30

The miseries of that hour cannot well be described.

—COLONEL ROBERT PATTERSON

They were running now on this third day as if trying to hasten past some unseen enemy. A full-out, leg-shattering sprint. Nate had been put at the rear of the column, the chain carriers in the middle, while Sion maintained his position behind Five Killer. He wasn’t sure about Lucian. Tethered by the neck and wrists, this time in front, Sion ran behind the young chieftain, every coppery feature engraved on his conscience.

Five Killer wore his hair long, his hawk feathers fluttering in the fickle breeze. Gleaming with bear grease, he wore only loincloth and moccasins, as unencumbered as Sion felt weighted by shirt and leggings. Bereft of his own weapons, he longed to pluck Five Killer’s British-made tomahawk and scalping knife from his belt.

A nameless river flowed to their right between steep bluffs that took them up and down deer trails, testing their agility and endurance. He had eaten and slept little, tied to the sapling as he’d been, thoughts ricocheting between Tempe and his plan of escape.

Methodically, he’d made a study of his captors, fifteen all told. All formidable and easily riled. Five Killer had that air of authority he’d witnessed in Daniel Boone and Ben Logan while the other warriors were a hodgepodge of features and habits. His own guard, a bowlegged, gaunt giant, seemed to take peculiar pleasure in punching Sion with the muzzle of his gun when Sion made a move not to his liking. Beneath his linen shirt were myriad welts and bruises, but the fate of James hung squarely in his mind, giving him no cause to complain. Other than Tempe, it was Nate Sion was most worried about.

The grit of dust clogged his throat, the river an ongoing temptation. If they turned him loose he would drink it dry. All this movement left him strangely exhilarated and depleted at once, a throbbing mass of tension and vexation. At another vicious jab to the back, he wanted to crush his guard with his bare hands. Love thine enemy was the farthest thing from his mind.

At noon they halted in a valley tinged russet, a prelude to fall. Hascal fell to the ground, face red as an orchard apple. Spencer, so winded he was choking, collapsed against a shagbark hickory. And Nate . . .

Sion looked back expectantly. Scoured every tree and bush and moving figure. A great chasm began to open up inside him. Tiny pinpricks of panic told him searching was in vain. Nate was not at the end of the column.

Nate was gone.

Something in Tempe’s spirit gave a warning. Were there warriors here? In these very trees? She longed to still the tumult of the falls and just listen. Sion had done that well, standing so still he seemed made of rock, so attuned to all that was around him she felt he sensed the slither of a snake across the ground. With the falls turning her deaf, she relied on sight alone.

Scrambling up the bank toward home, she favored her gimp leg and hand, more mindful than ever of Russell’s limp. A crushing longing stole over her to be reunited with the ones she loved. Sion foremost. Ma and Pa. Russell and Paige. Even Nate and Lucian and Esther had found a home in her needy heart.

The ground was dry, rocks and brush biting into her good hand as she climbed upward, staying off the familiar path. The slant of the sun foretold noon, but no savory odors carried on the humid air, no ring of axe or anvil. The closer she drew, the more she was aware of nothingness. Life carried a palpable rhythm, and she felt its absence even before she gained flat ground and a break in the trees.

There in the clearing sat the Moonbow Inn, burnt to a dusting of gray ashes, a few heavy timbers lying partially charred. Gone was the dogtrot and barn-shed. Only the springhouse and cabin chimneys, made of river rock, still stood.

Her heart lurched. She gave a strangled cry. “Nay . . . nay!”

Beyond the gaping emptiness spread the trammeled, blackened corn and flax fields. The ash hopper in the yard was tumbled, water troughs overturned, fences down.

The noise of the falls, so soothing before, turned mournful. She picked her way through the rubble, craving something recognizable. Save for a few nails of Russell’s making, the destruction was complete.

Next she sought mounds of earth. Gravesites. Over and over the ground she walked till she was convinced her people weren’t here. Hadn’t been burnt or buried.

Thoughts of Pa crowded in, and then her everlasting, choking need of Sion cut through her grief. She’d tarried too long here, but in her shock and dismay at finding her home in ruins, she’d forgotten her empty belly and slow-to-heal wounds. It was Pa she needed. Only Pa could help her.

Retrieving Dulcey, she made straight for the rockhouse. The trail beneath her was as known as her own name, but her whole world was off center, the inn—her internal compass—as shattered as the land stealer in her pocket.

Lord, be You here?

The Almighty seemed far away, unmoved by wounds and war, hatred and heartache. Her earthly father, holed up in a cave, imprisoned by his own misdeeds, might be missing too. And though she wanted to shout and call to him and end the agony of not knowing, his name knotted in her throat till she couldn’t breathe.

Turning loose Dulcey, she tramped through brush and around boulders to reach the rockhouse, overcome when she heard the hiss of the ladder as it left the ledge and plummeted to the ground.

By the time she reached the top, great silent sobs tore at her. Glad she was of Pa’s bearish embrace, smothering her tears. Amazement filled her at the nudge of a wet nose. Smokey stood wagging her tail, clearly at home in their lofty perch. Pa had likely hoisted her by rope.

“I wasn’t sure what became of you.” Pa held her tight, the fury of her cut lip no longer between them. “I could hardly live knowing I’d sent you away so sorry-like. Do you forgive me?”

She nodded, moving past what seemed of small consequence. “I saw the inn—what’s left of it. Where’s Ma and Russell? Paige?”

“Safe on the Watauga, if there’s anywhere safe.” He drew her to the back of the rockhouse. “A war party of Cherokee and Shawnee set fire to the place a fortnight after you left. Russell refused to repair any British guns and stood his ground like a proud Patriot. He threw the muskets in the river. Over the falls.” There was pride in his voice, a hard-won admiration. “The Chickamauga wasted no time in burning down the inn. I hid your ma and Russell and Paige behind the falls till I could see them safely through the Gap.”

“Yet you came back.”

“If I’d gone with them, it would have been to a hangman’s noose. I had no wish to leave you besides.”

She drew apart from him. She needed to speak of Sion but hardly knew where to begin. Kneeling, she hugged Smokey next, glad for the feel of the dog’s rough tongue on her tear-wet cheek.

“What’s with the surveyors?” He was staring at her splinted hand, a dozen questions in his eyes. “They didn’t abandon you in the midst of the trouble?”

“Nay. We were ambushed a few days ago.” The suddenness of it haunted. “Sion Morgan and the others were taken south. Raven was with the war party—”

“Raven? He’d been with you, I thought.”

“Till the caves, aye.” She stood and drew up her skirt to reveal the gash beneath. “We went exploring, Sion, Raven, and I. There was a rock slide. Raven disappeared.” She paused in the phrasing, certain he’d spared her in the ensuing ambush. “And then without warning, he was with Five Killer and the Chickamauga between Boone’s and Harrod’s.”

“You reached the settlements? They’re still standing?”

“Barely. They’re all low on provisions.” She lowered her skirt. “A colonel and his regiment came through but didn’t stay long.”

“With the war blazing in the East, George Washington can ill afford the loan of men.” He began reviving a fire from a few scant coals. “Your leg needs dressing. I’ll see to your hand next.”

“There’s no time. We have to find Sion, his men—”

Defiance twisted his face. “The very surveyors who work for the Loyal?”

“Pa! They’re good as dead if we don’t go after them. You know the Indians hate surveyors—”

“Aye. But ’tis like asking me to aid the one who wronged me. The one I killed.”

She stared. Rarely did he speak of his crime, and yet he’d just admitted the gravity of it. “If you help Sion’s party, maybe Virginia will grant you clemency—pardon.”

“Likely this man Morgan will haul me to gaol. The courts.”

“He’s a good man. A just man.” Her voice shook. “Do what is right—”

“And risk my daughter besides?” His eyes held hers, tender and flinty by turns. “What is this surveyor to you? This Sion?”

She dashed her tears away with her good hand, forcing the memory of James to retreat. To lose them both . . . “He’s to be my husband.”

“You love him?”

Her eyes filled again. “Aye, like James.” But this wasn’t entirely true. Loving James had been new, almost sacred. Uncommon sweet. With Sion it was more seasoned. But both were deep. Rich. Enduring.

She shifted her gaze to the front of the rockhouse, ever wary. Daylight was draining away. She wanted nothing more than to blot out all the heartache and fall down on the buffalo robe bed bunched along one rock wall and sleep.

“I’ll dress your wound.”

Heartsick, she stared at him. Was this all she could expect? She bit her tongue to keep from lashing out at his foolishness. His heartlessness. Yet as he concocted a poultice, he asked careful questions of all that had happened since the ambush. What sign had she seen? Where did she lose their trail? Who had made up the war party?

She tried to keep the despair from her voice, but firmly fixed in her mind was Ma’s little leather book now turned to ashes. The Reckoning bore the names of one too many would-be Kentuckians and countless surveyors. She’d tried to purge from her thoughts their terrible fates, but they’d rent a gash in her mind like the gash in her leg.

“You’re in a bad way.”

His concern was making her antsy. She had no time to spend on a wound. Many had fared worse and lived.

“You belong overmountain with your ma.”

When he’d finished with her leg she made light of her hand, looking to the rifles but knowing they’d be of little use to her. How would she pull the trigger? She took the lightest one anyway, communicating her intent with a look. He made no move to stop her, instead gathering a canteen and provisions, meager as they were. It was Ma’s overflowing table she missed. Platters of fried fish. Mounds of hominy and gravy and green beans. Hunger made her light-headed.

Down the hanging ladder she went, gun in the crook of her arm, without another word to Pa. She didn’t trust herself to speak except to spew ugly words that couldn’t be taken back.

It took precious minutes to trade horses. The mare she exchanged for Pa’s gelding. It took to the woods with a readiness she sorely needed, allowing her to eat of the rockahominy he’d given her. She felt light as dandelion down, her time spent on the trail whittling her away.

There was naught to do but retrace her steps. Return to the place she’d lost the war party’s trail. Pray for direction. Protection.

Miracles.

Their days had faded to a bewildering sameness, but Sion’s emotions stayed fevered. He felt he’d lost his way, like a hapless boy separated from his father. Again and again he glanced back, praying Nate would reappear, earning another blow each time he looked. But the battering of his body was in no way like the battering of his soul.

He could not ask the chain carriers what they’d seen or heard. The Indians were careful to keep them apart, paying particular heed to Sion as if they were reserving him for some singular purpose. When his dread was heaviest, he knew Nate had been right. Once in the Indian towns—Chota or Toqua or wherever it was they were headed—they meant to burn him.

This alone eased his anguish over the old man. If Nate was dead, he’d been spared the torment of the stake. Sure of what lay ahead, Sion forced himself to eat the bear meat and deer collops, keeping his strength, studying his captors, praying for an opportune moment.

The warriors were growing easier now, their talk and mannerisms less guarded. How many days since the ambush? They’d come to another nameless river so shrunken by summer they forded it without pause. That night they camped near a lick tramped down by game, summer’s flowers on the wane. The weather took a turn, a drenching rain soaking them as if ushering in autumn. Strangely chilled, Sion watched as a fire was built of deadwood, smoke pluming low till the weather cleared.

Hascal and Spencer were looking lean and sunburnt, their clothes in tatters. He caught their questioning stares, their unvarnished fear. They kept glancing at him as if expecting something. Some help. Some action.

Sion recognized his and Cornelius’s saddlebags as two warriors brought them forward. They’d waited till now to divide up the spoils, intent as they were to leave Kentucke’s middle ground. His chest clenched at the realization of what they were about to do. When the fire’s flame grew hotter and brighter, the bags were opened and the contents spilled out. Ruthlessly, dark fingers dug through the belongings and deemed them worthless. Cornelius’s detailed maps of the Kentucke territory, his own precious field book with countless notes and computations, the hard-won warrants for the surveys—they were fed to the fire till it blazed with the heat of the noon sun. Watching the destruction, Sion willed himself not to flinch. His work with the Loyal Land Company was finished. Staying stoic, he bled inside.

His focus narrowed as Cornelius’s flask was passed from warrior to warrior. The blood-warming spirits—brandy—chased away the damp in a way the crackling fire could not. He bent his head, wanting to make peace with Cornelius’s death and his own conflicted feelings.

Tied wrist and ankle, he tried to make sense of the Indians’ expressive, singsong talk. He knew a bit of Shawnee, that strangely mellifluous tongue, but little of the nasal Cherokee.

Five Killer and Sion’s guard, with his dangling ears slit and ornamented with silver baubles, were in a heated exchange, their rapid gestures slicing the air as they stood to one side of him. Were they arguing? About him? Sion shifted, the wet ground beneath him more mud puddle.

He was so weary he simply wanted to lie down on the ground and sleep. With a bittersweet pang, he recalled Tempe’s nightly ritual, so hallowed in memory when it had become almost routine before. He could picture her redding up the camp, preparing branches for bedding, chewing a sassafras twig to sweeten her breath. She’d close her eyes in what he thought was prayer after combing out her hair, her back to them in a show of modesty, and rebraid the winsome plait the rock slide had torn in two.

What had Raven done with her? He’d seen them together at the last, sensed her unspoken heartache over Raven’s duplicity. He understood the half-blood’s shifting allegiances. Raids were being made on the Cherokee towns by North Carolinians, bounties set for Indian scalps. Raven was caught in the conflict. And so was Sion.

He took a deep breath, inhaling smoke, ignoring his bruised ribs. The Indians’ rifles leaned against a forked pole a few feet to his right. Mist was curling in about the meadow, making it difficult to draw a bead or aim with any accuracy. The time had come. If he failed to break through, failed to make his escape, instant death would follow.

Lord, grant me speed. Be mine shield.

He struggled to his feet, requesting to be untied. The nearest warrior stared at his outstretched wrists, the tugs knotted tight, and likely thought he meant to make water. With a glance at Sion’s guard and the other surrounding Indians, the warrior sliced the tugs free, ready to oversee him at knife point while he relieved himself a few feet away.

Before the cut tugs touched the ground, Sion swung at the Indian with all his might, knocking him into the fire. With bull-like tenacity, Sion plunged through the midst of the unsuspecting warriors in his path, fire to his heels.

The damp twilight was rent by fierce yelps as the Indians came after him, howling their protests as he made for a copse of hickories.

Now was Spencer and Hascal’s best chance to do the same. He hit a curtain of mist, one Indian so close he fancied he felt his clutch. The thud of footfalls and snap of breaking brush resembled a small army on the run.

To confuse them he darted to the right. The way was slippery but he was gaining ground, his need for Tempe driving him. He knew the Indian mind-set. For all their outrage, their furious pursuit, they’d respect him if he got away. They’d not call him squaw.

Down into a gully his strained legs took him, the way trammeled by buffalo and other game.

Thou art my hiding place; Thou shalt preserve me from trouble; Thou shalt compass me about with songs of deliverance.

The Scripture, a favorite of Nate’s, sprang to mind unbidden.

He ran on, barely aware he was headed east. Toward the Moonbow. New life. Tempe.

If Tempe lived.