Anxious, harried settlers began streaming through the heavily guarded gates. Time and time again his hopes to see the Swans rose and then fell as people gathered in tight bunches on the common and doubled up in cabins.
Clay climbed the rifle platform, the tension fairly crackling despite triple the guard. Even on so dark an eve, with nine fresh graves but a few miles away, the moon broke free of thunderclouds and a south wind awoke, as picturesque an evening as he’d ever seen within these wilderness walls.
Time ticked toward midnight but still no Swans. Had they stayed on in the barred blockhouse and cabin? Even with seven guns, it could not hold forever. Jasper was as hardheaded a man as Clay had ever seen. Formidable as a militia captain yet blinded by stubbornness and pride. If anything should befall Tessa . . .
Just when he could sweat no more, grow no more harried in waiting, a ruckus was raised at the gates. A stray shot had been heard in the woods a minute before, enough to raise every hackle. Then came the Swans at full gallop, riding hard across the stump-littered clearing, Tessa leading. Her hair was down, flying out behind her like the image of the woman fleeing in the wikhegan. One brother—Lemuel?—was on foot, bringing up the rear and running full tilt for safety. Had his horse been shot or stolen?
Relief drenched Clay as he descended the ladder. The gates swung open to admit them, one rider slumped across a mount, reins dragging. The moon ducked behind a cloud, hiding the man’s identity.
“They’re out there, sure as doomsday,” Zadock panted, swinging to the ground in the dust storm raised by skittish horses. “Cyrus is hit.”
Tessa had dismounted, already at her brother’s side. Hair streaming down in a torrent of waves and tangles, her cap missing, she made such an arresting sight Clay felt his breath hitch. He came up beside her, catching Cyrus as he fell from the saddle.
“Take him to Hester’s,” Tessa said, voice and hands trembling.
Lemuel threw down his hat in disgust, so out of breath he spoke in winded snatches. “Those redskins got my prize roan!”
“Better that than your scalp,” Zadock returned hotly.
Clay hefted Cyrus across the common with his brothers’ help, Tessa keeping up with their lengthy strides. Hester had seen them coming, was busy gesticulating toward a bed in a cabin corner. Clay laid Cyrus down, the blood coming from his wound in short bursts. Not gut shot, praise God.
They cut his crimson shirt off with a knife to lessen moving him. For a few breathless moments Clay stared, staggered. A tomahawk had sheared Cyrus’s right side, so deep he was in mortal danger. Clay had seen many injuries, and this one sent him back to Braddock’s field.
“Get Maddie,” he said to no one in particular. He did what he could in the meantime, staunching the damage with linen rags Hester brought, glad Cyrus hadn’t yet come to his senses. Such an injury would cause a powerful hurt. Whiskey would be needed in time.
“For now, cayenne tea.” Hester moved briskly to the hearth, where a kettle steamed. “Pour some down him.”
Beside Clay, sitting on the thin mattress by her brother’s side, Tessa finally spoke. “Keturah swore to flaxseed for poultices.”
“Maddie is a hand at both.” Clay sought to cheer her as her hovering brothers fed him bits and pieces about the ambush.
“Came as close to an Indian as I ever was before . . . Cyrus was in front . . . One buck tried to grab my reins, but I brained him with the butt of my rifle . . . Tessa broke free . . . Fell off my horse when it got spooked and bolted . . .”
It came to him that Rosemary Swan was missing. They had a ready explanation for that too.
“She wanted to warn Westfall. Said she couldn’t live with herself if he didn’t come in.” Zadock shook his head. “I was going to warn him instead, but she wanted to go herself. Saw her to his fence line and then came here.”
“I’ll go see if they’ve come in.” Jasper turned on his heel and left the cabin.
’Twould be an all-night vigil with Cyrus. Tessa’s pained expression said she’d not leave his side, her pallor nearly the same as her ailing brother’s.
Maddie finally came, managing her shock well enough when the dim lantern light shone on the gaping wound.
“Colonel Tygart.” In the doorway behind them stood a member of the militia. “A roan horse with no rider just came up to the gates, and we let it in.”
“That would be Lemuel’s,” Clay returned, taking a step away from the bed and looking at Tessa’s brother for confirmation. Lemuel nodded.
“Better take a look at it, sir,” the man persisted.
Injured, mayhap? In need of putting down? The Swans were known for their fine horses.
Clay passed out of the cabin with Lemuel following, the rumble of thunder at their backs. They threaded through unsettled people and roaming animals, stopping just shy of the corral where a great many nervy horses were penned. The roan reared at their approach, its bridle held by none other than Jude, the set of his mouth bespeaking trouble.
“Look there on the right flank, Colonel.”
Clay circled the skittish mount, speaking to it in low, soothing tones, while Lemuel stood back. No visible signs of harm other than he’d bolted, thrown his rider, and . . .
Clay stopped. Squinted. Behind him someone held up a pine-knot torch to illumine the painted flank. Though hastily made on an animal that wanted none of it, two black arrows were clearly drawn, each tip facing opposite directions. Hanging from the pommel on a leather strap was a wolf’s paw. Clay grabbed the torch and looked closer.
