A growl emanated from his adversary. Guttural, but not so deep as he would have expected. Still, the tone made it clear the fellow’s patience was fast waning.
Evan released the saddle horn, lowered his arm, and sank to his knees on the frozen ground. Snow hadn’t yet fallen in this part of the territory, but if the cold stinging his exposed skin was any indicator, an icy torrent would be upon them soon.
The Indian—or whoever was cloaked in the animal skins—circled around him, never dropping the aim of his arrow. The faint crackle of leaves bespoke an approach from behind. Would the man bind his wrists or pierce him with a knife and end his life?
Evan would have to turn and topple the stranger if he were to have any chance of getting the upper hand. He could do it, even with the arrow wound, certainly. He’d fought tougher opponents in battle after having received more than one slice from a saber. A Frenchman would be an easy match—if only he could keep his swirling wits about him.
Footsteps padded behind him, and Evan tensed to spin and strike.
“Lower your—”
He whirled and shot his fist forward, praying his aim would be true, even though his target blurred into three shapes. His arm struck something—fur?—and the man issued a high-pitched gasp. Was this a boy?
But Evan had no time to ponder as something grabbed his wrist and a force slammed into his back, shoving him down, almost to the ground.
He writhed, jerking his arm to get away from the man’s grasp. Evan brought his free hand around to strike a blow. The effort sent a knife of pain through his gut, but he clamped his jaw tight and fought harder.
His opponent moved too quickly, out of striking distance before Evan could land a blow. His dizziness must be slowing his movements, but he had to overcome that. The man had Evan’s arm pinned behind him now, and a boot in his back, pressing him toward the dirt.
He resisted the pressure, his stomach hovering about a footabove the forest floor. But the effort stole his strength more every second. He’d have enough energy left for one more counterattack, and this time he had to overcome his enemy or he’d never complete his mission. He’d already spotted signs that he might have reached his goal.
This mountain he’d been riding around possessed the orange striations usually found near pitchblende. Now, he had to locate that mineral itself so the army’s scientists could create the blast that would finally end this brutal war. This work was all he had left, and he’d carry out his assignment no matter what it took.
Somehow, he had to make restitution for last time.
With a mighty effort, he twisted around, reaching for the ankle that held him low. The attacker must have been prepared for his movement and grabbed Evan’s free wrist, jerking his hand upward so his arms burned at the joint of his shoulders—effectively stealing the last of his strength and gaining the upper hand. Literally.
Were these his final moments? They couldn’t be.God, help me.
Evan knelt there, struggling for breath. Even when he sucked in air, the wind didn’t seem to satisfy the craving in his chest. Perhaps the arrow had punctured his breathing vessel.
His captor worked quickly with his wrists, wrapping a rough cord around them. Despite the unsteadiness in his head, Evan strained to look around, to keep his ears aware of any sound that might give notice of more enemies approaching. Perhaps help, even, as unlikely as that was. But one could hope.
No unnatural noises greeted him. Only a pheasant’s call broke the cold silence.
At last, the man behind him gave a final jerk on the binding, then released Evan’s hands. The immediate relief in his upper arms seemed to sap a little more of his strength as his body sagged.
“You will walk.” The man’s voice had such an unusual accent, making it hard to place either his age or nationality. Definitely young, though.
How humbling. Here he was, Evan MacManus, former captain in the American army and now a trusted spy commissioned by President Madison himself, brought down by a lad with a bow and arrow.
Evan struggled to his feet, spreading them wide to keep from toppling over as his vision swam. Even with his eyes squeezed tight, his body wobbled more than he could control. He shouldn’t be this affected by a simple wound, even with the blood loss. Had the arrowhead been tainted? He’d heard tales of Indians dipping the tips in poison before battle.
A hand gripped his arm, giving him something to brace against—until it yanked him forward. Still, the hold kept him upright as he forced one foot in front of the other. The grip felt small, even through the layers of his coat.
Evan forced his eyes open, but the sunlight made the dizziness more intense. He tried squinting, which helped. He had to stay alert, watch his surroundings if he was going to get out of this alive. So far, they appeared to be walking the same path north he’d been riding. Toward the opening between the mountains.
When they reached the spot, his captor loosed a piercing whistle. Evan fought to keep from cringing at the surprise blast so near his ear, but a fresh blade of pain pierced hismiddle anyway. When a second shrill whistle came, he almost jabbed the lad with his elbow.
But the reply that sounded from the other side of the rock grabbed his focus. They wove around a boulder to proceed through the opening, and Evan squinted again now that he could see bright daylight on the other side.
The place looked to be a meadow of sorts. With figures darting through the winter brown grass. Voices called, or maybe laughed. Children’s voices? The pain and blood loss must be making him daft. Or maybe he was being taken to an Indian village. He had to stay awake and watch for a chance to escape.
His captor pushed him forward as other figures approached. These, too, were wrapped in animal skins, but their bulk proved them to be full-grown men. His vision blurred further, even when he tried to focus. He couldn’t make out much more than dark or light hair.
Low murmurings sounded around him, yet they seemed to come from so far away. Or maybe it was he who had moved. He had to recover his strength. Squinting again, he tried to straighten. “Who are you?”
The talking around him ceased, and a figure stepped in front of him. He blinked to focus, and the fur cloaking the person began to look familiar. His captor.
