At Crab Woman’s curt order, Sarita rose and tried to still her trembling frame. She gave one last nervous touch to the neckline of her cloak, unconsciously twisting a lock of her shining seal-brown hair, then finally took a deep, shuddering breath. She gathered her courage and followed Crab Woman over to where the revelers were eating and talking loudly.
All conversation suddenly ceased as, head held high, Sarita entered the room, followed by her ladies. She briefly scanned the room, then went quietly to her place and sat down gracefully, head still high. Her women positioned themselves around her, grouped like a bouquet of summer flowers. After a moment, conversation resumed and Sarita felt herself relax now that she was no longer the center of everyone’s attention.
Amidst the background buzz of talking, Sarita surreptitiously looked about, trying to guess which man was her husband-to-be. Suddenly from across the room she was confronted by the darkest, most piercing, jet black eyes she had ever beheld. Set in an arrogant face, the eyes held hers imprisoned for a timeless moment until she finally forced herself to look away. Shaken inside, she tried to calm her suddenly rushing emotions. Lifting a cup of water to her lips, she sipped slowly and finally set it down again as she felt her heartbeat returning to normal.
Who was this man whose captivating gaze had slashed across her vision? He was dressed magnificently, like—like a groom should be. Surely he wasn’t Fighting Wolf! He didn’t look anything like the man Crab Woman had described. This man was young, handsome, and she was certain he had all his teeth. Yes. There, the flash of his smile for the space of a heartbeat. He had a full set of gleaming white teeth.
Turning her head as if to whisper to Spring Fern, Sarita glanced quickly out the corner of her eye to see what he was doing. She caught her breath as she realized his eyes were still on her. Mind awhirl, she tried to concentrate on the conversation around her, but all she could think of was the man whose dark gaze held her captive.
Fighting Wolf had been quietly fuming, dwelling on thoughts of revenge, when he noticed Thunder Maker’s signal to his wife. With unconcealed interest, Fighting Wolf watched her disappear behind a screen, only to reenter moments later followed by a retinue of women led by the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Dressed in a blue trade blanket cloak that only partially covered her cream-colored wedding costume, she outshone any woman he had seen in a long, long time.
Unable to take his eyes off her, he followed her progress to her seating place and still he could not pull his eyes away. Long gleaming hair spread over her shoulders and hung down to her waist. The large expressive eyes, set in a flawless face, caught and held his for a moment before she looked haughtily away. Her dignified posture, her calm control, all served to overwhelm him with her presence. No one else in the room existed for him. Trying to cover his shock with a look of unconcern, he still could not tear his eyes away from the beautiful woman.
Who is she? She had the noble bearing of a chief’s daughter. Could this lovely woman be his bride-to-be, Sarita? For a brief moment, intense regret flooded him. Then he recovered. It doesn’t matter who she is…she’ll soon be mine!
Fighting Wolf at last managed to drag his eyes away from the tempting vision of the woman. He surveyed the room, watching his men. Dressed in their bulky robes, some sat and talked convivially with their hosts, others argued loudly. Nearby hovered several serving women and slaves who waited on the guests. The women laughed and giggled in their higher-pitched voices.
The meal was over with; many of the men were lying around, relaxing. His own men, noted Fighting Wolf, looked more alert and responsive than the indolently sprawling, satiated Hesquiats.
Fighting Wolf shifted impatiently in the heavy elk armor he wore under his robe. The armor, three hides thick, was the prerogative of a war chief and Fighting Wolf had decided to wear his tonight, despite the discomfort.
It is time. Giving a quick nod to Otterskin on his right and Comes-from-Salish on his left, he tensed his muscles and sprang up.
Simultaneously the air was filled with loud screeches and victory yells as the vengeful Ahousats pulled out weapons from under their robes and turned viciously on their unsuspecting Hesquiat hosts. Caught completely unawares, most of the Hesquiats were weaponless. They moved slowly, as if unable to comprehend the full extent of the Ahousats’ treachery.
Fighting Wolf was immediately embroiled in a struggle with an unarmed Hesquiat. Fighting Wolf quickly dispatched the warrior and turned to see Otterskin give a ferocious laugh as he stabbed an open-mouthed Hesquiat man. Blood spurted and the man’s horrible gurgled cry added to the mad pandemonium. Another vicious stab by Otterskin and the victim was silenced forever.
Women rushed around screaming. Confusion reigned. One woman was shouting hysterically at the men, another sobbing uncontrollably. Panic-stricken women ran into the middle of fights only to be beaten back. Other frantic women darted about, searching desperately for children and clutching wailing babies to their breasts. The utter fear of the women could be seen on all their faces as they cried, watching husbands and sons, sweethearts and lovers, fall to the brutal enemy. Men’s shouts and hoarse screams added to the din.
Spring Fern, seeing from the first what was happening, shook Sarita’s shoulder to get her attention. Their only hope of safety lay in escape. Suddenly an enemy warrior swung brutally at her with his war club. She ducked instinctively. He missed.
Panicked, she raced to an escape hatch on one side of the longhouse. Slipping through, she ran as fast as she could into the nearby forest and crouched, gasping, under a thick net of bushes. Trembling, hidden in the dark, she resolved to wait until the last raider departed.
Birdwhistle was fighting off two determined Hesquiats, the struggle going against him until Comes-from-Salish leaped to his defense, striking one of the Hesquiats from behind. Quickly disposing of his man, he turned again to aid Birdwhistle, who by now needed no help. He had already killed the other adversary.
Fighting Wolf shouted encouragement to his men. His loud voice could be heard reminding them of their reasons for revenge and promising them many captives.
Searching through the fighting men, he quickly spied Feast Giver, the son of the Hesquiat chief, fighting off one of Ahousats best warriors. As he watched, Feast Giver quickly stabbed the man in the side of the neck and jumped back as the man crumpled in a bloody heap. Feast Giver bellowed a victorious war cry.
That was all the provocation Fighting Wolf needed. Rushing over, he attacked Feast Giver, clubbing him from the side. The blow glanced off his head and one shoulder. Caught unawares, the young Hesquiat twisted to one side, but lost his balance. As he fell to the ground he stabbed at Fighting Wolf with his knife. His target stepped back smoothly and missed the blow aimed at his thigh.
Now Fighting Wolf had the advantage and he used it. Kicking Feast Giver’s knife from his hand, he disarmed him. Then he lunged on top of the man, knife out, ready to stab. Fighting Wolf felt the fury over his father’s death erupt and cascade over him.
As he was about to bring his knife down for the second time, a large hand grabbed him from behind and spun him off Feast Giver’s prone body. Defending himself, Fighting Wolf lunged at his attacker. The man, large and strong, swung a war club at Fighting Wolf’s head, but missed. At the last moment, he was pushed off balance by Fighting Wolf’s tackle around the knees.
Completely caught up in defending himself from the brutal attack, Fighting Wolf had no time to see Crab Woman surreptitiously approach the almost unconscious Feast Giver. Looking hastily around to see that no one was paying her any attention, she grabbed him roughly about the shoulders. Gripping him underneath each arm, she staggered with the heavy body over to a haphazardly stacked wall of cedar chests. Grunting heavily, she pulled the inert body around the wall, hiding it from view. Looking around, she spied several cedar mats. Grabbing some, she tossed them over the body to hide it from searchers. That done, she ran back out into the melee.
The warrior was on his knees,
Fighting Wolf wrapped around him. Seeing the man aim his war club again at his head, Fighting Wolf quickly stabbed him in the back several times. Blood was streaming down the man’s back as he bowed forward and fell on him face, never to stir again. Pushing the heavy body off himself, Fighting Wolf got slowly to his feet, panting. The suddenness of the man’s attack had caught him off guard. Turning quickly to confront Feast Giver once more, Fighting Wolf was surprised to find his opponent had disappeared. Puzzled, he had no time to wonder what happened before he was distracted by Thunder Maker, his archenemy.
He stalked over to where Thunder Maker was trying vainly to hold off two bloody Ahousat attackers. A guttural order from Fighting Wolf and the men slunk away to engage other enemy victims.
Facing the hated Thunder Maker, Fighting Wolf bared his teeth in a snarl and demanded, “Defend yourself, cur! I will defeat you in revenge for my father’s death, you offal!”
He thrust one of his own daggers into Thunder Maker’s hand. He would let no man say it was not a fair fight.
Thunder Maker circled his opponent warily. He saw the deep hatred in the glistening eyes, the breadth of the panting chest, the taut body in fighting stance, anger barely controlled. And he knew fear. More than that, he knew he looked into the face of death. He could hear the screams around him and he knew his time had come.
He lunged at the younger warrior, stabbing at him with a powerful blow. He missed. Fighting Wolf’s low laugh taunted him as he ducked the blow and returned one of his own. Thunder Maker felt a sharp, burning pain in his right shoulder, but knew he could not stop the fight. It was to the death.
There were few sounds of battle now. Most of his men lay dead, their bodies littering the floor.
Desperate, Thunder Maker switched his knife to his functioning hand, the left one. At such a disadvantage, he knew he must kill the younger man soon. Feinting to one side, he quickly jabbed from the other. Fighting Wolf was expecting such a trick and jumped easily out of the way. In a surprise move, he lunged for the older warrior’s legs and tripped him. Thunder Maker fell heavily to the floor. Bringing his knife up and under the old man’s chin as he lay prone, Fighting Wolf was surprised to gaze into eyes that held no fear, only resignation.
Grabbing the knife out of the old man’s hand, he grinned down into the face. His voice carried in the silence and all eyes turned to him as he sneered, “Old man, do you think you’ll die this day?”
No answer, just the resigned eyes staring back at him.
“No, old man, you won’t die today. And I’ll tell you why. I, Fighting Wolf, war chief of the Ahousats, will let you live.” Here he snarled his hatred at the old man. “I let you live, old cur, because I want you to see and taste the humiliation every day of your life of what I’ve done to you. Look around you! Your warriors are dead. Your son—“
Suddenly realizing Feast Giver’s absence, Fighting Wolf ordered Comes-from-Salish, “Bring me his son!”
Turning back to the chief on the floor, he growled, “I’m taking your women with me as slaves…including your daughter. I wouldn’t want you to wonder where that worthless slave is!” He laughed cruelly.
Still no answer from the old man, just his steady gaze in reply. Fighting Wolf jabbed the knife a little closer, the point of his dagger cutting the thin skin of his enemy’s neck. A drop of blood, winking in the firelight, ran down the blade.
Comes-from-Salish strode up, an unconscious Feast Giver in his arms. “Get some rope and tie him up with the old man,” commanded Fighting Wolf.
Quickly and competently, the warrior tied the chief back to back with his son. The two half-sat, half-slumped in the middle of the feast remains, their dead warriors at their feet.
“Listen well, old man,” snarled Fighting Wolf. “Your name will be reviled and loathed up and down the coast. No one will attend your potlatches. No one will make alliances with you. You can’t even protect your own name or family. Look at your people. Destroyed! And by my hand! Do you know why, old man?”
His face twisted with hate, Fighting Wolf held the knife even closer. Another crimson tear slid down the blade. “Because you led the raid that killed my father. My father, old man, was a better war chief than you or your son could ever hope to be!”
Standing up, he looked down at his victim and spat in his face. “Humiliation, old man! That’s what you’ll live with every day for the rest of your worthless life!” Contemptuously, he turned his back on the old chief and his unconscious son, and walked away.
Fighting Wolf gloated to himself in savage glee. The old man would indeed live a life of humiliation from this day forth!
Looking around quickly, he noted with satisfaction that several women were herded into one corner of the longhouse. He saw, with even greater satisfaction, the blue blur of a trade blanket that told him the one woman he wanted had been captured.
At the first wild yell, Sarita sat in a bewildered daze, but only for a moment. The touch of Spring Fern at her shoulder galvanized her into action. Her breath caught in her throat as she watched a warrior swing his club at her slave. Seeing the girl run for the escape hatch, relief swept over Sarita.
But she had paused too long. The brutal warrior who had swung at Spring Fern now turned on her. Instead of clubbing her to death as she expected, he reached one brawny arm around her waist and dragged her off with him. Kicking and screaming, she tried to dislodge herself from his rock hard grip. Ignoring her efforts as he would a mosquito’s, he carried her over to one dark corner of the longhouse.
There, hugging crying babies and sobbing children, several women crowded together. They stood in groups of twos and threes clutching one another for solace, and grim-faced, watched the bloody spectacle.
Sarita was shoved roughly into the pitiful group. Darting away, she was seized in a tight grip and a loud laugh rang in her ear. Thrust back into the group of women, she drew her blanket tightly about her as if for protection. She glanced around. Armed with knives and war clubs, several burly Ahousats guarded the women, effectively preventing any escape. Sarita huddled in hopelessly with the other victims.
It seemed such a long time that she stood with the women, staring dully out at the battling men. She watched, sickened, as Fighting Wolf fought with a warrior of her father’s. With a snarl, the war chief grabbed the man’s hair, jerking his head down. Sharply bringing his knee up, he smashed the man’s face, then stabbed him through the ribs and laughed as the Hesquiat crumpled to the floor.
Another Ahousat was bending over a stout Hesquiat he had walloped over the shoulders, and then beaten over the head. The body lay still, unmoving in that scene of frantic activity.
Sarita recognized the man who had run the flaming gauntlet. Comes-from-Salish grabbed another man’s head and quickly bent him over backward as he plunged a knife into the man’s vitals. Hearing a groan, he bashed his victim over the head with his war club and watched in satisfaction as the man sank lifelessly to the floor.
Sarita continued to stare with lifeless eyes at the hazy scene, her horror growing with the mad slaughter. She searched slowly for some sight of her father or brother. Far off to one side, she could make out the body of her brother, then the bulky figure of Crab Woman as she dragged him off to safety. The old woman’s heroic efforts shook Sarita from her terror-induced lethargy.
Peering through the haze, she searched frantically for her father’s stout frame, but couldn’t see him anywhere. She felt a cold hard lump in her stomach. Surely he was not dead! She quickly searched through the captives. Perhaps he had been captured. With a despairing heart, she realized the enemy was taking only women and children as captives. The men they were killing.
At last she spotted Thunder Maker, just as Fighting Wolf attacked. Breathless, heart pounding, she watched their short, vicious battle to its humiliating conclusion.
Sarita became aware suddenly that the sounds of battle around her were gradually fading. There were only the moans and groans of the wounded and dying, broken occasiona
lly by the piteous cries of mourning or captive women. The battle was over, and her father’s people had lost. It was a bitter moment for Sarita. And one she knew would haunt her for the rest of her life.
She gazed, stricken, at her father and brother trussed together in the midst of the carnage, heard the cruel words Fighting Wolf spoke. He was right…her father’s and brother’s names and reputations were irredeemably destroyed. Truly a fine-honed revenge to let them live, she thought. They would have gladly chosen an honorable death with their warriors.
***
Exhilarated, Fighting Wolf surveyed the battle scene. All around him lay the dead and dying enemy. Squinting through the smoke at the captive women and children huddled in the far corner, he snapped, “Take the prisoners down to the beach and load them into canoes. Make sure our retreat is covered. Then let’s get out of here.”
His men hurried away, happy to carry out both orders.
In disbelief, Sarita felt a sharp point—a knife?—prodding her in the back. Dazed, she moved passively along with the other women. Looking at the decapitated bodies sprawled all over the floor, people she’d known all her life, a great sorrow mingled with anger and the bitter taste of defeat welled up in her. Thunder Maker’s people had been ignobly conquered and there was nothing she could do. All was lost.
Shoved out into the night with the others, she felt the cool breeze on her skin. It revived her spirits somewhat. Also, it was a relief to be away from the scene of deadly confrontation.
She looked around at the weeping women, as if seeing them for the first time. Some of them clutched their children to them as they walked slowly towards the beach. Many had no children. Sarita noted that the captured women were the young, attractive ones of her village. She shuddered as she wondered what was in store for all of them.
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