Cherokee Storm (11 page)

“I thought you would bring me a present.”

It was too dark to make out the expression on her face, but he knew she was pouting. “I did. A pair of scissors. Hardly used at all.”

“I have scissors. Tallow has a mirror as big as her fist. I would like a mirror so I can see how ugly I am. Do you have such a mirror at your trading post?”

He caught one of her braids between his fingers. “You would tempt a saint, Feather Blanket. And if you're ugly, I'm a troll. But, I'm getting too old to keep more than one woman satisfied. My spear isn't what it used to be.”

Her laughter tinkled in the night air. “Old lovers know how to make a woman happy. Young men care only for their own pleasure. I say your spear is a mighty one.”

Flynn heard a soft thud, and Feather Blanket sighed and dropped to her knees. “None of that now. Keep your lips off my—” He broke off in midsentence as he realized she wasn't trying to blow life back into his weary pizzle.

She fell sideways and black liquid trickled from her mouth. Flynn bent to grab her arm. Something hissed past his ear.

Abruptly, a shot rang out. Screams split the air. Flynn threw himself flat on the ground and pressed his fingers to the girl's throat. She jerked away, kicked, and sprawled onto her stomach, the broken shaft of an arrow protruding from the base of her skull.

Dogs snarled. Another shot. Dark figures ran past the houses. Someone burst from a shelter. Flynn caught a glimpse of a tomahawk blade glinting in the moonlight. Shouts in Cherokee.

The hot sweet scent of blood filled the air.

Two more rifle shots blasted nearby.

“Kill'm all! Nits make lice!”

That wasn't Cherokee. It was English, damn it, Flynn thought, crawling on hands and knees toward the shelter he'd just left. That was a white man. Who, it didn't matter much. If he couldn't get to his rifle and kit pack, he'd be as dead as Feather Blanket before sides could be sorted out.

Cherokee men and boys poured out of the houses. Everywhere, individuals were fighting, and women and children were screaming. Flynn crawled faster, keeping his head down. Two figures struggled and fell to the ground an arm's length away, straining and grunting. The man on top was wearing boots; the skinny legs below, Cherokee moccasins.

Flynn leaped up, thrust his knee between the white man's shoulder blades, and seized hold of his head. With one mighty effort, he twisted the attacker's head to the left. There was a sharp crunch, and he went limp. Flynn yanked the body aside.

“Spawn of a soul sucker,” gasped the old man.

“Are you hurt?” Flynn asked. He knew the elder by his wheezing voice. He was a councilman named Walks His Elk.

The old man moaned and pushed himself to a sitting position. “Better now.” Blood oozed from a gash on his forehead and one wrist hung as though broken. He reached over with his good hand and snatched a hunting knife from the dead white man's fingers.

“Stay down,” Flynn advised. “Play 'possom. I've got to get to my gun.”

“Bear shit!” Walks His Elk grabbed a lean-to post for support and pulled himself to his feet. “I may be old, but I'm not dead yet.” Swaying, knife in hand, he staggered off, uttering a thin Cherokee war cry.

Inside the sleeping shelter, all was pandemonium. Panicked people ran headlong in all directions, snatching up children and hunting for weapons. Belongings were scattered everywhere, and it was hard for Flynn to reckon just where he'd left his stash.

Someone had thrown a fur over the fire pit to douse the light, leaving the hut in total blackness. The fur scorched on the coals, sending up choking clouds of smoke. Frantically, Flynn scrambled through discarded blankets for his rifle and powder horn.

Pain ripped across the palm of his hand. Cursing, he reached down with his right hand and came up with a bone-handled skinning knife. The hilt was cut in an X pattern, and he recognized it at once. No wonder it sliced through his hand so easily. The blade was tempered Spanish steel, one he'd sold last spring to a woman named Painted Turtle. The cut was deep. He could feel blood running down his palm and wrist, but he had no time to bind it up.

Not if he wanted to live long enough to see sunlight….

More shots came from outside in the street. Flynn twisted to peer in that direction, and as luck would have it, he saw the big man in buckskin running at him an instant before the rifle barrel flashed. Flynn flung himself sideways, grabbed the rifle as the rifleman's charge took him halfway through the shelter, and twisted it from his opponent's hands. The man tripped over something on the dirt floor, swore, and went down. Flynn reversed the rifle and brought the butt down across his head, splitting it like a melon.

“Shame on ye, to use such language when you're about to meet your maker,” Flynn said.

Winded, he sat down hard. His heart was pounding and his head didn't feel too good either. He put a hand up to his temple, and his fingers came away wet. He didn't know what he'd done to make him so tired. He leaned over and vomited. Damn if his right arm was feeling numb and heavy, his fingers all tingly. The arm ached something fierce, and he wondered if that rifle ball had struck him after all.

Another shot rang out, but it sounded farther away. Most of the yelling had stopped. There was a strange buzzing in his ears, loud as a nest full of hornets. His breathing was still off too. Seems like he had to struggle to take a breath.

It was then that he remembered Shannon. His girl. She was here…someplace. She had to be. “Shannon? Shannon, darlin', where…”

Flynn's head sagged forward and the rifle rolled out of his limp fingers.

 

Shannon opened her eyes. “Storm Dancer?” She felt around. He was gone. It was still dark, but the mist had closed in around their sanctuary. The moon hung low in the sky. Where was he? Why had he left her alone?

She heard several loud pops, and leaped to her feet. A dog howled. Frightened, she pulled a blanket around herself and went to the entrance of the shelter. “Storm Dancer?”

The figure of a man in a slouch hat appeared, silhouetted against the darker trees.

“There you are.” She let out a sigh of relief. “I thought you'd left me here without a stitch to put on.”

And then, before he uttered a word, she knew something was wrong. That wasn't a Cherokee turban. It was a white man's head covering. Her breath caught in her throat.

“Well, well, well. Ain't this pretty.”

The stranger's words cut through her like ice. A strong cloud of chewing tobacco, sour sweat, and whiskey enveloped her. Whimpering in fear, she backed away, clutching her fur covering.

“Don't run away, little squaw. Simon Chew has something special fer you, gal. Something big.”

“Stay where you are, gal. Don't try to run out on Simon before all the fun.”

Shannon darted out the far side of the hut. The man lunged after her, grabbing the fur and tearing it away, leaving her naked. She had no time to think, only to run. Fog lay on the ground, so heavy that she couldn't see three steps ahead of her. The way was steep, downhill, and outcroppings of rock and loose scree made her footing treacherous, but she didn't hesitate.

“Come back here, you little devil!” he yelled.

A stone turned under her foot, twisting her knee, but she ignored the pain. She could hear him behind her, cursing, and sliding on rock. A pine tree loomed ahead of her. She dodged it, tripped over an exposed root, and abruptly the earth gave way.

Screaming, she tumbled through thin air.

She landed hard on her side but rolled onto her stomach, scrambled onto her hands and knees, and crawled forward into what felt like a thicket of blackberries. Seconds later, she heard her assailant cry out as he took the same plunge. She heard a heavy thud and then a groan. Curses split the air, oaths too vigorous to come from a dead man.

Thorns cut into her skin and ripped at her hair, but Shannon crept forward until she found her way was blocked by a stump and a tangle of underbrush. Unable to move, she dropped flat on her stomach and lay motionless, a hand clamped over her mouth to hide the sound of her ragged breathing.

“You broke my leg, you red bitch!”

Mistress Klank had possessed a greater range of swear-words than either her husband or any of their rough trade, but the man in the slouch hat put her to shame with the originality of his verbal arsenal.

Shannon went cold as she heard the ominous click of a hammer and knew that the lout had cocked his gun. She pressed her face into the leaves as a long rifle blasted. The lead ball hissed through the bushes over her head, whining like an angry wasp, snapping vines and twigs, and plowing into the tree stump.

A string of rank oaths, the acrid smell of black powder, and the unmistakable sound of another ball being tamped down a gun barrel made Shannon push her body deeper into the dirt and rotting leaves.

“I'll blow your futterin' brains out!”

She clenched her eyes shut.
Holy Mary, mother of God, help me
—

Every sound, every scent seemed magnified. The earth beneath her body smelled of rotting bark and green shoots. Very clearly, she could hear the faint chatter of a squirrel and the rustle of a bird's wing. The sounds were so strangely melodic that she wondered if the rifle bullet had hit her, and if she was dead already. But the fear that had numbed her drained away so that she could feel the sting of thorns on her skin, and she knew she still lived. There was no pain in heaven.

And then, clearly, came another light thud, so stealthy that her first thought was that a great mountain cat had dropped from a tree in search of an easy meal. Gravel grated underfoot, and her attacker shrieked in alarm. His shout changed to a scream that quickly became a chilling gurgle and then silence.

She bit down on her lower lip so hard that she tasted blood. At any second she expected to hear the crunch of bone as the lion devoured his kill.

“Shannon.” Storm Dancer's voice!

A flame of hope leaped in her chest. “I'm here.”

“Come out.”

“That man…”

“He will harm you no more. Come. The village is under attack.”

Slowly, painfully, briars tearing at her flesh, she wiggled backward out of the thicket. Storm Dancer snatched her up from the ground and wrapped his strong arms around her, crushing her against him. “Are you hurt?”

“I'm all right,” she assured him breathlessly. Her body was scratched and bleeding in a dozen spots, but it didn't matter. She was alive. “I ran. He didn't catch me.” She glanced down at the dark form sprawled on the edge of the ledge and the darker pool gathering on the grass.

“You are safe?” Storm Dancer demanded, releasing her.

Faintly, from the direction of the village, she could hear shouts and screams amid the rifle shots. “Who? Why—”

“No time.” He thrust a bundle into her arms. “Stay here. I must go to help my people.”

“You left me. Why did—”

“I went to bring your clothes. We left them at the edge of the cornfield.”

She clutched her cape and skirt against her bare breasts. “Don't leave me,” she begged. “Not with him.” She glanced toward the motionless body. “I can't stay here with—”

Storm Dancer muttered something in Cherokee, walked to the corpse, and kicked it over the edge. Far below, bone crunched against rock, making Shannon wince. “Stay here,” he repeated, thrusting the dead man's rifle and powder bag into her hands. “Until it is safe. I will come for you.” He turned from her and scrambled back up the rocks toward the hut.

“But what if you don't?” Shannon quickly pulled on the Indian garments. “What if…”

She trailed off, realizing that he could no longer hear her. He was gone, perhaps forever.

 

Time dragged as shouts and wails drifted up from the river and cornfields. An occasional scream rose in the night. Babies cried. A woman wept, her sorrowful lament raising gooseflesh on Shannon's arms. She was terrified that something terrible had happened to either Storm Dancer or her father.

Flynn had been down in the village, probably asleep when the attack had happened. Guilt weighed heavy on her shoulders. How could she remain here while the two people who meant most to her in the world might be injured or even dead? And what of the others? Little Woodpecker and sweet Dove who had shown her such kindness? Not knowing what was happening was torture. Only a coward would put her own safety first.

When she could stand it no longer, Shannon climbed the steep bluff to the hut where she and Storm Dancer had made love. It was a difficult ascent. Twice, she lost her hold and slid back. Her fingernails broke off on the rock, and gravel bit into her knees, but she wouldn't give up, and finally dragged herself over the top.

She ran around the hut and stared down the hill. To her disappointment, she could see no more from here than she could from the ledge below. How could Storm Dancer expect her to remain here when she could picture him struck down, blood spilling from his body?

The scum who had attacked her hadn't been French; he'd been English, and no soldier. His clothing, what she'd been able to see of them, had been typical frontier wear—fringed hunting jacket, leather pants. She couldn't imagine why Englishmen would attack a peaceful Cherokee village, especially since the English were so eager to have the Cherokee join their side against the French.

If Storm Dancer hadn't come in time, the man might have caught up with her. She had no illusions about what would have happened to her. Indian or not, he would have raped her, and afterward, once he knew that she was a white woman, he would have had to silence her so that she couldn't tell what he had done to her.

Her time with Storm Dancer had been the most wonderful experience of her life. She'd come to him a virgin, given him what she should have saved for her lawful husband. But she wasn't sorry. The price for this one night might be high, but what he'd given her was beyond cost. She would remember it and cherish it always.

It wasn't as if she were helpless. She had the rifle and knew how to shoot it if she had to. Could she do such a thing—to save herself—even to save someone she loved? Aim a gun at someone and pull the trigger?

She didn't know.

She wasn't a violent person. She hated fighting, couldn't remember ever hurting another human. She would make that decision when she had to. She might be soft of heart, but she was no coward, she told herself as she made her way down the steep path toward the cornfield.

Reaching the edge of the forest trail, Shannon hesitated at the edge of the trees. She listened, but heard no more shots or screams, but there were fires in the village, and she guessed that some of the houses were burning. A woman sang a heartrending lament that could only be mourning for the dead.

Cold reason settled over her, and she wondered if the rifle she carried for protection was loaded. There was only one way to tell. She pointed the gun into the air and pulled the trigger. There was a dull thud and powder flashed in the frizzen pan, but the weapon didn't fire. She would have to fix that before she took another step.

With trembling hands, she went through the motions to reload the long rifle. It was a skill she'd learned at Flynn's knee and perfected at Saturday turkey shoots held at Klank's tavern, where she'd loaded pistols and rifles for guests during competition.

Not that the tavern gave away any real turkeys as prizes. Once there had been a cantankerous one-legged goose, too old for roasting or laying eggs, but the favorite awards of the day were kegs of moonshine for the best shooters. Usually, Mistress Klank ordered her to drain off some of the whiskey for use at the bar and refill the keg with vinegar, a spoonful of pepper, and a little black powder for flavor.

Still, Shannon had no trouble reloading the dead man's rifle in pitch blackness, and that trick might save her life. “In for a penny, in for a pound,” she murmured. Anyone who saw the weapon in her hands and meant her harm would assume she'd shoot, so she may as well have the option.

Armed, she straightened her shoulders, and taking a deep breath, ventured into the cornfield. She'd not gone more than twenty paces when something big crashed out of the darkness. She stopped short, certain that whoever or whatever it is must see her coming.

Holding her breath, she waited. The thing took a few steps closer. She couldn't see what it was, but it was huge and alive. Grunting, knocking down cornstalks…Was it a bear or a mountain lion? It was big enough. Her stomach plunged. “Stop where you are,” she said.

The thing snorted, squealed, and lunged toward her.

Shannon lowered the rifle barrel. “Stop, or I'll shoot,” she warned. She didn't really expect a bear or a mountain lion to heed her command, but she was long past thinking clearly. The words just spilled out of her mouth like ale from a broken pitcher.

A heartbeat later, she made out the silhouette of a horse's head in the gloom. A horse! She'd nearly shot one of the village horses. “Whoa, whoa,” she soothed as she lowered the rifle.

The animal kept coming. A warm nose thrust against her shoulder and shoved hard. Shannon tried to hold her balance, tripped and fell back, landing on her bottom in the soft soil. The horse made a snuffing sound, pushed his nose in her face, and sneezed.

“Ugh.” She tried to push the animal's head aside, but it pushed the big head forward, knocking her flat a second time. “Go away. Stop it,” she protested.

The horse nickered plaintively.

Shannon used the gun to help herself up. There was something familiar about the shape of this horse—not a horse, but a large pony. “Badger? Is that you?”

The pony nudged her again with its nose. With a sigh of relief, she hugged the animal's neck. The pony was trembling. “You're scared too, aren't you?” Badger puffed air between his slobbery lips. “Maybe you—”

“Shannon?” Storm Dancer came toward her from the direction of the river.

“Are you all right?” she demanded.

“Yes. But your father is searching for you.”

Storm Dancer's voice was brusque, almost a stranger's, unlike the man who'd held her so tenderly hours ago.

“I think he's hurt.”

“Is it serious?”

“Go to him. He's at the far end of the dance ground.”

“Were many people hurt?”

“Too many. Eleven dead.”

“Cherokee?”

“Eleven.” He shook his head. “This man does not count the cowards who come at night to murder sleeping children.”

“Are they still here?” She peered into the darkness. “Are you sure—”

“The warriors drove them off. We go after them now.”

“You, too? Do you have to—”

He grasped her shoulders. “Go to your father, Shannon. It is not safe for you to be here now. You are English.”

“And it was Englishmen who attacked the village,” she finished for him.

“Yes. Return to the post and stay there.”

“But we had nothing to do with this. You know that—”

“I know that those who have lost fathers and sisters will seek revenge. Go while you can. No one will harm you tonight. By tomorrow, it may be different.”

“I don't understand,” she persisted. “Why would Englishmen attack the Cherokee?”

He embraced her. His chest was bare, and she could feel the beat of his heart through her thin leather cape. “I do not know,” he admitted. “But I know that we will follow those that did not fall. And we will kill them if we can.”

“Wait. There must be some other way.” She looked up into his face. “No one would expect you not to defend yourself when you were attacked, but if you follow them, if you take justice into your own hands, more English may come to avenge their deaths. The killing will go on and on.”

He kissed her. For the space of a heartbeat, she thought her plea had touched him, but then he released her and stepped away. “Go, Shannon.”

“I won't let you do this. What about us? What we shared?”

“One night, that was ours. It is over. You have one trail to follow. I have another.”

“I know that's what we said,” she answered, “but I can't let you go like this.”

“It is over between us.” He moved away from her. “Farewell, my heart. Live well. I will not forget you.”

“Just like that? You're walking away from me?”

“Find a good man with white skin. Have him build you a home and father strong children for you, far from these mountains. Return to your own land, daughter of Truth Teller. Go before the rains here turn to blood.”

“Shannon!”

Her father's shout came from the edge of the village. She turned toward the sound, and when she looked back, Storm Dancer was gone. Shaken, too numb to cry, she hurried toward Flynn. The pony followed her.