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“What hornet’s nest have I stepped into now?”
~ Samuel
LATE AUGUST, 1866
Near Fort Hamilton, Alberta, Canada
A shot ripped through the air, and Samuel Grant ducked down in his saddle. A reflexive action, because the rifle hadn’t been aimed at him.
At least, he didn’t think so.
Still, the thud of his pulse accelerated. He must be nearing Henry Clark’s cabin along the Belly River. The man he’d been sent to find. Maybe Clark was hunting.
Samuel straightened and cupped a hand around his mouth to sound his presence. But another voice broke through before he could call out.
“Woman, quit yer fire and we’ll not hurt you.” A deep, tobacco-roughened tone yelled somewhere in the woods ahead.
The men at the fort had said Clark built a cabin out here by the river for his wife. Was she being accosted by intruders? Where was Clark?
Reaching for his Hawken rifle, Samuel slid from his gelding as soundlessly as he could. If Henry Clark or his family were in trouble, surely they’d appreciate help. Another blast echoed as he fastened his horse to a tree. This shot sounded nearer. Maybe it had come from where the man’s voice had originated.
He gave the animal a pat, then turned his focus to the danger, creeping from tree to tree.
Another boom. This one's reverberation was more like the first gunshot he'd heard. Not only had it come from the same location, but it sounded like the same model of gun. “I said leave.” The woman’s voice was muffled by trees and distance, but he noticed something of an accent. Slight. “You do not hear English?” Her tone held a mocking quality now. “How about French.” She let loose a melodic string of words Samuel couldn’t comprehend. That must be her native tongue, as easily as it flowed.
The man hiding in the woods started to speak again, but the woman’s voice rang out, growing in pitch and covering whatever he meant to say.
“Or perhaps you don’t understand French either. Must I speak the language of the dirty redskin for you to hear me?” The way she spat the label made it clear she disliked the ugly moniker.
Then she spoke in a high-low cadence that caught Samuel’s breath. He couldn’t understand a word—if they were meant to be words—but each syllable rang with fluid motion. Only a native speaker could be so comfortable piecing those sounds together. Was she Indian then?
He crept closer, moving toward her instead of to the right where the man had to be standing. Another rifle shot brought him up short.
“Did that help you understand, dirty white man? None of my people would act as you have. And now I say again, leave this place.”
This woman had more spunk than a starving dog fighting for fresh meat. Could she be Clark’s wife? How far had the man gone to hunt? Surely, he’d come to his woman’s defense if he were close by.
“You can spout your fancy language all day. It won’t change what we came to do.” The gravelly voice again. It held just enough leer to make Samuel’s gut churn. We meant there was more than one man trying to advance on her. “We’ve got enough fellas to quiet you down for a long time, but things’ll go better if you put your gun on the ground.”
Samuel shifted his direction toward the men again, tuning his senses to pick-up on any sound they made. As he crept forward, both warring parties fell silent.
He kept his steps as noiseless as possible, walking on the balls of his feet and straining for any sign of movement through the trees. When he caught a flash of brown, approximately the color of the buckskins most of the men at the fort had worn, he ducked behind a sturdy tree. He needed to get closer so he’d have a good shot, but he’d have to wait until the men were thoroughly distracted.
A faint rustle sounded from the direction of the attackers, then half a second later, another shot exploded. A man screamed, filling the air with curses and names no woman should hear, much less be called.
When his screaming settled to muttering, she called, “There’s more where that came from.”
Samuel peeked around the tree. The men were shifting, maybe bringing back the injured man. This was Samuel's chance.
He darted forward to hide behind another tree. He was closer with fewer branches encumbering his view. He could see four men. Rangy mountain men, just like all the others he’d seen at the fort. Crimson smeared the shoulder of one, whom the others gathered around.
They were talking in low murmurs so Samuel couldn’t make out the words. But they must have reached a consensus, for the three uninjured men straightened and raised their rifles. They looked to be planning an attack. If he didn’t act now, he might lose his opportunity.
Positioning his gun, he aimed down the sight at the tree just above one man’s head. Lord, let this do the trick.
He squeezed the trigger, and the bullet surged toward its target in a deafening blast and a cloud of gunpowder.
Another shout. More cursing as the men turned to find this new source of danger.
“Get down.” The one with the most gray in his full beard motioned the others toward a fallen log. The wounded man limped slower than the others, clutching his shoulder.
“That won’t help you any.” Samuel filled his voice with as much confidence as he could muster. “I have half a dozen men hiding with rifles aimed at you. And five more circling around to your rear.”
As he motioned toward the trees behind the attackers, he could see the tops of their heads spinning to search.
He pushed his advantage. “You’ll obey the lady’s orders and leave here, or I’ll tell my men to pick you off one by one. It won’t take more than four shots, you can be sure.”
The older fellow spoke. “We’ve got no trouble with you. That woman’s husband sold us this place. We’ve come to collect.”
Samuel barely bit back a growl. “By running her out of her house? Or did you plan to make her part of the bargain? Either way, you’re not collecting today. We’ll let you get your horses and ride away, but if one of you so much as looks back, I’ll give the sign for my men to let loose. Clear?”
Gray Beard raised his head a little, scanning the area. Samuel worked hard not to flinch, not to show his hand.
Just then his gelding whinnied from the trees behind him. Other horses answered, probably those belonging to these men. The cacophony filled the woods.
The ruckus must have appeared to give truth to his bluff, for Gray Beard raised his hands, then eased up from behind the log. “Don’t shoot. We’ll leave. Like I said, we’ve no fight with you and your men.”
“All four of you stand up, then drop your rifles right there.” He aimed his gun at their leader, but kept his gaze circling all four of them. He wasn’t naïve enough to think these were the only weapons the villains possessed, but he was counting on their fear of his greater numbers to keep them from circling back with other guns.
When they’d laid their rifles down, he said, “Now march toward your horses and mount up. Once you’re on, I’ll give you to the count of twenty before I give my men the nod to start shooting. I suggest you be out of range by then.”
“We’ll be gone.” The men marched toward the shifting animals he could just see through the branches. Gray Beard had a stiff set to his shoulders, as though not a bit happy with being forced to leave his prize. The injured man stumbled, unsteady. Thankfully, one of the others helped him mount.
When they were all in the saddle, he gave them one last reminder. “I start counting now.”
Gray Beard sent an annoyed scowl back his direction, then signaled his horse forward, the others following close on his animal’s tail.
In less than a minute, the crashing of the animals’ hooves through the woods died away. Eerie silence took over the area.
Samuel eased out a breath. Now he had to figure out where Henry Clark was, and why his wife had been left alone to defend herself.
And he had to make sure he didn’t get himself shot in the process.
~ ~ ~
MORIAH CLARK ANGLED her face so she could see better through the peephole between cabin logs, straining to catch any motion in the trees at the edge of the clearing. She could hear the occasional hum of male voices, but no movement. Were they spreading out to approach her from all sides? That’s what she would have done from the start if she’d been planning the attack. Thankfully these men weren’t so strategic.
And thankfully, she’d sensed something was wrong before the first man stepped from the trees. Before she met Henry, she would have assumed that instinct was her ancestors’ spirits warning her. Now, she could direct her thanks to the proper source.
Thank you, Lord. And please give me wisdom to know how to fend them off.
A rustling in the cradle behind her spread tension through her shoulders. Then a soft murmur. Not now, Lord. Please.
She sent a glance back as the blanket shifted, and a tiny hand rose up from the cloth. Another mew sounded. Cherry wouldn’t be put off much longer. Moriah’s own body told her how long it had been since her daughter’s last meal.
She turned back to the peephole to scan the woods again. The crash of steps sounded in the trees, too heavy for men. Horses? Were more strangers coming? Surely these intruders weren’t leaving of their own accord. Maybe she should send another shot their way.
Her daughter let out a cry, the warning kind that always preceded a full-blown wail. If she didn’t at least pick-up the babe, the men would hear and know she was more vulnerable than she pretended. She couldn’t shoot attackers and nurse an infant at the same time. So far, she’d been able to keep Cherry a secret from the rest of the world, and she couldn’t let that change now. Both their lives would be in even greater danger.
With a final scan revealing no more motion in the trees, she turned from the lookout position and laid her gun on the table, then strode toward her baby girl. She slid her hands under the bundle of blankets swaddling the little body, then scooped Cherry up and tucked her close. “It’s all right, honey. We’re safe.”
Cherry nuzzled Moriah’s neck, seeking out her long-awaited meal. The feel of her tiny, trusting daughter was almost enough to distract her from the danger outside. Or at least make her want to hide away and pretend everything in the world was as sweet and innocent as this new life.
But she couldn’t let her guard down. Cherry depended on her mother to be strong, to protect her from evil men. Her daughter had no idea yet about the ways of the world. Especially in this territory where half-Peigan women who married white men were considered nothing more than a commodity. Worth a handful of horses, if she kept her mouth shut and filled her husband’s belly.
Turning, she held her daughter close and moved back toward the peephole. She couldn’t shoot the rifle with Cherry in her arms, but it was quiet outside. Maybe the men had left. Was that too much to hope for? God could perform miracles, so maybe He’d answered this prayer. Finally.
Cherry’s nuzzling became insistent as Moriah peered through the hole to the world outside. The baby banged her little mouth against Moriah’s neck to show her frustration. “It’s all right, sweet one. Wait a minute longer.” She bounced to soothe the babe even as she tried to focus on the trees.
Something moved out there. A blue cloth shifted among the branches, then a man stepped from the woods.
Her body tensed. Should she lay Cherry down so she could shoot at him? She had to. If he advanced much closer, he could charge the cabin and barge in before she could react.
But he stopped. Only a few yards away from the trees, he halted, his gun held loosely in both hands.
“Ma’am. I ran those good-for-nothings off, and I’m not here to hurt you.” His voice rang loud in the clearing, deep and commanding. It held a civilized edge, unlike the men who’d made three attempts now to take over her cabin. Was this another of their tactics?
He spoke again. “My name is Samuel Grant. I’ve come to see your husband, Henry Clark. I assume this is his place. I’m a friend of his sister, Rachel. She sent me with a letter for him.”
The words seemed foreign as she tried to draw them in. Henry’s sister? Had Rachel heard of her brother’s death?
Moriah’s heart thudded hard in her chest. That wasn’t possible, since she’d been careful not to let anyone know of his passing these last six months. She’d known the harassment would start as soon as men from the fort realized a woman lived alone in this well-built cabin.
Cherry shifted again in her arms, rooting into Moriah’s neck as she renewed her search for nourishment. She grunted her dissatisfaction at being thwarted for so long.
“Ma’am. Are you kin to Henry Clark?” The man outside shifted and seemed to be growing impatient.
If he really was a friend of Henry’s sister, she owed it to Rachel to let her know of her brother’s death. Henry had been so fond of the sister he hadn’t seen in over a dozen years. He’d read her letters for weeks after receiving each one. In fact, he’d been using those missives to teach Moriah to read English.
Before the hunting trip that changed everything. Her heart squeezed at the reminder.
“Ma’am?” The man was peering toward the cabin as though he thought maybe she’d slipped out the back door. He might come investigate if she didn’t say something soon.
Cherry let out a complaint, the kind of cry that came just before the true wails. She wouldn’t be silenced much longer.
Moriah had to get rid of this man.