Clay said nothing, committing Jude’s words to heart. They reined in beneath an ancient chestnut tree near the idle Swan ferry, resting their horses after a ten-mile circuit. The day held a touch of fall, the leaves of late July showing a summer’s weariness, their vibrancy fading. In the distance came the reassuring ring of an axe. The Swan brothers, all but Cyrus, were home, the sound blessed confirmation. Ross, usually at the ferry, was likely in the fields. Folks would have to swim or float their belongings across, but lately there’d been few travelers, given word of the Clendennin massacre had spread.
“Why do you think that war party took no prisoners?” Jude asked, eyes on the river.
“They were traveling fast, not wanting captives but vengeance after what happened to Chief Bull and his party.”
“What do you make of them that nearly ambushed the Swans that night? Think it was the same who attacked the Clendennins?”
“Nay. The Clendennins seemed to be the work of Shawnee or mayhap Wyandot. That wikhegan on Zadock’s roan was pure Lenape.”
Jude gave a low whistle of consternation. “You ain’t said much, but I know you well enough to see the hackles it raised. Care to tell me more?”
“It’s personal.” Clay reached for his canteen and took a swig of water. “Hearkens back to my time as a captive.”
“Living with the Wolf clan along the Cuyahoga?”
Clay gave a nod. “You recall that Lenape brother whose brother I replaced when he died of disease?”
“Ghost eyes, they called you. Këshkinko. I recollect his was Tamanen. ’Twas him who marked Cyrus’s horse.”
“We were raised together, shared a father and mother. Sisters. Everything we did was to best the other. Close as blood brothers, we were.” Clay took another drink, still stung by the uncanny circumstance. “Keturah was his wife in the Lenape tradition. Nothing binding under white law, but still his wife as far as the tribe is concerned.”
Jude grimaced. “And you knew nothing of the bond between them?”
“None. Keturah was made captive of another band of Lenape before marrying Tamanen and becoming part of his clan. I’d since left them and had no knowledge of their tie till she spoke of it that day with Heckewelder.”
“And somehow, for some reason, Tamanen came here and spooked the Swans, then marked their horse to send a message to you.”
“That’s part of it, aye. Bad blood, mayhap.”
“Bad blood? Because of you living like brothers and then you forsaking your Lenape ways?”
“Stands to reason, aye? He’s a war chief. He’s lost not only his Indian kin to disease but also a white brother and a wife. I had something to do with Keturah. Who knows the depth of his reasoning or his wanting revenge, if that’s what it is.”
“I’d be mighty nervy then.” Jude looked over his shoulder with a grimace. “When a grudge becomes personal, it ain’t likely to end easy.”
“Tamanen’s clever—and ruthless.” Clay turned his horse east, recalling the many times Tamanen had bested and outwitted him. “It’s his nature to settle a score, no matter how small or how much time has passed.”
They rode back to the fort in silence, daylight giving way to the flash of fireflies and a pale sunset. ’Twas hard to keep his mind on the task at hand, as Tessa met him at the beginning and end of every thought. But he felt an odd peace undergirding it all, knowing she was behind those picketed walls, hopefully anticipating his return.
He half expected to see her serve him supper, but ’twas Hester who was at his hearth, concocting venison stew and wheaten bread.
“How’s Cyrus?” he asked.
She poked at the hearth, scattering the embers beneath a kettle to end its singing. “Taken a turn for the worse.”
Dismay overrode his weariness. He hung his shot pouch and powder horn from a peg and stored his rifle, then went straight to her cabin.
Tessa was by her brother’s side, head bent. Was she praying? Her small hand was clasped in Cyrus’s much larger one. His eyes were closed, his pallor disturbingly washed-out. His wound was grievous, but with time and attention Clay figured he’d get well.
He rested a hand on Tessa’s shoulder. She looked up at him, her gaze holding a well of hurt. Cyrus’s breathing was alarmingly shallow. It shook Clay that a man could go from playing checkers to lying motionless in a matter of hours.
“Your ma leave with Westfall?” he asked her softly.
“Aye.” She reached up and laid her hand on his. “When they went, Cyrus was on his feet, and then afterward he began to bleed again.”
He bit back a rebuke about Cyrus being up and around so soon. The Swan men were many things, including willful. Dropping to his haunches, he pondered what to do. Indecision often spelled disaster, a life lost. Keturah’s remedies were never so needed as now. Maddie did what she could but was no physic or Lenape healer.
His own mostly minor injuries, gotten in wartime or with the tribe, trickled through his memory before becoming a deluge. He rubbed his scarred jaw. “Slippery elm bark.”
