Red Bird's Song (20 page)

"Get up, you big ox,” Paxton grunted, shoving Runyon off.

The other men stood staring like stunned sheep while Paxton surged to his feet and lunged at Colin. He ducked his outstretched arms. Dropping to the ground, he rolled between large rocks and leapt up. He whirled around. Dashing back, he kicked out at Paxton and hurled him into a boulder.

"What are you lot gaping at?” he roared. “Get the bastard!"

Runyon scrambled back up. Jerked from their shock, the men charged at Colin. He dodged their punches and spun away.

Doggedly treading water, Charity watched in amazement. Where had he learned to fight like that, from Wicomechee?

Colin burst ahead of his pursuers and ran into the trees. All the men, except Paxton, galloped after him, stampeding through the trunks and leafy brush. They shoved aside any branches in their path, snapping weaker limbs in half.

Charity glimpsed Colin out in front. He tore into the meadow. If Paxton went too, she could climb from the spring and bolt for cover. Likely that was Colin's plan.

Paxton remained stubbornly behind. “Are you boys bloody useless? Teach the fine gentleman some manners!” he bawled, and dashed to the edge of the spring. “Come to me, gal."

"No!” Charity wished the deep end were wider, but the pond narrowed as the bottom fell away. Paddling more slowly now, her arms and legs weary, she fought against a strong southerly wind that had blown up seemingly out of nowhere. The relentless breeze pushed her toward Paxton.

He dropped onto his knees, beckoning to her with grimy fingers. Perspiration oiled his bruised, bloodied features. “I can see you're tiring. I'll turn you loose once I'm away."

"I'd rather drown!"

"Come now. That'd be a shame.” He flopped down onto his belly and reached to her.

Musket fire checked his wheedling. He clapped a hand to his shoulder with a howl. Crimson spouted between his fingers, and he half-dove, half-fell behind the boulder Colin had shoved him into.

More explosions erupted.

Charity swam toward the side, straining to see through the leaves. Fallen men were strewn across the grassy clearing. Some lay unmoving. Others writhed, their tortured cries rising with the hopelessness of the doomed. She covered her mouth at the sight of the nearest man sprawled beneath a tree at the edge of the meadow. He twisted like an eel on a line while those still able to run scattered for cover.

Two figures threw themselves behind jutting rocks in the field. Another fled to the charred remains of a trunk, little more than a scorched stump. Long barrels protruded from the stones and stump. Musket reports rang out as they fired back at their foe. But how could they hit what they couldn't see?

Then she spotted Runyon obstinately chasing after Colin. Why was he still pursuing him with Indians attacking?

Shrill whoops rent the air above the screams of the wounded. As if heedless of the danger, Runyon overtook the Englishman and bore him to the ground. He swung his fist again and again, punching Colin once, twice in the face.

Colin bucked the bigger man off and rolled away, but Runyon pulled his knife and came at him. Had thirst for revenge made him mad?

"Colin!” Charity cried, and climbed from the water. Hair and shift dripping over the stones, she ran. Her stocking-clad feet slipped. She fell forward, scraping her palms on the small rocks underfoot. “Help Waupee!” she sobbed out to the warriors pouring through the trees.

"Who's gonna help you, girl?"

Paxton
! In her terror for Colin she'd forgotten the menace still crouched behind the stone.

He peered around the boulder, ashen-faced, but very much alive. In his hands, he held a musket. The barrel was aimed at her. “Get over here or I'll blow your fool head off."

She struggled to stand. “Go ahead. Shoot."

"Stupid chit.” He slid the musket strap over his sound shoulder.

Moving far faster than she'd expected for an injured man, he sprang at her and snagged her around the waist. She shrieked. “Are you crazy? Warriors are all around!"

He jerked her close to his bloody shirt and drew his knife with a debilitated arm. A strip of stained linen torn from the ragged hem bound the oozing wound. “If they shoot at me, maybe they'll hit you."

"Where are you taking me?"

"To the horses and beyond."

Wicomechee drew on his rigorous training to keep a clear head as he crept through the undergrowth and dodged from trunk to trunk. His well-aimed shot had only winged Paxton who'd suddenly dropped onto his belly. Now he clutched Charity again. And Wicomechee spotted his English brother, still bound, in a desperate fight for his life. Much as he wanted to hack Waupee's tormentor to pieces, he couldn't leave Charity for a moment. Posetha and Muga must do the deed.

She dug her stocking feet into the grassy earth between the stones near the water. “Fight like a man!” she shouted at Paxton. “I'm not going with you!"

"Like hell.” He dragged her away from the spring. Even wounded, his grasp was unyielding. But his labored breathing betrayed the cost as he forced her on through the trees.

Her resourcefulness in escaping Paxton at the spring had astonished Wicomechee, particularly as he didn't know she could swim. But she was out of her element now. Once more, Paxton held her so closely Wicomechee didn't dare fire, and if he rushed him, Paxton would cut her throat, maybe just enough to further weaken her, then drag her off again—the coward.

Wicomechee had closed the gap between them to twenty yards, when the Long Knife forced Charity into the clearing.

"Mechee!” she cried, raking at his heart.

Paxton gave her a back-handed crack across the mouth. “No Injun talk!"

Wicomechee thought rage would consume him when he saw Chaka. While other warriors streaked past to visit punishment on the stragglers in the field, Chaka slipped behind a broad tree in front of Paxton. With quick work of his blade, he took the scalp of the man fallen near the trunk then stood eyeing the hated Long Knife. Chaka's stance told Wicomechee he was angling for a kill—Paxton, his target.

Maybe Chaka did care enough about Charity to help get her back, or maybe it just goaded him that Paxton had taken her. Alone, Chaka couldn't free her without endangering her anymore than Wicomechee could. Perhaps together, they'd find a way.

Paxton dragged her into the grassy opening, his back to Wicomechee, his near panicked focus on the mayhem in the field. Wicomechee stole behind the two and signaled Chaka with his tomahawk. He pointed to himself and Paxton, gesturing at Chaka to approach the Long Knife from the front.

Charity never thought she'd be glad to see Chaka, but when he stepped out from the tree, she felt a desperate rush of hope. He stood before Paxton, blocking his way.

The shaken man held the blade closer to her throat. “Let me pass or I'll kill her."

She winced as the edge grazed her raw wound. “Chaka! Stop him!"

Chaka waved a freshly-taken scalp. “This belongs to your man. English girl belongs to Shawnee. Let her go."

Fingers shaking, Paxton pressed the blade deeper. “Stay back."

Screaming in pain, she tore her arm free from him and closed her hand around his grip on the knife handle. With a violent tug, she pulled his weakened hand away.

He dealt her a blow in the stomach, and knocked her arm down. She dangled, wheezing, in his grip.

"You bastards will never take her alive!” Paxton yelled.

Scorn curved Chaka's lips. “No?"

A strangled breath gargling in Paxton's throat was his only reply, and a violent shudder shook him like a seizure. His arms spasmed out and his fingers flexed, spilling the knife to the ground.

Triumph shone in Chaka's face. “Foolish man."

Charity staggered back, gulping in air. She hardly recognized her loving companion of early morning in Wicomechee's slitted eyes. Wrenching his tomahawk from Paxton's shoulder, he threw him to the ground. The sprawled man stared up in helpless terror as he bent over him and seized his knife.

He grasped Paxton's greasy hair, forcing his head back. “You took my woman, put your blade to her throat. Her fear cried out to me and I could do nothing. Your men bound my brother, struck him. For this, you will die. All die."

In one swift slice Wicomechee opened Paxton's throat.

"Oh God.” Charity's shaky legs failed her.

She collapsed on the grass, but oblivion didn't come and steal her from the grisly scene. She knew where she lay and who lay near her. The anguished screams of men sharing Paxton's fate rang in her ears and the stench of death filled her nose. Her ominous premonition had become a reality.

Wicomechee shifted his gaze to her. In that instant, she knew he remembered.

Never will I take you into battle
, he'd said. What else could he not prevent from happening to her?

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Chapter Thirteen

Five Days Later

Lashing rain scattered the swirling leaves to the four winds, and thunder boomed. Lightning flashed through blackened trunks awash with the deluge. Ordinarily Charity disliked blustery weather, but she was grateful for the respite it had provided from the relentless journey.

Those warriors not out hunting were clustered along the fortress-like stone beneath overhanging rocks. Protected from the worst of the storm, they sat near campfires to mend worn moccasins, clean muskets, and smoke pipes. The tempest drowned out much of their conversation. A strong musk from the press of men added to the earthiness of saturated humus and aromatic wood smoke. The gunpowder scent, reawakened by cleaning, mixed with the pungent tobacco.

Hugging the tiny infant to her shoulder, Charity hovered as near the blaze as she dared without setting herself afire. With her free hand, she lifted the wooden ladle lying across two of the stones that surrounded the firepit and stirred the broth simmering in a large black kettle. The pot was suspended over the flames by a sturdy pole passing between two forked sticks. Boiling stock from scraps and bones had been her idea. The meaty aroma wafting through the tang of wood smoke brought a small measure of comfort to the cheerless day.

Colin sat cross-legged by the fire, Lily tucked in his lap and James by his side, intent on a card game with Muga. The children were engrossed in the play of red and black colored cards and apparently oblivious of the tumult descending just beyond their rocky shelter. Charity would gladly learn the game, but little Mary Elizabeth was fretful. Bouncing on her toes, she patted the restless newborn.

Colin threw down his cards and glanced up as Muga spread a winning hand on the ground with a grin. “You can't stall that wee lass much longer, gal."

"I'll try for a bit more. Emma's so tired."

He looked past Charity to where Emma lay as snugly bedded against the stone wall as he could make her. “Poor lady. What a grueling ordeal this has been for her. Only two days to regain her strength before Outhowwa insisted we go on.” His troubled gaze met Charity's. “I'm thinking of falling behind the larger party to travel more slowly with the warriors who would agree to go with us."

"You mean, linger here awhile?"

"Yes. But few men will tarry. Most are in a hurry to reach the village and hunt for their families. The women grow corn, squash, and beans but supplies dwindle as winter nears."

A gust of wind sent cold fingers beneath Charity's skirts. “That can't be long in coming. I fear for Emma if we continue at this pace, though, and the little one suffers."

"I know. Still, it's risky to travel in such a small party,” Colin said. “There's far greater safety in numbers and danger takes many forms in the frontier."

Muga finished dealing out a new hand of cards and removed the pipe from his mouth. “I go with you. Posetha go."

Colin squeezed his shoulder.

Charity shifted the squirming baby onto her other shoulder. “Mechee will."

Colin flipped over an eight of spades. “That's a given. Though I doubt Outhowwa will thank me for depriving his party of their most skilled hunter."

"Outhowwa knows you two are inseparable."

A fleeting thoughtfulness softened Colin's somber expression. “I sometimes feel there's a kinship between us that goes beyond adoption, even beyond being blood brothers."

"You're about the same height."

He smiled faintly. “Our coloring's a bit different."

"True, but you're both well-favored."

"So are you. Does that make us relations?"

"I could do with a few more.” She peered vainly into the haze and rain for Wicomechee, longing to be with him and equally uncertain. How fierce he'd been when he felled Paxton, his face so grim...every bit the warrior she feared. Could she ever truly feel at ease with him?

Mary Elizabeth wailed, and Colin laid down his cards. “Perhaps you can distract her long enough for me to bring Emma a bowl of broth. Take my place, James.” The little boy nodded absently, his focus on the game. “I see we've found the way to keep you still. Lily, you'll have to move, sweetheart,” he said, and lifted her from his lap.

She reached small arms around the dozing beagle's neck. “Weshe can play."

Colin's lips twitched. “As soon as he learns the cards."

"I will teach him."

"You do that, little darling.” Colin smoothed her golden-brown curls then stood. Taking a wooden bowl from the stack near the fire, he ladled steaming broth to the brim and sipped. “Delicious, Charity. Hits the spot."

Mary Elizabeth renewed her lusty protest. “Hand her here. I'll take the babe and broth together.” Holding the bowl aloft, Colin curved his other arm around the wriggling bundle. She fixed her blue eyes on him and quieted. Her puckered mouth curved in an unmistakable smile.

He smiled back, seemingly entranced. “You're a real little charmer when you want to be, aren't you?"

Charity stroked the fuzz on the baby's crown peeking out from the swaddling. She looked from her minute features to his masculine face, still mottled with the fading bruises. “Mary Elizabeth favors you enough to be your true daughter."