The Fiery Cross (162 page)

He didn’t reek like that himself, did he? Curious, he bent his head toward the open neck of his shirt and breathed in. He felt a trickle of sweat run down the back of his neck, under his hair. He blotted it with his collar and resolved to bathe before going back to the cabin, no matter if the creek was crusted with ice.

Showers and deodorants were of more than aesthetic importance, he reflected. One got used to almost any habitual stink in short order, after all. What he’d not realized, secure in his relatively odorless modern environment, were the more intimate implications of smell. Sometimes he felt like a bloody baboon, his most primitive responses unleashed without warning, by some random assault of odor.

He remembered what had happened just the week before, and felt a hot blush creep over him at the memory.

He had walked into the dairy shed, looking for Claire. He’d found her—and Jamie, too. They were both fully clothed, standing well apart—and the air was so filled with the musk of desire and the sharp scent of male completion that Roger had felt the blood burn in his face, the hair on his body prickling erect.

His first instinct had been to turn and leave, but there was no excuse for that. He had given his message to Claire, conscious of Fraser’s eyes on him, bland and quizzical. Conscious, too, of the unspoken communication between the two of them, an unseen thrum in the air, as though they were two beads strung on a wire stretched tight.

Jamie had waited until Roger left, before leaving himself. From the corner of his eye, Roger had caught a slight movement, seen the light touch of the hand with which he left her, and even now, felt a queer clutch of his insides at the memory.

He blew out his breath to ease the tightness in his chest, then stretched out in the leaves, letting the sun beat down on his closed eyelids. He heard a muffled groan from Fergus, then the rustle of footsteps as the Frenchman made another hasty withdrawal. Fergus had eaten half-cured sauerkraut the night before—a fact made clear to anyone who sat near him for long.

His thoughts drifted back to that awkward moment in the dairy shed.

It was not prurience, nor even simple curiosity, and yet he often found himself watching them. He saw them from the cabin window, walking together in the evening, Jamie’s head bent toward her, hands clasped behind his back. Claire’s hands moved when she talked, rising long and white in the air, as though she would catch the future between them and give it shape, would hand Jamie her thoughts as she spoke them, smooth and polished objects, bits of sculptured air.

Once aware of what he was doing, Roger watched them purposefully, and brushed aside any feelings of shame at such intrusion, minor as it was. He had a compelling reason for his curiosity; there was something he needed to know, badly enough to excuse any lack of manners.

How was it done, this business of marriage?

He had been brought up in a bachelor’s house. Given all he needed as a boy in terms of affection by his great-uncle and the Reverend’s elderly housekeeper, he found himself lacking something as an adult, ignorant of the threads of touch and word that bound a married couple. Instinct would do, for a start.

But if love like that could be learned . . .

A touch on his elbow startled him and he jerked round, flinging out an arm in quick defense. Jamie ducked neatly, eluding the blow, and grinned at him.

Fraser jerked his head toward the edge of the shelf.

“I’ve found them,” he said.

JAMIE RAISED A HAND, and Fergus went at once to his side. The Frenchman came barely to the big Scot’s shoulder, but didn’t look ridiculous. He shaded his eyes with his one hand, peering down where Fraser pointed.

Roger came up behind them, looking down the slope. A flicker shot through a clearing below, marked by the swooping dip and rise of its flight. Its mate called deep in the wood, a sound like a high-pitched laugh. He could see nothing else remarkable below; it was the same dense tangle of mountain laurel, hickory, and oak that existed on the side of the ridge from which they had come; far below, a thick line of tall leafless trees marked the course of a stream.

Fraser saw him, and gestured downward with a twist of the head, pointing with his chin.

“By the stream; d’ye see?” he said.

At first, Roger saw nothing. The stream itself wasn’t visible, but he could chart its course by the growth of bare-limbed sycamore and willows. Then he saw it; a bush far down the slope moved, in a way that wasn’t like the wind-blown tossings of the branches near it. A sudden jerk that shook the bush as something pulled at it, feeding.

“Jesus, what’s that?”

His glimpse of a sudden dark bulk had been enough only to tell him that the thing was big—very big.

“I dinna ken. Bigger than a deer. Wapiti, maybe.” Fraser’s eyes were intent, narrowed against the wind. He stood easy, musket in one hand, but Roger could see his excitement.

“A moose, perhaps?” Fergus frowned under his shading hand. “I have not seen one, but they are very large, no?”

“No.” Roger shook his head. “I mean yes, but that’s not what it is. I’ve hunted moose—with the Mohawk. They don’t move like that at all.” Too late, he saw Fraser’s mouth tighten briefly, then relax; by unspoken consent, they avoided mention of Roger’s captivity among the Mohawk. Fraser said nothing, though, only nodded at the tangle of woodland below.

“Aye, it’s not deer or moose, either—but there’s more than one. D’ye see?”

Roger squinted harder, then saw what Fraser was doing, and did likewise—swaying from foot to foot, deliberately letting his eyes drift casually across the landscape.

With no attempt to focus on a single spot in the panorama below, he could instead see the whole slope as a blurred patchwork of color and motion—like a Van Gogh painting, he thought, and smiled at the thought. Then he saw what Jamie had seen, and stiffened, all thought of modern art forgotten.

Here and there among the faded grays and browns and the patches of evergreen was a disjunction, a knot in the pattern of nature’s weft—strange movements, not caused by the rushing wind. Each beast was invisible itself, but made its presence known, nonetheless, by the twitchings of the bushes nearby. God, how big must they be? There . . . and there . . . he let his eyes drift to and fro, and felt a tightening of excitement through chest and belly. Christ, there were half a dozen, at least!

“I was right! I was right, was I no,
Mac Dubh
?” MacLeod exulted. His round face beamed from one to another, flushed with triumph. “I did say as I’d seen beasts, aye?”

“Jesus, there’s a whole herd of them,” Evan Lindsay breathed, echoing his thought. The Highlander’s face was bright, fierce with anticipation. He glanced at Jamie.

“How will it be,
Mac Dubh
?”

Jamie lifted one shoulder slightly, still peering into the valley. “Hard to say; they’re in the open. We canna corner them anywhere.” He licked a finger and held it to the breeze, then pointed.

“The wind’s from the west; let us come down the runnel there to the foot of the slope. Then wee Roger and I will pass to the side, near that great outcrop; ye see the one?”

Lindsay nodded slowly, a crooked front tooth worrying the thin flesh of his lip.

“They’re near the stream. Do you circle about—keep well clear until ye’re near to the big cedar tree; ye see it? Aye, then spread yourselves, two to each bank of the stream. Evan’s the best marksman; have him stand ready. Roger Mac and I will come behind the herd, to drive them toward ye.”

Fergus nodded, surveying the land below.

“I see. And if they shall see us, they will turn into that small defile, and so be trapped. Very good.
Allonsy!
”

He gestured imperiously to the others, his hook gleaming in the sun. Then he grimaced slightly, hand to his belly, as a long, rumbling fart despoiled the silence of the wood. Jamie gave him a thoughtful look.

“Keep downwind, aye?” he said.

IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE to walk silently through the drifts of dry leaves, but Roger stepped as lightly as possible. Seeing Jamie load and prime his own gun, Roger had done likewise, feeling mingled excitement and misgiving at the acrid scent of powder. From his impressions of the size of the beasts they followed, even he might have a chance at hitting one.

Putting aside his doubts, he paused for a moment, turning his head from side to side to listen. Nothing but the faint rush of wind through the bare branches overhead, and the far-off murmur of water. A small
crack
sounded in the underbrush ahead, and he caught a glimpse of red hair. He cupped the gunstock in his hand, the wood warm and solid in his palm, barrel aimed upward over his shoulder, and followed.

Stealing carefully round a sumac bush, Roger felt something give suddenly under his foot, and jerked back to keep his balance. He looked at what he’d stepped on, and in spite of his instant disappointment, felt a strong urge to laugh.

“Jamie!” he called, not bothering any longer about stealth or silence.

Fraser’s bright hair appeared through a screen of laurel, followed by the man himself. He didn’t speak, but lifted one thick brow in inquiry.

“I’m no great tracker,” Roger said, nodding downward, “but I’ve stepped in enough of these to know one when I see one.” He scraped the side of his shoe on a fallen log, and pointed with his toe. “What d’ye think we’ve been creeping up on, all this time?”

Jamie stopped short, squinting, then walked forward and squatted next to the corrugated brown splotch. He prodded it with a forefinger, then looked up at Roger with an expression of mingled amusement and dismay.

“I will be damned,” he said. Still squatting, he turned his head, frowning as he surveyed the wilderness around them. “But what are they doing here?” he murmured.

He stood up, shading his eyes as he looked toward the creek, where the lowering sun dazzled through the branches.

“It doesna make a bit of sense,” he said, squinting into the shadows. “There are only three kine on the Ridge, and I saw two of them bein’ milked this morning. The third belongs to Bobby MacLeod, and I should think he’d ken if it was his own cow he’d seen. Besides . . .” He turned slowly on his heel, looking up the steep slope they’d just descended.

He didn’t have to speak; no cow not equipped with a parachute could have come down that way.

“There’s more than one—a lot more,” Roger said. “You saw.”

“Aye, there are. But where did they come from?” Jamie glanced at him, frowning in puzzlement. “The Indians dinna keep kine, especially not at this season—they’d slaughter any beasts they had, and smoke the meat. And there’s no farm in thirty miles where they might have come from.”

“Maybe a wild herd?” Roger suggested. “Escaped a long time ago, and wandering?” Speculation sprang up in Jamie’s eyes, echoing the hopeful gurgle of Roger’s stomach.

“If so, they’ll be easy hunting,” Jamie said. Skepticism tempered his voice, even as he smiled. He stooped and broke off a small piece of the cow-pat, crushed it with a thumb, then tossed it away.

“Verra fresh,” he said. “They’re close; let’s go.”

Within a half-hour’s walking, they emerged onto the bank of the stream they had glimpsed from above. It was wide and shallow here, with willows trailing leafless branches in the water. Nothing moved save a sparkle of sun on the riffles, but it was plain that the cows had been there; the mud of the bank was cut and churned with drying hoofprints, and in one place, the dying plants had been pawed away in a long, messy trough where something large had wallowed.

“Why did I not think to bring rope?” Jamie muttered, pushing through the willow saplings on the bank as they skirted the wallow. “Meat’s one thing, but milk and cheese would be—” The muttering died away, as he turned from the stream, following a trail of broken foliage back into the wood.

Without speaking, the two men spread out, walking softly. Roger listened with all his might to the quiet of the forest. They had to be nearby; even such an inexperienced eye as Roger’s had picked up the freshness of the signs. And yet the wood was autumn-still, the silence broken only by a raven, calling in the distance. The sun was hanging low in the sky, filling the air in the wood with a golden haze. It was getting noticeably colder; Roger passed through a patch of shadow, and shivered, in spite of his coat. They’d have to find the others and make camp soon; twilight was short. A fire would be good. Better, of course, if there were something to cook over it.

They were going down, now, into a small hollow where wisps of autumn mist rose from the cooling earth. Jamie was some distance ahead, walking with as much purpose as the broken ground allowed; evidently the trail was still plain to him, in spite of the thick vegetation.

A herd of cows couldn’t just vanish, he thought, even in mist as heavy as this . . . not unless they were faery kine. And that, he wasn’t quite prepared to believe, in spite of the unearthly quiet of the woods just here.

“Roger.” Jamie spoke very quietly, but Roger had been listening so intently that he located his father-in-law at once, some distance to his right. Jamie jerked his head at something nearby. “Look.”

He held aside a large, brambly bush, exposing the trunk of a substantial sycamore tree. Part of the bark had been rubbed away, leaving an oozing whitish patch on the gray bark.

“Do cows rub themselves like that?” Roger peered dubiously at the patch, then picked out a swatch of woolly dark hair, snagged by the roughened bark.

“Aye, sometimes,” Jamie replied. He leaned close, shaking his head as he peered at the dark-brown tangle in Roger’s hand. “But damned if I’ve ever seen a cow wi’ a coat like that. Why ye’d think it was . . .”

Something moved at Roger’s elbow and he turned, to find a monstrous dark head peering over his shoulder. A tiny, blood-dark eye met his own, and he let out a yell and jerked backward. There was a loud bang as his gun went off, and then a rush and a thud, and he was lying wrapped round a tree trunk, the breath knocked out of him, left with no more than a fleeting notion of a hairy dark bulk and a power that had sent him flying like a leaf.