Judith E. French (10 page)

Several Shawnee braves grabbed the cat’s legs and dragged it aside. Wolf Shadow drew in ragged lungfuls of air and tried to ignore the pain in his ribs, arm, and thigh.

Fiona ran to him and knelt beside him. “By Mary’s robe,” she murmured, “you’ve lost enough blood to drown an ordinary man.” Her gentle hands ran over the gaping wound in his thigh. “I’ll have to sew this at once,” she said matter-of-factly.

Wolf Shadow looked up at her and wondered if he’d only dreamed the words he’d heard her say.

Matiassu moved to stand over him. “So, shaman,” he said in their native tongue, “you have less command over the animals than men believe you do.”

“Over cougars at least,” Wolf Shadow replied hoarsely. Fiona was checking his ribs, and he felt the crunch of broken bones grating against each other. He gritted his teeth against the pain and fought an increasing nausea. “Who shot the cat?”

“I did,” Matiassu said. “You owe me a life.”

“So.” Wolf Shadow nodded slightly. “I owe you a life.” He noted that Matiassu had taken to wearing his hair in the Seneca style, shaved except for a scalp lock, rather than long as he had in the past. He also observed that the musket Matiassu held loosely in the crook of his arm was a new one of French design.

“I’ll not let you forget,” the war chief answered.

“I didn’t think you would.”

“This English squaw claims to be your wife,” Matiassu continued in rapid Algonquian. “Is she?”

Wolf Shadow let his eyelids drift shut. It was true. He had heard Fiona say the words. His eyes snapped open, and he fixed his gaze on the flame-haired woman. “This is my wife,” he said softly in English. “I am her husband.”

Fiona shivered in the torchlight. Wolf Shadow saw the apprehension in her eyes.

“I ask you again, shaman.” Matiassu’s English was accented with French. “Is she your woman?”

“Fiona is my wife,” Wolf Shadow repeated firmly.

The war chief switched back to his own language. “She claimed to be yours, but I didn’t believe it. I’d not heard that you’d taken a white woman to your sleeping mat.” He arched a thick eyebrow. “You have spoken overmuch of rejecting all things English. Can it be that the ‘chosen one’ speaks of one trail and follows another? I think you give us much to discuss around the campfire.”

Fiona glanced up at Matiassu. “I need to fetch my box. His wounds must be sewn before he can be moved. He’s lost a terrible amount of blood.”

Matiassu motioned to one of the watching braves. In less than a minute, the case was produced. “Here.” He tossed Fiona’s scalpel to the ground beside her. “You should be more careful with your toys, Englishwoman.”

Hastily she grabbed it and tucked it into its proper place in the kit. “I need the light,” she said. A warrior held the torch closer, and she took a needle and silk thread from the box.

Wolf Shadow struggled to sit up. Fresh blood spilled from scratches on his arms and chest, and the pain from his ribs was almost unbearable. “No,” he said, waving her back. “You’re not going to sew me up yet.” Panting, he leaned on one elbow and held out a hand to Matiassu. “I need your knife,” he said, switching from English to Algonquian, “or I need you to find mine. I used it on the cat.”

Matiassu spoke to one of his companions, and the man handed over the knife. “Here,” he said, wiping the blade on his fringed legging. He regarded the bone handle with its silver inlay for a moment, then offered it to the shaman. “A good knife. It would be a shame to lose it.”

Fiona looked from one man to the other. “I have to do this right now—”

“No,” Wolf Shadow said. “Not yet.” He passed the knife to her. “Hold the blade in the flame until it is red-hot.”

“Why? What are you—”

“Do as I say, woman.”

Matiassu snickered. “Perhaps this is your wife,” he said in taunting Algonquian.

Wolf Shadow thrust the hilt into the war chief’s hand. “Heat it,” he said.

Matiassu smiled. “And for this service, may I claim another life?”

“One, I think, is sufficient.”

“Speak English,” Fiona said. “I can’t understand either one of you.” She threaded the silk through the eye of the steel needle.

“I must burn the wound on my leg,” Wolf Shadow explained to Fiona. “When I’ve done that, you may treat my injuries as you please.”

“Burn it? But there’s no need,” she protested. “I can—”

He seized her wrist with a grip too strong for a dying man. “You will do as I say,” he instructed. “Exactly as I say. If you don’t, I’ll have you tied to a tree.” Several of the watching braves laughed, and Wolf Shadow turned a scowling countenance on them. “Where is Beaver Tooth? Where is Fat Boy?” he demanded. “They were with her.”

“I’ve not seen either of them,” Matiassu said mildly in his own tongue. “Have you, Ohshosh? Wahpetee? Any of you?”

“Not I.”

“Nor me.”

“I’ve not seen either of them since the Corn Dance last fall,” Wahpetee answered smoothly.

“Perhaps they wandered into the forest and became lost,” a young brave named Horse’s Tail offered sarcastically.

“They are both good men,” Wolf Shadow said quietly. “They are both my blood brothers. It would be a pity if harm came to them, for if it did, I would have to find those responsible and seek revenge.”

“Brave talk for a man who cannot even stand,” Matiassu pronounced. He held out Wolf Shadow’s knife—the blade glowed a dull red.

“No,” Fiona said. “Don’t . . .”

Wolf Shadow held the knife in his hand and took a deep breath. Then, before Fiona could stop him, he laid the hot steel against the gaping wound on his thigh. Smoke and the smell of burning flesh filled the air.

Wolf Shadow fell back on the frozen ground, the knife still clutched in his hand. Sweat poured over him as he fought waves of blackness.

“Not enough,” Matiassu said. “The wound is long. You will have to burn it again if you want to escape death from claw poison.”

Fiona leaned over him. She was weeping, and her tears fell onto his face. “Give me the knife,” she whispered.

“The . . . the wound,” Wolf Shadow managed between clenched teeth. “It must . . . be ...”

“Give me the knife,” she repeated. “If it must be done, I’ll do it.”

He released the knife and concentrated on the flame, knowing that the flame must purify the wound. He let his mind conjure up a single star against a night-black sky. And when the searing pain came again, he embraced it and soared upward with the agony . . . becoming one with the fiery star and letting it cleanse his soul.

F
iona straightened her shoulders and shielded her face from the whirlwind of twigs and dried leaves borne on the raw March wind. Ducking her head, she covered her hair with her shawl and hurried through the crude camp to the spring a few hundred feet away.

A Seneca sentry, one of Matiassu’s allies, stared insolently at her as she passed, but Fiona ignored him. If she’d learned anything in the ten days since Wolf Shadow was attacked by the cougar and they’d both been held prisoner in Matiassu’s camp, it was that captured women held a different position among Indians than among Europeans. She still. feared for her life, but she was almost certain she wouldn’t be subjected to torture or rape. That assurance gave her the courage to walk within arm’s length of the scarred Iroquois, who wore a necklace of dried human fingers dangling around his neck, without quaking in her boots.

“Traditionally, our people do not commit rape as the English do,” Wolf Shadow had explained to her, in an attempt to soothe her fear. “A man who shares the pleasures of the sleeping mat with a woman gives her power over him—both physically and spiritually. Thus, an angry woman could curse a man; she could cause him to lose his sexual prowess. She could even ruin his luck in battle or hunting. No Shawnee would trade everything he holds dear for the sake of a brief physical encounter.”

“But I’ve heard stories—” she’d argued, unwilling to believe his assurances so easily.

“Our women tell their children tales of English soldiers who steal babies and roast them over fires for dinner. Our women believe these tales as your women believe the stories of sexual atrocities. I can speak only for the traditional Shawnee and the Delaware. Evil and foolish men will doubtless take on the habits of the Europeans in time, and then Indian women will be as much at risk from Indian men as the white women are from their men. But for now I can promise you—even among Matiassu’s renegades, your scalp is much more in danger than your maidenhood.”

“I’m certain that should make me sleep better at night,” she’d answered wryly. And in some strange way, it had.

Wolf Shadow’s wounds were healing faster than she would have believed possible. The life-threatening gash on his thigh, seared shut by the hot steel, hadn’t even become septic. The other teeth and claw marks had caused fever and a great deal of pain, but careful nursing had prevented the infections from turning gangrenous. There was nothing she could do for his cracked ribs but bind him tightly and wait for the bones to knit.

“It’s no more than you deserve,” he’d chided her. “You must tend me, since it was your fault that you ran away and I had to come after you and be nearly eaten by a lion.”

She’d been shocked that he wasn’t angry with her for trying to escape.

“If I thought I was being held prisoner, I would do the same,” Wolf Shadow had explained. “I blame Willow more than I blame you. She betrayed me.”

“And I didn’t?” she’d asked hesitantly.

“A little, but you made up for it when you told Matiassu that I was your husband.”

No matter how many times she had asked, Wolf Shadow had refused to tell her how he had tracked her down the river and found her. “I am a powerful shaman,” he’d teased. “I can’t tell a white woman all my secrets.”

When she reached the ice-crusted spring, Fiona crouched and washed her face and hands in the cold running water before cupping her fingers together and drinking. The spring was sweet, the clear water almost intoxicating. At the base of the crumbling rocks, directly beneath the continuous flow of bubbling water, green shoots had sprouted. Every time she came to fetch water, it seemed the plants had doubled in size. The bright green drew her gaze and filled her heart with hope of winter’s end.

Finally, Fiona filled the water skin directly from the flow. Wolf Shadow insisted that she use only the purest water to heat for bathing his wounds. When Fiona slung the rawhide strap over her shoulder and straightened under the weight of the heavy container, it banged awkwardly against her hip and spilled water over her tattered skirt.

She paid the spreading dampness no more attention than she paid the sullen Seneca brave. Instead, she concentrated on her language lesson for the day. To help pass the time, Wolf Shadow had begun to teach her Algonquian.
“Jai-nai-hah—
brother;
don-nii-na
—sister;
elene—
man;
equiwa
... or
squaw-o-wah
—woman;
keep . . .
no,
keeqa—
wife.” A triumphant smile spread over Fiona’s face. “Brother, sister, man, woman, wife.” She knew them all perfectly. Just let Wolf Shadow try and tease her today. She hoped she’d never have to learn another word of Algonquian as she’d learned
meshepeshe—
panther. The big cat had been close enough to give her nightmares for the rest of her life.

Serves you right, you devil’s spawn, she thought. A beast so vicious deserved to end up as a rug on Matiassu’s floor.

The war chief had claimed the cat’s skin. He’d stripped the bloody carcass and carried it back here to stretch on a frame for tanning. She hadn’t cared what happened to the thing—her only concern had been Wolf Shadow’s life.

With her head high, Fiona began her walk back to the hut where Wolf Shadow lay. Matiassu’s camp was totally different from the Shawnee village where Wolf Shadow had taken her earlier. Here there were only a few women and no children at all. The wigwams were smaller and covered with skins rather than bark. This was a war leader’s band, not a group related by family. Matiassu’s followers were gathered from different villages, even different tribes, including the Seneca. Fiona estimated the number of warriors in the camp to be about three score—a formidable fighting group according to Wolf Shadow.

Despite her lack of understanding of their customs and language, Fiona had learned a great deal about her captor in the past week. Matiassu was a Shawnee, as were most of his men. But the big war chief didn’t share Wolf Shadow’s dream of uniting the Shawnee and other Algonquian tribes against the Europeans. He had his own ideas and his own political ambitions.

Matiassu wanted the Shawnee and Delaware to become part of the Iroquois League of Nations. He actively sought the favor of powerful Seneca and Mohawk chieftains, and he made no apologies for his ties with the Frenchman Roquette.

As Fiona neared the hide-covered shelter she shared with Wolf Shadow, she heard the war chief’s raspy voice raised in anger. He was speaking Algonquian, but there was no doubt in her mind that he and Wolf Shadow had disagreed violently again.

She ducked inside the shadowy hut and busied herself with heating water over the fire pit. Wolf Shadow lay against the far wall, propped up on a wooden back rest; Matiassu paced back and forth, gesturing wildly. He paused long enough to throw Fiona a withering glance, then continued his tirade.

“The Iroquois have proved they can stand against the English,” Matiassu said hotly. “The Iroquois are powerful. They’ve said time and time again that they’d welcome us, and together we’d form an Indian alliance no European might could challenge.”

Wolf Shadow shook his head. “The Iroquois and the Shawnee are bitter enemies. If we join with them, they will swallow us whole. Our children will learn Iroquois ways, and our women will dance to the beat of Iroquois drums.”

“Better Iroquois than English.”

“And are the French any more to be trusted than the English?” Wolf Shadow demanded. “Would you have us smoke the pipe of friendship with Roquette, the Scalp Buyer?”

“Roquette is what he is. When he is no longer useful to us, we’ll destroy him.” Matiassu made a quick chopping motion with his right hand. “Until then, I’ll take his fine French muskets and his steel hatchets.”

Wolf Shadow glanced at Fiona, then back at the war chief. “The French want our land as much as the English,” he stated in Algonquian. “One is as dangerous as the other.”

“Roquette says they are only interested in fur trade—beaver pelts bring a high price across the sea.”

“And you’d believe Roquette’s word—the word of a man who steals our women and sells them to the French as whores?”

Matiassu’s hawk face darkened with anger. “I believe nothing, only what I see with my own eyes. I see the English cutting the earth with iron plows; I see them bringing their white-skinned wives and children to live on Shawnee land. I don’t see the French doing these things. Only French men come, trappers and Jesus talkers. If they want to trade trinkets and weapons for beaverskins, so be it. There are more beaver in our streams than fine French muskets.”

“You don’t care that Roquette and the other traders give our men firewater and cheat them in trade when they’re too drunk to stand, let alone bargain.”

“Pah!” Matiassu spat on the floor. “You’re a moon dancer—a holy man. What do you know of men’s desires? The taste of whiskey is as intriguing as the taste of a woman’s honey. You should try it sometime.”

“I’ve tasted both.”

Matiassu laughed. “So, the great shaman boasts that he’s only human after all.” He threw Fiona such a piercing look that she flushed and averted her face. “Human enough to lie, eh? I don’t believe she’s your wife. I think you’re both lying to keep me from selling her to Roquette.”

Wolf Shadow’s heavy-lidded eyes reflected flickers of flame from the fire pit. He shifted and raised himself on one elbow. “When have you known me to lie, Matiassu?” he asked softly. “Fiona is a free woman. You heard her declare before witnesses that she was my wife, and you heard me say it was so. You know the law as well as I do.”

“I know the law.” Matiassu swallowed and beads of perspiration appeared on his broad forehead. “If a man and woman declare before witnesses that they are man and wife, the union is as binding as a formal one.” His big hands knotted into clenched fists. “You tricked me,” he insisted. “She wasn’t your wife . . .”

Wolf Shadow smiled thinly. “Perhaps, and perhaps not. You’ll never know, will you?”

“And if I take her anyway? If I kill you where you lay and sell her to the Frenchman?”

“I’ll come back from the dead and haunt you. I’ll rob your soul and leave you to wander the earth without form or rest for all eternity.”

Wolf Shadow’s face seemed to acquire a translucent glow, and Fiona gazed at him in sudden apprehension. Had he taken a turn for the worse? She started to go to him, but he stilled her with a slight wave of his hand.

“I have the power to do those things,” Wolf Shadow continued in his own tongue. “You know I can . . . and you know that I would. Touch Fiona at your immortal peril.”

Abruptly Fiona’s stomach felt queasy, and she was aware of how warm it was in the small wigwam. She knew they were talking about her—she’d heard Wolf Shadow speak her name. For the first time in hours, she remembered the lie she’d told about being his wife.

Matiassu drew back as if he’d been struck by an invisible fist. His coal-black eyes dilated in fear; his features took on a pasty hue. Muttering under his breath, he whirled around and rushed out of the shelter.

“He is a dangerous man,” Wolf Shadow said in English, when the war chief was far enough away so that he could no longer hear. “He’s still threatening to sell you to Roquette.”

“Will he?” Fiona’s heart skipped a beat.

“I won’t let him, Irish.”

She rose and brought him a cup of water. “How can you stop him? You’ve barely strength enough to walk.”

“He’s afraid of me.”

Fiona glanced back nervously toward the entranceway. “I don’t think he’s afraid of anyone.”

Wolf Shadow chuckled softly. “I threatened to steal his soul if he touched you.”

Fiona shuddered and made the sign against the evil eye. “Don’t say such wicked things. You’ll have me thinking you’re a warlock after all.”

“You’ve known all along that I’m a shaman.”

She shrugged. “Aye, a shaman, you say. There’s others would say you dabble in black magic.”

“Magic is magic,
keeqa.
There is no black or white, only intent to do good or evil.”

She nibbled at her lower lip. “I don’t like such talk, I tell you. If you keep it up, I’ll—” Her green eyes hardened to jade as she realized what he’d called her. “I’m not your wife.”

Wolf Shadow’s amused gaze raked over her, searing through her clothes, burning her skin with cold fire. “But you are, Fiona. And you’ll not see the day when I can’t protect my wife from a man like—”

“I’m not,” she protested. “I only said that to—”

He seized her shoulders and pulled her to him, covering her soft mouth with his hard one. Startled, she struggled to free herself from his embrace.

He held her as easily as if his arms were made of steel. All the while, his firm lips pressed against hers, demanding, challenging.

Fiona’s cries of protest grew weaker as her own senses betrayed her. The clean, sweet taste of his mouth, the earthy, man-scent of him, sent her mind reeling. Her knees went weak, and her muscles turned to liquid. A curious, hot fluttering began in the pit of her stomach and spiraled upward, constricting her chest so much that it was hard to breathe.