Red Bird's Song (26 page)

Sobs overwhelmed him and he could not speak. But he would not let her go. He'd never let go. Posetha closed his arm around his shoulder and wept with him.

Again the owl hooted. Wicomechee lifted his head and saw great snowy wings sail across the sky silhouetted against the yellow moon. Had the spirit of his precious wife flown with this ghostly bird?

"Does she yet live?” Posetha whispered.

In dread of what he would find, Wicomechee pressed his fingers to Charity's neck. A faint, but detectable pulse still beat beneath his trembling hand. He shifted his fingers to her chest and felt the slight rise and fall of her breathing. “She lives,” he said, in unspeakable relief.

Posetha gulped in air as though he'd just pushed his head above water. “I feared she was gone."

"She is weak, yet with me still.” Wicomechee poured his will into drawing her ever nearer.

Bright constellations arched across the clear sky and set below the horizon. New ones appeared in their place as they kept watch. Wicomechee brushed the hair from Charity's neck and felt again for her pulse. “She grows stronger. Listen,” he whispered with excitement.

Posetha bent his head near her chest and waited. “I hear her breathing! Is she still so cold?"

"Yes. Yet not so much as before."

"I will build up the fire."

The low flames crackled to life with the kindling Posetha fed them. The orange glow shone against the gray edging out the blackness as predawn light silvered the woods. Charity stirred, an almost imperceptible shifting, but Wicomechee was attuned to her every move.

"Come to me, Red Bird,” he urged with his very soul.

She turned her head slightly, as though in response.

"Come Charity."

A faint moan escaped her lips.

"I am here. I wait for you, Red Bird."

And then, with unspeakable joy, he heard her whisper his name. “Mechee."

Posetha clapped him on the back. “She is returning to you."

Streaks of rose tinged the eastern sky in the beginnings of a glorious dawn.

"With the sun."

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Chapter Sixteen

Five days later

Clouds the color of lifeless coals overhung the ridges. Raw breezes blew under Charity's skirts and flapped her cloak and the blanket she clutched around her. The cold wind chased rust-brown leaves and heaped them into crannies among the trees like squirrels’ nests. If only she could tuck down into a snug burrow to escape this bone-chilling damp. She longed for a cheery blaze and an end to this interminable day, but the end wasn't in sight.

After her horrific ordeal, Wicomechee and Colin both thought it best to try and catch up with Outhowwa's party, there being more safety in numbers. Failing that, they wanted to reach the village as soon as possible. Rather than allowing her time for an extended recovery, they'd spared two days and pressed on. This day was the worst since her injury.

She stood on the creek bank as the two men waded out into the brown torrent. Wicomechee staggered in the flow swiftly rising to his waist. “Too deep! Cross further ahead!"

Colin stopped behind him and waved the others back. Muga and Posetha turned away from the swollen stream and led the string of pack ponies taken from the trappers back up the bank. The blanketed heads of both children bobbed above the docile piebald, one of Muga's charges.

The two men slogged from the water, climbed between the moss-edged stones, and paused in front of the quiet gelding.

Emma sat atop the big horse clutching Mary Elizabeth in the folds of her blanket. Her face, partially hidden by the crimson cloak, creased in concern as she gazed down at them.

"You're soaked through, and ‘tis such a raw day."

Puddles collected at their feet, but Wicomechee shrugged.

Colin stomped his moccasins to shake off the excess moisture. “Don't fret, sweetheart. We've suffered worse."

Wicomechee arched an eyebrow at him and teasing touched his eyes. “When was this?” Colin smiled wryly.

It was beyond Charity to understand how they could joke when she was so wretched and they were far wetter.

Emma shook her head at them and shifted her focus to Charity. “You look all in. Want to ride with me again?"

"That jostling bothers my head. I'll stay with Mechee."

"This pace is too harsh for her, Colin,” Emma protested.

"I wish we could stop, but we can't make camp here."

Wicomechee nodded. “We must find another place to ford."

"No use standing here freezing our you know whats off.” Colin took the reins and started over the trail after Muga and Posetha.

Wicomechee and Charity fell in behind, and it was all she could do to put one foot in front of the other. He closed his hand around her arm and helped her along the outcropping that blocked access to the water. Weshe followed, better mended from his wound, it seemed, than she.

A red-tailed hawk shrilled overhead and flapped from a tall chestnut, partly veiled in the haze. White-capped sparrows fled its talons, darting into the heavy boughs of a spruce. The evergreen stood out among the barren branches covering the ridge, witness of winter's inevitable approach.

Aunt Mary had said she wanted Charity wed before snow flew. It seemed the iron-willed woman had gotten her wish, though not at all as she would have wanted. If only her aunt could know Wicomechee—but, no. It was hopeless. Charity was cut off from her people and home, and couldn't join the past with the present. Her uncertain future lay with this man whose strong arms lifted her over the limb blocking the trail.

On and on the line of stones persisted, and the narrowing path forced her to walk behind Wicomechee. Laurel hedged them in from the right; the rocks prevented any outlet to their left. Fixing her gaze on his newly acquired deerskin coat, she followed him like a beacon, his back the focus of this bitter trek. But the stones seemed determined to outlast her limited reserves. She heard water tumbling beyond the wall. Perhaps the stream was fordable now. How to know?

The path wore on, dipping and rising again, strewn with obstacles of all sizes. No opening emerged in the unyielding barrier. She stumbled over a log, lurching down onto her knees, and slumped on the hard trail. “Mechee!"

Weshe licked her hand while Wicomechee squeezed between the damp stone and returned to her. “Come. We will soon find a place to cross."

It wouldn't matter if only a few yards remained. There wasn't a step left in her. She cried weakly. “I can't."

He knelt and closed his arms around her. “Reach deep inside. Find strength."

She pressed her face against his coat, inhaling his unique scent mingled with wood smoke and the cold forest. “You march me like a soldier."

"Not soldier. Shawnee warrior."

"What difference? Both are tireless."

He cupped her icy cheek. “All men tire."

"Not like me. You don't."

"I have no injury. Go just a little further."

"No. Let me stay here."

"We will find a better place to camp.” He stood and pulled her to her feet. “
Ouishi cattoui
, be strong."

Her unsteady legs threatened to give out.

"I will help you."

"How? The trail's too tight."

He stepped ahead of her and reached an arm behind his back. “Take my hand."

She grasped his fingers like a lifeline. They made slow progression. A woodpecker hammered at the dead oak looming above them like an enormous corpse. Wicomechee turned and lifted her over a chunk from the decaying giant. Retaking her hand, he walked on.

Above the wind and water she heard a man shout something in Shawnee. It sounded like Muga. “What did he say?"

"Stones are soon gone. We can cross now."

"Thank heavens!"

Wicomechee helped her beyond the last of the rocky wall then half-led, half-carried her to the bank. She leaned against him, her chest heaving. Posetha was midstream with three ponies. Brown water rushed by just below his waist, lower on Muga waded a few yards behind him. Legs tucked up, the children clung to their pony while Colin sloshed behind them leading Stuart.

"I will carry you over,” Wicomechee said to Charity.

"What of Weshe? He might be swept away."

"You hold him. I hold you—"

A chilling shriek, like a woman's tortured scream, shattered the late afternoon gloom.

"
Meshepeshe
,” Wicomechee hissed. “Panther."

Her heart lurched, and Weshe growled.

Many settlers had seen the ravages these devil cats made on their livestock. Some had lost children to its powerful teeth and claws. The horses whinnied sharply. Empowered by the rush of fear, Charity stood without swaying as they scanned the dimly-lit trees on the opposite bank.

Again, the terrifying scream rent the air.

The pack ponies went wild. Posetha fought to control his charges, but they tore free in a mad scramble up the bank. Muga snatched up the children and just kept them from toppling into the current. His panicked ponies thrashed to shore.

Stuart snorted and tossed his head, but stayed as he was. Emma clung to his mane with one hand and her tiny infant with the other. “Will he throw us?” she cried.

Colin didn't even glance at the gelding. His focus, like Wicomechee's, was on the hazy trees across the stream. “No, darling. Stuart's steady as they come."

Charity wasn't so sure. “If he tosses Emma, she could lose the baby in this rough water. Nor can she swim."

"Waupee's horse has much courage—there,” Wicomechee pointed. A large, black panther crouched on a high branch ready to spring on the ponies. “I despise to kill him. But I must.” He leveled his musket.

Charity grasped his arm. “Stuart may bolt if you fire."

Before Wicomechee could speak or knock her hand aside, Colin snatched his musket from his shoulder and fired.

The explosion discharged near Stuart's head, but he adhered to his training as the feline menace plunged to the ground. Charity sucked in her breath. Wicomechee stared slack-jawed at the fallen panther then at his English brother.

Feet stretched out before the fire to dry his sodden moccasins, Wicomechee sat with his friends and James. How good to be in jovial company with the promise of a decent meal before him. The gloom of the day had lifted and the night was cold, but not bitter. Stars shone amid the clearing clouds.

He looked past the gathering where Charity slumbered with Emma and Lily beside her. This mountainous trek in late autumn was hard on the women, Charity so recently injured, and Emma not fully recovered from the birth.

He slanted his eyes at Waupee and the swaddled infant tucked against his shoulder. How tenderly he held his tiny adopted daughter. Wicomechee would give almost anything for a child of his own, but he'd said nothing more to Charity after her initial alarm. Longing for family was as strong in him as the will to live, especially after his father had abandoned him and his mother died...but he didn't want to dwell on that and buried the aching pain deep inside where it belonged.

He glanced down at James sitting between him and Posetha as he roasted a skinned squirrel on a stick. The pleasure in the child's face bespoke his part in its demise. Wicomechee smiled at the boy. “You will grow to be a great warrior."

James beamed. “Like you, Muga, and Posetha?"

"What about me?” Waupee prompted.

"You are Uncle Papa. Not a warrior,” James explained.

Wicomechee laid his hand on his brother's arm. “Waupee is also a warrior. We taught him. We will teach you."

"Papa wanted me to be a farmer, but being a warrior is heaps better. Will it take me long to learn?"

"Many years. There is much to know."

"Uncle Papa killed that panther good. Did you teach him to shoot?"

Wicomechee studied Waupee. “Not so well as this."

"A lucky shot,” Waupee said.

"No. That shot took much skill."

Posetha regarded the adopted Englishman. “Why do you not share in the hunting?"

"I have,” Waupee argued.

"Not for many weeks."

Waupee shifted his gaze to the women, an underlying anxiety in his good humor. “I'd rather see to the horses."

"Uncle Papa is real good with horses,” James said.

Wicomechee rested his hand on the child's blond curls. “Yes. Yet there is more reason why Waupee does not hunt.” It came to him in a flash. “You fear to leave your wife."

"After Chaka nearly scalped Emma and went after Charity, I felt uneasy being any distance away,” Waupee admitted.

Wicomechee flung up his hands. “I also feel this."

Waupee met his exasperation with a half smile. “Someone must guard the women."

"A task I would gladly share."

Posetha grinned. “I also."

"Oh, no. Find your own woman,” Waupee tossed back.

James snorted. “What do you all want women for anyway? They're a bunch of trouble and don't make hardly no sense."

Waupee chuckled. “In about ten years you will understand why we trouble with these puzzling creatures."

James brushed his assurance aside to reason with Posetha. “You are much better off without a woman. They like things clean. You'll have to take baths,” he warned.

Posetha was unmoved. “I bathe in the river."

"But you can't have no fun with women around."

"I think I could have much fun with a woman.” Lips twitching, Posetha glanced around as if searching the trees. “Where must I seek for one?"

"Well,” James's said, conceding defeat in the face of Posetha's obstinacy. “I don't usually see them in the woods. They like cabins. You got any?"

Wicomechee closed an arm around the boy. “A
wikon
is like a small cabin. We have many in the village, also women."

James eyed Posetha as though he'd missed the obvious. “Look there, then."

Waupee chuckled. “The lad is right. What about a village girl? Nialinwe's not hard on the eyes."

"Beautiful,” Posetha agreed. “Yet Nialinwe prefers Wicomechee. She waits for him."

Wicomechee gave his loose-tongued friend a look.

Waupee's smile broadened. “Now that my brother has a wife, perhaps she will have you."