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ELIZABETH COULD NOT breathe nor think. Four old squaws led her outside. Thomas was being tied to a post, probably so he could not leave the village.
Or rescue her.
The squaws led her to a nearby creek. They stripped her so quick she could offer no protest. Even her stays were taken from her. She crossed her arms over her chest. A gap-toothed squaw grabbed at the pearl rood.
Elizabeth shoved the woman backward. “Mat-teh!”
The old squaw fell backward into the water. The other women laughed.
Elizabeth slapped the rood at her chest. “Ni!” Mine.
The rood was the only thing she had left of Thomas, and she would not lose it to anyone.
The old woman huffed and turned away.
Elizabeth was bathed. Her hair was greased and braided. She was given a new, clean shirt with blue beads sewn into a circle around the shoulders. The black tiered dress was full and flared. The moccasin boots had colored beads woven into the side fringing.
She cared not that she was clean for the first time in weeks. She cared not that she was being pampered for a chief. She just wanted the whole ordeal over with.
And Thomas gone.
She trusted him not to try something. He would likely get himself killed in the doing of it, too. Then she would be a chief’s wife without hope at all of finding her way away from here and back to him.
She cared not if she ever found herself.
She was taken back to camp and to a blanket spread before Iron Gun’s tent.
Sweat poured down Thomas’ face and into the cuts and lashes on his bare chest. Braves walked past and buffeted his head. They poked sticks.
Cold, hard steel battled from his eyes.
Several times she started to go to him, but she was yanked back to the blanket by one squaw or another. The last time, Iron Gun himself pulled her down. His hands were particularly strong. She dared not go against them. How she would tolerate their hardness against her that night when they were alone she knew not.
She shoved the thought from her mind.
Toward late afternoon a lavish offering of soups, meats, and various vegetables was set before them. The drums, this time with a happier beat than when she had arrived last week, filled the air so that people had to shout over them if they wished to speak. Indians danced in pairs and groups. Others did so alone.
Afternoon faded to moonless night. Two lines of dancers, one of men and the other of women, faced each other. Low chanting started. The line came together. The men and women spoke to each other in whispers and looks. Their bodies dipped and brushed one another. The line opened and closed, opened and closed. Bodies plunged deeper and gyrated wider in the light of the fire. Caressing hands roved at will. More than one couple slipped from the line and disappeared into the shadows.
Elizabeth knew not how long she sat there, but it seemed like hours. Why could they not just get on with the wedding?
And then, she realized she had never asked what such entailed.
The drums stopped. The few men and women left eased into the crowd.
Little Swan knelt before her. “’Tis time, ne-kah-noh, to marry.” She grabbed Elizabeth’s hands. She pulled her to her feet.
Elizabeth could not feel her legs. She dared not look at Thomas.
Little Swan led her to where the dancers had been moments before. Giggles filled the night air. Braves spoke in low tones.
“Little Swan, I never asked how the marriage was done. What words do I say?”
“Words?” The confusion wrinkled her brow. “Squithetha Nenothtu speak no. Girl Warrior dance like others but alone with chief.”
“But I cannot!” The horror paralyzed her.
“But Squithetha Nenothtu must,” Little Swan’s eyes watered. “If no, P’cataweh Wawakotichethe burns.”
Elizabeth slipped a gaze at Thomas.
Knots of reddened pain wound his eyes tight. His jaw had locked forward. He strained against the ropes.
If he was to remain alive, she would have to dance with the chief and lie beside him that night. She had no choice.
The bile flooded her throat. The drums started.
She was pushed toward the chief. Her chest brushed his. He caught her back.
He pressed his lips against her ear. He smelled of river water and smoke, and his words, although in Shawanese, were tender.
He stepped back.
I need to press myself against him.
But she could not.
He reached for her back and pulled her against his front. He lowered his ear to her mouth. He nuzzled his lips against her face.
The chanting grew louder.
Her stomach pitched and rolled.
Back and forth they wove. His sweeps and bows deepened. His legs straddled her thighs. He pressed her backward till her head dizzied and she fought for air. His hands caressed her shoulders. His fingers brushed down her chest.
He lost himself further and further to the dance.
And then, a growl burst from his chest. He seized her arm and hauled her upright. The rood fell against her neck. He grabbed the cross and yanked. He held the broken chain upward.
His other hand slashed the air. The drums stopped. He shouted orders. Braves scurried this way and that. Women fell back into the shadows.
He turned to Elizabeth.
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THOMAS STOOD IN IRON Gun’s hut. He had at least been unroped, but that did little to quell the fear ravaging his gut.
Iron Gun swerved toward Elizabeth. His face purpled with the rage. He shook his fist, the rood still imprisoned beneath his fingers.
Thomas lurched for the tight spot between them, but Red Bear pushed him back and stepped in his place.
Iron Gun spat the words from his teeth. “Girl Warrior not to speak to Iron Gun of her God.”
“She did not do so, Father,” Little Swan said. “She was just wearing a crucifix that I gave her.”
The chief’s eyes widened.
“Look at it. ‘Tis the one Red Bear gave me.”
Red Bear?
Thomas’ gaze swiveled to the man.
Where had he gotten it? Why had he not taken it back that morning on the rock?
Iron Gun opened his palm and stared at the necklace.
“Little Swan tell Father that Girl Warrior save Boy Sun.” She reached into her blouse and pulled out Elizabeth’s wooden crucifix. “Girl Warrior give this to Little Swan.” Her eyes shimmered with a deep hurt. “Little Swan tell Father this last week, but he not believe.”
The chief ground his fingers around the rood. “Wishementoo and the White Man’s God fight for P’cataweh Wawakotichethe. And this man on this cross . . .” He shook his fist. “I know not which God will win.”
Blue Hoof shoved his way past a group of braves. “Little Swan could have given the rood to the white woman after she came.”
“She did not.” Red Bear sighed. “The rood was on Girl Warrior when Red Bear captured her.”
Iron Gun lowered his clenched fist and the rood to his side. “White God brings storms and rain to those that pray. Wishemenetoo cannot bring these things.” His eyes lifted to Thomas. “Iron Gun not burn Black Fox or White Man’s God will anger further.”
“Mat-teh!” Blue Hoof shouted. “Iron Gun cannot change council’s decree.”
“This man has saved my son. Iron Gun will not further anger either of our Gods.”
Blue Hoof turned a deadly gaze on Thomas. “Black Fox will meet Blue Hoof again. On that day, one of us will die.” He marched outside. Four other warriors followed him.
Iron Gun turned back to Thomas. “The debt has been paid. The bridge of our hearts is rebuilt, but it is thin and narrow. Black Fox must go along this bridge back to his home. He must not come back.”
Thomas’ knees buckled. He grabbed the nearest pole.
The chief need not say what would happen to Thomas if he did.
He turned to Elizabeth. A hunted looked drowned her eyes.
She knew nothing of what had been spoken.
“And Elizabeth?” Thomas turned to the chief. “I will nae leave without her.”
“Iron Gun did not think Black Fox would.”
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THOMAS STOOD ATOP THE ridge.
To his left and below, village fires pulsated a glow into the night sky. To his right, the ground fell away into a dark as thick as old, meaty soup. Even with the English tinderbox Red Bear had found, and the coals he had filled it with, ‘twould be hard to see. They would be traveling under a moonless sky for some nights and with little choice.
Even so, he could hardly contain his joy.
They were free to leave. He would not burn this day. Elizabeth would not marry the chief.
Red Bear passed a bag to Thomas. “Roasted squirrel. A flask. Pemmican. Salve for the wounds.” And he held up Thomas’ knife and tomahawk and two blankets.
Thomas slipped the knife and tomahawk into the belt at his waist. The blankets he hung over his shoulder.
Red Bear pointed to the tinderbox. “That should help you make some miles before daylight comes and the village knows you are gone.”
He really meant Blue Hoof, for the others were not likely to defy their chief. Blue Hoof, however, answered to no man and, as ordered by Iron Gun, had already left the village.
“Heart of Red Bear grieves for all of this.”
“Do not. I should have heeded your warning about Blue Hoof last summer.” Thomas gripped the man’s arm. “And we all do what we have to do for those that we love.” He leaned forward and whispered. “Marry Little Swan as soon as possible. Fill her belly with one child after another and be happy. Life is too short to not do so.”
Red Bear gripped Thomas’ shoulder. “Take care, ne-kah-noh. Tell white family of Red Bear that I am well and happy.”
Thomas pressed his palm against Elizabeth’s back. “We must leave, Lass.”
She pulled herself free of Little Swan’s arms. Thomas reached for her hand. Their feet scrabbled into a darkness that would swallow them body and soul.
Or at least he hoped it would.
“I shall never see Little Swam again,” she whispered. “Nor my own crucifix.”
He stopped. “Do ye wish to ask for it back? She would understand.”
“No. I want her to have it. Besides, that life is gone.” She sighed. “That Elizabeth is gone.”
Ach! How much of losing herself was his fault?
They were at the bottom of the ridge. A large tree reared into view. He slid to the back of it.
He set the tinderbox to the ground. He hauled her against his chest. His back slammed into the tree.
They collapsed to the ground in a heap. His lips fell onto hers. Her tears flooded his mouth.
The earth at his feet shattered. He could nae help it. Weeks of uncertainty mixed with fear had taken their toll on not only his willpower but his good sense.
He skated his lips downward. A vein in her throat throbbed into his lips.
Her face rubbed against his. A deadly heat fired his gut. How was he to endure days and days of wilderness travel alone with her?
He wrenched his lips free. His forehead fell against hers. His thumbs skimmed her wet, swollen lips.
“Ach, Lass,” he gasped. “My arms are desperate to hold ye and never let go, but we must leave this place with haste.”
A deep rattle choked her throat. She nodded. “But I beg of you, Thomas McQueen, that when we reach home you will kiss me and never, never stop.”
More fire. And he had little willpower to fight against it.
He shuffled to his feet. He lit the torch with the tinder. He gave Elizabeth the bag. The tinderbox he strung around his belt.
Together, they turned toward home.
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THE PICKETED WALLS of Fort Duquesne stabbed at the morning sky.
Thomas doused the torch in the water and tossed it in. He found a canoe and an oar in the reeds. They crossed where they had on the way here and under the shadow of the fort.
They meandered northeast a short pace, then curled back to the southeast. More than once he grabbed Elizabeth’s hand and pulled her into the bushes or lowered her to the ground behind a rock or a tree. Invariably, a party of Indians would ride past. They would not appear to be looking for them, but the country was overrun with them since the English had been driven back. Even he had been surprised at the number.
At mid-day, the bones of Braddock’s Field lay before them. He eyed Elizabeth, but she was either exhausted or had nae more feeling to give to dead men.
Or, mayhap she simply just wished to be past it all.
Now, with the bones behind them, they sat in some bushes at the edge of the Monongahela River.
“If we go back by the narrows,” he said, “Indians can see us from the top of the rocks and pick us off at best, take us back into captivity at worst.” And this time, it would not be as valuable prisoners.
“Our other choice?” she asked.
“Crossing the Monongahela twice. The water is swift in the center. ‘Twill reach your hips.”
Her face paled. She lifted her gaze to the first height. She looked back at where they had come from.
She stood and handed Thomas the bag. “You best carry it.”
Thomas nerves twisted and bent as they forced their way through the water to the other side. They had no sooner crossed then they did so a second time. Finally, they collapsed to the shore behind watery grasses and cattails. They ate the roasted squirrel. The warm day made short work of their wetness.
By late afternoon, ‘twas obvious the lass could go no further. He could not either. His feet burned with each step. His head threatened to explode at any moment. And his stomach, while hungry, threatened to wretch upward.
He led the lass a mile or so downstream of a creek. He found a cave, and after being assured they would not be sharing it with another creature of any kind, they collapsed to the dirt floor.
“I will find us some firewood in a minute,” he said.
“I am fine. We can eat the food cold.”
“But the dark—”
“Is not the most fearsome thing out here. Just stay beside me, and I will be fine.”
He reached for the bag and pulled out the rest of the squirrel and the flask of water. When they were done, and with the last of the light, Elizabeth washed his cuts with creek water and applied the salve.
He then lay on the ground and pulled her against his side. He should have known better than to worry about indiscretions. He was too exhausted. His body hurt too badly. How he would get up and move in the morning he knew not.
“How far are we from the salt licks?” she asked.
“We should be there tomorrow about noon.”
“And how much farther until we no longer have to fear they might catch us?”
Black Fox will see Blue Hoof again. On that day, one of us will die.
“Not until we reach the farm, Lass.”
“The farm?” she gasped. “But what of Fort Cumberland?”
“Fort Cumberland is not entirely safe.” He pressed his lips to her trembling ones. “Now sleep. The days will be long and hard, and home is far away.”
And even then, Thomas would be looking over his shoulder, and hers, for years to come.
Maybe, forever.
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THOMAS STOOD BESIDE the waters of Jacob’s Creek.
Even in the shade of the trees, the warm day dribbled a stinging sweat into the cuts on his face and chest.
All morning they had lowered in and out of deep ravines that burned his legs and taxed his lungs. They coiled around thin precipices that dizzied his head. His aching feet barely clung to the rock. They had reached Sewickley Creek as the sun crawled overhead.
He had left the trail and ranged northeast alongside the creek in search of a shallower crossing and to be farther from the salt lick. He had nae wish to find a party of Indians hunting. They could all too easily turn their sights from four-legged creatures to two. All the while he had jumped and tightened at every sound in the woods until his ears ached from the strain and his muscles had knotted into coiled balls.
Now, as the ground sucked and pulled at the last of the day’s sun, he was almost certain the burns on his feet were bleeding.
Ten steps into the water Elizabeth gasped. “Tomas. Your feet.”
He looked downward. Sure enough, a pink swirl floated around his shins.
Elizabeth grabbed his arm. “Come. Let us rest by the bank and you can soak them a while.”
He froze. Something felt wrong.
He scoured the bank before him for some place to hide. The bushes near the creek were too thin. This creek had no reeds nor cattails. To his right, a giant of a fallen tree lay on its side, half of it sunk into the ground. Tree roots so gnarled themselves at this end that Thomas could tell not if it was hollow.
Hooves pounded. Men shouted.
His heart lodged in his throat.
He grabbed Elizabeth’s hand and tugged her through the water until he was abreast of the trunk’s other end. Thank God, ‘twas hollow and large enough he could walk through if he bent double. They climbed to the bank.
Please, Lord, let there be no snakes.
He shoved her inside. With his tomahawk, he severed the base of a bush. He brushed their short path out of the water and covered the blood. He crawled inside and braced the branch against the opening.
He crawled past Elizabeth.
A beetle scuttled out of his way. The smell of wood scat and earth poured into his nostrils. At the root end, he peered outward.
A party of five horses, warriors astride, cantered into view. They slowed at the water, then crossed.
Thomas fell back against the trunk. “They were not looking for us,” he whispered.
Still, he could nae move. Elizabeth lay her head on his shoulder. The sun tipped toward the day’s end.
“We may as well stay here the night,” he said. “We have water. We are dry.” And the log ‘twas large enough she and he could easily stretch out and sleep.
And sleep was something they sorely needed.
That evening, they slipped into the creek and, taking a risk, bathed the dirt and trail grit from their arms, neck, and faces, as well as their lower legs. Thomas soaked his feet at the water’s edge. Afterwards, they lay stretched out in the log. A surprising breeze whipped from one end to the other. Nothing, however, eased the darkness within.
“Tomas? Had we crossed the creek a bit later, they would have been upon us.”
Thomas pressed her face against his chest. “We will be fine.”
He almost had himself convinced.
Elizabeth sighed a breathy heat into his neck. “All the same, I will be glad when we get to Fort Cumberland, even if it is not entirely safe.”
That made two of them.