Black Eagle (30 page)

Was he one of the Ottawa? If so, it didn't escape her consideration that if he found her, he would kill her. Terror shot through her, and she almost gasped aloud, barely catching herself in time.

Had the warrior sensed her thoughts? Sensed the life on the other side of those logs? What did he see? What did he hear? Could he sense her breathing? Her heartbeat? Could he smell her scent or the remnants of the small fire they'd built last night? The gunpowder she'd been handling?

He reached out toward their shelter, as if he knew it were there somewhere. His hand grasped hold of one the sticks Black Eagle had constructed as part of the structure's deception. All he needed to do was pull on that stick, and their lean-to would be revealed.

She waited for it to happen.

But all at once, the warrior paused and looked off as though he had caught sight of something or was listening to some noise. He straightened.

What did he see? What did he hear? Marisa listened closely, but she could distinguish nothing over the pounding of her heart.

Through the tiny crack in the bark, she watched as the warrior stood up straighter, his eyes fixed on a thing in the distance. And then, as silently as he had come, he disappeared out of her view.

Was he still there? Or had he left the valley?

She waited, and she waited. Coming silently up onto her knees, she took a position beside the crack in their walls, staring out through it. Ah, there he was, off in the distance, leaving their valley in a crouched over run. Marisa sat perfectly still, in thought. She didn't know whether to be glad of his departure, or worried because of it.

What had caused him to go? Were there more of them? Had he gone to get reinforcements? Or had Black Eagle come back somehow? Had he seen the warrior and managed to distract him?

And if Black Eagle had, was he now in danger?

A disturbing thought occurred to her. What would she do if something happened to Black Eagle?

Since coming to this valley, he had been gone from her many times, but she hadn't worried about him. Perhaps she should have been. How would she know if something did happen to him? If he didn't return, should she go and try to find him?

And if she did leave to try to find him, how was she to do it? She had no sense of direction, no way to know how to locate him or how to find his trail, let alone how to survive in the wilderness.

But on that thought came another. If something had happened to him, what would she do? Would she even want to go on without him?

Marisa's thoughts overwhelmed her. It was simply too much loss for her consideration. First Sarah, and now this.

So she sat and did nothing. Worried, frantic, contemplating her life now and in the future. It wasn't at all surprising, therefore, that hours later, she was still sitting in the same spot, still aware that she was alone and still worried. Worse, there were tears falling down over her cheeks. She hadn't even been aware of crying.

Something was wrong. Darkness was approaching, and still Black Eagle hadn't returned.

What to do? Should she stay here? Go look for him?

Anything seemed better than nothing. To stay here when there was the possibility that Black Eagle was hurt or in danger didn't seem right. And yet, what good would she be to him?

Despondent, she looked down, gazing at the weapons she'd been cleaning. Weapons . . . She'd forgotten about them.

That's when it occurred to her: weapons. With these tools that were lying here in her lap, she could be a force to be reckoned with.

That's all it took to decide her. Picking up a knife and its case, she strung it around her neck where she would have easy access to it. She then bent forward to grasp hold of the musket. At last she rose up from the position she'd been keeping for hours and hours.

At first her leg muscles protested, but then, as she stepped out of the shelter and into the dim light of evening, she realized she was glad. Glad to be here. Glad to be well armed and ready to protect her man, if need be.

She didn't know what direction to take, but again, anything was better than nothing.

 

 

Black Eagle couldn't be certain what had caused him to sense the presence of the enemy. Perhaps it was a disturbance in the air. Maybe it was the lack of the normal sounds of the forest, for there should have been birds singing or an occasional sighting of an animal. There wasn't.

He frowned. He had left their shelter early in the morning, had been en route to the rapids, there to search another section of the river for Miss Sarah. But suddenly, he had stopped short.

There was another being in the forest. It didn't matter how he knew it, the point being that he knew it.

Meticulous detail helped him find the enemy's trail, but it had taken him much time to discover it. With the necessity of backtracking and erasing his own tracks, it had been well into the afternoon before he'd come upon the distinctive markings of an Ottawa warrior. Black Eagle's heart lurched.

Bending down, he studied the tracks, for they would tell a history of his enemy.

He was a heavy man, perhaps fifty years in age. It was possible, thought Black Eagle, that one of his victims had been this man's son. Such would make sense, because the frenzy that Black Eagle could read in the tracks spoke of an unstable mind. Indeed, the bad mind was at work within this warrior; it was a mind filled with revenge.

There was only the one track, however, which was unusual, and equally dangerous, since a warrior seldom struck out on the warpath alone. To have done so might indicate, again, an instability, a man who would do anything.

But it wasn't until Black Eagle beheld that the tracks were leading to the valley where he had set up camp, that his heart shot into his throat.
Ahweyoh!

Black Eagle immediately set out in a run, his speed picking up pace quickly as he raced toward the valley, jumping over obstacles, knocking over branches and bushes in his way. Gone from his mind was the need to backtrack and cover his own ground.

He pulled up in the woods, just short of the clearing where he had set up camp. And it was all he could do to keep himself from rushing full force at the enemy he saw there, and engaging the man in hand-to-hand combat. To do so, however, would be folly. The Ottawa could kill
Ahweyoh
first, then turn and kill him.

Alert, Black Eagle watched as the man crept toward the hideaway, watched, at the ready, as the man reached down to pull back the branches that Black Eagle had scattered around their shelter to hide it.

At any minute, the warrior would discover
Ahweyoh
. Would Black Eagle be fast enough to avert a disaster?

Quickly, Black Eagle tried to put the knowledge he had gained from reading the man's tracks to some plan that would defeat him. There was one thing: This enemy warrior was not altogether in his right mind. It was possible that this man had tried to convince his friends to stay on the trail with him, but they, sensing the warrior's madness, had left him alone, going home to their own fires or to rejoin the French.

Could it be that the Ottawa expected his friends to have a change of heart? To join him in his quest for revenge? If that were the case, Black Eagle might be able to distract the man with a sign, some signal the Ottawa might expect from his friends.

Shimmying up a tree to about its midpoint, Black Eagle imitated the mother's call of the dove, a common signal amongst tribes. He repeated the call once.

At last the warrior stood away from the shelter. He looked off to his right, to his left, his sight scanning the horizon.

Black Eagle repeated the call.

At length the Ottawa warrior retreated, angling back into the woods in the direction from where the call had originated. But the danger wasn't past. Far from it.

Black Eagle, watching, would follow the man, if only to ensure his own peace of mind that the warrior posed no further threat.

 

 

This had been a mistake.

Marisa was the first to admit it. She should have stayed where she was. She would be of no use to anyone as she was. She was lost. Worse, she was terrified.

Every sigh of the wind, every branch that rubbed against another had her jumping.

What was that? A footfall? Dear Lord, it was pitch-black in this forest. She could see nothing but black shapes in the trees. Was she alone, or was she being stalked?

And if she were being stalked, was it some deer, elk or bear? Worse, was it the Ottawa warrior?

There it was again. The crack of a twig. A footfall.

It couldn't be Black Eagle. Surely, if it were he, he would make himself known to her.

She knew she shouldn't, that she should remain as quiet as possible. But she was beyond fright. She called out, “Black Eagle, is that you?”

No response.

She inhaled, brought up the musket to chest level, and spoke again, “Who is it that follows me? Show yourself.”

Nothing. At least not at first.

But then came the singing. It was a man's voice, and the words were indistinguishable. The key was minor. It was an Indian song. But dear Lord, it couldn't be Black Eagle.

The verse was repeated, but this time, it came in English:

This had definitely been a mistake. Involuntarily a warmth ran down her leg and she realized this might surely be the last breath she would ever take. It was really too bad, she thought, because finally she had found love. She wanted to live.

But she was no match for an Indian warrior, and certainly not one who had been trained for war all his life.

However, if this were to be her last stand upon this earth, the least she could do would be to show resistance. Why make it easy for the beast?

Perhaps it was this last thought that sparked a remnant of courage within her. She was frightened, she could barely stand up straight, but raising her musket to shoulder level, and pointing it in the direction of the shadows, she called out, “If you mean to kill me, sir, then come and do it. It must be easy to make war on a woman, since you have little to fear from me.”

Had that really been her voice? Had she truly challenged an Indian warrior?

Apparently she had, for the man stepped forward into an opening in the trees. She could barely make out his shape, but of one thing she was certain: In his one hand was a tomahawk and in his other was a musket. He was big, he was burly, and it was useless to believe she would ever be a physical match for him.

Still if she were going to go down, she had best do it in a blaze. She said, “How is it you would prefer to die, sir?”

A knife flew toward her, finding the fullness of her skirt. It caught there, then dropped to the ground.

In reaction, she took careful aim with the musket and fired. But the man had moved out of range and her shot hit nothing better than the bark of a tree.

He leapt toward her with the swiftness and agility of a cat, and within seconds, he had thrown her to the ground, hard, knocking the breath from her. She had no more than caught a bit of air when he pulled her up, forcing her to kneel before him, he standing at her back. Then he said in English, “And how would you like to die, English woman? By fire? By knife? Either way, it will be slow. You will scream much.”

Pulling her up by her hair, Marisa had no more than registered the pain in her scalp, when the Ottawa thrust his knife against her throat. Marisa was beyond terror, and she screamed. She kept on screaming, too, until her throat began to ache.

The knife dug into the skin at her throat, and as soon as it did, she fainted. Perhaps it was for the best.

It was dark by the time Black Eagle returned to their shelter. He had tracked the warrior to the base of the falls, had seen the man embark in a canoe, had watched the Ottawa paddle downstream. Of course it was possible that the man might come ashore and backtrack, but Black Eagle was fairly confident that he had not given his presence away to the man.

Besides, he was worried. He had been gone from
Ahweyoh
for the entire day, and she would be frightened and alone. She might even be worried. He had begun to run, then, had started sprinting through the forest, passing by game that would have been easy for the taking. Perhaps some other time, they would know his prowess as a hunter. For now, onward he sped. Something was wrong. He could feel it.

Upon approaching their shelter, Black Eagle gave the usual meadowlark call to announce his return, but there was no return signal. Every nerve within him kicked into alert.