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Running Wolf was watching the Rose, unable to decide if it were sorrow or pain affecting her, when he heard the call of the dove. He signaled abruptly and a hush fell over the camp.
The forest greeted it with silence. His lieutenants waited for him to speak, but he listened until it came again. The nighthawk, the screech owl. And even more foreign than before in the utter quiet, the dove.
Someone has found us. Friend or foe?
He didn’t wait long for an answer. A tall, slender young man stepped into the clearing. His hair was dark as the raven’s wing. Soft and glossy, it was held by a silver-studded headband and fell past his shoulders. His face was dusky, not bronze, his eyes black and his expression stern. He faced the elder silently.
“Twelve Trees,” the chief acknowledged, a shade of deference in his voice. This was his friend. Was the woodsman’s friend. Was known and respected in the tribe. And hadn’t long ago been a boy and not a man to be reckoned with.
The chief stole a look at the golden head, still bowed in pain or sorrow. But the somber quiet of the man before him drew his attention again.
“Twelve Trees, why have you come?”
“You have no need to ask,” Alec replied in his father’s tongue.
The elder made a quick movement of his head, signifying his acceptance of the words. “You have come for her?”
“You have no need to ask.”
“She has not been harmed. She is well.”
“She is not well. She has pain.” His hand flickered over his forehead, then he placed it on his breast. “Her heart is heavy. She does not belong to you.”
“She belongs to me!” The voice came from his right, but Alec didn’t acknowledge it. He continued to stare at the chief, anger gleaming in his eyes.
“She does not belong to you,” he told Running Wolf again. “Or to any of your tribe.”
Yellow Knife pounded on his chest as he stepped between the chief and Alec. “She belongs to me! I have killed her man. She will stay with me.”
“You have killed no one. You are but a weakling. I would talk with a man!”
The warrior’s voice was brash as he struck his chest once more. “I have killed her man. I have killed the one they call woodsman!”
The man’s voice had finally penetrated Annie’s pain. She looked up. Alec’s back was to her and yet she recognized him. Hope flared instantly, knocking out the desperate tension of her body, leaving her weak and faint. She didn’t understand his words.
“You have killed no one.” Alec’s voice dripped with contempt. “The woodsman lives.”
“You lie! The woodsman is dead. For I have killed him.”
“The woodsman lives.” A fourth voice. As a body, they turned to it.
Daniel stepped into the clearing, stripped to the waist, the campfire light glinting in the copper hair on his head, his face, his chest; gleaming off the silver chain he wore, the half-round medallion that hung below his throat.
“The woodsman lives,” he repeated in English. And heard his wife scream.
She’d leapt to her feet and stood frozen when she first saw him. Her lips opened but no sound issued forth. When he spoke the second time, she screamed his name and would have run to him but for the arms that surrounded her, the hand that closed over her mouth. She struggled frantically.
“Take it easy, Annie,” Jake murmured. “Just take it easy.”
She fell back against him, clutching at his arms.
“Quiet now,” he said as he removed his hand from her mouth.
“He’s hurt.” Her voice was ragged, sobbing, but low, as she watched the trickle of blood that ran down Daniel’s back. “Jake ...”
“He’s all right.”
Annie trembled violently. Jake was supporting her and without him to lean on, she would have collapsed. He realized for the first time that she was more delicate, more fragile even than Jesse, and he was more afraid for her than for his brother. He sank down until she was sitting again on her blanket. She pressed back against him.
“I’m afraid,” she whimpered.
“Shhh. He knows what he’s doing. And Alec’s right here. It’ll be all right.”
Alec would know what to do. They’d found him less than a rod from where they’d stopped, around the corner of the ridge that had hidden the encampment from them. He and Daniel had worked out their strategy in low tones, then the woodsman turned to Jake.
Daniel’s eyes had been dark as sapphires, his voice so rough it had been almost unintelligible as he’d commanded, “Go to her. Hold her there. Don’t let her go and don’t leave her. No matter what. Do you understand? No matter what!”
The woodsman pulled off his bandanna, tore the bandage from his shoulder, and tested the weight of the knife he drew from his boot. He’d made the knife himself with Tommy’s guidance, and he remembered Tommy telling him,“It should fit into your hand as naturally as a woman’s breast.” At the time he had only a vague idea of what the smith meant, but now he’d use this knife, that fit his hand so closely, to save his woman.
As he slipped it back into its sheath, he jerked his head toward the campfire. His brother stole away into the trees. He’d waited until he could see Jake behind her—she was just looking up and his heart stuttered at the sight of her lovely, innocent face. Then he turned his attention to Alec and the warrior, before the need to comfort her could outweigh the need to save her.
Now he stood before Yellow Knife as the warrior took his measure. He wasn't as tall, as blatantly muscled, but he could move as quickly as a cat and knew that the Navajo wouldn’t anticipate his expertise with a knife. Nor realize the advantage he had in weight.
The blood that trickled from his shoulder didn’t bother him. Every ounce of his blood would be given before he’d surrender.
If I must die, so be it. But this bastard will die first.
The sneer on the warrior’s face deepened, for one of his followers stood in the crowd and signaled that the woodsman was wounded. It would be more honorable to fight the half-breed, young as he is, for at least there is glory in fighting one who is whole.
Annie shuddered as the crowd drew back from the two men, while the outer fringes pressed closer. The confrontation was silent. Tension tasted like an old, dirty penny, and she swallowed hard.
“Jake...” Desperately, she tried to break free but he held her firmly.
“Stay here, Annie. You can’t do anything that would help.”
She moaned—she couldn’t help herself. Then she made an intense effort to relax. Until the long knife appeared in the warrior’s hand. It slashed out at the woodsman, who leaped back. Jake closed his hand once more over her mouth.
“Quiet. Let him concentrate.”
She grabbed at his arm, her body so taut he thought it would break.
“Don’t make a sound,” he whispered. “Don’t distract him. He doesn’t need to think about us now.” She nodded and he let his hand relax, but kept it there on her cheek.
The two men were circling less than seven feet apart, their arms dropping lower and lower as they began to crouch. Daniel’s hand was almost at his boot when the warrior feinted again. His knife made contact this time, slashing across the woodsman’s chest. Tiny droplets of blood appeared on his breasts. But by some magic—some sleight of hand—another knife gleamed wickedly in the firelight, stabbed out at the warrior and caught his face. Deflected off his jaw, it left a ragged cut from ear to forehead.
The hot spurt of his own blood enraged Yellow Knife. This was a white man, soft and weak. Already wounded. It was luck that allowed him to strike that blow. But he’d die for that. Die so his woman saw that he was dead. Then she’d want him, for he was the stronger.
He closed in on the woodsman, but Daniel anticipated his move. He grabbed the wrist that held the blade as Yellow Knife grabbed his. They grunted and strained in a macabre dance until the warrior slipped his foot behind the woodsman’s ankle and they went tumbling to the ground. Daniel groaned as he fell on the injured shoulder but didn’t weaken his grip for an instant. The Navajo crashed on top of him. There was utter silence from the ring of spectators and Daniel took advantage of it. The hoarse cry he gave startled them all, including Yellow Knife.
“Coward!”
The minute break in the warrior’s concentration was all he needed. With his left arm he shoved the man over, came out on top. “Bastard!” he spat out. But the moment’s advantage was gone. The trick wouldn’t work twice.
The two men were evenly matched in strength, in experience, and it dawned on Yellow Knife that victory was not going to be as easy as he expected. The man hadn’t died the first time he was wounded, and had just managed to cut him. So he must die. Now.
The watchers scurried back as the opponents rolled across the campground, the advantage first to one, then the other. Annie had both fists crammed against her mouth, but managed somehow to remain silent as she watched. Her fear was so strong that Jake could feel it, and he held on tight and whispered to her when he could. The prayers he sent up were disconnected, incoherent, even desperate. But he watched his brother in awe, in pride, for the fight had lasted much longer already than he ever thought it could.
Although he felt no pain, Daniel’s right arm was weakening. He could use the knife with either hand—Tommy had taught him well. But he couldn’t shift the blade unless his left hand were free. And it wouldn’t be free until he could get rid of the warrior’s weapon.
As Yellow Knife tumbled him over again, Daniel used the impetus of the roll to overbalance him. With his foot, he pushed hard against the warrior’s stomach, kicked himself free. Yellow Knife landed on his back with a grunt, was on his feet again in an instant. But the force of his landing had knocked the knife from his hand.
Both men scrabbled toward the dagger as the crowd jumped back again. Daniel switched his knife to his left hand and grabbed for the other with his right. But Yellow Knife was faster. He snagged the hilt and stabbed up at his opponent’s throat. But his grip wasn’t tight and the blow glanced off the silver medallion. The knife flew away to land in the fire.
There was one knife now. One knife and two warriors. Annie tried to close her eyes, tried to turn to Jake and hide her face against him, but she couldn’t move. She watched as they rolled again, saw her man come out on top. She cried his name out silently and saw the sudden stiffness in his spine.
Daniel knew he couldn’t hold out much longer. The loss of blood had drained him. He heard his wife’s strangled cry deep in his heart, and it was all he needed to revive his flagging strength. He looked down at the warrior beneath him—saw the smirk as Yellow Knife pushed his hands back, pushed the knife back. And suddenly the face beneath him changed. A bold face, weak-chinned, vicious, and pale. A flashing memory of tawny hair, a battered face, torn clothing. A great purpling welt, and then its twin.
And Tommy’s words again, as naturally as a woman’s breast.
His woman. His precious love. Who fit into his own hands as if she’d been made by him. His hands descended together over the man who thought to claim her. Who thought to touch her. The muscles in his arms corded and veined, the strength in his hands greater than ever before. And the rage in his heart burned cleanly as his blade touched the warrior’s breast.
Yellow Knife didn’t comprehend. Yet he knew he was beaten. There was some strength in his opponent that he hadn’t considered. If he must die, the warrior’s death was the most honorable. If he couldn’t have the woman, at least he’d have respect in death.
But the woodsman read the look of pride and gathered his scant energy, spit down into the Navajo’s face. Saw the darkening there of fear and dishonor and, raising himself as high as he could, he plunged the blade straight down into the warrior’s heart. The jerk of his body, the spurt of blood, the grunt of surprise were cut off almost before they’d begun.
The warrior lay limp, eyes rolling back, face clouded with disgrace. As the woodsman fell sideways onto his injured shoulder and the black pit yawned before him, he heard his woman scream again.