But they have guns, and I see no men here in this village to defend you. If they find you, they will take you, whether you wish it or not.”
“He is right,” Nesting Swan agreed. “And they will sell me back into slavery. Better I die here than return to that life.”
“Our men are hunting,” Shannon said. “They’ll be back soon. And Drake Clark is not my husband. My only husband is Storm Dancer of the Tsalagi.”
Strong Bow’s thin lips parted in surprise. “I thought the great warrior Storm Dancer—the man who took you from Green Valley—was dead. Joseph, the half-breed who was with me, he told the English settlers that he killed Storm Dancer with his own hand.”
“He is a lying traitor,” Oona declared hotly. “His name is not Joseph, but Gall. Not only has Gall betrayed his people by leading whites to this place, but he murdered my husband, who was her father, and he dishonored me.”
Strong Bow’s eyes narrowed. The face which had been so open and jovial hardened to cold granite. “That man, who calls himself Joseph, he dishonored you?”
“He stabbed my husband, Truth Teller, to death,” Oona insisted. “He burned our home, raped me, and beat me so badly that I miscarried our child.”
Strong Bow turned to Shannon. “This is so? This Joseph-Gall has done this bad thing?”
“He told you that he killed Storm Dancer? His own cousin?” Nesting Swan asked. “He lies if he says Storm Dancer is dead. I saw him ride out to hunt elk with my husband, Winter Fox. He was as alive as you are.”
“Joseph-Gall bragged to all that he shot Storm Dancer with a poisoned arrow. Joseph said he watched him die and left his body for the wolves.”
Nesting Swan muttered African words and made the sign to ward off devils. “May the winds suck out his spirit and turn him to dust,” she finished in Cherokee.
Strong Bow took Oona’s hands in his. “Run now, sister. Go deep into the forest. Do not trouble yourself about the lame one anymore. I will make certain Gall harms no other woman or betrays no more of his kin.”
“Gall? It was Gall?” Shannon asked. It was hard to accept. She’d been so certain Gall was her friend. And yet, with her own eyes she’d seen him try to kill Oona. “Are you certain, Oona? You couldn’t have made a mistake? It was Gall who killed my father?”
“Yes, it was Gall,” Oona said. “I do not forget that night. Not ever.”
Then it was Gall, not a Shawnee brave, who had tried to murder Storm Dancer, Shannon thought. All along, Gall had been the cowardly weasel that Oona had always believed him to be. She was sorry she hadn’t brained him with the pestle. If she ever laid eyes on him again, she would strangle the bastard with her own hands.
“I have wandered these mountains for two years,” Strong Bow said, “but even I did not know the location of this village. It was Joseph who led the English here. I would not have come, if I had not thought that you”—he nodded to Shannon—“were being held as a slave here. Whether he calls himself Joseph or Gall, his heart is evil. He is guilty.”
Shannon nodded. “He must be. But why would he do these things? What does he have against me? Or against Storm Dancer? And why would he lead the English to his tribe’s hidden valley?”
“Evil men do not need a reason,” Strong Bow said.
Oona hugged the baby. “Do you think I am still mad, daughter? That I would mistake the man who tore my flesh, who stabbed the life from the man I loved, your own father?”
She spat on the ground to show her contempt, in much the same manner that her brother had done. “Gall thought I was dead too. He thought he had choked the life from me after he savaged my body.” She fixed her brother with a cold stare. “Kill him for me, Strong Bow, but do not make his death easy.”
“We must warn the village,” Shannon said. “Grab what food and blankets you can carry. Send one of the boys to tell the women in the gardens. They will—”
A gunshot echoed through the village, followed almost at once by the strident marching cadence beat out by an English drummer boy.
“It is too late,” the black woman cried. “They’re here!” She grabbed Oona’s butcher knife off the ground and ran for the trees.
“Go!” Shannon urged her stepmother. “Save yourself and the baby.”
“I will do what I can,” Strong Bow said. “If you are captured, do not tell them that we ever spoke.”
“Keep yourself safe, brother,” Oona said. “I would not lose you again.”
“Not if I can help it.” He picked a burning stick from the cooking fire and thrust it into the thatch on Shannon’s house. “Forgive me,” he said. “I will try to delay them long enough for you to get away.”
A hunting horn sounded, and Shannon heard the thunder of horses’ hooves on the village streets as she and the women dashed into the cover of the forest. Frightened by the jostling, Acorn began to wail. Oona could not run fast carrying the baby, and Shannon wouldn’t leave her. Nesting Swan waited long enough for them to catch up.
When they reached a thick stand of evergreens, Shannon bade Oona leave the path. The baby was still fussing as they crawled deep beneath the hanging pine boughs. Shannon hugged her stepmother hard. “I love you,” she whispered. “Remember that.”
“And I you, daughter.”
“Stay with her,” Shannon whispered to Nesting Swan. “I’ll run out. If anyone is after us, they’ll follow me.”
“Take care, daughter,” Oona warned. Breathing hard from the run, she unlaced the baby from the cradleboard and offered the child her breast. She had no milk, but with luck, the ploy would work for a few minutes until Acorn could be calmed.
Shannon wasn’t foolish enough to return to the path, but as she made her way through the thick undergrowth, she heard Acorn begin to fret again. If anyone came this way, the crying child would lead them straight to her—and to Oona and Nesting Swan. Shannon kept moving, hoping that someone had warned the women in the garden, praying that the men would return in time to help them.
Instead, she heard unmistakable shouts in English from the direction of the village, another gunshot, and another roll of the English drum. Redcoats. Gall had led redcoats to the town. Infantry. If anyone was harmed, it would mean all-out war between the Cherokee and the whites.
Hoofbeats sounded on the game trail. Shannon parted the bushes to see Badger coming full-tilt down the path, Woodpecker clinging like a burr to the pony’s neck. “Run! Run!” he shouted. “Soldiers!”
Fifty feet behind him, in hot pursuit, came a white man in buckskins on a gray horse. As Badger jumped a small stream and scrambled up the far bank, the white man reined in. Shannon could hear him cursing.
Then the baby began to cry. The man turned toward the sound and shouted. “Drake! Here! There’s some of them hidin’ in there.”
Dread settled over Shannon. Drake was here.
Taking a deep breath, she did the only thing she could. She called out and stood up. “Drake,” she yelled. “It’s me. I’m here.” Fighting back tears, she pushed her way through the trees into the clearing.
The first man she had seen kicked his mount. The animal leaped forward, and when they came abreast of where she stood, Ben Taylor dismounted and grabbed her by the arm. “I got her, Drake!
” he shouted. “I got her!”
Shannon paid him no mind. Instead, she stared at the man she once thought would be her husband. That it was Drake Clark, there was no doubt. But he wasn’t the same as the Drake who’d left her alone in the cabin to fort up with his family. Not the same at all. This Drake’s hair had white streaks in it. He’d lost two stone of weight, and a puckered scar ran from his temple diagonally across the bridge of his nose and down his cheek. A patch covered one eye, and from the ridged skin on either side of the cloth, Shannon doubted that there was any eye left at all. A second scar twisted the left side of his mouth and continued down his chin to vanish in his graying beard.
Drake swung down from his horse and limped toward her, looking frail and far older than his father. “Shannon.”
She nodded. “It’s me.”
He stopped, looking her up and down, taking in her moccasins, her short fringed skirt, and the laced vest that barely covered her breasts. “For God’s sake, woman,” he said, “you’re half naked.” He went back to his horse and pulled a coat from the roll behind his saddle. “Put this on.” Drake’s scarred mouth made his words come out twisted and harsh.
“I’m not naked,” she protested, but he threw the coat over her shoulders.
Ben Taylor stared, and then licked his lower lip.
“Stop lookin’ at her,” Drake ordered. “Have the decency to turn your head until she’s covered.”
“There’s no need—” she began.
“No, don’t say nothin’,” Drake said. “It wasn’t your fault, what happened to ya. Folks will understand.”
He leaned close, and Shannon shrank back. Drake’s breath was no sweeter than it had been when she’d seen him last. He smelled of salt pork, sour sweat, and cheap whiskey.
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