The warriors’ watchful intensity switched to momentary surprise. Again every eye was upon her.
“A-i,” one brave uttered. What that meant she did not know.
She gestured to the steaming trough. They soon ringed it, dipping their spoons with relish. All seemed hungry, even famished. When one grew especially greedy, he received a rap on the head with a tall Indian’s spoon and a terse warning, as if he’d violated some rule of Indian decorum. Unbidden, Tessa felt a beat of amusement.
At a whippoorwill’s trill on the path to the fields, a fresh fear overtook her. If her brothers came into the clearing . . . Though she’d delayed the danger, she couldn’t shake the certainty something dire was coming. Some soul-crushing moment where both the past and the future would be forever altered.
The trough emptied. The spoons were dropped onto the ground. The warriors were all looking at her again as if silently deciding her fate. One gave a shrill war whoop, turning away the instant Ross came around the barn.
Dear Lord, not Ross!
“Run!” She took a step toward him only to collide with the tall Indian, who blocked her way. With a practiced ease, he slipped a cord around her wrists, bound her hands behind her back, and pulled the rawhide so tight she winced.
Ross came on, straight toward her. As if he could help her. Save her. His rifle was in one hand, the barrel pointed at the ground. What could he do against so many Indians? She well knew what they might do to him.
Something more than these warriors had bleached his face the hue of new linen. Her gaze fell from his stricken expression to his shirt. A scarlet stain covered one sleeve, another splash of scarlet across the shirt’s front. Was he hurt? Nay.
Another brother.
Had the Indians come upon Jasper and Zadock in the fields before coming here? She saw no dangling scalps. Two Indians strode toward Ross, one wresting the gun from his grasp. Ross let it go without protest, his odd gaze still on her. He was trying to keep peace, protect her, not provoke them into a fury.
Her voice broke. “What about the others?”
He shook his head as if unwilling to say. Or so eaten up with grief he could not. His scarlet shirt bespoke much. He stood still as he was put in a neck noose, his hands bound like hers.
Two braves entered the smokehouse and emerged with a ham and other provisions. At that instant she was shoved from behind, past the garden and around the back of the springhouse and into the woods. One look back at Ross earned her another shove, this time so hard she nearly fell. In the melee of the moment came the distressed whinny of horses. They were her brothers’ prize mounts, now being rounded up by the Indians.
Their party waded through the shallow water, her stockings and shoes sodden, the hem of her skirt making walking a chore. If her hands were free she’d leave a trail, bits of fabric from her threadbare apron, along the way. As it was she could only press her heels deep into the ground once they left the water to try to mark her hasty passage. A broken branch here, a trampled flower there.
The Indians were having trouble with the horses, high-strung mounts, all but Blossom. Tessa could see the concern in their dark faces as they attempted to curb the stomping, rearing animals. One brave mounted and was thrown. With no bridles or saddles or even a whip, the most that could be done was drive them forward till they tired. The stony creek bed soon bore the harsh clatter of hooves.
The tall Indian seemed to have charge of her. He led the party, his stride strong and purposeful. His muscled, swarthy skin bore a sheen of something rank, some grease. Bear fat. Coupled with the hot air, the strong smell spiked her wooziness. She tried to match his pace. Her life depended on it.
Clay, Clay.
Never far from her thoughts, he’d been all but forgotten in the nightmare of the last half hour.
Lord, help him get to us. We might have a chance if Clay came . . .
For now, Ross consumed her, his stricken face betokening some unspeakable grief. Deep in her spirit she sensed at least one of her brothers was with Pa. Not knowing who plunged her into the blackest pit, her mind and heart racked with angst.
Their party vanished over the brow of the hill that marked the boundary of Swan land, pressing farther west than she had ever been before. Up creeks and streambeds that left no trail, past waterfalls spilling from clifftops like a giant pitcher poured from on high, through laurel thickets she could not admire and ripe whortleberries she could not pick. Once, her foot caught on a grapevine and she stumbled, nearly pitching headlong into the tall Indian. He turned midstride, never slowing, his look forbidding. She’d oft heard the tragic penalty for falling behind, for slowing them in their dash to distance themselves from any settlers in pursuit.
In time they mounted the horses, which were now trail worn. Bareback, she missed her familiar saddle. Strength ebbing, she clung to Blossom’s mane to help anchor her atop the unforgiving ground.
These red warriors were untiring, taking to the heights like goats. One of their party scouted ahead to inform them of danger, one behind to watch any approach from the rear. The bony ridge was dry, the sun pulling to the west and throwing a veil of gossamer light over the unbroken forest below. She tasted dust, her throat so dry she could hardly swallow. That beloved spicy-sweet scent of autumn had taken hold, but now it held a bitter taint. She rode toward the setting sun, dazed, winded, and disbelieving.
’Twas milking time, that sweet, earthy half hour atop her small stool, head pressed against the cow’s warm side, the noisy stream of white steady inside the dark pail. But here and now they were making a sort of rest stop beside a miserly trickle of creek due to some fuss about a gun.
Ready to drop from exhaustion, Tessa leaned against her mount, eyes burning from too much sun and dust, finding no solace in the spectacle before her. Ross stepped up to the Indian with the broken musket, taking the weapon in hand like it was his own, his rapt expression an aggravation to Tessa.
Tears of fury blurred her view. Long minutes ticked by, followed by some tinkering, and then a pleased grunt and unintelligible word signaled the stolen weapon was fixed. The surrounding Indians eyed Ross with unmistakable respect. New interest. Her beleaguered spirits simmered. ’Twas the first time in memory she’d been vexed by her brother’s resourceful bent as he helped the very Indians who might have killed Pa, who no doubt had dispatched another Swan this very day, who might well strike them down next. Turning, she spat into the dirt, earning a wicked glance from the wolfish warrior.
29
The field of winter wheat was sun-drenched and silent, the heated August air already blackened by buzzards. Wolves would be next, yet Clay had no time to think about a burial. His aim was to get to the Swan cabin even as horror slowed him at the spectacle of death right here. Two of the Swans’ horses had been killed in the harness, their unwieldy bodies collapsed atop untilled ground. A severe struggle had played out, a brave fight. The upturned earth and shattered gunstock led him to Jasper’s broken body, a wad of black hair still clenched in one callused fist.
While armed men took care of the burial, Clay raced to Swan Station with a small company of settlement men, Westfall included. As Bolt jumped a split-rail fence and came down hard, Clay tried to brace himself for the wrench of what was yet to come. Cyrus had escaped when the Indians struck in the field, running to alert the fort while Ross backtracked to the Swan cabin. No telling what had transpired with Tessa and her other brothers.
