Red Bird's Song (6 page)

His mysterious allusion sent a frightening yet strangely exciting tingle through Charity.

The beagle begged for the scraps James tossed him while Charity sat eating slices of ham and wild grapes and listened to the unintelligible exchange between Colin and her rescuers. Whatever they discussed seemed to be a matter of disquiet.

As they spoke, she grew increasingly aware of the young brave sitting beside her. Like Wicomechee and Colin, he wore his shoulder-length hair loose. His chiseled features set off black eyes shining with intelligence. She glanced his way, caught his warm gaze on her, and averted her eyes.

He spoke rapidly to Colin, who gave a nod. “Posetha wishes to be introduced.” He laid his hand on Emma's shoulder. “This fair lady is Emma, my wife,
niwah
,” he said and gestured at Charity. “This beauty is called Charity. We will stick with Christian names to simplify,” he explained. “James they know. I entrusted him to their care yesterday."

The big warrior nudged Colin. “Ah yes, Muga. His name means bear. Posetha and Muga are my good friends,
gitchee niNeeakahs
. They, Wicomechee and I are a band of brothers."

Both men seemed pleased, and if they had any reservations about the condition of Colin's newly recovered
wife
they concealed it well. “Do they speak English?” Charity asked.

Posetha smiled. “I speak. Muga speaks little.” He pointed at her knee. “You are injured. Let me see."

She watched cautiously as he knelt and pushed her cloak aside. Yesterday's bandage was stained and a dismal sight.

He beckoned. “Come to the water."

"Might I borrow your comb, Mister Dickson?"

Colin withdrew a comb carved of bone from the beaded elk skin pouch hanging over his shoulder. The item in hand, she limped to the small spring bubbling up from between gray rocks and flowing into the trees at the base of a wooded slope. Inhaling the earthy scent, she sat on a sun-warmed stone.

Where was Wicomechee, and why did she care? Only for protection, she reasoned, glad of Posetha's friendliness.

Though not as tall as Wicomechee, he stood a handspan above her. He motioned her knee nearer the water to wet the bandage then carefully unbound the linen. The cut was closing well, though badly discolored with a purpling bruise.

"Wait.” Posetha darted into the trees, returning with a handful of mitten-shaped leaves. “This kind brings healing."

The spicy scent of sassafras rose around her as he pressed the crushed leaves to her wound and bound the poultice in place with a strip of linen taken from the pouch at his waist.

"Thank you,” she offered.

"
Megwich
."

Was he teaching her Shawnee? “
Megwich,
Posetha."

He watched appreciatively as she combed out tangles. “Your hair is colored like a red leaf.
Pocoon sisqui
. Your eyes are
skipaki
, the color of leaves in the planting moon."

Colin stepped beside them. “Very poetic, Posetha."

The earnest brave stood, plucked a fluffy milkweed pod, and bent to touch her cheek. “Like this, your skin."

"Enough,” Colin chuckled. “Does Wicomechee want you to speak honeyed words to his captive?"

Posetha shrugged. “I speak the words I like."

"Until he puts a stop to it."

Charity looked up at Colin. “Would Mechee really mind?"

"Quite possibly. He took you captive for a reason."

"What?” she asked guardedly, with that curious tingle.

"He will tell you in his own way.” Colin leaned down and held out his hand. “Let's have you up."

Puzzled and a little alarmed, she took his hand and got to her feet, walking with him to where Emma lay curled in her cloak like a slumbering cat. The wine-colored hood hid much of her face, but her cheek and long, closed lashes peeked out.

"Poor darling.” Colin knelt and gently shook her. She parted rosy lips in a yawn as he slid his arm beneath her and lifted her from the blanket. “We must return to the cave and see to Lily. You and Charity can rest while we await the third war party. I can't imagine what's keeping them."

Charity shook her head. “I'm not setting foot in that cave with Chaka there, Mister Dickson."

"Fine. I'll toss him out."

Emma blinked in alarm. “No, Colin. You mustn't."

Charity hadn't meant to distress her. Neither could she possibly go back there. “Would Posetha guide me to Mechee?"

Colin seemed surprised. “You really want to go to him?"

Strangely, she found that she did. “Yes, please."

"Perhaps you'd be better off with my brother just now, if he can be found.” His lips twitched. “Keep an eye on the stars, Miss Edmondson."

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Chapter Four

Charity followed Posetha toward the overlook where he thought Wicomechee kept watch somewhere further up the tree-shrouded ridge. A woof sounded behind her and the beagle brushed against her legs. She stopped to stroke his ears. “May he come with us?"

Posetha paused ahead of her and gave a shrug. “Yes."

"
Megwich
. He ought to have a name."

"
Weshe
is dog in Shawnee.” Taking a wrinkled brown root from his pouch, Posetha sliced two aromatic pieces and handed one to her. “
Gensang
. Good for the stomach. For more also."

She chewed, savoring the sweet taste. He popped a piece into his mouth and proceeded at a pace her knee could tolerate, seeming more like an amiable escort than her enemy.

A woodpecker hammered overhead as the first men in a line of warriors appeared in front of them. The drum of the bird had muffled their stealthy approach, and a bend in the trail hid the emerging figures. Even without the distraction, she wouldn't have detected their coming, like silent owls winging across the sky.

Posetha stepped to one side of the trail and pulled her with him. “It is all right. They are Shawnee."

These tidings weren't equally reassuring to Charity. The men's forbidding expressions spurred her apprehension. More braves walked by, fifteen so far. This must be the third war party Colin had mentioned, their mood entirely unlike the other two bands. “What's wrong?” she whispered to Posetha.

"Bad fight.” He pointed to a warrior with an ugly leg wound leaning on the support of a friend and hobbling along. Another man's bloody shoulder bore witness to a musket blast.

A young warrior hailed Posetha. “Stay here, Charity,” he said, and headed toward his friend.

She watched the sullen procession file past. Her stomach lurched at the sight of two braves dragging a young man by a thong around his neck, his wrists bound, torn shirt bloodied. He was a strapping man, but the beatings had laid him low.

Dear God
. That swollen bleeding face belonged to Rob Buchanan, the man her guardians wanted her to marry.

One of the warriors dragging Rob gave him a vicious kick. The other brave plunged a fist into his stomach. Rob doubled over, groaning. Two other warriors ahead of him turned around and joined in the assault. Rob fell down onto his knees, struggling vainly to rise under the blows raining down on him. The first warrior kicked him to the ground and the others pounded at him with their fists. He lay face down, moaning.

"For God's sake—stop!” Hurtling past the startled warriors, Charity shouldered one brave aside and threw herself over Rob's barely conscious form. “Leave him be! Leave him be!” The loyal dog punctuated her screams with ear-bending barks.

The staring warriors paused in their attack and stood like statues carved of flesh and blood. Posetha rushed to her side and closed his arms around her waist. “Come away."

Digging her toes into the earth, she clung to Rob's bloody back. “I won't leave him to die. Make them stop!"

"I cannot.” Posetha tore her from Rob.

The moment of stunned stillness ended. Grumbling angrily, the warriors closed in on her like wolves for the kill. Posetha, alone, didn't seem enough of a barrier to the snarling pack. “Mechee! Mechee! Help me!”
God let him hear.

"Be still, girl,” a low voice hissed from behind.

She turned her head. The clustered men allowed a powerful warrior through the circle—surely the most menacing brave yet. He glared down at her with slitted eyes.

"Your cries wake even the trees. If Long Knives are near, they will hear you. Silence
weshe
, Posetha."

Posetha released Charity and grabbed the outraged dog, muzzling him with his hand. “
Okema
, Chief Outhowwa,” he said. His quiet voice held fear.

Black terror constricted her stomach and her legs grew weak. Even if Posetha hadn't told her this was the chief, she would have guessed. Everything about Outhowwa spoke of crushing strength and the knowledge that comes with hard experience. Sunlight touched his gleaming scalp lock and the silver pendants hanging from his split wire-wrapped earlobes.

Bear claws dangled from the necklace around his thick neck and rested on his chest. Four parallel scars ran from just below his right eye to the iron set of his jaw in testimony to the price he'd paid for this gruesome prize.

She clenched her teeth against another desperate cry. One blow from the club in his fist would splinter her skull.

Outhowwa dismissed her with a contemptuous glance and addressed the warriors in Shawnee. Her dread intensified with each alien word he spat out. He was passing a harsh sentence.

Posetha inserted himself between Charity and Outhowwa and pleaded with the incensed chief. That much was evident in his impassioned tone and face. Unspeakably grateful for his presence, she strained to discern the impact he'd had.

Outhowwa's scornful gaze raked him, and her heart sank.

Again, Posetha appealed to the menacing figure.

Some of the surrounding heads nodded, but Outhowwa eyed Posetha as he might a squashed toad. He hissed a reply.

Posetha colored and opened his mouth.

"
Puckechey
!” Outhowwa barked, and pointed at the trail.

With agony in his face, Posetha firmed up his grip on the dog and ran with him back toward the cave. Charity watched his retreating figure in dismay. He couldn't possibly bring Colin in time to appease such fury. She was as good as dead.

Slumping to her knees, she pressed her cheek against Rob's bloodied shirt. His back was warm beneath her, but he didn't move. She could barely speak. “God help us, Rob, or we shall perish together.” It seemed the height of irony to die for the suitor she'd badly wanted to evade.

"Charity?” he murmured, and drifted away again.

She envied Rob his unconscious state. Her senses prickled with the awareness of glowering warriors and the chief poised behind her ready to strike. She clutched Rob's limp hand, but found no comfort. She must face Outhowwa alone and lifted her eyes to his narrow gaze. “Have mercy."

Outhowwa's grim features made it clear he would grant none. “You did what is not done.” He lifted his club.

She squeezed her eyes against the death blow. She'd soon be reunited with her brother and father, she told herself, and uttered a final petition. “Have mercy on my soul, O Lord."

"Outhowwa!
Naga
!"

Her eyes flew open at Wicomechee's voice. Hope rose in her like a bird fleeing the hunter's snare. “Mechee!"

Wicomechee's chest pounded beneath his shirt from his race down the ridge. Charity's anguished shrieks had sent cold dread knifing through his heart, unlike anything he'd ever imagined. She must be in dire peril to call out to him. Her name for him swelled in his ears. She still lived.

He glimpsed her crouched over a fallen figure. Her wealth of red hair covered them both, but he didn't dare look into her face. Rather, he kept his eyes on the irate chief. “This woman belongs to me, Outhowwa,” he said in English so Charity could follow the exchange.

Outhowwa regarded him coldly, but lowered his arm. “You? Posetha is her captor—"

"Posetha?” Where had Outhowwa gotten that idea? “No. I took her captive."

Outhowwa considered this new twist, his lips pressed together in a hard line. He pointed at Charity. “Look how she holds to my captive."

Wicomechee swiveled his head to see her clinging to the Long Knife. Jealousy and annoyance assailed him. Outhowwa wouldn't tolerate such willfulness for an instant, never mind that she was young and beautiful. The mature warrior despised redheads. “Charity, take your hands from this man now."

She panted so hard she could scarcely speak, but did not peel back her fingers. “Wait—what will happen to Rob?"

Outhowwa rounded on her. “This is not for you to say. You do not interfere with his punishment."

Her pleading eyes passed between them. “Don't kill him."

"He is dead to you. You must learn respect,” Outhowwa growled, and raised his arm over her head once more.

She ducked with a shudder.

Wicomechee sprang forward and seized Outhowwa's wrist. “Let me discipline her."

"Your eyes hold softness for this woman,” he scorned.

Wicomechee locked him in an unyielding stare. He was equal to Outhowwa if it came to that, although he hoped it wouldn't. Nor did he know if any of the braves looking on in tight-lipped scrutiny would back him up.

"I will do as I must, Outhowwa."

He snorted at his reply, but made no move one way or the other.

"May I speak with her?” Wicomechee asked.

Outhowwa gave a short nod. Wicomechee dropped his gaze to the Long Knife lying face-down beside her. “Who is he?"

"Rob Buchanan,” Charity said shakily. “The youngest son of Captain Buchanan."

Waupee had spoken the militia leader's name. Wicomechee wondered if Charity were promised to this son she'd risked her life to defend. A fresh shaft of resentment pierced him as he addressed the exasperated chief. “Your captive is the son of the leader of the Long Knives."

Outhowwa waved Wicomechee on. “Speak more of him."

Wicomechee knelt beside Charity and met her tearful eyes with a stern look. Keeping his voice low, he asked, “Must you infuriate Outhowwa?"