“The Swans . . .” Tears made her eyes a wash of blue. “Not welcome now?”
He was nothing if not forthright. “There’s no protest from the Swans save Jasper, who despite his prejudices seems harmless. It’s your coming and going in the woods that concerns me. I don’t want you encountering any who might do you ill.”
She was in double danger in a settlement so torn by war and strife. He wouldn’t belabor the fact that the most grievous obstacle she was up against was the many settlers’ murderous attitude against Indians.
“In the meantime, I’ll send word to Swan Station when Heckewelder arrives.”
Quietly, Keturah left the blockhouse, her beaded headband reminding him of the beaded tie of Tessa’s braid. Would every rabbit trail circle back to her?
He leaned back till the creak of his chair told him to go no further and gathered his thoughts, trying to shut the door Keturah had just cracked open with the Lenape. Yet once again something as simple as the flash of wampum beads struck like a schoolmaster’s lash. Even learning Keturah’s Indian father was the ancient chief sparked a keen ache. Wise, peace-loving Netawatwees had treated him kindly. What other Lenape ties did Keturah have?
The little he knew now haunted. Keturah had been brought to Pitt in a prisoner exchange following another meaningless treaty. Her Lenape name was Wisawtayas. Yellow Bird. He should have dug deeper, asked for details.
Picking up a ledger, he uncovered the latest communication from McKee, a warning embedded within the usual politics and military maneuvering. Something was brewing among the Ohio Indians, the Iroquois farther north, and mayhap the smaller tribes around Detroit. Though his own report to McKee was bland, he couldn’t shake the premonition of danger even in the face of scant sign.
“Colonel Tygart, sir.”
He’d already turned toward the door before the voice sounded, a habit of the backwoods. His head spy, Captain Arbuckle, removed his battered hat, giving his matted hair a shake.
“More tracks along the Buckhannon by the ferry and near Swan Station.” The report came out in winded spurts. “Two horses stolen from Westfall north of Swans’. Signs of passage at the salt licks further upriver.”
“How many in the party?”
“A dozen or so by my reckoning, mayhap a mix of Wyandot and Shawnee. We lost their trail at Clover Bottom.” He reached into the folds of his linen shirt and withdrew a foot-long strip of birch bark. “Found this between the old Braam homestead and the Swans’. Some sort of picture writing.”
Clay took the rough bark from his outstretched hand and studied the etching of coal and pigmented clay on wood. Wikhegan. Indian symbols telling a story or relaying a message.
“I recollect you saying these bark maps are used amongst the tribes, detailing rivers and trails for those Indians unfamiliar with a region.”
“Aye.” Though he tried to look at it dispassionately, coldly, Clay could not. “Odd finding them in more settled territory.”
The maker had drawn the sign of the moon followed by seven straight strokes in black. Below this were two red arrows in flight, both aimed at a woman fleeing, her dark hair spread out and flowing behind her.
“What do you make of it, sir?”
Clay set the wikhegan on his desk. “The red arrows and the woman fleeing are warnings. The moon and the lines beside it indicate the passage of time and the growing strength of their numbers, likely, be it Shawnee or Wyandot or else. Mayhap a declaration of war, though not as telling as a black wampum belt. But something to heed, aye.”
Arbuckle gave a low whistle. “Grim picture writing.”
“Think no more of it.” Clay turned away from the ominous sign with a ghost of a smile. “A hot meal and a gill of muster-day rum is owed you.”
“Obliged, sir.” Arbuckle passed outside, leaving Clay to ponder this latest development.
Other spies and other reports would soon follow. For the moment, he was most concerned about the Swans leaving out once the frolic was done. He was of a mind to escort them all the way to Swan Station. And now, melded with his conflicted attraction for a woman he couldn’t court, this telling piece of wikhegan only fueled his angst.
Woodenly, without thinking, he abandoned his desk and climbed to the loft, the weight of his defenselessness amid the coming tempest pressing down like a hammer on an anvil. When the Swans left the relative safety of the fort, what could he do? Though the brothers’ five guns were formidable as far as number, they were old and unreliable, a poor defense amid a volley of red arrows. What—or who—was the fleeing woman with hair flying etched so carefully in coal? Might it be Tessa? Settlement women in general? If so, why leave out children from the picture?
His backside connected with his bed and he sank his head in his hands, Maddie’s words weaving through his inner turmoil.
You’ve got to get out from under that burden of believing a lie. Folks you care about get cut down, so you stop caring, stop letting folks in.
Might his prayerlessness, his occasional nod to God, leave him or a situation more defenseless, even powerless? Was it akin to facing an enemy without a weapon? He stood in the crossfire of fort life, the empty blockhouse calling for something he’d abandoned years before. His faith, watered down and mixed with Indian mysticism and superstition, had turned to rust.
If this gnawing attraction for Tessa drove him to his knees, all the better then. He hit the rough wood floor, the slight twinge warning of the rheumatism that followed so many backwoodsmen into old age. The odd posture felt awkward, even foolish, but he bent his head, fisting his hands together.
At once came the lick of another memory. Pale candlelight. The whistle of wind through cabin chinking. All the night sounds beloved to a boy, his mother’s bent head and heartbeat most memorable of all as she’d gathered him close to pray. How he craved the words she’d once said, lost to time. No doubt they’d been aimed at his oft-absent father, away on a long hunt. Prayers for protection. Peace.
Peace, aye, peace. For Tessa. For all in this war-torn land.
