Savage Betrayal (25 page)

The slave woman dared a quick frown in Feast Giver’s direction. Then bringing a cedar blanket over to the ailing chief, she covered Thunder Maker gently with the blanket. She nestled herself comfortably on the floor nearby, obviously intending to keep watch over the old man as he slept. Feast Giver decided against reprimanding her for her rude behavior—this time. He realized his father had probably encouraged her poor manners.

Shrugging to himself, Feast Giver walked away thoughtfully. He must convince his father that reprisals against the Ahousats were absolutely necessary—for him, for his father, and for his people.

* * * *

Day by day, Feast Giver continued to call on his father. The old man began to show a gradual improvement. Perhaps it was the young man’s visits; perhaps it was the conversation they had shared that one day. Whatever the reason, Thunder Maker began to take an interest in those around him. No longer did he turn his face to the wall. Now he watched as his wives moved about the longhouse. He drank the medicines prepared for him by Abalone Woman and began to get his energy back.

One day Feast Giver was at Thunder Maker’s bedside. As usual, the slave woman Cedar Bundle was also in attendance.

“I’m tired of lying around this longhouse,” snapped Thunder Maker. “Take me outside so I can breathe fresh air, smell the sea and watch children play,” he ordered the slave woman. “I can’t stand being shut in this dark house any longer!”

Feast Giver and Cedar Bundle carried the old man outside to the beach. There Cedar Bundle fussed about with him and propped him up with cedar mats. She made sure he was covered with a soft cedar blanket so the slight breeze would not give him a chill. As she as wrapping another cedar blanket around his shoulders, he yelled out, “Enough, woman! Stop your fussing! Leave me to my son. We want to have a man-to-man talk.”

With a twinkle in her eye, Cedar Bundle gravely patted the chief’s hand. “Now I know you’re getting better—you’re anxious to be up and around,” she said softly.

Drawn out of his anger, Thunder Maker smiled at her and said gruffly, “Go, woman. You’ve done enough for me.” He watched as she walked gracefully back to the longhouse.

“Ah son, she reminds me of your mother.”

Feast Giver looked at his father in astonishment. Cedar Bundle was not at all like the memories he carried of his mother. His father continued, “How I miss your mother, even after these many years.” Thunder Maker sighed heavily, then added, “Now I have Cedar Bundle. She’s a good woman.”

Feast Giver was, for once, speechless. His father mistook the silence for tact. “What have you been doing while I’ve been wasting away in my longhouse?”

Feast Giver cleared his throat and responded cautiously, “I’ve been talking with some of the young men, Nuwiksu. They want revenge for the Ahousat betrayal.”

His father nodded. “I was afraid of that, my son. I suspected you would not give up your plans of revenge.”

“Nuwiksu, you know I think we must avenge ourselves. If it becomes known up and down the coast that the Ahousats can come and kill our warriors and take our women, then we’ll have nothing.”

His father nodded. “Too true, too true. Ah, but how I hate to risk your life, my son. You’re all I have left now. Your sister is gone. Who knows if she’s even alive—“

The scowl on his son’s face cut short Thunder Maker’s words.

“My sister lives,” stated Feast Giver stubbornly.

“Perhaps, my son, perhaps. Nevertheless,” pointed out Thunder Maker, “I have no warriors left. Even were we to carry out your plans, we don’t have the men to do it. Too many Hesquiat warriors were killed by the Ahousats. Too many Hesquiat heads sit on pikes in Ahousat village.”

“We may have few men, but those we do have are strong and eager to fight the Ahousats,” answered Feast Giver. “Nuwiksu, listen. I have a plan, but to carry it out, our men must be well-armed.” His father was watching him speculatively. “Nuwiksu, I want new weapons from the white traders,” said Feast Giver evenly. “I want the weapons the traders call ‘mus-kets.’”

He waited to see his father’s reaction. “I’m listening, my son.”

“These mus-kets can kill a man with one shot. A hard ball is rammed down the throat of the weapon—it looks like a heavy stick—then the stick is pointed at whoever you want to kill. I’ve heard talk to these weapons and I want them.”

Thunder Maker nodded slowly. “I’ve heard such talk myself,” he revealed. Then he added musingly, “We have enough furs to trade for a few such weapons.” He eyed his son thoughtfully. “But I want you to promise me one thing. I’ll give my consent to your revenge raid only on one condition.”

Thunder Maker waited; it was Feast Giver’s turn to watch warily.

“I want your consent, Nuwiksu,” answered the young man at last. “You know I don’t want a break between us.”

“Good,” grunted his father. “The condition is this: before you lead a revenge raid, you must rescue your sister.” He held up his good arm to prevent the outburst even now forming on Feast Giver’s lips. “I’m afraid for her life if you raid the Ahousats while she’s still there. They’ll kill her—if she’s not already dead.”

Feast Giver felt torn. He loved his sister and wanted her safe, but he felt deeply the obligation to uphold the family honor. And already, too much time had passed…When at last he spoke, his voice was as heavy as his heart, “Nuwiksu, I’ll do as you say. I’ll lead a rescue party for Sarita. But once she’s safely returned,” he emphasized forcefully, “I will lead my raid for vengeance.” He smiled, his lips cruel. “And now, about those mus-kets—“

The several days that Fighting Wolf and Sarita spent at the beach seemed to fly by. Gathering berries and roots, fishing, swimming, laughing, and playing occupied their days. Moonlit swims and making sweet love occupied their nights. It was a time together like no other; here there was no master, no slave, just two people who laughed and loved together. She felt content with Fighting Wolf and pushed all thoughts that he was her enemy from her mind.

For him, it was an idyllic time. He gloried in the sensuousness of it all: the warm sunny weather, the cool water, the beautiful scenery. But most of all, the lovely woman at his side. When they made love, it was as if they had been fashioned only for each other. Never had a woman felt so perfect for him. During the days, too, he found her to be an enchanting, intelligent companion, interested in many things. He was becoming deeply enamored of her. He determined that when he was back in his village, he would keep her for himself.
She is mine
.

Sarita relaxed and blossomed during this carefree time. Here with Fighting Wolf, she felt strangely free. Here he was an entertaining, amusing friend, not the intimidating warrior she had known in the village. She felt free to be herself, to laugh, to make silly jokes, to feel happy and to make love. It was truly as if only the two of them existed in the world.

Then one morning Fighting Wolf woke her with a kiss and the simple statement, “It’s time to go back.”

She had known that this bliss could not last forever; nevertheless she was sorry that the end had come so soon. She nodded and returned his kiss slowly, wondering how things would be for them, for her, once they were back at his village. She rolled away from him and rose quickly, gracefully, her long, lithe body shivering. She pulled her kutsack, mended now, over her head and, with a trembling smile, reached out a hand to pull him up.

Together they ate a simple breakfast of fish, berries and roots gathered the day before. Their few possessions were packed away, including a new, carved digging stick Fighting Wolf had made for her. Then he loaded everything into the waiting canoe.

Reluctantly, she turned and her eyes swept the panorama of beach. Wisps of mist rolled over the beach, the tops of the trees were gray in the morning light, the dark shadow of sand stretched off into the distance—she wanted to memorize it all. She had been truly happy here, and she did not know when she would feel as carefree and happy again.

Fighting Wolf pushed the small canoe into the surf and they were on their way. The morning mist was all around them now, muffling the sound of their paddling, touching their skin with long wet fingers, leaving kisses of dew in their dark hair.

They paddled for a long while until she finally broke the silence. “What will happen to me once we’re back in your village?” she asked bluntly. The question had been preying on her mind all morning. She wanted to know. She had to know.

He continued paddling as he pondered what to tell her. At last he stated arrogantly, “You’re mine. I’ll let no one take you. You’ll continue to stay in my living quarters.”

A feeling of hopelessness spread over her at his words. Nothing had changed. All these feelings she had discovered, her body’s responses to his touch, her happiness at being with him, were all as naught to him. He merely thought of her as a possession, someone to be owned. Her back to him, she concentrated on paddling, ignoring the tears that slid down her cheeks and mingled with the wet kisses left there by the mist.

They continued silently on their way, the rhythm of the paddling hypnotic, taking them farther and farther from their beach idyll.

Fighting Wolf was pleased. She was everything, and more, that he wanted in a woman. The last few days had shown him that. Even now, when he knew she must be disappointed to be going back, she did not reproach him, or beg and plead. Yes, he would keep her. She was his.

He wondered idly how it would have been between then had they been married, had he not stolen her away. Then he shrugged. It was better this way. He had complete control over her and could have her beautiful body whenever he wanted. He did not have to put up with what
she
wanted. Except in lovemaking, of course. Then he wanted to know what pleased her. He chuckled to himself. Even now, after several days with her, he desired her. The thought surprised him. Usually by this time, having spent so much time with one woman, he would have been glad to be rid of her.

He tried to picture his first wife running nude through the surf, splashing him, playing and laughing with him, and failed utterly. Gentle and quiet as she was, she could never have let herself play like that. If it had been her he was with for the last several days, he would have been bored. Well, perhaps not bored, merely uninterested.

Sarita could see the village ahead. The fog had rolled away; the hot sun was high overhead, burning down on them. Again she was struck by the picturesque setting of the summer village. The tops of the high mountains in back of the village were still covered in swirling mists. The lower mountains stood out gray-green. The river to one side flowed swiftly, its gray waters meeting and swirling with the sea on one side.

Small figures moved on the beach. The gray, weather-beaten boards of the longhouses contrasted with the tall, dry, yellow grass growing around them.

As Fighting Wolf and Sarita approached the beach, several people ran towards their canoe. A man, a commoner from Fighting Wolf’s longhouse, waded out and grabbed the bow of the canoe and pulled it in to shore.

The people on the beach yelled greetings to Fighting Wolf, ignoring Sarita. He greeted each of them in turn as he stepped out of the canoe. He strode up the beach to his longhouse, leaving Sarita to follow. She paced silently, carrying her load, mouth set in a tight line, back as straight as it could be under the weight of the basket. He couldn’t have made it any clearer that she was a slave again, she thought sardonically.

As she reached the grass growing above the high tide line, her proud gaze caught a pair of flashing dark eyes. Toward her strode a tall, willowy woman dressed in a pale yellow kutsack trimmed with sea otter. Obviously of the noble class, her pretty face was marred by the sneer that curled her lips.

Sarita recognized her at once as the woman she’d mistaken for Fighting Wolf’s wife, the woman who had hugged him so effusively on that long ago morning of Sarita’s capture.

The sloe-eyed woman, one hand on her hip in a belligerent stance, blocked Sarita’s passage. Sarita halted, noting nervously that they were alone. Eyes blazing, the woman leaned close to Sarita. “Where have you been, slave?” Contempt dripped from her voice.

Taken aback at the woman’s hostility and unreasonable question, Sarita didn’t answer for a moment.

“I’m talking to you, slave. Answer me! Where did he take you?”

“I fail to see how that’s any of your concern,” shot back Sarita. She would not let this woman, whoever she was, bully her.

“Aah, but it is my concern. You see,” purred the woman, “Fighting Wolf is mine. Mine! He belongs to me, Rough Seas.”

Sarita gazed back at her impassively.

“We’re going to be married,” stated the other woman, watching Sarita narrowly.

Sarita flinched, but quickly regained her impassive countenance. What a fool she’d been to think that Fighting Wolf might like her, perhaps even love her one day. All the companionship and lovemaking of the past few days might never have been, she thought bitterly. Fighting Wolf had only trifled with her feelings and her body when all along he had this woman waiting for him!

“Stay away from him,” warned Rough Seas. “He’s mine!”

Sarita marveled that Rough Seas thought Sarita, a slave, could evade the attentions of the man who was her master, especially if he was determined to bed her. Noblewomen had no idea what it was like to be a slave, she thought sadly. Aloud she said, “If he’s yours, why isn’t he with you? Why’s he spending time with me?”

“Witch!” screeched the other. “So you don’t deny you were with him!” Furious, Rough Seas slapped Sarita sharply across the face.

Sarita recoiled from the impact, the red imprint of a hand reddening one cheek. Angry now, she wanted to strike back at the malevolent face. Raising her hand, she dropped it just as quickly, remembering she risked death if she struck a noblewoman. How Rough Seas would love that! “You say he’s yours,” Sarita sneered instead. “He doesn’t show it, does he? I’d say Fighting Wolf doesn’t want you at all!”

The contorted face in front of Sarita looked ready to explode with fury, when suddenly Rough Seas stepped aside and hissed in a low voice, a vicious parody of a smile on her lips, “Witch! Fighting Wolf wants me! He’s going to marry me!” She lowered her voice to hiss, “And when he does, the next day you’ll be dead!”