Sundancer's Woman

by Judith E. French

  Hunt sighed. Elizabeth would have a time teaching this lad to be a white man. It might be as hopeless as his foster father Campbell’s efforts were with him. Indian ways had a habit of sticking with a boy.

  “I like dogs,” Jamie said grudgingly.

  “Me too,” Hunt replied, “especially this one.”

  Jamie nodded and something like a smile played over his lips as he patted Badger’s broad head.

  The boy has good blood in him, Hunt mused, both Seneca and white. But in his experience boys were a lot like dogs. Love and patience went farther in training them than harsh treatment. How Jamie was treated while he was growing up would make a huge difference in the kind of man he became. Hunt felt a deep pang of regret that he wouldn’t be around to help Elizabeth bring him up right.

  “Nice doggy,” Rachel said, coming over and putting out her hand.

  Elizabeth glanced at Hunt. “He won’t hurt her, will he?”

  Hunt shook his head, caught the little girl around the waist, and set her on the animal’s back. She squealed with laughter and grabbed hold of his long fur with both hands. Badger looked embarrassed but clearly pleased with all the attention. “He likes kids,” Hunt said.

  “Unlike his master,” Elizabeth commented.

  “I like kids well enough,” he said. “Other people’s kids.” The old familiar phrase was out before he realized what he was saying. He knew it wasn’t true, and he wanted to take it back, but making an issue of the words would be awkward. Instead, he smiled at Rachel and lifted her high over his head.

  Elizabeth had dressed the child warmly for the march. She wore a fringed dress in place of Jamie’s hunting shirt, and leggings of brown doeskin. Rachel’s vest was of otter skin with the fur side in; over that she had a warm cloak with a hood, and on her feet, dainty embroidered moccasins. Her dark hair was neatly braided into two plaits and held back off her face with a beaded headband. Silver rings dangled from the child’s ears.

  “There you go, back to your mother,” he said, putting her in Elizabeth’s arms. Rachel’s skin was the shade of warm honey, only slightly darker than Elizabeth’s fair complexion. No one observing the two could doubt that they were mother and daughter. Rachel was an adorable child; when she grew up, she’d be a real beauty. Hunt felt a pang of reluctance that he wouldn’t be there to see her.

  Elizabeth hugged Rachel against her breast. “Can you see why I couldn’t leave her?” she asked softly.

  He nodded. “I only hope you can make your family see it the same way.” He glanced toward Jamie. “He won’t make it easy on you.”

  “No.”

  He covered her hand with his. “I wish it could be different between us,” he said. “I wish I could give you the life and the home you deserve.”

  “I’ll care for my own children,” Elizabeth replied tersely. “I only asked that you help me rescue them, nothing more.”

  “I’m not a man for settlements and English laws,” he said quietly. “I’ve lived the free life too long to fit in harness.”

  Her green eyes snapped. “Have I asked you for—”

  “No, you haven’t.” Damn, but she was making this difficult for him. She tugged at his heart like no woman had ever done ... but the mountain winds and open places of the western high country called to his soul with a haunting refrain. “You’ll find someone right for you,” he added lamely. “Someone who—”

  “My personal affairs are my own. Don’t worry yourself on our account,” she replied in a tone that could have sliced granite.

  Talon chuckled, and Hunt clenched his teeth and quickened his pace to move in front of her. Damn the woman; she’d give him the belly gripes with all this prickly behavior. Not worry over her ... how could he not? He swore under his breath. Maybe Counts His Scalps had the right idea. Females were nothing but trouble, and a man would do well to live without them.

  They walked for another two hours before reaching the banks of a river. They followed it south until dusk, then Fox made a lucky discovery.

  “Here,” he called, pushing away evergreens to reveal a birchbark canoe and paddles hidden beneath an ancient hemlock.

  Counts His Scalps found a second boat a few yards away. After a brief conversation with Fire Talon, the shaman and another man pushed the canoe into the water. Jamie slid down the bank and scrambled into the prow of the canoe.

  “Wait. He should be with me,” Elizabeth called.

  “I will watch him,” Fox said.

  Hunt helped Elizabeth and Rachel into the boat with Fire Talon and two other Shawnee braves. Badger followed Hunt, climbing into the canoe and padding to a spot near the center and lying down.

  The canoes were large, meant for three or more paddlers. Hunt, Fire Talon, and Feathered Lance—a stocky young man with a copper nose ring—each took a paddle. Black Hoof took a place near the bow and checked the priming on his rifle.

  “Isn’t it dangerous, traveling by river in Iroquois country?” Elizabeth whispered to Hunt as they moved out into the current.

  “Night is falling. We’ll make much better time this way,” he replied, glancing at the other canoe. Her son was wrapped in a blanket; he looked small and alone amid the shaman and the other warriors. “Jamie can swim, can’t he?”

  “His Seneca name is Otter because he swims so well,” she said.

  “Good.” Hunt didn’t say aloud what he guessed they both realized well enough. Even a boy who could swim like his namesake would be in deep trouble if he fell into the river tonight. The air was cold and the dark water swift and frigid. Thin sheets of ice formed along the banks and broke away to bob alongside the boats.

  “We should have kept him with us,” she murmured.

  Hunt thought so too, but he hadn’t wanted to alienate Counts His Scalps or Fox by demanding that the boy be moved. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust them; he didn’t trust Jamie. He knew how reckless he himself had been as a child.

  He sighed, recalling an incident with a crippled buffalo cow. He’d been nearly fifteen, too old to be considered a boy, too young to be counted a man. Another youth had bet him that he couldn’t vault over the cow’s back. He had... and nearly been gored to death doing it.

  He drove the paddle down, matching his rhythm to that of Talon and Feathered Lance. The canoe shot forward, edging ahead of the other boat. He could barely see the shore in the gathering twilight. Soon, they would be free from the worry of being spotted by hostile Iroquois.

  After they had paddled about five miles, Talon asked Elizabeth to open the food packs and pass out dried meat. They ate the trail rations without pausing, scooping up water to quench their thirst.

  The river widened. It was so dark that the shaman’s canoe could no longer be seen. Hunt heard the sound the boat made as it cut the water and the faint splash of lifting and falling paddles. Elizabeth’s shoulders slumped as her breathing grew heavier. Slowly, she relaxed and her head sunk over the child’s.

  The eerie cry of a loon echoed across the water. Hunt let his thoughts drift. He wished he and Elizabeth were back in the crazy priest’s cabin, or better yet, that they were sharing a tepee on the far side of the great plains. In his mind’s eye he pictured Elizabeth stripping off her clothing and coming naked and proud to his buffalo robe.

  He imagined himself pulling her into his arms and tasting her warm, rosy mouth and firm breasts. Tremors of excitement hummed through his veins as he thought of filling her with his love and hearing her abandoned cries of pleasure. Then the flicker of a campfire on the side of a hill a few hundred yards from the nearest bank yanked him back to reality.

  And when he heard the splash, he knew the boy had seen the fire as well and jumped over the side of the canoe.

  Chapter 20

  Fox’s low cry of alarm rolled across the water through the thick layers of fog. Badger’s head snapped up, and he whined anxiously.

  “Get him!” Hunt commanded. “Get Jamie.”

  Badger lunged over the side of the canoe. The big d
og’s weight and the ensuing splash sent a wave of water into the boat; only the quick reflexes and skill of Talon and Feathered Lance kept the birchbark boat from tipping over. Hunt tossed his paddle to Black Hoof, yanked off his powder horn and hunting bag, then ripped off his shirt and moccasins. He hit the icy water seconds after Badger.

  Surfacing, Hunt swam toward shore. It was too dark to see more than a few yards ahead of him.

  “There!” Counts shouted, pointing.

  Elizabeth’s voice cracked with emotion. “Jamie!”

  Hunt’s limbs grew numb, and his body seemed weighed down by the cold. Each thought was an effort as he forced himself to take stroke after stroke. Raising his head out of the water, he tried to catch sight of the boy, but all he could see was the gray curtain of mist that hung low over the river. The sounds of Badger’s excited barking were as distorted by the fog as Hunt’s own reasoning.

  “Downstream!” Elizabeth shouted.

  Canoe paddles splashed to his left. “Watch out for that rock!” Fox cried. The spectral shape of the nearest canoe slowed, then angled left and shot toward the center of the river.

  Hunt’s knee struck something solid. A granite outcrop rose out of the depths directly in front of him. Pushing off with his feet, he called out to the boy in Seneca. “Where are you?”

  “Here!” Jamie’s frightened voice drifted to him. “Help me! I can’t—” The child’s words were cut off abruptly.

  “Badger!” Hunt yelled. “Get him!” Hunt bumped into another rock, scraping his left shoulder. Shaking with cold, he pulled himself up on the unyielding stone knob. “Jamie! I can’t see you.”

  Farther out in the river, Shawnee voices called to the boy. Hunt wiped the water away from his eyes. Why hadn’t they picked the boy up? he wondered. The canoes could move much faster than he could swim. Then the reality of the granite slab beneath him sunk in. The rocks. The Shawnee couldn’t come closer for fear of ripping the birchbark canoes apart on the rocks.

  Suddenly, the flare of a torch from shore about thirty yards away caught his attention. “Who are you?” cried a voice in Iroquoian.

  “Friends,” Hunt answered in the same tongue.

  “Identify yourself!” a harsher speaker demanded.

  Hunt supplied the first name that popped into his near-frozen brain. “Yellow Drum of the Seneca!”

  “Who calls?”

  “I told you! I am Yellow Drum of the Seneca!” The immediate roar of a musket told him that he’d given. the wrong answer. A lead ball whined over his head as he plunged back into the river.

  Instantly, the forest behind him thundered with a volley of explosions. The Shawnee returned gunfire. A hammer blow struck Hunt’s right thigh, and he went under. He tumbled over and over; his hand touched a stone-strewn bottom. His lungs burned, and he was seized by a nearly overwhelming fatigue. Fighting the desire to lie still and rest, Hunt struggled upward toward the surface of the river and the shower of lead striking around him like deadly hailstones.

  Pain lanced through his right upper arm. When he clamped his other hand over the spot, he felt warmth. I’ve been hit, he thought. Badger’s yip pierced Hunt’s stupor. He gulped air, then dove under and swam toward the animal’s cry of distress.

  This time when Hunt came up, his hand brushed a kicking hind leg. Clinging to the dog’s ruff were two small hands. Badger was clearly tiring; his mouth was barely above water.

  “Help me,” Jamie gasped weakly.

  Hunt reached out for him. “Give me your hand.”

  The boy let go of the dog and slipped under. Hunt tried to dive after him, but the dog grabbed a mouthful of Hunt’s hair and hung on.

  “No!” Hunt cried. He slammed the flat of his hand against Badger’s nose, and the animal let go. Another musket ball buzzed in Hunt’s ear. Badger yelped. Hunt knew the dog was hurt, but he couldn’t wait to see how badly. He let himself sink, reaching out with both hands for the boy.

  He swam in total darkness, eyes open, straining to see some small shadow. His fingers touched something living and his heart leaped, but when his fingers tangled in the long fur, he knew that it was the dog and not the boy. Still, he wasted precious breath, shoving the weight upward.

  He broke water, saw Badger floundering a few yards away, and sucked in another mouthful of air to try for Jamie again.

  “Hunter!” cried a familiar voice. A canoe sliced through the fog, and Talon leaned forward, offering a paddle. Black Hoof raised his long rifle and fired toward shore. “Come!” Talon shouted. “Take the paddle!”

  Hunt’s gaze raked the canoe. Where was Elizabeth? Feathered Lance stood and took careful aim. Fire and shot spewed from the Shawnee’s musket. Where was Elizabeth?

  “They’re coming after us in canoes!” Black Hoof warned.

  Elizabeth’s head appeared above the rim of the boat. “Where’s Jamie?” she cried. “That’s Yellow Drum! Get Jamie!”

  “Get down!” Talon ordered as he shoved her back to the bottom of the canoe.

  Cold and exhaustion drained Hunt’s strength. His right leg was nearly useless. He didn’t know how long he could survive in the water, but he couldn’t face Elizabeth without her son. He dove again, fighting the river—praying to find the child.

  Again, he had to admit defeat. When he surfaced, Badger was there, whining and pawing at his head. He tried to shake off the dog, but when he threw out his hand, it came in contact with bare skin. “Jamie?” He blinked, unable to believe his eyes. “Jamie?” he cried again. Badger whined, but didn’t ease his grip on the child’s arm. “Here!” Hunt shouted. “I have him!” He threw an arm around Jamie’s waist and pushed his head out of the water.

  Seconds later, Talon lifted the unconscious boy from his hands. Feathered Lance got off a quick shot at the Seneca canoe that was quickly overtaking them.

  Another bullet passed over Hunt’s head. “Go!” he urged them. “Go!”

  Talon dropped Jamie into the boat, picked up his paddle, and thrust deep into the water. Hunt let his body sink under the canoe and drift with the current.

  It was all right, Hunt decided. He’d found the boy. He could rest ... just a little while. The cold wasn’t bad anymore ... he could hardly feel it ... he could hardly feel anything.

  ... Until Badger’s sharp teeth sank into the flesh of Hunt’s injured leg, and long claws dug at his belly and back. Instinct bade him fight back. Blood pounded in his head as he forced his way up to seize the rim of a sinking canoe. Around him, men jumped into the dark water. Shouting. Shouting not in Shawnee, but Seneca.

  “Die!” a warrior shouted.

  Something struck Hunt’s head. He lost his grip on the wet birchbark just before the boat flipped over. The heavy barrel of a musket glanced off his shoulder as it sank to the bottom of the river. Frantically, Hunt scrabbled for a fingerhold and found a single cedar paddle. Then the night, the fog, and his wounds blended to a single throbbing ache and finally to an all-encompassing nothingness.

  Elizabeth held her children tightly against her as Fire Talon, Black Hoof, and Feathered Lance continued to follow the first canoe downriver. Jamie was trembling uncontrollably, but he’d stopped choking and spitting up water, and his strong breathing told her he’d not die tonight.

  They had to get him to shore and build a fire to make him warm, but there was no chance of that so long as the Seneca still posed a danger. She’d stripped off Jamie’s wet clothes and wrapped him in her cloak, but the river’s cold had done its work. Only fire could heat his body enough to keep him from taking a fever or the lung sickness.

  The shock of hearing Yellow Drum’s voice had shaken her to the core. There had been no way her son could have known that it was his father’s fire he’d seen when he’d jumped over the side of the canoe. If Jamie had made the swim to shore, Yellow Drum would have him now, and no power on earth could have gotten him back again.

  She would not ... could not think of Hunt Campbell. It was impossible to imagine him dead ... inconceivable t
hat he could survive the river and the wrath of Yellow Drum and his fellow Seneca.

  Hunt had risked his life for Jamie, hadn’t he? No God could be so cruel as to take the only man she’d ever loved in exchange for her son.

  Yet, she reasoned, the Iroquois had halted their pursuit. “Why aren’t they chasing us?” she asked Talon.

  “Black Drum’s shot put a hole in one of the canoes. They started to sink. The others stopped to help.”

  “Will they follow us?” she asked.

  “They will follow.”

  “We must go back for Hunt.” The words were out before she’d considered what she was saying. A lump rose in her throat. If they returned, Yellow Drum would have her children and she would be a slave again—if he let her live. “We ...” She tried to keep her voice from cracking. “We can’t leave him.”

  . “Hunter of the Far Mountains is dead,” Fire Talon said gently.

  “No,” she argued fiercely. “I won’t believe that.” She shook her head. “He was in the river a long time before he found Jamie. If he didn’t drown then ...” She could say no more.

  Talon made a sound of compassion. “Hunter of the Far Mountains was a brave warrior. If Inu-msi-ila-fe-wanu, the Great Spirit who is a grandmother, is merciful, she has let the water take him rather than let him become a prisoner of the Seneca.”

  “Would they stop chasing us if they had a prisoner?”

  He shrugged. “Who can tell what the Iroquois may do? They are as illogical as the white men.”

  “Then he could be alive,” she persisted. “Alive and being tortured. How can you abandon him and call yourselves men?”

  “Women are as cruel as green-head flies,” Talon said. “They take pleasure in tormenting a man in his tender parts.”

  “You said I was not a woman,” she reminded him.

  “That is true. This man said you were the warrior Scarlet Dawn, and you must be. If you were not, you would not be a part of this raiding party. But you still think as a woman,” he observed wryly.