Seneca Surrender (Berkley Sensation)

by Gen Bailey

  It was degrading, and perhaps that’s what decided her. If this were her fate, then so be it. The least she could do was to stop cowering in fear. Since that was exactly what he wanted, then she’d be damned if she would give it to him.

  Thus, when next he came close, she took action, doing the first thing she could think of to do. After all, what did it matter? They were going to kill her in the most feminine, and probably the most horrible way possible.

  She spit in his face.

  Immediately he slapped her. But though the hit stung, it felt good. It was all she had . . . defiance . . . and so long as she was sane, she would resist him to the end.

  She hadn’t counted on what happened next, however. He picked her up by her hair, brought a knife to her scalp and began to cut.

  She screamed. And he laughed, the wickedness of his smile the last thing she beheld before she fell forward into a dead faint.

  White Thunder heard Sarah’s screams as if from outside himself. He knew at once what it meant.

  Silently he cursed himself for his stupidity. He’d made two mistakes. Big mistakes.

  The first was that he’d gone off the trail to look for roots. He’d seen the plants on his trek through the woods, and he’d thought there was plenty of time to dig them and get back to the shelter before any possible trouble might befall them. But his second and major error was being unaware of the environment around him. He’d been so engrossed in hunting for the roots, he hadn’t felt the presence of someone else in these woods.

  It could prove to be a deadly blunder. Could he correct it?

  With all his strength, he shot forward, sprinting back toward the shelter. As he ran, he checked his gun for readiness. He felt for his other weapons, which were on his belt, awaiting only his hand to use them. Satisfied, he practically flew over the forest floor.

  As he came within sight of the valley where the shelter lay, he sighted five of them. Three Ottawa, two French. He watched as two of the Ottawa pulled Sarah out of the shelter, one of them slung her over his shoulder, and the two marched off.

  Instinct made him long to cry out and attack at once, but he held himself back. Not yet. They were five and they were ready for a fight, their guns held primed. He wasn’t going to be of any use to Sarah if he himself was killed immediately.

  Let him first take them down with him.

  Was there anything he could use to his advantage? He could think of only one circumstance that might be in his favor, and that was the element of surprise. But even that might not be helpful, for these warriors were wise enough to know that a white woman wouldn’t be in the woods alone.

  Watching them, devising a plan, he crept from place to place in the environment surrounding the shelter. He waited until he had a good shot. He delayed, checking his front sight; he fired. A man dropped; it was the remaining Indian.

  That was it—his only advantage—surprise. Because the musket had only the one shot, White Thunder threw it to the ground and leapt down into the enemy’s midst, his hatchet and war club drawn and ready. The Frenchman saw him coming and aimed a swing at him, but White Thunder ducked, and with a back hand, sent a fatal blow into the man’s middle section.

  He was down.

  There was one man left, but this one was ready for him, and had his rifle pointed straight at White Thunder. He fired. White Thunder ducked.

  The shot flew by, and White Thunder instantly sprang up and met him with his hatchet, but the man dodged and White Thunder had to spin around in a split second to avoid a fatal backhand. He aimed his tomahawk straight at the Frenchman’s head, but again the man parried, the steel of their weapons clanged.

  Thinking fast, White Thunder knew he had to do damage quickly, before the Frenchman did irreparable harm to him. Slamming his hatchet straight at the Frenchman’s shooting arm, White Thunder plunged his weapon unswervingly into the man’s elbow. It cracked; the arm hung useless.

  That did it. The Frenchman knew he was hurt beyond repair, but he was big and predatory and he aimed a fatal blow at White Thunder with his left arm. But it lacked strength. White Thunder easily ducked, then with another pitch of his hatchet, struck the mortal blow. All three men were down.

  But there were two more Ottawa and they had Sarah. And they were long since gone.

  Picking up the Frenchmen’s guns and ammunition, White Thunder rushed back to pluck up his own gun, then darted forward to hit upon the Ottawas’ trail. There it was, right in front of him.

  As he sped over the ground, following their footprints, White Thunder only hoped he wouldn’t be too late.

  Eighteen

  The Ottawa were moving fast, but they were also covering their tracks. The warriors were smart. They’d known White Thunder would come after them if he survived the fight with their three cohorts.

  Their trail was difficult. Several times White Thunder had been led off on a false trail, and had been forced to go back and start afresh. It was slow work; slow at a time when speed was crucial.

  But there was one thing he knew that the Ottawa didn’t: He had survived. If he lingered here on their trail, if he pretended he’d been taken down by the French, and that no one was following them—perhaps waiting until the last minute to attack, White Thunder might gain an advantage.

  Finally, after grueling hours spent tracking, he found them. Luckily for him, his ploy had worked, and they must have assumed he’d been killed, because no one was standing guard, a very unwise move.

  White Thunder smiled.

  He spotted Sarah, and what he saw made his blood boil. Tied to a tree, she was bare-chested and exposed. Plus, there was a gash over her breasts. Even now, she was bleeding. Had he been a younger man, he might have rushed in upon them now, spoiling whatever edge he might have.

  Older and wiser, he positioned himself into a good shooting posture. That’s when he saw Sarah spit in one of the Ottawas’ eye, and he smiled again. Not only did she possess a gentle nature—one that he had witnessed on more than one occasion—if pressed, she could be as dangerous as a she-cat.

  But the Ottawa went too far. He slapped her. Older he might be, but even still, White Thunder could barely contain himself from taking immediate action. He knew, however, that he must control his anger. One single, sure shot was better than taking a chance at wrestling—and losing.

  White Thunder watched as the Ottawa pulled her up by the hair, watched also as he brought a knife to her scalp. She fainted, but the Ottawa was having none of that, and he shook her awake.

  White Thunder couldn’t remember a time he had felt more enraged. He took very careful aim, for the Ottawa was too close to Sarah, and he dare not miss.

  He had the Ottawa in his front sight; it would be a fatal shot to the head. White Thunder pulled the trigger. Sarah screamed, and the Ottawa jerked sideways from the strength of the blast. He didn’t move.

  But his friend, the other Ottawa, sprung to his feet, and crouching low, peered off in every direction. There was one other fine point these two hadn’t realized.

  White Thunder possessed another rifle, taken from the Frenchmen. He leveled a clear shot, aiming for the Ottawa’s head. He pulled the trigger, heard Sarah scream yet again, then watched to see the result. The last Ottawa crumpled over, dead.

  White Thunder waited only a moment to determine if either of the two Indians would get up. Carefully, slowly, he himself rose onto his feet and rushed forward to inspect the men before he turned his attention to Sarah.

  What he saw wrenched at his heart. Her face was wet with tears, she was naked from her shoulders down to her waist and her skirts were ripped into rags.

  “Mr. Thunder,” she sobbed, falling forward onto her knees. “I thought you were dead.”

  He rushed to her, knelt in front of her and reached down to cut the bonds holding her hands. “Not yet,” he said gently. “Not yet.”

  Once she was free, she fell into his arms, where she cried until he thought his heart might likely break.

  “It’s
all my fault,” she said. “If I hadn’t cried out, they—”

  “Shhh.” He massaged her head, glorying in the feel of her silky locks beneath his fingers, thankful that she was alive and in his arms again. “I share the fault, if there is any to be found,” he said. “Had I been more aware of my surroundings, I would have been able to avoid this. Come, let’s leave here and fast, before more Ottawa come to find their friends.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes.”

  Taking off his shirt, he slipped it over her head, and helping her to her feet, he grasped her hand in his and they fled into the forest.

  They shot through the woods as if demons were after them. Perhaps they were. Still, it was a different speed of travel than that of their earlier wanderings. Whereas before, they two had traversed slowly, taking one delayed step at a time—which had allowed White Thunder the opportunity to examine every piece of ground—now they sprinted over what was clearly a trail. They dashed up forest-covered hills, down into lush valleys and skirted every bend. They splashed through icy-cold streams, not paying any attention to their depths, and sometimes they had to swim. Always they pressed forward, and at a maddening pace.

  Luckily, there was a full moon this night. It lit their path, but it didn’t allow Sarah to see the changes in the elevations of their path ahead of time, and she found herself stumbling more often than not. There was nothing for it, however, but to pick herself up and match her pace as well as she was able to with White Thunder’s. She couldn’t see as well as she ought in the dim, silvery light cast here and there by the moon, and the stark tree branches caught at the sleeves of the shirt that White Thunder had loaned her. Sarah’s own petticoats snagged on the stickers, further tearing her underclothes.

  Above her the sky was black, with contrasting light from the full moon and stars, but so fast was their haste, Sarah didn’t dare spare more than a quick glance upward. Instead she concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other, and keeping herself upright and on the tail of White Thunder.

  The atmosphere of the forest was oxygen filled at this time of night, she noticed; its fragrance was uplifting to her spirits. It was as though the forest itself were lending the two of them a helping hand. Even the wind conspired to aid in their escape, for it was at their back.

  But what circumstance were they escaping? Or who? And why were they hurrying? Weren’t the Ottawa dead?

  The question, though an urgent one in her opinion, went unasked, simply for lack of the opportunity of posing it.

  Sarah was out of breath when White Thunder at last broke his pace and settled into a trot. Simply because she couldn’t run as fast as he, Sarah had drawn a ways back from him. With his slowdown, at last she had an opportunity to catch up with him.

  As soon as she came into view of him, however, they pressed forward yet again. And though the trot was more to her liking, she still lagged far behind.

  At last, they came to an open meadow, and White Thunder stopped at the edge. He was gazing out at it, looking as though he had been frozen in his tracks.

  Sarah was breathing hard and fast as she drew level with him, and now that she had come to a standstill, she observed her breath was mirrored on the air. Interestingly, the cold air, usually intolerable to her, felt good this night.

  As soon as she caught her breath, she asked, “Why are we running?”

  He brought a finger to his lips.

  Immediately she ceased not only all talk, but all movement, too. But she couldn’t help wondering what was wrong. Were there other enemies about? She hadn’t seen any.

  But then, she might not be aware of them. For good or for bad, Sarah was more than sadly aware that her experience in the woods left much room for improvement.

  And then, without saying a word to her, White Thunder indicated that she was to follow him. They crept low, skirting the woods on the edge of the meadow. They stopped at each moonlit shadow and darkened silhouette.

  But at last, he seemed satisfied, and he signaled to her that she was to follow, and do as he did. That he then came down onto his belly and forearms was almost asking too much of her, she thought. However, he was already crawling across the meadow. She was supposed to do the same? In petticoats?

  Sighing deeply, Sarah realized that she had no option. Not if she wished to keep up with White Thunder. Coming down onto all fours, she fell onto her belly, her elbows taking the brunt of the weight of her body.

  The fresh scent of grass, dirt and the nightly dew that covered everything felt lightweight on her lungs as she inhaled several deep breaths. Though they were long since ruined, Sarah realized that her petticoats would be forever grass-stained.

  It was slow going, but at long last, they had crossed the meadow. Once they reached the other side, and were again within the shadowy midst of the forest, White Thunder came up to his feet, and struck out, again at a maddening pace. Sarah followed. Tired though she was, her legs still kept sending her forward. Somehow she made them obey her desire to hurry.

  It was practically dawn by the time they stopped. Exhausted, Sarah fell to the ground and probably would have slept right where she had dropped had White Thunder been of a mind to let her.

  Indeed, at first it seemed that he might. He let her rest while he constructed another one of his temporary shelters, made from logs, branches and leaves that were strewn on the forest floor. Sarah watched him with tired eyes as he landscaped around the shelter, fixing a log here, a branch there, so that to the untrained eye, their abode would be unseen. Then coming back for her, he bent to pick her up, straightening her hair back from her face as he brought her into his arms.

  He said naught as he lay her down on their bed within the shelter. It was a bed that he had fashioned from nothing more than fresh pine boughs and the grasses of the forest, with a blanket thrown atop it. But to Sarah, the bed felt as if she’d sunk into the most comfortable featherbed she’d ever known.

  He kissed her; she smiled and then, no sooner had she rested her head against the blanket than she fell to sleep.

  Amazingly, her rest was dream free. And if not for the warm arms that held her securely all the morning through, she might have thought she was back in Albany, alone in her bed, and that none of this had ever happened.

  They slept from morning ’til dusk that first day. Then, after a snack of dried meat, water and a few shared kisses, they again slept through the night and on into the next day. Indeed, when Sarah at last awoke, the sun was in the western sky and was showing off its artistry over the land in pinks, blues and oranges. Scents of moss, pine, twigs and dead wood assured her that she was still on the run, not back in Albany in her lonely, yet safe bed.

  She awoke with a start, immediately anxious. If not in Albany, where was she? Had she and White Thunder escaped into safety? Were there still enemies hunting them? Looking up, she stared straight into “rafters” of twigs, and branches of maple, oak and birch. Nothing unusual there. These were the common “ceilings” of the temporary shelters.

  Why this sense of turbulence? Was it because of Miss Marisa? Sarah hadn’t forgotten she couldn’t rest until she found Marisa and if possible warned her of the danger awaiting her in Albany.

  Or was it? . . . Her stomach dropped. The memory of an Ottawa warrior, with black-painted face, white teeth and an evil smile, threatening to murder her in the worst possible way, stirred in front of her, as though he were here now haunting her. She almost screamed, but she curbed the instinct. Never again would she cry out without knowing who or what was around her.

  She lay perfectly still, afraid to move. Eventually, however, when nothing untoward happened, she chanced to stretch. That’s when it became very apparent to her that something else was very wrong: She was completely naked beneath this covering.

  She didn’t remember having gone to bed in the nude. Tired, she most definitely had been, but she was certain she would have remembered removing all of her clothes.

  Where was White Thunder?

  Most like
ly, he was the one responsible for her state of undress. But why? Sitting up as quietly as possible—for there wasn’t the room to stand—she brought the blanket up with her, wrapped it around her and sat forward to peer out through the cracks in their shelter. Was it safe to leave?

  While she sat debating the pros and cons of “stay” or “go,” she caught sight of White Thunder, who was climbing up from a ridge below. Were they camped on a hill or mountaintop? Now that she thought of it, she had noticed as they had fled over hill and dale last night that the terrain had sloped gradually upward.

  He was shirtless, and despite her anxiety, she took several moments to admire this very handsome man. His chest was broad and muscular, as though he were used to the hard work of carrying game for miles on his shoulders. His chest was also wet, Indeed, he was wet all over, and she wondered where the stream was that he had used for bathing. Sniffing the air around her, she was well aware that she needed to visit that stream, also.

  Beneath the pale rays of the setting sun, his figure took on the appearance of being engulfed in a mystical kind of haze, and she spent several moments watching him, her spirit full of silent admiration. He wore skin-tight leggings, she noted, which accentuated the muscular beauty of his legs. Those leggings were also thigh-high, exposing the upper part of his thigh and the outline of his buttocks to the fancy of her feminine eye. And she did look.

  Those leggings were tied at the knee with strips of red-fringed cloth, and they fell down and covered a good portion of his moccasins. A breechcloth of navy-and-red cloth fell down in front of him and in back, and it served two purposes that she could see: support and masculine modesty.

  His figure exuded male beauty, despite the fact that his chest and arms displayed several red, blue and black tattoos in designs of circles and straight lines. His stomach was flat, and tied around his waist was his belt where hung his tomahawk, ax, war club and several knives. In his hand was his ever-present rifle and strung around his shoulders crisscross over his chest were belts and bags for his powder horn and ammunition. His arms were muscular, and except for two bands that spanned his forearms, they were bare.