Sundancer's Woman

by Judith E. French

  “That your son will not despise you,” Hunt replied. “If a man cannot teach his son to honor him, can he call himself a man?”

  “And if you kill me?” Yellow Drum asked.

  Hunt’s gaze met the Seneca’s. “We all go free.”

  “Are we to believe more of this liar’s tales?” John Black Hat shouted. “Who speaks for Yellow Drum?”

  “I will!” called a young Seneca brave. “Green Corn gives his word.”

  “Rattlesnake!” shouted an Iroquois in an azure hunting coat.

  A grizzled Seneca raised his musket skyward. “Two Bulls.”

  “Prove your courage,” Hunt said to Yellow Drum. “Prove it or deny your manhood.”

  Yellow Drum threw his rifle onto the ground. “Come!” he shouted angrily. “Kill me if you can, half-breed!”

  “No!” Elizabeth cried. “Don’t do it, Hunt. I’m not worth it.”

  Hunt shook his head. “You’re worth it.” He tossed his gun to her and she caught it. “Hold that for me,” he said lightly. “It belongs to the boy if Yellow Drum lifts my hair.”

  Jamie kicked his father in the ankle. “No!” he protested. Tears streamed down his face.

  “Woman, control this child,” Yellow Drum ordered.

  “Jamie,” she called to him. Her hands were damp with perspiration. The barrel of Hunt’s gun felt icy and she shivered. How could her hands be sweating, when she was so cold?

  Jamie came to her, and she held both children against her as the Seneca formed a circle around Hunt and Yellow Drum. Most of the warriors she knew and more than one other looked away rather than meet her accusing eyes.

  “Let my friends go now,” Hunt said. “They have no part of this fight.”

  Yellow Drum nodded. “Let them pass,” he ordered his men.

  John looked from his son to Cedar Bark. The young Shawnee brave knelt by his friend Red Shirt and attempted to stop the bleeding of his wounds. Cedar Bark said something that Elizabeth couldn’t understand. “We stay,” John declared. “If we move Red Shirt, he will die.”

  “No man will fault you if you save your own skin,” Hunt replied as he stripped away his shirt and belt.

  John shrugged, and Elizabeth saw the pride gleaming in the Delaware’s seamed face. “If I take the coward’s way, my son will know,” he said. “Fight well, Hunter.”

  Elizabeth stood absolutely still. She knew that she should go to Red Shirt and try to help tend his injuries, but she couldn’t tear her gaze from Hunt. I love you, Sundancer, she wanted to tell him, but she didn’t. She’d been long enough with the Seneca to know a woman’s role. She’d not weep or shame him by begging for his life. She’d not reveal his secret name. No matter how much it hurt her, she’d hold herself erect and keep her face from showing what she felt for him.

  Hunt flashed her a grin, then drew his knife.

  “Knives and clubs,” Yellow Drum said. He motioned to a Seneca warrior, and the man threw Hunt his stone-headed war club. Yellow Drum’s eyes narrowed. “To the death.”

  Hunt dropped into a crouch. “To the death.”

  Chapter 26

  Elizabeth barely stifled a scream as Yellow Drum swung his war club at Hunt. Hunt sidestepped the blow and circled, looking for a weakness in the Seneca’s defense. Rachel struggled to see what was happening, but Elizabeth kept the child’s face turned away. If there would be blood spilled—either Hunt’s or Rachel’s fathe’s—there was no need for her to witness it. When Elizabeth glanced down at her son, she saw that Jamie’s features were taut. No matter how much she wanted to, she couldn’t prevent him from witnessing this dreadful contest. He might be half Iroquois, but he was still only six, and her heart wept for him.

  Yellow Drum charged Hunt, feinted with his club, and slashed up with his knife. Hunt blocked the blade with the shaft of his club, twisting away to avoid a powerful backstroke.

  Elizabeth’s lips moved in silent prayer. Please God, don’t let Hunt die. How could anyone meet death on such a bright afternoon? Rays of afternoon sun filtered through the green canopy to frost the glen with sparkling diamonds of iridescent light; the air was sweet with the scents of spring grass and budding wildflowers. But the birds had fled before the warriors’ cries, and the scents of moss and wild strawberries were nearly hidden by the musty smell of bloodlust.

  Yellow Drum’s face contorted in rage as he lunged again and again. His muscled chest and back streamed sweat; his knuckles gleamed white as they gripped his scalping knife in his left hand and his stone club in his right. In contrast, Hunt seemed calm, almost as though this was a game of skill that he was impervious to winning. Yellow Drum attacked; he reacted.

  “Coward!” screamed a Seneca brave at Hunt when he dodged another blow and moved almost lazily to one side. “Fight, half-breed. Fight!”

  “Use your knife!” another shrieked. “Gut him, brother!”

  Abruptly, Hunt dropped his war club and tossed his knife to his right hand. Yellow Drum uttered a triumphant war cry and smashed down with his heavy club. This time, instead of dancing away, Hunt waited until the Seneca’s massive weapon sliced through the air before springing into action. He twisted his body to avoid being struck, seized the wooden shaft in a powerful grip, and wrenched the club and Yellow Drum’s arm backward. At the same instant, he thrust a foot behind Yellow Drum’s ankle, deflected the Seneca’s knife slash with his own blade, and threw weight against Yellow Drum’s chest.

  Yellow Drum fell heavily to the ground with his right arm pinned under him; Hunt moved with a speed that Elizabeth hadn’t thought possible for a man. He threw his knife back to his left hand, and his knee struck Yellow Drum in the loins as he came down on top. Elizabeth heard the crack of bone, and Yellow Drum’s face paled to the color of tallow. Before she could draw a breath, Hunt captured Yellow Drum’s knife hand, and pressed the steel of his own scalping knife against the Seneca’s throat.

  “No!” Jamie screamed. “Don’t kill him! Don’t kill my father!”

  “Do it!” Yellow Drum spat.

  Silence gripped the watching warriors. There was no sound in the clearing but the rasp of the combatants’ breathing.

  “Who does a child belong to? Mother or father?” Hunt demanded.

  “My children belong to Raven,” Yellow Drum gasped. “Kill me now, or I will hunt you for the rest of your life.”

  “Think, Yellow Drum. Do children belong to the mother or father?” Hunt repeated.

  “To the mother.”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth cried. “They are mine, Yellow Drum. They were never yours. They belong to me by Iroquois law.”

  “A slave has no rights,” he countered stubbornly.

  Hunt held the blade so tightly against Yellow Drum’s flesh that a thin red line appeared along his tattooed skin.

  “I am English, born free, and free as I stand here.” Elizabeth picked up her daughter and walked closer to Yellow Drum and Hunt. Jamie kept pace with her steps. He looked as though he wanted to cry, but his frightened brown eyes were dry. “They are my children, not yours—and never Raven’s.”

  “What say you, Seneca men?” Hunt asked Yellow Drum’s followers. “What is the Iroquois law? Who does a child belong to—mother or father?”

  “I will let my son choose,” Yellow Drum relented.

  “If they pick Elizabeth?” Hunt asked.

  A muscle twitched along Yellow Drum’s clenched jaw. “Then it is over between us,” he said harshly.

  Hunt inclined his head. “So be it,” he said, and withdrew the knife. Yellow Drum stood up and cradled his broken arm; already the elbow was swelling.

  “What shall it be?” the Seneca demanded of his son. “You are Iroquois. Do you return to our people, or will you remain with your pale-skinned mother?”

  “I want my mother,” Rachel declared. “I love her.” She clung tightly to Elizabeth’s neck. “I don’t like that old Raven. She’s nasty.”

  Hunt looked at Jamie. “Son? It’s your decision.”

&n
bsp; Elizabeth put out her hand to him, but Hunt shook his head. “Jamie,” she whispered.

  Jamie took a step toward his father.

  “He is Seneca,” Yellow Drum said.

  Elizabeth moaned softly as Jamie threw his arms around his father’s waist and hugged him. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she turned away, too devastated for words. I’ve lost him, she thought. I’ve lost my Jamie.

  “Good-bye, Father,” the boy said in formal Iroquoian. “My heart has pride for you, but my mother needs me. I belong with her.”

  Elizabeth clamped a hand over her mouth and twisted around to make certain that her ears weren’t lying to her. Yellow Drum’s face looked like a slab of white granite. He laid a hand on the boy’s head, and for the space of a heartbeat, his stone countenance cracked and Elizabeth saw raw pain etched on Yellow Drum’s face.

  “I-ye-a-ha,” he said. My son. Then he spun on his heel and walked away without a backward glance at either of his children. The Seneca warriors followed him, treading soundlessly on the thick moss.

  “Wait,” Hunt called after them.

  Elizabeth’s eyes widened in surprise. What was Hunt thinking of? “Let them go,” she began. “I—”

  “You made a bargain with the Shawnee,” Hunt reminded the Iroquois. “Yellow Drum sold his children for rifles, then he broke the bargain.”

  “Hunt, don’t,” Elizabeth whispered.

  “You owe us some rifles,” Hunt said. “Two dozen guns, forty beaver pelts, and ten strings of wampum.”

  “Your arrogance will see you in an early grave,” Yellow Drum warned. “Have you not taken enough from me?”

  “And then there’s the matter of Red Shirt,” Hunt replied, indicating the wounded Shawnee. “A blood-price must be paid for him, unless you want to risk a war of dishonor.”

  “Are you a fool or the bravest man I’ve ever faced?” Yellow Drum demanded.

  Hunt shrugged. “The rifles are a debt of honor.”

  Yellow Drum murmured something to his men. Two threw down their weapons, then another. As Elizabeth stared dumbfounded, the Seneca continued to discard their flintlocks until seventeen lay on the leaves.

  “Good,” Hunt said. “And the rest of what you owe?”

  “Pray to whatever Gods you worship that we never meet again,” Yellow Drum said. “The only thing else you’ll get of me will be the blade of my tomahawk.”

  “I count on you sending the rest of the goods to the Shawnee beyond the Great English Lake,” Hunt answered. “If you do not, the Huron will learn of your perfidy, and soon, the Iroquois Confederacy will laugh behind your backs.”

  Yellow Drum raised his left fist and cursed him. “May O-nish-uh-lo-nuh, the evil one, devour your soul.”

  “I’ll keep a watch out for him,” Hunt replied, “but if he tries to eat it whole, he might bite off more than he can swallow.”

  “Mother?” Jamie looked up at Elizabeth and held out his hand. “Did I choose right?”

  “Yes, darling,” she said, “you chose right. I do need you more than your father does.” His small fingers tightened on hers as they watched the Seneca war party until they vanished through the trees.

  “He didn’t want me,” Jamie said.

  Elizabeth set Rachel’s feet on the ground, and dropped to her knees. “No, darlings, you must never think that.” She looked into her son’s eyes. “Yellow Drum does want you. He wants you terribly.”

  “He didn’t take me with him.”

  “He left you out of love. I know your father; I’ve lived with him for longer than you’ve been alive. Leaving you behind is the most difficult thing he’s ever done in his life. He loves you deeply, Jamie. Never believe he left you for any reason other than love.”

  Jamie scowled. “He sold me for rifles.”

  “Yes, he did, but he couldn’t live with that. He came after you both.” Elizabeth touched his cheek. “Your father is a brave man and an honorable one. But he is human. You have to forgive him his mistakes and remember his love. Can you do that?”

  “No,” Rachel said.

  Jamie nodded. “I think so,” he said softly.

  “There’s no time for talking, woman,” Hunt called. “Get over here and see if you can do anything for this man.”

  “I’m coming,” Elizabeth answered. “Tend to your sister,” she ordered Jamie.

  Elizabeth didn’t want to be calm, and she didn’t want to attend to Red Shirt. She wanted to run weeping to Hunt, to let him hold her safe and close. She was tired of having to be strong when she wanted someone to take care of her—to protect her.

  With a sigh, she straightened her back. This was not the time to weaken; a good man’s life might be at stake. “Let me see his wounds,” she said as she went to Red Shirt’s side. “Did the bullet pass through him?” And then she stopped thinking of Hunt and gave her full attention to the injured Shawnee warrior.

  For two weeks they camped near the site of the Seneca ambush while Red Shirt hovered between life and death. Hunt bathed his wounds daily, and Elizabeth used the leaves and ground roots of the red blossomed painted trillium both as a poultice and as a tea to stop the loss of blood and prevent infection. While the patient was too weak to eat, she prepared a hearty broth of wild turkey, cattail root, and wild onion, and added bark of arrowroot to strengthen his heart.

  Hunt carved a wooden spoon for her, and she used that to dribble soup, medicine, and water between Red Shirt’s lips. She washed his injuries several times a day with a tea made from the bark of choke-berry and packed the holes with spiderwebs as the Iroquois women had taught her.

  Red Shirt lived, and when he recovered enough to be carried on a litter, the two Delawares and Cedar Bark started back toward the Shawnee hunting grounds with him.

  Hunt had scouted the area and found a shallow cave. There, he hid the rifles until Cedar Bark could guide a Shawnee party back to fetch them. “It doesn’t pay off my whole debt,” he grumbled to Elizabeth, “but it’s a start.”

  “The debt is mine,” she reminded him. “My father will pay whatever is needed.”

  “You’re my responsibility,” Hunt argued. “Whatever is owed the Shawnee, it’s up to me to take care of it.”

  “Do you forget that you just told Yellow Drum that I am a free woman?”

  “I’m not sure about that. So far, you’ve cost me dearly,” he said wryly.

  “That may be true,” she agreed, “but I’m still the best thing that ever happened to you.”

  “That sounds like a woman.”

  But the answering gleam in his eye told her that her words had struck home. Hunt Campbell might not be ready to admit it, but he loved her—she knew it in her heart. The problem was how to keep him from slipping away once they reached Charles Town, and ruining both their lives by trying to follow his own peculiar code of honor. It was a subject she needed to give much thought.

  The weather grew warmer with each mile they walked to the southeast, and soon the children began to shed their outer garments and pick handfuls of wild strawberries. Elizabeth was pleased to see Jamie acting more like a six-year-old again. For the first week after the Seneca ambush and Yellow Drum’s fight with Hunt, Jamie had hardly spoken a word and hadn’t laughed at all. But as time passed, he seemed to put the incident with his father behind him. His normal high spirits returned, and he began to tease his sister and shadow Hunt’s every step.

  Another fifteen days of walking brought them to the fringes of white settlement. They saw the smoke of lonely cabins, heard an occasional cow bellow, and once, Hunt pointed out a horse’s hoofprints to Jamie.

  “How do you know the rider’s not Indian?” the boy asked.

  “The animal is shod.” Hunt bent to touch the damp ground. “See the mark of the iron nails? Most Indians ride horses without shoes.”

  But Jamie’s curiosity wouldn’t be satisfied so easily. “How do you know the Indian didn’t steal a shod horse from a white man?”

  “Hunt knows what he’s telling y
ou,” Elizabeth said. “You should—”

  “Let the boy ask,” Hunt told her gently. His slow grin told them he was genuinely pleased with the question, “A man must use his own head, not just accept another man’s judgment.”

  Placing a hand on her son’s shoulder, he explained the differences in the depth of the hoofprints at the spot when the horse had rounded a bend in the trail. “A white man tends to lean back in the saddle, so.” He arched his back to illustrate the lesson. “The Cheyenne of the plains are the best riders in the world. They taught me to move with the pony, to become part of the animal so that you don’t tire him unnecessarily.”

  “Will you teach me to ride like that?” Jamie asked, his brown eyes wide with admiration.

  “I don’t imagine I’ll have the time, boy, but your mama will see that you have a good instructor. Just remember, once you throw your leg over a pony, you can’t be separate from him. You’ve got to think like he thinks, anticipate his actions, not lay back like a farmer on the seat of a hay wagon.”

  “I’ll remember,” Jamie promised.

  “You’ll each have your own pony,” Elizabeth said. “I promise.”

  “I don’t want a pony,” Rachel complained. “I want a cow. Will you teach me to ride a cow, No-tha?”

  Elizabeth stiffened. Had Hunt noticed that the child had used the Shawnee word for my father in addressing him?

  “He’s not our father,” Jamie corrected. “He’s Hunter of the Far Mountains. Our father is Yellow Drum.”

  “I like this father,” Rachel retorted, throwing her arms around Hunt’s leg and clinging tightly.

  Jamie’s face darkened like a thundercloud. “He’s not our father!”

  “Is too!” Rachel shouted. “Mine!”

  “Stop it, both of you,” Hunt chided.

  “You’re not,” Jamie insisted. “Yellow Drum is—”

  “He is your father, and you must respect him.” Hunt glanced at Elizabeth in a silent plea for help.

  She smiled smugly, abandoning him to his own resources.

  Hunt sighed, pried Rachel off his knee, and set her beside her scowling brother. “You must be patient with your sister, Jamie,” he said. “She is younger than you.”