Savage Betrayal (11 page)

There were few sounds of battle now. Most of his men lay dead, their bodies littering the floor.

Desperate, Thunder Maker switched his knife to his functioning hand, the left one. At such a disadvantage, he knew he must kill the younger man soon. Feinting to one side, he quickly jabbed from the other. Fighting Wolf was expecting such a trick and jumped easily out of the way. In a surprise move, he lunged for the older warrior’s legs and tripped him. Thunder Maker fell heavily to the floor. Bringing his knife up and under the old man’s chin as he lay prone, Fighting Wolf was surprised to gaze into eyes that held no fear, only resignation.

Grabbing the knife out of the old man’s hand, he grinned down into the face. His voice carried in the silence and all eyes turned to him as he sneered, “Old man, do you think you’ll die this day?”

No answer, just the resigned eyes staring back at him.

“No, old man, you won’t die today. And I’ll tell you why. I, Fighting Wolf, war chief of the Ahousats, will let you live.” Here he snarled his hatred at the old man. “I let you live, old cur, because I want you to see and taste the humiliation every day of your life of what I’ve done to you. Look around you! Your warriors are dead. Your son—“

Suddenly realizing Feast Giver’s absence, Fighting Wolf ordered Comes-from-Salish, “Bring me his son!”

Turning back to the chief on the floor, he growled, “I’m taking your women with me as slaves…including your daughter. I wouldn’t want you to wonder where that worthless slave is!” He laughed cruelly.

Still no answer from the old man, just his steady gaze in reply. Fighting Wolf jabbed the knife a little closer, the point of his dagger cutting the thin skin of his enemy’s neck. A drop of blood, winking in the firelight, ran down the blade.

Comes-from-Salish strode up, an unconscious Feast Giver in his arms. “Get some rope and tie him up with the old man,” commanded Fighting Wolf.

Quickly and competently, the warrior tied the chief back to back with his son. The two half-sat, half-slumped in the middle of the feast remains, their dead warriors at their feet.

“Listen well, old man,” snarled Fighting Wolf. “Your name will be reviled and loathed up and down the coast. No one will attend your potlatches. No one will make alliances with you. You can’t even protect your own name or family. Look at your people. Destroyed! And by my hand! Do you know why, old man?”

His face twisted with hate, Fighting Wolf held the knife even closer. Another crimson tear slid down the blade. “Because you led the raid that killed my father. My father, old man, was a better war chief than you or your son could ever hope to be!”

Standing up, he looked down at his victim and spat in his face. “Humiliation, old man! That’s what you’ll live with every day for the rest of your worthless life!” Contemptuously, he turned his back on the old chief and his unconscious son, and walked away.

Fighting Wolf gloated to himself in savage glee. The old man would indeed live a life of humiliation from this day forth!

Looking around quickly, he noted with satisfaction that several women were herded into one corner of the longhouse. He saw, with even greater satisfaction, the blue blur of a trade blanket that told him the one woman he wanted had been captured.

At the first wild yell, Sarita sat in a bewildered daze, but only for a moment. The touch of Spring Fern at her shoulder galvanized her into action. Her breath caught in her throat as she watched a warrior swing his club at her slave. Seeing the girl run for the escape hatch, relief swept over Sarita.

But she had paused too long. The brutal warrior who had swung at Spring Fern now turned on her. Instead of clubbing her to death as she expected, he reached one brawny arm around her waist and dragged her off with him. Kicking and screaming, she tried to dislodge herself from his rock hard grip. Ignoring her efforts as he would a mosquito’s, he carried her over to one dark corner of the longhouse.

There, hugging crying babies and sobbing children, several women crowded together. They stood in groups of twos and threes clutching one another for solace, and grim-faced, watched the bloody spectacle.

Sarita was shoved roughly into the pitiful group. Darting away, she was seized in a tight grip and a loud laugh rang in her ear. Thrust back into the group of women, she drew her blanket tightly about her as if for protection. She glanced around. Armed with knives and war clubs, several burly Ahousats guarded the women, effectively preventing any escape. Sarita huddled in hopelessly with the other victims.

It seemed such a long time that she stood with the women, staring dully out at the battling men. She watched, sickened, as Fighting Wolf fought with a warrior of her father’s. With a snarl, the war chief grabbed the man’s hair, jerking his head down. Sharply bringing his knee up, he smashed the man’s face, then stabbed him through the ribs and laughed as the Hesquiat crumpled to the floor.

Another Ahousat was bending over a stout Hesquiat he had walloped over the shoulders, and then beaten over the head. The body lay still, unmoving in that scene of frantic activity.

Sarita recognized the man who had run the flaming gauntlet. Comes-from-Salish grabbed another man’s head and quickly bent him over backward as he plunged a knife into the man’s vitals. Hearing a groan, he bashed his victim over the head with his war club and watched in satisfaction as the man sank lifelessly to the floor.

Sarita continued to stare with lifeless eyes at the hazy scene, her horror growing with the mad slaughter. She searched slowly for some sight of her father or brother. Far off to one side, she could make out the body of her brother, then the bulky figure of Crab Woman as she dragged him off to safety. The old woman’s heroic efforts shook Sarita from her terror-induced lethargy.

Peering through the haze, she searched frantically for her father’s stout frame, but couldn’t see him anywhere. She felt a cold hard lump in her stomach. Surely he was not dead! She quickly searched through the captives. Perhaps he had been captured. With a despairing heart, she realized the enemy was taking only women and children as captives. The men they were killing.

At last she spotted Thunder Maker, just as Fighting Wolf attacked. Breathless, heart pounding, she watched their short, vicious battle to its humiliating conclusion.

Sarita became aware suddenly that the sounds of battle around her were gradually fading. There were only the moans and groans of the wounded and dying, broken occasionally by the piteous cries of mourning or captive women. The battle was over, and her father’s people had lost. It was a bitter moment for Sarita. And one she knew would haunt her for the rest of her life.

She gazed, stricken, at her father and brother trussed together in the midst of the carnage, heard the cruel words Fighting Wolf spoke. He was right…her father’s and brother’s names and reputations were irredeemably destroyed.
Truly a fine-honed revenge to let them live,
she thought. They would have gladly chosen an honorable death with their warriors.

***

Exhilarated, Fighting Wolf surveyed the battle scene. All around him lay the dead and dying enemy. Squinting through the smoke at the captive women and children huddled in the far corner, he snapped, “Take the prisoners down to the beach and load them into canoes. Make sure our retreat is covered. Then let’s get out of here.”

His men hurried away, happy to carry out both orders.

In disbelief, Sarita felt a sharp point—a knife?—prodding her in the back. Dazed, she moved passively along with the other women. Looking at the decapitated bodies sprawled all over the floor, people she’d known all her life, a great sorrow mingled with anger and the bitter taste of defeat welled up in her. Thunder Maker’s people had been ignobly conquered and there was nothing she could do. All was lost.

Shoved out into the night with the others, she felt the cool breeze on her skin. It revived her spirits somewhat. Also, it was a relief to be away from the scene of deadly confrontation.

She looked around at the weeping women, as if seeing them for the first time. Some of them clutched their children to them as they walked slowly towards the beach. Many had no children. Sarita noted that the captured women were the young, attractive ones of her village. She shuddered as she wondered what was in store for all of them.

Once down on the beach, the terrified women milled about like frightened deer. Waiting to be loaded in to the war canoes, they were poked and prodded by the laughing victors. Men stood around the captives, holding up the grisly heads and gesturing obscenely at the women. Some of the warriors took great delight in mauling those women standing at the fringe of the crowd.

Sarita, clutching her blanket tightly around her, was crowded into the middle. She was protected from grabbing hands but could feel many eyes upon her.

Suddenly the women around her were pushed to both sides, leaving a wide path. Fighting Wolf strode forward, stopping in front of her. He stood, grinning down at her, his piercing black eyes staring straight into hers. His hard gaze disconcerted her, but she would not let him know it.

He stood there, arrogant, looking at her for a long moment. At his belt hung several daggers and his beautiful sea otter robe was smeared with blood—Hesquiat blood. She clutched her blanket closer and stared up at him with angry, hate-filled golden eyes. “Murderer!” she hissed.

He laughed, his deep voice echoing in the stillness and sending a shiver down her spine. He reached out one strong hand and took her shoulder. Spinning her around, he pushed her roughly towards his canoe. Stubbornly, she dug her heels into the sand.
Anything to thwart him.
There was a long pause, then she thought she heard a low chuckle.

Suddenly, she was seized and thrown over one hard shoulder. She struggled and kicked, but the blue cape she wore interfered with her movements. A massive hand swatted her buttocks, and a deep voice ordered, “Stop struggling, woman!”

Fighting Wolf took several strides through the water, then dumped her ignominiously into a canoe. Glad to pull away from him, she crawled to a seat in the canoe. Drawing her blue cloak closer, she glowered at him before haughtily turning her head.

Once seated in the middle of his war canoe, she stoically watched the scene on the beach.

Fighting Wolf chuckled to himself at the girl’s rebellion. Later he would have time for taming her, he thought with anticipation. Surveying the beach, he urged his men to load the captives into the canoes quickly. Most of his men were standing by the canoes, ready to jump aboard after the women were loaded. A few last Ahousats hurried down the beach, clutching booty.

A slumped, brown body dressed in slave rags caught the war chief’s eye. The man lay draped over the bow of Comes-from-Salish’s canoe. Fighting Wolf raised an eyebrow interrogatively. Comes-from-Salish looked sheepish.

“Caught him hanging around the canoes. Thought it best to take no chances. We hit him over the head. Didn’t want to kill him since he’s a strong-looking slave,” the former slave muttered gruffly.

Fighting Wolf recognized Comes-from-Salish’s pity for the unconscious slave and, feeling magnanimous in his victory, answered casually, “Well, well. I’ll consider him my bridal repayment gift.” He chuckled. “Just make sure the man stays out of my way. Any trouble from him and you’ll be held responsible.”

“Yes, noble chief,” answered Comes-from-Salish solemnly. Then he grinned. “There’s lots of work for this slave to do. He’ll earn his keep, don’t worry.” He gave Rottenwood a hard kick in the ribs. The captive lay still, unconscious. He felt nothing even when he was lifted and tossed in the bottom of the canoe.

Ten of Fighting Wolf’s men still stood on the beach. They were armed with muskets and were covering the others’ retreat. A few straggling Hesquiats chased the Ahousats to the beach, only to be scared off by scattered shots.

Finally, all the canoes were loaded with captives and warriors. The remaining ten warriors pushed the laden craft into deeper water, jumped in, then whirled to aim their weapons at any would-be rescuers.

A few brave survivors managed to race for their canoes, avidly pursuing the raiders.

Fighting Wolf grinned, watching them. It was soon clear to his men why he was so amused.

The Hesquiats stopped at the waterline, milling in confusion. Out in deep water lay the Hesquiat war canoes, half-sunk. Paddles and equipment floated on the outgoing tide. One or two hardy men splashed into the water, frantically trying to retrieve the submerged dugouts. The rest stood on shore, shouting foul curses at the rapidly disappearing Ahousats.

Fighting Wolf laughed exultantly. His strategy was a success! His revenge was complete! Turning to his men, he grinned broadly, his eyes touching briefly, triumphantly, on Sarita who was huddled in the center of the canoe.

“A good day’s work!” he yelled, holding up a bloody, dripping head by the hair. His victory yell echoed across the water to the warriors in the other canoes. With a resounding answering shout, his men bent to their paddles with a will and raced swiftly for home as full darkness descended.

Stiff and chilled, Sarita sat huddled in Fighting Wolf’s war canoe. She stared straight ahead, unseeing, at Fighting Wolf’s broad back as he sat in the prow of the boat.

Despair overwhelmed her. She felt numb and dazed, barely able to comprehend the enormous change in her life in such a short time. Her mind crowded with images of the marriage feast, and she could concentrate on little else. Again and again she saw her father and brother tied and helpless, heard the cruel words Fighting Wolf spoke, saw the headless bodies of her father’s warriors.

Once she briefly glanced over at the other canoes to the bundled shapes of the captured Hesquiat women. They looked as broken and listless as she herself felt.

Desperately she tried to focus her mind on her present danger, but scenes from the slaughter kept intruding. At last her awful visions were interrupted by a fitful sleep.

* * * *

In another canoe, Rottenwood groggily shook his head. The hammering on the back of his skull would not go away. Shaking his head again, he moaned and tried to sit up, feeling sick. Gradually, the nauseous feeling in the pit of his stomach disappeared. He became aware of the gentle rocking motion of the canoe.