Into the Wilderness (76 page)

Fear
was commonplace in the bush. Once, deep in concentration as he aimed at a
running buck, he had lost his footing and begun to slide over the edge of a
cliff. As a young man, he had seen a panther drop out of tree onto a boy's back
and reach around to lay his throat open with a casual swipe of a paw. More than
once, he had capsized in icy white water. But this fear was colder, because he
could put no face to it, beyond the ones that Joe had described. No face that
he wanted to see.

With
his bad hand cradled against his chest, Richard was holding up his left palm
toward Nathaniel.
Wait
, he mouthed.
Wait
.

Against
the first gauzy light of dawn the huge form materialized in the door all at
once. Nathaniel's nostrils flared: sweat and tobacco and beaver musk and bear
grease, and all the other smells together that made the Kahnyen’keháka smell.
Fear gave way to relief so suddenly that Nathaniel broke into a running sweat.
He lowered his rifle sights to wipe his face with one sleeve.

The
man in the doorway came forward. The firelight picked out his rough—cast
features: an old tomahawk scar ran from his scalp down the left side of his
face; one ear was mangled. Nathaniel didn't recognize him, but that didn't
matter. He would be related somehow, through Sarah. And a Kahnyen’keháka out
hunting or traveling wouldn't be alone.

It
took three heartbeats for Nathaniel to realize that something was wrong with
Richard, who crouched motionless on the other side of the fire. All the
wariness and anger in his face had disappeared. Above the beard, his face had
taken on the look of a child, blank with fear.

The
man's eyes were narrowed and fixed on Richard. Suddenly, unexpectedly, they
widened in surprise. The large mouth broadened into a smile, splitting the
tattoos on his cheeks with deep dimples, turning him from a warrior into a boy.

"Irtakohsaks,"
said the man to Richard Todd. "Etshitewa'kenha, kariwehs tsi
sahtentyonh."

Cat—Eater, Little Brother. You have been
gone a very long time.

Such
a warm and excessively sunny morning seemed improbable after the night of
storms, but Elizabeth woke to just that. She might be wet through, every muscle
might protest at the need for action, but the early morning sunlight was
welcome on her face.

And
there was a rabbit, fresh killed, bleeding into the grass at her feet, and
evidence on Treenie's muzzle that she had indulged herself first.

"Very
generous of you," Elizabeth praised her. "but how am I going to start
a fire?" She hauled herself into a sitting position and stretched arms
overhead, wincing slightly. She was not quite hungry enough to eat the flesh
raw. But eat she must.

Eventually,
she found a cranny between some boulders where the accumulation of autumn
leaves was thick and deep enough to provide some dry under. This she fed
carefully until there was enough of a flame to cook the rabbit on an improvised
spit of green wood. In the end she burned both her fingers and her mouth and
ate it near to raw anyway, while Treenie made short work of the odds and ends.

She
wished desperately for the time to sit quietly and dry out, even as she sorted
through her things and made ready to set off. In the bottom of her pack she
found a forgotten store of nuts, which she cracked between her teeth while she
surveyed the damage. The gunpowder was damp, but she was only a morning's walk
from Robbie, if she didn't lose her way. For that long she could do without the
musket. The knife was easily dried and oiled. Finally, Elizabeth changed into
the spare hunting shirt, which was not quite so damp as the overdress on her
back, loosed her hair so that it could dry in the breeze and the sun, pinned
her hair brooch to the inside of her shirt to keep it safe, checked the
compass, and set off with her moccasins cold and wet on her feet.

She
found herself humming after a bit, and stopped, surprised and a little shocked
at a disquieting truth: she was no longer panicked. The thought of Nathaniel
made her walk faster, but somewhere during the storm she had lost the kind of
breathless fear which had threatened to overwhelm her since the shooting. Under
clear skies washed into brilliance, panic was replaced by a calmness of
purpose.

The
forest thinned by mid—morning into something approximating a meadow, or as
close to a meadow as she had ever experienced in the great northern woods.
About an acre in diameter, it was predominantly knee—high grasses and blueberry
thickets. Recognizing the place as the one Nathaniel had described to her,
Elizabeth stopped and took her bearings again. She was to leave the river and
turn due south, here, and make her way over the hill before her. There would be
a deer trail, Nathaniel had said, that crossed a brook with an abandoned beaver
dam.

With
a start Elizabeth found herself nearly tripping over a fawn hidden in the
grass, a tiny thing with huge round eyes that looked up at her without fear or
interest. Treenie pushed forward eagerly.

"Mind
your manners," Elizabeth said to her sharply. Dejected, the dog loped
ahead in search of an uncensored meal. Elizabeth was hungry, too, but on the
other side of this hill she would come to the lake called Little Lost, at the
foot of Robbie's mountain. The thought of delay was unbearable.

She
tucked the compass into her belt and went down on one knee to retie a moccasin,
feeling her hair, dry now, falling in a veil past her cheek and shoulder to
touch the ground. It was a strange feeling to wear her hair loose, almost as
disconcerting as it would be to walk naked through the meadow. Feeling suddenly
vulnerable, Elizabeth stood.

"Not
so long ago, the Indians would have fought over those long curls of
yours," said a voice behind her. "Killed each other for the privilege
of scalping you. But of course, your hair is magnificent, Madame Bonner."

Elizabeth
drew one very slow and deep breath. She turned, her thoughts churning as fast
as the racing of her heart.

Jack
Lingo. He was directly before her; she could see the individual hairs in the
eyebrow which he raised in a quizzical arch.

"I
see I have surprised you."

His
gaze flickered away, over her shoulder. Behind them Treenie was growling, a sound
which would have made Elizabeth's hair stand on end in other circumstances. The
trapper pursed his lips.

"Your
animal?" he asked, bringing up the barrel of his rifle.

"Yes,"
Elizabeth said hoarsely. The clack of the hammer striking the lock seemed very
loud. With the hiss of the primer powder, she simply reached out and pushed the
barrel hard to one side and held it there in her fist. She felt it jerk in her
hand with the blast of sound and smoke. Above her own coughing, the other
sounds came all together: Lingo's curse, and the dog's scream. She turned in
time to see the flash of one red haunch disappearing into the trees.

Elizabeth
turned on her heel to go after her, but Lingo had her by the wrist with a grip
that did not yet hurt, but soon would.

"Let
me go," Elizabeth said.

"It
was just a graze, thanks to your foolish intervention. You needn't worry about
the animal."

Elizabeth
stilled suddenly.

The
eyebrow peaked again. "You don't believe me, and why should you? But in
this case I am telling the truth. She has gone off to tend her wound. She may
live."

He
jerked with his head toward a log on the ground, letting go of her wrist.

"Sit."

She
stood, and watched his face cloud with something she could not name. Not anger.
Anticipation. Her stomach rose and turned in on itself

"Mr.
Lingo," she said, and faltered.

"Sit,"
he repeated. "We may have a long wait ahead of us. And please, you must
call me Jacques."

"Jacques,"
she said. "Please let me go."

At
that he gave her a broad smile. His teeth were very white and even, overlarge
in his face. "Do you beg me already? You disappointed me last time,
madame. This time I will wait for your good husband to come and confront him
myself; perhaps with your assistance we can finally resolve this
misunderstanding between us."

Elizabeth
could not gather her thoughts. He intended to keep her here with him; she could
not be delayed. Perspiration trickled down her face.

He
was looking at her sharply. "Unless you are already widowed?"

She
jumped. "No."

Lingo
reached over and took the useless musket out of her belt. He tapped the muzzle
against one tooth, thoughtfully. "So soon tired of married life? No, I
thought not. He has a way with the women, does Nathaniel. There was a little
wench up in Good Pasture, she would have followed him anywhere once he had her.
But he was not interested in a wife at that time. Or shall we say, not in a
poor wife. But I bore you."

"Mr.
Lingo." began Elizabeth. "Come along with me if you must, but I have
an errand that cannot wait."

"Cannot
wait?"

Elizabeth
shifted uncomfortably, using all her concentration to set her face in neutral
lines. To tell this man that Nathaniel lay wounded and defenseless a day and a
half's walk away did not appeal to her at all. On the other hand, if she did
not tell him he might keep her here all day, which would be disastrous. She had
no doubt that he could outrun her, even with his limp. Remembering the look on
Nathaniel's face when he had found her after her last conversation with Lingo,
she knew that she was in very serious trouble.

"I
have to fetch Robbie," she said finally. "There was an accident.
Richard Todd was hurt. Nathaniel can't carry him out, alone."

The
blue eyes narrowed. "I have no patience with lying women," he said.
"I have relieved more than one of that breed of their tongues."

Elizabeth
drew herself up, and called forth every bit of dignity she possessed.
"Richard Todd is injured, and I am on my way to Robbie. I'd like my musket
back, please."

She
regretted that
please
. It had sparked
an unpleasant smile.

"
Mais non,
you cannot leave so soon. And
it would not do you any good. Robbie is away."

"Away?"
She cleared her throat. "If he is walking his trap lines, he will be back
soon enough. Now." She nodded and took a step backward. "Excuse me—”

“but
I most certainly do not," said Jack Lingo. "Look, here comes an old
friend of yours. Perhaps you will find his conversation more to your
liking."

Even
in total darkness, the smell would have been enough to put a name to the man
who came up behind her.

"Dutch
Ton," said Lingo. "The beautiful Madame Bonner, of whom you speak so
often. I think we will make camp right here, don't you?"

* * *

In
the late afternoon she made her first attempt at escape, and failed. The men
had been drinking for hours, quarreling and singing in turns; sometimes they
seemed to forget her, and other times they discussed her openly, as if she were
not capable of understanding their comments.

Elizabeth
watched the sun track through the sky, feeling the skin on her nose and across
her cheekbones burning and stretching with the heat. Lingo would not allow her
to change her position; he walked with her to the edge of the forest when she
relieved herself, turning away slowly after a disquieting moment when he seemed
to be set on watching her.

She
guessed the hour to be three in the afternoon when they fell asleep. Lingo sat
against a sapling with his rifle cradled across his lap, his ankles crossed and
his chin on his chest. Dutch Ton, twice his width, lay spread—eagle in the
meadow grass with his mouth open to the sky, the ginger stubble on his face
glistening with saliva. Elizabeth watched them breathing for a long time, and
then she simply stood up and began to walk away.

When
she had reached the edge of the wood, a rifle shot clipped a tree branch just
above her head. Lingo had caught up to her before she could even think of
running. Without a word, he wound one fist in her hair and yanked her back to
camp. She would not yell, though she could not stop the tears that welled up at
the pain.

This
time he did not banter politely as he bound her. The rope was old and sticky
with some substance Elizabeth could not—and did not want to identify He pulled
a loop tight around her left wrist, and tied the other end to his belt. Then he
fell with a grunt back down to the ground, scratching the crotch of his
breeches intently. He laughed out loud when she looked away.

"What
do you think, has he grown tired of her?" he asked Dutch Ton. "It is
hard to imagine, looking at her. But then again perhaps she is unresponsive."

"She
can read," Ton pointed out. "A teacher."

Lingo
spat into the fire.

"We
might shave her head," he said thoughtfully, leaning over to touch a curl
where it lay on Elizabeth's shoulder. "No scars, after all. But a clear
message."