Savage Surrender

by Colleen French

  Storm Dancer looked to Rachael. He wore nothing but a loincloth and his moccasins. Around his waist he wore a quilled belt with knives tucked into it. From the side hung Broken Horn's scalp lock. "You're certain you wish to do this, Wife?"

  "We've been through this a hundred times, Storm.' She touched his bare arm and a warm thrill of excited ment went through her. "It's what I want."

  "If there is trouble, you run for the horses." He caught her chin, forcing her to look up at him, forcing her to take him seriously. "We will meet back at the camp."

  She took his hand and lowered it, grinning. "I understand. Now let's go."

  Storm Dancer turned to Thomas who waited by the hedges giving Rachael and Storm their moment of privacy. "I warn you, white man whom I call brother, if I am injured or killed, my wife is your responsibility. I will not see her harmed. If there is trouble, I will deal with it and you are to get her out of the house."

  Thomas popped the cork on a flask of whiskey and took a sip. "I promise you she'll come to no harm. I almost lost my sister once, it'll not happen again."

  Rachael lifted up on her toes and kissed Storm Dancer soundly on the lips. "Let's go, Storm." Grabbing her canvas bag from the horse's withers, she ran through the dark yard after her brother, who had already started for the kitchen door.

  Rachael and Thomas and Storm Dancer walked directly up to the back stoop where a mother cat and her litter of kittens sat drinking from a plate of milk. Rachael turned the brass knob and let herself in. The men brought up the rear.

  The kitchen was dim. The servants had cleaned up and retired to their loft chambers for the evening. The warm, low-ceilinged room smelled of smoke and cinnamon bread.

  Rachael crept through the kitchen with the men behind her. Down the dark back hall toward Gifford's study they went. Gifford spent every evening there that he did not go out, so Rachael was betting that he would be there tonight. She couldn't suppress a smile of triumph as she peeked around the corner and spotted light in the crack under the study door.

  Just as she turned the corner with Storm Dancer and Thomas on her heels, she gave an involuntary squeak. There was Margaret standing in a flood of candlelight staring at her in her Indian garb and paint as if she were a savage ghost. At the sight of Storm Dancer, Rachael thought Margaret was going to faint.

  But Margaret recognized Rachael and for a long moment she considered her carefully. Rachael raised a finger to her lips and pointed toward the door and then to herself. She was afraid to speak for fear Gifford would hear her, but she wanted Margaret to understand that she wanted to see him without interference from the household.

  Margaret thought for a moment and then nodded. Rachael knew the old woman had always liked her for her kindness. She also knew that she despised Gifford for his unfairness and cruelty. It was only because of her age that she had not sought out other employment long ago.

  With a glance at the study door, Margaret turned away and went back down the hall the way she came, with her candle, pretending she had never seen Rachael.

  Rachael turned to flash a grin at Thomas and Storm and then went for the door. Just as she lay her hand on the polished knob, she heard a distinctly female giggle . . . a bawdy giggle. She looked at Thomas. He was grinning broadly, indicating with a wave of his hand that it was now or never.

  When Rachael tried to turn the doorknob it was locked. Storm Dancer appeared alarmed, but she only stood on her tiptoes and found the key Gifford always left above the door frame. As quietly as possible, she turned the lock, though from the sounds inside she doubted if Gifford and his friend heard anything.

  With the knob unlocked she turned it carefully and stepped back out of Storm Dancer's way. The moment the door swung open, Gifford's head popped up. He was seated on a chair with his breeches around his ankles, his lady Jesslyn only partially clothed, on her knees in front of him.

  "What the—"

  Storm Dancer leaped through the air like some apparition from hell, and before Gifford could utter another word, he had a knife at Gifford's throat.

  "Go ahead, Langston, holler." Thomas said, coming through the door and closing it behind him. "There's nothing that would please me more than to see my friend here slit your throat."

  Gifford's woman fell backward in fear and Rachael lifted a foot to place on her bare-breasted chest. Rachael touched a finger to her unsheathed knife. "I can skin a deer in five minutes, do you think skinning a woman would take longer?"

  "Oh dear God! Oh dear God!" Jesslyn cried, hyperventilating. "She's gone mad, Gifford. She's gone mad!"

  "Wh . . . what do you want?" Gifford managed. His fingers were on the waistband of his breeches and he was trying to figure out a way to cover his exposed parts without moving beneath the knife the wild Indian held on his throat.

  "I want my money," Rachael demanded, her moccasined foot still planted squarely between Jesslyn's ample breasts.

  "Your . . . your money? I . . . I don't know what you're talking about."

  "My dowry money is what I'm talking about and you damned well know it! It belongs to my rightful husband." She pointed at Storm Dancer. "And he's damned mad you didn't give it to me the day I came for it."

  "Gifford—" Jesslyn piped up.

  Rachael pressed weight on her foot propped on the woman. "I'd suggest you keep quiet."

  "I . . . I don't have any of your money. N . . . No way to get it here."

  Thomas shook his head. "Pity, because my brother-in-law here, he doesn't understand English very well and he understands the English coin system even less." He shrugged as he poured himself a portion of Gifford's best brandy and swirled it in the snifter. "Let's get more comfortable and then we can speak more freely. Rachael?"

  From her bag Rachael pulled out several lengths of rope and with Thomas's help she tied both Gifford and Jesslyn into chairs. They were not given the opportunity to clothe themselves. Rachael wanted to play upon any vulnerability she could. It had been agreed that there would be no violence unless absolutely necessary. Rachael saw no reason to hurt Gifford, she only wanted to scare the hell out of him.

  With Gifford and Lady Jesslyn tied securely, Thomas waved to Storm Dancer, who had yet to speak a word, and Storm took a step back.

  Rachael had a hard time suppressing her laughter. Storm Dancer was playing this savage routine to the hilt. He had taken a wide stance and now stood with his knife in his hand, relaxed yet ready to spring, his black eyes intent on Gifford.

  "Cozy now?" Thomas went back to his drink.

  "I demand that you release me, Thomas Moreover!" Jesslyn shrieked. "My father will have you hanged for this, you bastard!"

  Thomas rolled his eyes and Rachael pulled a piece of material from her bag and wrapped it around Jesslyn's mouth so no sound escaped but a garbled protest.

  "Better?" Rachael asked her brother sweetly.

  "Much better." Thomas lifted his glass. "And Gifford, let's get back to the matter at hand. Fact. You and my sister are not married and were never married. Fact. You abandoned her in a Mohawk village and left her to die. Fact. You came back here and lied about being married to get her money. Fact. When she came back she ruined your proclaimed widowerhood leaving you in a sticky situation. Fact! You tried to kill my sister to get yourself out of this mess!"

  "I . . . I . . . I didn't," Gifford moaned. "She . . . she was sick."

  Thomas shook his head. "Oh, I forgot the most pertinent fact." He indicated Storm Dancer with a nod. "My sister's husband is damned mad about this entire business."

  Storm Dancer bared his teeth and growled.

  Rachael looked to Gifford to see that he was visibly shaken.

  "Now just what are we to do about this problem, Gifford? Hmmm?" Thomas took a sip of his brandy. "My sister's husband wants the dowry that he believes to be rightfully his." He shrugged. "But you have it."

  Gifford's eyes widened in fear. Storm Dancer, who still stood in front of Gifford was now sharpening the twelve-inch blade of his hunting
knife on a sharpening stone with an even-sounding scrape . . . scrape . . . scrape.

  "My brother-in-law is not happy. You've been among the Mohawks. You know the sort of things they do to get what they want out of people." He took another sip, shaking his head. "I understand it's not a pretty sight."

  "Please, please," Gifford begged.

  Storm Dancer lay his first knife on a small cherry table beside Gifford and he produced another to sharpen. Scrape . . . scrape . . . scrape . . .

  "Oh, God, Oh, God, I'm going to be sick," Gifford moaned, unable to tear his eyes from Storm Dancer.

  "The dowry money, Giffy?" Thomas lifted an eyebrow.

  Rachael sighed. "I'm very sorry about all of this, but now that Storm Dancer is my husband, I have to turn my dowry over to him. You understand?" she said innocently.

  Gifford retched. "I . . . I have money."

  "Money!" Jesslyn argued against the gag in her mouth. "You've got no money but mine!"

  Gifford flashed Jesslyn a warning glance. "I can get money for you if that's all you want. Now call him off." He looked up at Storm Dancer. "Call the wild beast off!"

  "When can you get the money?" Thomas asked.

  Storm Dancer set down his second knife on the table beneath Gifford's nose and removed a third from his belt, this one a thin-bladed filleting knife. He sharpened it carefully on his sharpening stone, his eyes still riveted to Gifford. Scrape . . . scrape . . . scrape.

  Gifford looked at the table of knives. "Tomorrow! Tomorrow!" Gifford proclaimed.

  Thomas shook his head. "Too late. I fear I'll not be able to hold my brother-in-law back that long."

  Rachael watched Storm Dancer pick each knife up from the polished table, check the point, and set it down again.

  Thomas put down his glass. "I hear the Mohawks have a fondness for tobacco pouches made out of white men's balls." He shuddered. "I think I'd rather be dead." He shrugged. "But these savages, they don't think that way. They like to prolong your agony. They like to keep you alive as long as humanly possible . . . "

  "Tonight! I can get you money tonight!" Gifford sobbed, tears of terror running down his cheeks. "I've but to sign the note and seal it, and you can go to my goldsmith right now!"

  Thomas looked at Rachael. "Is that suitable to your husband, Rachael?"

  Rachael looked across the room at Storm Dancer. He was still portraying the heathen savage, but there was a sparkle in his obsidian eyes meant only for her. "I think tonight would be quite suitable. And wise. Very wise."

  Chapter Thirty

  "Rachael!"

  "Wachael-mama!"

  Rachael looked up from the travois she was helping Dory pack. She smiled and waved at Storm Dancer and Ka-we-ras, a lump rising in her throat. Storm Dancer was leading their son through the camp on a pony bought in Annapolis the previous week. The toddler rode bareback with his fists balled in the pony's mane, a wide grin on his chubby bronze face.

  That night in Philadelphia, Rachael had gotten most of her dowry in notes from Gifford's frightened goldsmith. After a tearful farewell to Thomas, who no matter how much Rachael begged him to come with her, said his life was on the sea, she and Storm Dancer returned to the Lenni Lenape village. From there, several braves went with Storm Dancer to Annapolis where they bought horses, drygoods, and medical supplies for their journey to Ohio country to join their Shawnee cousins.

  Now it was the first of May and the entire village was scurrying to pack. The weather was good and the leader of the expedition, Storm Dancer, thought it prudent to leave as soon as possible. With the arrival of spring, the English soldiers were gathering forces again, and to a frightened regiment any Indian face was unfriendly. Storm Dancer hoped to have the entire village headed west within the week and to hopefully avoid any confrontations with the English army.

  Rachael watched Storm Dancer and their little boy disappear behind Shaakan and Starlight's wigwam and then she went back to packing bags of flour onto Dory's travois. Dory had gone to Shadow Man's wigwam to check on a napping child.

  A few moments later Storm Dancer came up behind Rachael and wrapped his arms around her waist. She laughed, as she leaned back allowing him to plant a kiss in that tender hollow nestled between her neck and shoulder.

  "Do you need something?" she asked. "I'm helping Dory right now, but I can come."

  "Does a man need something to be with his wife?"

  She laughed as she turned to face him. "Everything is going to be all right now, isn't it?"

  He traced the line of her jaw with his fingertip. "You have rid yourself of Gifford Langston and the life you led before you came to me. Our people will go west where they will be safe and there we will grow old together. We will watch our grandchildren and great grandchildren grow and become men and women we can be proud of."

  She brushed her lips against his, intoxicated by his nearness. "It's almost too perfect, isn't it?"

  "Shhh." He touched his fingertip to her lips. "Do not say such thing, for it is bad luck among the Lenni Lenape."

  "Superstitious nonsense." She kissed him again before sliding her arms down from his broad, bare shoulders. "Now go on with you and leave me to my work."

  Their lips met again and just as Rachael pulled back she heard Tuuban calling for Storm Dancer.

  Storm Dancer's brow furrowed. There was a strained tone to his friend's voice. He turned to see Tuuban running toward him.

  "Storm Dancer! You have guests."

  Storm Dancer looked aside at Rachael. "Guests?"

  Tuuban came to a halt as he pointed toward the wigwam Rachael and Storm Dancer shared. "They wait for you at your firepit."

  "Who?" Rachael asked, certain that after the fright Storm Dancer had given Gifford, they would never see him again. No, whoever the visitors were, they came without escort. She'd heard no horses. No commotion. Whoever it was had walked into the camp in relative silence.

  Tuuban looked from Rachael to Storm Dancer. "He says he is Broken Horn, Mohawk brother to you."

  Rachael's blood ran to ice. She grasped Storm Dancer's bare arm. "Broken Horn, here?" she whispered. "It cannot be."

  "A man without an ear." Tuuban brushed his own ear. "And a woman with a harelip. He said she was his wife."

  Rachael's lower lip trembled. "He's up to no good. It can be nothing else."

  Storm Dancer glanced toward his wigwam, his sight blocked by other sleeping lodges. "He is still my brother. He has come a long way. I must see what he wants. It is only right."

  Rachael slipped her hand into her husband's. "I'll come too."

  "You don't have to. I know my brother frightens you. Take our son and go to our grandparents' wigwam. You'll be safe there."

  She squeezed Storm Dancer's hand, gathering her courage. "No. We go together."

  Storm Dancer nodded, as he turned his attention to Tuuban. "He brought no others with him? You are certain. My brother can be a clever, devious man."

  "No. The sentries saw no one."

  "They cannot harm us if they are two against a village, but to be safe I would ask that you tell our braves that my brother is in the camp. Warn them to watch their women and children and to keep their eyes open for trouble. Send extra sentries out to guard all perimeters of the camp. I will deal with Broken Horn of the Mohawks."

  Tuuban gave a curt nodd and dashed off.

  With their hands still entwined, Rachael and Storm Dancer crossed the camp toward their wigwam. She spotted Broken Horn immediately, though his face was blackened with ashes and he appeared thinner than he had last summer. Beside him stood Pretty Woman, her face blackened as well, her clothing in ragged shreds.

  "Why the ashes?" Rachael whispered.

  "It seems my brother and his wife are in mourning for a family member."

  When Broken Horn saw Storm Dancer, he came forward offering both hands in peace. Storm Dancer accepted them with caution.

  "Greetings, Brother," Broken Horn said in English.

  "Greetings to you, Brother.
I thought myself dead to you," Storm Dancer said, getting straight to the point. "How did you find me and why have you come?"

  Broken Horn lowered his head in a submissive gesture. "I cannot right what has been wronged in the past. I cannot change the direction of the wind which has already blown. I have come to bring sorrowful news to you and to the Lenni Lenape. Our mother told us where you had gone in the hopes that we could mend our differences."

  "You say you have come from the Great Lakes to the Chesapeake to bring news to your dead brother?"

  "Do not be so suspicious." Broken Horn opened his hands. "I am unarmed but for one musket that lies at your doorstep, one bow, and one hunting knife. I came because it was the right thing to do." His gaze wandered to Rachael's face, but he looked away before his brother took notice.

  Rachael tightened her grip on her husband's hand.

  "What news is this you bring?" Storm Dancer lifted his hand. "You come in the ashes of mourning. Who has died?"

  "Do you not offer your hospitality to this man and his wife who have come so far?"

  "First the news, Brother."

  Broken Horn crossed his arms over his chest. "Our mother's spirit has passed into heaven. The entire village died of smallpox, she among them."

  Storm Dancer's eyes narrowed. "You do not bring the air of disease with you?" he challenged.

  "Look at us," Broken Horn scoffed. "Look closely and you see we bear the scars of the disease. It was months ago. Winter. We are but two lonely souls without refuge."

  Storm Dancer exhaled slowly. It was a kind act for Broken Horn to come so far to give She-Who-Weeps' family the news of her death. It was true, he seemed genuine in his intentions and he apparently had come without escort. Perhaps his brother saw the wrong in his past actions and regretted them. Perhaps the deaths of their entire Mohawk village had brought to him the realization of his evils.

  Storm Dancer stepped aside, taking Rachael with him. He spoke so that only she could hear. "My brother comes with good intentions. It is only right I offer him the hospitality of our home."