Red Bird's Song (22 page)

Shaking off the blow, Rob hurled himself at Wicomechee. The Long Knife was slightly shorter but stouter. Wicomechee dodged oncoming knuckles and punched his fist into Rob's gut.

Rob doubled over, and the braves cheered their own. Wicomechee didn't let them distract him, or allow his opponent a moment to recover. He slammed an upper cut to Rob's jaw then hammered his cheekbones with a series of clouts. The crack of bone hitting against bone resounded above the wind.

Charity clutched at Waupee. “Mechee's gonna kill him!"

"No—"

Rumbling like a rudely awakened bear, Rob straightened and charged. Wicomechee ducked his flying fist. He spun away then whirled back. Kicking out, he buried his moccasin in Rob's belly. Breath rushed from Rob's mouth and he tumbled to the ground where he lay gasping at his feet.

Wicomechee stared down at him. “If I had a knife you would lie dead."

"If I had one, so would you.” Rob pushed up on his elbows and staggered to his feet.

Once more Wicomechee drove his moccasin into Rob's middle and hurtled him to the ground. “You want more punishment?"

"Hell, yes,” he grunted, and rose unsteadily.

Waupee shook his head. “He should have stayed down. But Rob's not a quitter. I'll give him that."

"Never has been,” Charity added.

This time Rob evaded Wicomechee's fist and closed in, clutching his shoulders and grappling with him. Thrusting his foot behind Wicomechee's leg, he threw him off balance.

"Look at that! The fellow learns fast!” Waupee shouted.

Rob seized his momentary advantage and shoved Wicomechee backwards down to the ground. “Not so all-fired mighty as you think, eh!” he shouted, flinging himself at him.

His brawn landed atop Wicomechee with the weight of many stones. Air rushed out from him. Breathing hard, he battled back and forced the Long Knife to the side.

Over and over they rolled. Onlookers scattered as each wrestled to regain the upper hand. Rob ploughed his shoulder into Wicomechee's stomach then flipped him over to emerge on top. The Long Knife panted above him—unendurable.

"My brother is about to end this,” Waupee predicted.

Straining every sinew, Wicomechee bucked his hips and threw off the offender. He grasped Rob and hurled him against the rock wall. Stunned, he sprawled on the ground as Wicomechee pinned his arms and straddled his legs. Rousing from his momentary stupor, he thrashed to dislodge him.

Chest heaving beneath his sodden shirt, Wicomechee bent over Rob and spilled black hair across his bloodied face. “You lose, Long Knife."

Rob ceased his futile struggle. “For now."

Wicomechee eyed him as he might a panther choosing whether to go for the throat first, or the head. “You still think to have my woman?"

Waupee rushed forward. “You have some nerve, Buchanan!"

Charity followed at his heels, her face stricken.

Rob ignored Waupee. His rebellious gaze targeted Wicomechee. “If I had won, would you let Charity go?"

"You lost."

"Answer me,” Rob insisted.

"Never."

Rob spat a broken bit of tooth and a gobbet of blood just past Wicomechee's cheek. “Neither will I."

A disapproving rumble ran through the crowd. Wicomechee answered with cold rage. “Then I must take your life."

Rob met his fury with tight-lipped calm. “I can't prevent you."

"Dear God,” Charity cried. “Have you lost all reason?"

Waupee shook his fist under the obstinate Long Knife's nose. “Damn it all, I'll whip you myself. Pound some sense into you."

"Before or after I kill him?” Wicomechee asked coolly.

Charity sank onto her knees. “Don't, Mechee. Please. I'll never forgive you."

Her pleas didn't soften the hardness inside him. “I'll not be led by a woman."

"I beg you not to do this."

He made no reply.

She slumped shaking to the ground, her head buried in her arms. Remorse pricked him, but still he said nothing.

"Don't take on so, Charity,” Rob pleaded.

"I won't have your blood on my hands,” she choked out.

Wicomechee snorted. “The stain will be mine."

"'Tis because of me you're so angry with him."

Waupee knelt and patted her convulsing back. “
NiSawsawh
, you mustn't kill him. No matter how vexing he is."

"No?"

Charity lifted her head. “Mechee, for God's sake. Show some compassion."

"He would show none to me."

"Wicomechee,” an authoritative voice summoned.

He turned his head to see Outhowwa pass through the hushed assembly. Rain streamed from his scalp lock and his clothes clung to his powerful form. His sharp eyes singled out the Long Knife still imprisoned beneath Wicomechee.

"I have no wish for your death, Rob Buchanan,” the chief said. “You fought hard. Have much courage."

Rob scowled at him. “I'll not surrender this woman, Outhowwa. My heart is hers."

Wicomechee wanted to punch him again, but tensed as Outhowwa laid his hand on Charity's head. He held himself ready to spring to her defense if need be.

The chief spoke still to the obstinate Long Knife. “Speak to your foolish heart,” he advised. “This woman is lost to you. Do you really wish to die for what is lost?"

Rob studied Outhowwa in sullen silence.

"It is easily done.” He drew his knife and passed the leather-wrapped handle to Wicomechee. “In one stroke he will open your throat. If you wish."

Rob looked from the lethal blade in Wicomechee's hand to the wordless invitation he fired at him. He glared back through purplish, fast-swelling eyes, but shook his head.

Outhowwa extended his palm, and Wicomechee handed him the knife. “Pursue her no more. I will not speak for you again. Bind him, Wicomechee.” With that, Outhowwa walked away.

The excitement concluded, the onlookers returned to skinning rabbits and plucking the rust-brown turkey taken in the day's hunt.

Muga led the wide-eyed children back to their card game, Weshe beside them.

Chaka said nothing as he strode off. Plainly, if he couldn't have Charity, this soon-to-be white brother wasn't about to claim her.

Only Posetha and Waupee remained, and Charity sagged on the ground.

Waupee held out Wicomechee's knife and tomahawk. His musket stood propped against the stone wall. “Take these. I'll bind him. You see to Charity."

Wicomechee rose from his glowering contender and reclaimed his weapons. Charity blinked up at him with glistening eyes, but he was stern. “You have much to answer for, Red Bird. I told you to stay from this Long Knife."

She got shakily to her feet. “Rob asked me for broth."

"You gave him far more."

"I never meant to."

He slung the tomahawk at his side and sheathed his knife. “What must I do with such a disobedient faithless woman?"

She winced at the hard term. “How can you call me that?"

"She's not to blame.” Rob sat up. “I coaxed her near."

"Yet she went. And stayed."

"I held her fast. How was she to pull free?"

"Damn foolish. You're fortunate to live.” Waupee took a length of cord from his pouch and knelt beside Rob.

"None of this was Charity's doing,” Rob insisted.

"Why did she not cry out? Were there not many to aid her?” Wicomechee asked pointedly.

"I didn't want him to be punished,” Charity argued.

"For this, you let him kiss your lips?"

"Not her fault,” Rob argued in rising desperation. “I begged her for one kiss."

Waupee seized his wrists. “One too many."

"How much more would you allow this Long Knife before you risk his punishment?” Wicomechee demanded.

Rob jerked from Waupee. “Punish me! Not her."

"Gladly,” Waupee agreed, fighting to reclaim his hold.

Wicomechee shook his head. “It is enough punishment for you to know you can do nothing, Rob Buchanan. I will do as I like with my wife."

"Damn you to hell, Wicomechee!” he roared, elbowing Waupee in the stomach. He shoved him aside and sprang up.

Posetha lunged at Rob, toppling him to the ground. He forced him over and twisted both arms behind his back. “Shall I bind your mouth? Will you also curse Outhowwa?"

Waupee scrambled to his feet, rubbing under his ribs. “Knock me around again and by heaven, I'll—"

"Colin!” Emma cried. “What's happening?"

He tossed the cord to Posetha. “See to it this hothead sits here and cools his heels,” he said through gritted teeth and strode toward the shaken woman.

Wicomechee grasped Charity's shoulder. “We will speak."

She wrenched away with surprising force. Leaving her blanket in his hand, she spun around and darted between two warriors and out from under the rocky shelter.

"Wait!” he shouted after her.

Heedless of him, she flew into the storm-tossed trees.

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Chapter Fourteen

Charity refused to heed Wicomechee's hoarse call. It would take him an instant to grab his musket—a weapon he was never without—and chase after her. And in that instant, she intended to put as much distance between them as possible. She hadn't the faintest notion where she was going, just away from his anger.

Wind-swept droplets stung her face, but she'd have run into far worse weather. Rivulets flowed down over the rocks along the ridge and gurgled across her path. She splashed through the streams, soaking her newly acquired moccasins well up to her ankles. Wet leaves threw her off balance, and she hurled down onto her knees in a soggy pile.

"Red Bird!"

Oh, God.
He was closing in on her.

She got to her feet and dashed ahead. Showery boughs slapped her face and briars snagged her skirts. Leaving yet more fabric behind, she tore free and sped around a curve in the misty trail. A downed chestnut limb loomed ahead, blocking her way. She sprang over the massive branch and landed in a lake of a puddle on the other side. Cold water swooshed up to her knees and spewed in her face.

Gasping, she scrambled to take off again. Just as quickly, her feet flew out from beneath her and she sprawled backwards into the yawning puddle. “Ooooh—"

The frigid water soaked her cloak and seeped through to the clothes beneath.
Stupid
, she berated herself, the icy draught bringing her back to her senses.

Again, she'd given into her impulsive nature. Running would only make Wicomechee angrier, if that were possible. There was nothing for it but to turn around and face him.

She must've been out of her mind to think he could ever love her as much as his late wife, Mequana. And Charity even yearned to be cherished above his lost first love. The most she could hope was that he wouldn't punish her too badly.

Frightened, chilled to the marrow, she struggled over the branch and started back up the trail she'd just flown down.

Wicomechee emerged in the gloom and sprinted up to her. “Are you crazy? You could be lost among the trees, or fall.” He swept his hand at the trail and the steep drop to one side.

She hadn't even noticed the hazard in all the mist. “I'm sorry. I—” dissolving into fresh tears, she crumbled in a heap on the rain-drenched earth.

He knelt and spoke more gently. “Why did you fly from me? Did you fear I would punish you as I did Rob Buchanan?"

"There'd be little left,” she squeezed from her throat.

"I said I will never strike you."

She shook in the pelting rain. “But you're furious."

"Yes."

She lifted streaming eyes and squinted at the mix of exasperation and tenderness in his gaze. “What will you do?"

"Get you to cover."

He closed his arm around her waist, helped her up, and guided her toward camp. They hadn't backtracked far when he detoured from the path and took an alternate route through the shrouded woods. She wondered briefly where he was going, but was too enveloped in misery to really care.

Rainy whiteness obscured all but the nearest trunks. How he could find his way through this fog was beyond her. As if directed by instinct, he led her between the dripping leaves and lifted her over mini streams gushing through the woods. Her feet couldn't be any wetter, but she welcomed the chivalry he showed her in spite of the ire she knew had to be very much alive. She trembled uncontrollably by the time he stopped before what appeared to be the entrance to a cave.

Stooping under the wet stone, he disappeared from sight.

She had an aversion to caves but at least it was shelter. Ducking her head beneath the darkened rock, she followed. What was this—were her senses confused?

Rather than the mustiness of dank stone and moldering leaves, the tantalizing scent of roast game and the cheery crackle of a campfire greeted her. Anticipating a black hole, she gazed around the limestone chamber in wonder. Light bounced off the walls and the fire created a glowing circle.

It was as though they were expected. A plucked pheasant sizzled over the orange flames. A blanket had been spread next to the fire, and another tucked nearby. The spiciness of sassafras wafted from a small pot; a cup waited in readiness.

She spoke through chattering teeth. “You did all this?"

"For you."

Smoke rose to the murky ceiling and back toward an unseen alcove. Vast chambers might lie beyond this first room, but he'd made it snug for a cave. Remorse stabbed at her. “I had no idea—and now—I've spoiled everything."

The lines at his mouth eased. “Perhaps not all."

"Forgive me."

"Warm first. Speak later.” He untied her drenched cloak and spread it to dry. “You must also remove your clothes."

She tugged at her bodice with numb fingers and fumbled the laces. He laid his musket down, slipped off his powderhorn and shot pouch. His vest joined the pile. He unbelted his sash, along with his pouch, knife, and tomahawk, and took off his shirt, adding these to the cave floor. Moisture glistening over his bare chest, he turned to her.

He quickly unlaced her bodice and pulled it from her then untied her petticoats. They fell around her ankles. Covered in goosebumps, she stepped from the mud-splattered cloth and stood trembling in her shift. The damp cascade of her hair lent her no warmth.