Cherokee Storm (19 page)

She liked the solitude. As she milked the cow, dodging swishes of Betty's manure-caked tail and the occasional kick, she reveled in the sounds of birdsong and bees. A bluebird lit on a fence post and preened jewel-like feathers while a wren chattered away from the tree beside the house. She thought she could have been happy here, if it weren't for Drake. But now, any marriage with him was impossible.

She'd unknowingly married a murderer.

Not married, she told herself. There had been no priest, no mention of God. The fort commander had simply listed their names and ages and personal information on a sheet torn from a ledger and declared them husband and wife. The paper was in her apron pocket still.

Shannon stood up and set the bucket aside. She stepped far enough from the cow to keep the wicked animal from kicking over the milk, and removed her marriage lines from her pocket. Betty stretched out her neck, bared yellow teeth, and tried to snatch the paper from her hands.

Tears blurred her eyes as she scanned the date and the commandant's rank and signature. This wasn't a marriage license. It was a bill of sale. She might as well have been a cow.

Betty leaned back on the rope that held her to the fence and swished her tail. Her bulging eyes rolled in her head as she tried desperately to reach the creased page in Shannon's hand.

“You want this?” Shannon asked. “Have it.” She fed the cow the paper and watched with satisfaction as Betty chewed and swallowed the entire thing.

 

Shannon tried to keep busy through the day. She hobbled both the cow and the pony to keep them from wandering too far and turned them loose to graze. She swept and scrubbed the cabin floor, strained the milk through clean linen and poured it into a flat pan to let the cream rise.

She hoed the garden, pulled a few greens and turnips, and set Johnny cake to bake in a Dutch oven on the hearth. Then she drew enough water from the well to wash her clothes. After she'd hung the garments to dry on nearby bushes, she carried more water and heated it for a bath.

She washed her hair and scrubbed herself from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes, scrubbing off every trace of Drake Clark and the filthy English fort. She doubted that hostiles would attack Green Valley, but if they did—if they killed her—she intended to stand clean at the golden gates of heaven.

When the cream rose by late afternoon, Shannon carefully skimmed it off and put it in a deep bowl. The remaining milk she poured into a crock and lowered into the well in a bucket. It was cool in the well, and the milk would keep for days. She washed her new butter churn, dumped in the cream, and made a fine batch of yellow butter to eat with her bread and greens.

Where was Storm Dancer this evening? she wondered. Were he and his new wife bathing in some mountain stream, or had they crept away to make love on a secluded bed of moss? Losing him was bitter. She knew they said that they couldn't be together, that the night they'd shared was just that. But she had never dreamed how much it would hurt to give him up. Just thinking about him made her teary-eyed.

Resolutely, she tied her drying hair back, picked up the rifle, and went to look for the cow and pony. Betty, she found just beyond the pound fence, nibbling grass. Her bag seemed full, and she was mooing to be milked, so once again, Shannon fetched the bucket and tended to the animal's needs.

But this time, just as Shannon finished milking, a rabbit hopped across the grass. The cow shied, kicked over the milk, and yanked her tether free from the fence post. Before Shannon could grab the trailing rope, Betty was out the gate and trotting through the gathering dust toward the garden.

Shannon dashed after the cow, but there was no catching her. The contrary beast kicked up her heels and ran off across the field toward the far woods. “Suit yourself!” Shannon shouted. “Be eaten by bears! See if I care!”

The pony was nowhere in sight. Shannon hadn't thought the animal would stray far from the cow, but Badger was as mischievous as Betty. The sun had already dropped below the horizon, and it would be dark soon. Shannon wasn't afraid of staying alone in the cabin, but she didn't relish the thought of roaming the forest at night in search of stray livestock.

Summer days are long in the Smoky Mountains, but night falls quickly, after sunset. And all too soon, shadows closed around the cabin. Shannon retreated to the stout walls, barred the door, and put on a kettle of water to brew tea.

She was tired. She'd worked hard all day; she'd had no sleep the night before, and little the last nights before that. She was nervous, but too exhausted to think of sitting up tonight. She would keep the rifle close beside the pallet, but she would sleep. And tomorrow, she'd hunt down the pony. If Damon didn't return in a few days, she'd set out on her own. She didn't want to drag Betty along if she didn't have to, but leaving the hateful cow with no one to milk her would tug at her conscience.

The only light in the cabin was the glow from the banked coals. She wasn't so wasteful as to go to bed with a candle burning. Candles, especially good wax ones such as Drake's, were expensive. She wanted no part of him, but she wouldn't take what wasn't hers to take. Her muscles ached as she stretched out on the mattress. It had been a long time since she'd worked this hard. Quickly, she dropped off to sleep.

She didn't know what awakened her. She sat upright and listened. From the direction of the pound came the howl of a wolf. Shannon shivered and instantly, she thought of the pony and Betty. They were out there, unprotected.

She wondered if she should light a torch and take a look. Badger or the cow might be standing outside the cabin door. If he was, she could lead him inside. It would serve Drake right to have pony or cow tracks on his new floor. But the cabin had no window. There was only the one entrance and a small slide to peep through to see who was at the door. The chances were, she'd see nothing but blackness.

She rose from the pallet, put on her shift, and went to look outside. Nothing. “Badger? Are you out there?” She went back for the rifle. What would it hurt to open the door and—

Another wolf howled, this time from the direction of the garden. Was it the same wolf or another one? She took a torch from the wall, lit it, and crept to the door.

More howling. A chill went through her. A pack of wolves. What could she do with one shot against a pack? But if the pony had come back to the house for help, how could she leave him to be eaten alive? She would have to look, at least.

Summoning her courage, whispering a prayer under her breath, she slid back the bolt and threw open the door. She raised the torch, and then screamed as a flaming arrow thrummed past her head and slammed into the cabin wall, inches from her face.

Not wolves! Hostiles! Shannon ducked back inside and slammed the door. She threw her weight against it and dropped the metal bar in place. Her heart hammered against her ribs. How could she defend the cabin alone? How many Indians were out there? Were they Cherokee or some other tribe?

She forced herself to slow her breathing. Panic would do nothing but get her killed. The door was the only way in. If she made it difficult enough for the raiding party to break through the door, they might move on to another house.

The other cabins should be empty. She was certain most or all of the settlers had returned to Fort Hood with the Clarks. If the Indians had come to loot, there were easier pickings at one of the other homesteads.

Why hadn't she gone to safety with the others? Why had she been so stupid as to open the door? For a cow that was probably roasting over an Indian campfire? For a thick-headed pony?

Now the war party knew she was in here. Her carelessness had nearly cost her life. The stink of a lock of scorched hair that hung over her eyes was proof of that. Two inches closer, and she wouldn't have known what hit her. She shuddered at the thought of the flaming arrow piercing her temple. But she couldn't waste what time she had worrying over what she'd done wrong. She had to think of what to do now, if she had any chance of living through this. “Da,” she whispered, “I wish you were here to tell me what to do.”

The door was stout; the metal bar secured with solid oak, but determined men could break it down. She threw kindling on the coals and flames ignited the dry wood, illuminating the single room. She ran to the table, pushed it over, and dragged it to block the entrance. Whatever happened, she wouldn't surrender. She'd fight to her last breath. But the tiny cabin left few choices for defense. Where could she hide?

Howls rose from outside. Not two shrieking warriors, but ten, twenty. The shrill cries turned her blood to ice. She was going to die here. She was going to die with her sins weighing heavy on her soul…and she was going straight to hell without ever feeling Storm Dancer's arms around her again.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God,” she prayed. “Be with me now in my hour of—”

Shannon jumped back as something heavy struck the door. Again! The wood splintered, and a tip of silver metal appeared in the crack. An ax! They were chopping the door down. Frantically, she scanned the room.

Along one wall, steps had been cut in the logs to form a stairway leading up to the half-loft. Better there than standing here when the Indians broke in, she thought. Clutching the rifle, shot bag, and powder horn, she scrambled up the ladder. There were no furnishings in the shadowy loft, but an oxen yoke lay on the floor. She dragged it over to use as a brace for the rifle, and dropped flat on her stomach.

The ax struck the door again and again, the blade biting into the wood. It couldn't be an Indian tomahawk. That was hard steel hacking at the oak boards. With a sinking heart, she remembered seeing Drake's ax driven into a stump at the woodpile beside the open shed. Idiot! If he hadn't the sense to bring the ax inside, why hadn't she?

A chunk of wood flew inward and clattered across the floor. A painted face appeared in the jagged opening. Shannon didn't think. She took careful aim and squeezed the trigger. The long rifle boomed. The shock of the explosion threw her back, but her bullet flew straight and true.

One agonized shriek rang out. The face was gone.

“Father forgive me,” she murmured. Had she killed a man? Her pulse raced, and she clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering.

Bellows of fury reverberated from outside! More blows hammered the door. It was only a matter of time and the attackers would break through. Automatically, she removed the lid from the powder flask with her teeth, raised the rifle and dumped the right amount of powder into the barrel. She could hear her father's voice in her head.

“Slow now, slow and easy. Too much and you'll blow your head off. Too little, and your ball won't carry to your target.”

“I hear you, Da.” Her fingers felt as though they were made of wood as she fumbled for the patch and covered the end of the barrel with it.

“Aye, girl, that's right.” Da's calm words echoed from the past. Time seemed to stand still, and she could remember the day he'd taught her how to load the long rifle perfectly. “Now, darlin', seat your patch and ram it home.”

With trembling hands she used the iron ramrod to shove ball and patch down the barrel. With trembling hands, she measured fine black powder into the frizzen pan. She rested the rifle barrel on the oxen yoke and pulled back the hammer.

She held her breath, waiting for another eye to peer in through the hole. And when she saw movement, she fired again. Another shriek split the air, followed by the unmistakable sound of a body falling heavily against the door.

Scuffling, then silence.

She swallowed hard and began the process of reloading the rifle. “What do you think, Da?” she whispered into the empty loft. “Will they line up single file so I can mow them down, one by one, like birds at a turkey shoot?” She didn't think that was going to happen.

She waited.

Minutes passed. Had they given up, taken their dead or injured, and gone away? It was an optimistic thought, but she didn't believe that either. She was sorry that she had only the one rifle. She could load in a hurry, but she couldn't load fast enough to hold back a full-scale attack. If the war party came through the door, she might kill another brave, but no more than one. If they came in after her, she would be lucky to die quickly.

The kindling burned low, dimming the light in the room below. The smell of smoke rose to the loft. Odd, the fire didn't seem to be that smoky, but…Shannon clenched her teeth and stifled a tiny moan. The fire wasn't on the hearth; the scent of smoke was coming from outside.

The Indians had set fire to the cabin.

If she didn't go out, she would burn to death. And if she surrendered, they would give her no mercy. She'd be tortured, maybe raped, before they cut her to pieces or tied her to a stake and burned her anyway.

“Madame!” a man called out in heavily accented English. “Come out. I promise to protect you.”

A Frenchman.
Could she trust him or was this a trick? She didn't want to die here, but every instinct told her that opening that door a second time would be just as wrong a move as the first.

“Madame!”

If he was French, who were his allies? Shawnee? Huron? Cherokee? If they were Cherokee, they might let her live for Flynn's sake. But they couldn't be Cherokee, could they? Unless the Cherokee had learned that Drake had been with the cowards who had attacked the Cherokee villages. And if they were Cherokee and she was in Drake Clark's house, she would suffer the same fate as he would when they caught up with him.

Shannon rose onto her knees. If the Frenchman was telling the truth, he might take her north. She could be exchanged for French captives. That happened sometimes. She'd killed at least one of the Indians. All Indians admired courage. They might let her live…might even adopt her into the tribe. Anything would be better than dying, wouldn't it?

A crackling sound came from the far end of the loft. It was dark back there. She couldn't see the smoke, but she could smell it. The log walls were afire. Smoke began to seep under the door and curl upward. The smoke would rise. She would die of smoke inhalation long before the flames reached her. It was the first cheerful thought she'd had since the arrow had nearly missed her head.

“Madame.” The voice seemed farther away now, less certain.

Shannon coughed. Whatever else, it was time to pray.

“I can still save you,” the Frenchman said.

Yes,
she thought,
there's still a chance I can live.
She got to her feet. She'd surrender. That was the sensible thing to do. Surrender, and hope for the best.

But as she started for the ladder, she could have sworn she heard, not her father's voice in her head, but Storm Dancer's. His words were not in English, but in Cherokee.

“Do not go out. If you do, you will die.”

She shook her head. Impossible that she would hear Storm Dancer. Impossible that she would understand his native tongue. But his warning stirred doubt, and she stopped short. She'd been a fool earlier. Was she making a worse mistake now?

French officers were known for ignoring the cruel behavior of their Indian allies, and sometimes, they were known for participating in the worst of the torture. Would the death waiting outside be even more horrible than dying here with a gun in her hand?

What would Flynn O'Shea do?

The answer came as easily as her father's smile.

“Go to hell,” she whispered as she returned to her defensive position on the edge of the loft and leveled the rifle. “Show your face in that doorway and I'll send you there ahead of me.”

 

Captain Yves De Loup turned away from the burning cabin and shrugged. “We've wasted enough time on one woman,” he said to his translator. “Tell them to fire the roof.”

The brave repeated the Frenchman's words in Shawnee. After several shouts and a rash of defiant grumbling, one older warrior sent a fire arrow flying. Another man followed suit, and soon the cedar shingles were ablaze.

“Maybe she will come out,” the translator said.

“She will not come out,” De Loup answered brusquely. He gathered his reins and swung up into the saddle. “There are other cabins in this valley. Ask them if they will stay here like old women cackling or come with me and prove their courage against men?”

He was glad the woman had not surrendered. He had no time for prisoners, and he would not have risked the ire of the Shawnee war party to save her. This way was better. The woman was just as dead and would set an example for other English settlers, but he didn't have to witness her dying. He didn't like killing civilians, especially women. He had a young wife at home. But orders were orders, and dealing with Indians was not like giving orders to civilized French soldiers.

The Shawnee followed. One man carried the Englishman's ax over his shoulder, and others carried their two dead comrades. By the time he'd ridden across the cultivated field and entered the forest road, the cabin was fully engulfed. It was a pity, really. What he'd seen of the woman had looked attractive. She'd been a blonde, and he'd always been fond of yellow-haired women.

 

Storm Dancer was afraid that the boys guarding the horses had been ambushed as well, but he found them at their posts, sleepy, awake, and unharmed. It might have gone so differently. If Winter Fox, Flint, and the other delegates had been sleeping in the blankets by the fire, they would be dead instead of the French Colonel Gervais, five French soldiers, and more than a score of their Shawnee allies. Instead, the quarry had become the hunters. When the enemy war party struck the camp, they had found only empty blankets stuffed with branches and the
Tsalagi
at their backs.

Those of the Shawnee who survived the initial fight had fled into the forest. Winter Fox had ordered the
Tsalagi
warriors not to follow. There would be other days to fight the Shawnee. What was important was that the council members return home alive to their respective towns to report the French treachery.

The French Colonel Gervais had called a parley and then tried to murder them. And if Gall's father, Luce Pascal, was not in on the plot, he had turned a blind eye. The trader was now as much of an enemy as the Shawnee, and he would find that the Cherokee had long memories.

There was no more honor to be found among the French than among the English. The Frenchman Gervais had paid for his perfidy with his life. Winter Fox had met the colonel before in the north and recognized not only his face but the silver gorget that Storm Dancer had taken off his body.

Storm Dancer had come to the conclusion that neither the French nor the English could be trusted. The words and the treaties of white men were useless. It was clear that the Cherokee must learn to smile and shake hands with the foreigners but believe nothing they said. The
Tsalagi
must watch and learn their ways and use it against them.

Oona had warned him never to return to Truth Teller's trading post, but Storm Dancer felt he owed his old friend a warning. The fires of war blazed hot. It was no longer safe to be a lone white man on the edge of Cherokee land. Often men had accused Storm Dancer of being a hothead, of seeking war with the English, but others were far more eager than he to drive all the whites out of Indian land. Blood would flow and men on all sides would die. If he could save Shannon's father and his Delaware wife, he would.

More importantly, he must learn if Shannon was safe. Truth Teller must tell him where Shannon's new husband had taken her. That she had chosen another man cut deep, but he could not stand aside and let harm come to her. So long as he drew breath, he would love her.

He would warn her and her man as well. She still held his heart, what was left of it, and he could not bear to think of her in danger. It would be better if her husband took her back East where the Shawnee did not prowl the night and
Tsalagi
children wept for their dead mothers.

For now, he could do nothing. He had to see his uncle, his father, and the rest of the delegation safely back to their home villages before he could go to Truth Teller's trading post. Duty came before personal desire for a warrior of the
Tsalagi.
He pushed back the growing uneasiness. Worrying about Shannon wouldn't change her fate. He must fulfill his mission and then ride hard for her father's post.

If harm came to her, the sun would no longer warm him. Water would no longer quench his thirst. He would paint his face and take up the
blood tomahawk.
He would hunt down the enemy until he drew his last breath.