17

One man’s life is worth a hundred horses.

—DANIEL TRABUE

The next morning Sion halted on a buffalo trail, holding up a hand as the party reined in their horses in back of him. Up ahead, just out of rifle range, was Raven. A little trill of delight coursed through Tempe. Raven looked down at them from his position on a low ridge. She sensed he’d been watching their progress and that Sion had been aware of him for some time but had said nothing. The closer they drew, the more each man sized the other up.

Sion tossed a few terse words over his shoulder. “Is that your Indian, Miss Tucker?”

“He’s not mine, Mister Morgan,” she replied carefully. “But his name is Raven.”

Kicking her mare’s flanks, she maneuvered around Sion, pondering this sudden turn of events. Russell had obviously given Raven word he was needed. The timing was nigh perfect. They were on the edge of the Barrens, that treeless stretch between the Sault and Green Rivers that in no way resembled the Kentucke she loved.

She pushed off the buffalo trace to meet him as he came down from his perch, sweat trickling beneath her arms and between her thighs. Summer had returned with a vengeance after the rain, so sultry it stole her breath.

Raven was mounted on a feisty pony. Chickamauga stock, she guessed. All the tribes were wild about horses and plundered with that in mind more than scalps. It had been the same in Powell Valley, all the horses stolen. Sion’s fine stallion would make a coveted prize.

She reached Raven, the dust already stirring despite the damp. “Hello, oginalii.”

He shunned her friendly greeting. “So you follow the Long Knife?”

She nodded, aware of his gaze on her slow-to-heal lip. “My father—he wants them out of the country.”

Raven looked toward the waiting party. “Not only your father.”

So they were of one purpose, then.

Raven turned half-amused eyes on her as she shifted uneasily in the saddle. “Should we run them into the ground?”

“You’ll not succeed with this Long Knife. We’ll likely eat his dust.”

“And the others?”

She hesitated. “One of them—the yellow hair—can’t be trusted. Another is old but tough as whang leather. The black man is a keen shot—and unafraid. The others are mere boys. Bear cubs.”

“I’ll take them as far as the Falls of Ohio.”

She nearly sighed with relief. It was more than she bargained for. “You’ll be paid for your trouble.”

“White man’s money?” He shrugged, reminding her of Sion. “You should know the Shawnee have taken up the hatchet. Our white father—”

“The English king?”

He gave a nod. “He pays for settlers’ scalps. I can earn more from my British brothers than this man Morgan.”

Other than from the handbill in the barn-shed, it was the first time she’d heard the truth so bluntly. Mad George, known for his raving fits across the sea, had turned on his colonial subjects in a most uncivilized fashion. The cache of British-made muskets in Russell’s keeping was proof. And Raven, she sensed, was alarmingly close to siding with the British. Had she done wrong by asking him here?

She took a breath. “These men—these surveyors—are loyal to the king—”

Raven’s eyes narrowed. “They are not land stealers?”

“They survey under Virginia’s authority as a crown colony.”

His tight smile became a smirk. “They are still land stealers.”

This she couldn’t deny. What was Virginia doing sending surveyors into territory forbidden by the king’s proclamation? And what of Virginia’s bold claim on Kentucke as its westernmost county?

Raven studied her, the sleek feathers in his hair stirring in a sudden wind. “The king makes war on the colonies. The Shawnee and Cherokee and their allies make war on Kentucke’s settlers and surveyors. All is madness, as Scotchie says.”

Madness. The Scottish Indian agent had pegged it properly. “So long as we stay clear of the settlements, the Great Meadow, we should be safe.”

“No, oginalii. Nothing is safe.” He looked past her toward Sion again, his grim expression a burr. “Go talk to the Long Knife. Tell him to turn back.”

Stubborn, she resisted. “There is no talk. No turning back. Morgan is as impatient as a goat tied to a stake.”

Raven gave a rare chuckle. “His would make a prized scalp . . . two hundred pounds sterling.”

Tempe shuddered openly. Though death itself held no terror, she did not warm to the ways it was done.

Wheeling her horse around, she pondered what to say, how to say it. By the time she’d returned to the party, all the men had dismounted save Sion, who sat on his horse with a simple heightened guardedness. The others were studying Raven as if a war party lay in wait, unsure of his intentions.

There was a grudging respect in Sion’s expression that had been missing before. Though he wasn’t privy to her and Raven’s talk, he no doubt sensed the emotion of the moment.

“All right, Miss Tucker. Just say it.”

In one breath she let loose her angst. “You’re liable to lose your scalp for all your surveying.”

There was a prolonged pause. Sion’s eyes—such an uncanny, calm silver—showed no more emotion than a pond’s reflective face. As if they were on some mission to pick posies from here to the Falls of Ohio, not dodge hostile war parties with every step.

“So be it,” he said.

“So be it?” Tempe nearly started as Cornelius voiced an ugly echo.

She herself was full of unspoken concerns. What of your wife, Sion? Least ones? The latter struck her cold. Did he have sons and daughters? She knew what happened to widows, their children apprenticed or bound out or worse . . .

“I’ll not stray another step if a savage himself”—Cornelius gestured to Raven—“advises otherwise.”

Sion’s voice was ice cold. “If you turn back now you’ll have farther to go than where we’re headed. The falls will take you upriver to Fort Henry.”

“Safely upriver?”

“Upriver,” Sion stated flatly.

Cornelius tugged at his linen collar, more agitated. “And the Indian?” He was eyeing Raven again with heightened suspicion. “Is he friend or foe?”

“That depends on your stance,” Sion returned. His gaze swung from Cornelius to Tempe. “Bring him in.”

Tempe returned to Raven halfheartedly, feeling foolish, knowing he wanted little to do with them. But he was regarding her kindly, reminding her of their tie, and no doubt wishing it was just the two of them heading west without a noisy, heavily laden string of packhorses and equipment sure to draw notice.

Only Raven, being of two worlds, could lead them. He was a rogue, a half-blood, whose allegiance was somewhat misty. Being kin to Alexander Cameron—Scotchie—he enjoyed certain privileges full-bloods did not.

Facing him, Tempe could not push any words past her throat, overcome with a dire foreboding that held the taint of Powell Valley.

“Come, oginalii, and show me this onaka, this Long Knife.” With that, Raven maneuvered around her, heading toward the waiting white men.

With Raven among them, Sion pushed hard toward the Green River, going in a northwesterly line till darkness denied them another punishing step. Just shy of a dense canebrake they made camp, and Tempe noted a few familiar landmarks. Spared any signs of settlement and the hatchet marks of surveyors, the Green River country was untrammeled.

The next day was the Sabbath.

“The white man’s rest?” Raven queried her when dawn broke and no one stirred.

“Aye, the Sabbath.” She smiled and reached for her pocketed Psalms, only to remember she’d lent them to Sion. His bedding empty, he stood watch. She could see his shadowy outline, a tan smudge against a world of green.

Lucian stirred, rolling up his bedding before serving breakfast. “Mornin’, Miss Tempe. Mornin’, friend,” he said genially to Raven as if an Indian encamped with them was a usual occurrence.

Raven looked up from the arrow he was fletching to hear Lucian mumble about misplacing his fire-making tools. Reaching for her gun, Tempe mimicked something she’d seen Sion do in place of flint and steel, using a bit of char for powder and pulling the trigger so that the flint sparked and made a flame. Clever, that Sion.

“You is a quick study, Miss Tempe.” Smiling, Lucian took over, using some of the coffee Aylee had packed to brew a full pot. Raven sniffed, his stoicism softening as Lucian served him first.

Opening another pouch, Lucian produced a handful of sugar. “Sweetenin’?” With a half smile, Raven indicated he drop the entire amount into the cup. Lucian did as he bade, stirring it with a twig. Shunning coffee, Tempe longed for a cold glass of buttermilk, as it was so hot.

The woods were already a-shimmer, the dew drying fast. A westerly wind scattered the coffee’s fragrance, teasing the remaining men awake. Hascal soon relieved Sion of watch, and Lucian was quick to hand him a steaming tin cup. Sleeves rolled up, he extended an arm, and Tempe had a clear look at the bite wound. Frustration flared anew at Cornelius’s orneriness. Witch hazel was called for. But not now, and not till Sion had his breakfast.

In the brief time they’d been together, she’d begun to take notice of his personal habits. Camp conditions allowed her a closer if not entirely comfortable look. Uncommonly tidy, Sion picked up after himself in such a fashion that one hardly knew he’d been there. Bordermen were ever cautious, never leaving a trace but always looking for one.

She bit back a smile to find his dark hair once again in need of combing. Often when he first roused it was a bit wild, sticking up in odd black patches that turned him boyish. This morning, like most mornings, he was quiet. She liked that he took care with his words and yet could recite poetry all the same.

But there was a heap of things she didn’t like.

She went to her own saddlebags and retrieved a sack of beaten biscuits. A smile surfaced as she pictured Ma armed with a broken musket, pummeling the dough into submission.

Holding open the sack, she urged Sion to partake. Was his wife a fine cook? The thought was snatched away by the pure pleasure on his bewhiskered face. Never had she seen him so delighted. As if a beaten biscuit was a wondrous thing.

Soon they all were chewing and sipping, a rare contentment between them. Tempe took Hascal’s share to him as he stood watch. By the time she’d returned the men were readying to throw hatchets at a mark—hardly a Sabbath-worthy pursuit, but about to commence nonetheless.

“Is it true,” Cornelius began, addressing Raven from a safe distance, “that a warrior can launch six or seven arrows for every one to two rifle shots?”

Raven shrugged, eyes narrowing.

“I’ve heard tell one white man is worth one hundred horses,” Hascal said.

Uneasy, Tempe turned her thoughts toward summer Sabbaths when they’d gather with any passersby on the dogtrot and have a little praise. Betimes a traveling preacher would say some words, something to chew on in the week ahead. Here Nate would have to suffice.

He looked askance at the gathering men. “I never could abide any hatchet throwing on the Lord’s Day. As the Good Book says, ‘Honor the Sabbath and keep it holy.’” He winked at Tempe as she poured him more coffee. “You don’t aim to join in, do ye?”

“Nay. Let the men prove themselves. I was never a hand at such.”

“You’re a worthy shot.”

She warmed to the praise. “I hope to be better with bow and arrow.”

Nate’s brows shot upward into silver peaks. “On account of that Raven fellow?”

She nodded. “He’s promised to show me how. A bow is far lighter and quieter than a gun, and nary so dependent on hard-won powder and lead.”

“I’ll bet he’s a fine hand with a hatchet besides.” He gave an exaggerated shudder. “The thought of a tomahawk in the hand of a less-than-friendly Indian sure sets my scalp atingle.”

“Raven’s not one to trade in scalps,” she assured him with a confidence she was far from feeling. “He’s kin to Scotchie, remember.” Yet even as she said it she nearly choked on the words. The Indian agent was as much a scalp taker as the warriors he roused, was he not? Sending dire, bloody messages as a king’s man? Raven’s smidgen of white blood was no guarantee of peace.

Nate was studying her as if sensing her troubled spirit, so she busied herself redding up the camp, the dull thud of the hatchet an onerous backdrop. She didn’t have to turn around to witness who was besting who. It would be a draw between Sion and Raven no matter how long they sported.

“Why don’t we have us a little praise,” Nate was saying. “I lost my Bible when we took a tumble and first come over the Gap. But you have some Psalms, you said.”

“Did have.” Tempe shook out a saddle blanket. “Till I lent them to Mister Morgan.”

Nate’s brows peaked again. “And he ain’t give ’em back?” At her “nay,” a slow grin lit his face. “Well, I’ll be. Mebbe you’re on this here mission for more than your woods skills. If we was to find ourselves sorely tested, to the point of . . . um . . . expiration, I’d rest a heap easier knowing we’re headed in the same direction, Sion and I.”

“You believe in heaven, Mister Stoner?”

“More than I believe in here, aye.”

She smoothed a corner of the folded blanket. “Out here in the quiet heaven seems near, nearer than the inn where it’s all bustle and noise.”

“You can hear the Almighty speak in the silences, you mean. See His hand most clear. I believe so too, but you got to want to see Him. Hear Him.” He looked toward the hatchet throwers. “Not turn a blind eye and ride right over what He’s put in your path, nor try to outrun Him. Mebbe it’s up to you and me to slow some folks down so they get quiet enough to hear Him.”

“That’s a hard-sounding task.” She took a seat, her back to the men. “Something’s driving your Mister Morgan, you mean.”

“Nothing that the Almighty can’t cure.”

She waited, ready to take in whatever crumbs might be shared regarding Sion, but impatience flared at Nate’s sudden silence. Her longing to know more loosed her tongue. “Mister Morgan tells me Mister Lyon is kin by marriage.”

Nate nodded, sipping his coffee. “On account of Harper, you mean.”

Harper? Her heart flipped. A pretty name if there ever was one. She swallowed down the hunger to know more. Nate was regarding her as if her belly growled and exposed her.

“Aye, Harper Lyon Morgan.” Raising a hand, he dried the sweat beading his upper lip. “But that’s Sion’s story to tell.”

And Harper? What would she say herself? Back at Fort Henry, or wherever she was, Harper waited for a man in buckskins, an obstinate surveyor, to finish his rambles and return to her.

If she was Harper . . . Tempe’s hands curled round the log on which she sat, nails biting deep into the hickory’s shaggy bark. She forced the thought to a finish.

If she was Harper she’d never let such a one go, just as she shouldn’t have let James go at the last. A thousand times in her mind’s eye she’d taken back the day, rearranged it to suit her fancy and spare herself the heartache.

She dared another question. “Any least’uns?”

For a moment Nate’s faded eyes turned a watery gray. “There was a one, aye.”

Tempe lowered her gaze. A man-child? Or a girl? Gone like a breath, then. Never to be seen or touched again shy of eternity. She studied her moccasins, one in need of mending.

Nate’s words when they came were soft. “You’re speaking out of your own need, your own loss.”

Was she? She seldom mentioned James. Maybe she could confide in Nate, a man whose hurts didn’t seem to hinder him but turned him rich and reflective instead.

“You and Sion ain’t so unlikely a pair. You could learn something from the other. Turn all this wilderness wanderin’ into a promised land.”

She smiled through her sadness. She liked this old man. Not so old, truly. Just in sore need of a razor and a comb to tame the pewter strands in his hair.

Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees and folded his hands. “Let’s have us a word to honor the day.”

She bowed her head. The hatchet throwing ceased. Birdsong and a trifling breeze were all that were heard and felt. Had the men paused out of respect? She daren’t look up and find out. It was a hallowed, holy moment, made more so by the earnestness in Nate’s gravelly voice.

“Wherein we have done amiss, we humbly crave Thy forgiveness, O Father in heaven. Draw near to us now and overshadow us with Thy great goodness, for Jesus’s sake. Amen.”

She tried to be still, to sink herself into the words, the wonder. For a few moments the heaviness of Powell Valley lessened. The journey ahead of them loomed large, but there was a sweetness woven within, a thread of promise and discovery.

Lord, let it be.