Cherokee Storm (12 page)

“Da?”

Flynn ran to her and wrapped his arms around her. His grip was so tight that it took her breath away. “I was afraid.” He choked up. “I was afraid that you were one of the…” He squeezed her harder. “I couldn't find you.”

“Da, I can't breathe.” He released her and she inhaled deeply, her thoughts tumbling. “Badger ran into the cornfield,” she stammered. “I was afraid and—” She touched his face. “Are you hurt? Someone said you were hurt.”

“Ball grazed my head. Knocked the wind out of me. Ye know me, girl. I always did bleed like a stuck pig at the least scratch.”

“It must have.” Her father's voice still sounded strained, and his breaths were heavy. “But I'm all right. I heard the shots…and I…and I ran…” she said. “People were killed, weren't they? Who—”

“Aye, people died. White and red. Damn whoever conjured this devilment up to a fiery hell. The Cherokee won't sit quiet. You hear those war drums?”

She did. The beat was urgent, primitive, and unsettling, unlike the celebration earlier. There were angry cries as well.

“Calling for blood,” Flynn said. “It's best we go. Now.”

“But the white men who attacked the village. They could be out there. What if we come across them on the way home?”

“We take our chances. I fought beside the Cherokee tonight, but some won't remember that. A woman I knew, came to the post regular, Painted Turtle, she's dead. And that girl you saw at the river when we arrived. The one with no clothes on? Feather Blanket was her name. She died right beside me. Split Cane's old husband took a musket ball through his head. She lost a grandson, too, a wee lad.”

“But maybe we could help with the wounded. If you fought for them—”

“Don't matter. All that matters now is the color of our skin. Later, maybe, cool heads will remember. For now, I want you out of here.” He caught hold of the rope around the pony's neck. “You take this animal to the river.” He pointed. “Let him drink, and wait for me there. Keep quiet. Speak to no one if you can help it.”

“Where are you going?”

“My horse, if I can find him. They tried to run off the livestock, but two of the young lads risked their lives to scatter the lot.”

“Will the other Cherokee villages rise? Will this mean war with the English?”

He shook his head. “I don't know. I—”

War hoops pierced the night. Loud shouts came from the trees. Someone cried out in pain.

“Come!” Flynn said. “Let's go while—”

Torches flared. A group of Cherokee men and women poured from the village. Several young men spotted her and her father and ran toward them. Shannon recognized Gall among them.

“You must come,” he called, raising a torch high. “They have taken a white prisoner.”

Flynn scowled in the firelight. “I want no part of this. My daughter and I will go and leave you to it.”

One of Gall's companions said something in Cherokee. Shannon couldn't understand his words, but the meaning was clear. He brandished a spear at them.

Flynn glanced at Shannon. “Sorry I am that I brought you, darlin'. This is bad luck. I don't want you to see this, but I don't think we have a choice.”

“I'll be all right,” she answered. “We've done nothing wrong. We have nothing to be afraid of.”

“I hope you're right.”

Two more warriors joined Gall and the man with the spear. One wore a bloody head wrap; the other nursed a wounded shoulder. None seemed particularly friendly. Gall motioned toward the village. “Come now,” he urged.

“What will they do with the prisoner?” Shannon asked.

Her father put an arm around her protectively.

“They will burn him,” Gall said. “He will face the council's judgment, and unless someone speaks for him, he will die.”

“But that's not right,” she protested. “Da? Can they just burn…”

“He must die,” the brave with the head wound said. “And he may not die alone.”

A wild-eyed woman dashed out of the darkness and grabbed Shannon's arm. Shannon tried to pull away, but an angry young man caught her other arm. Flynn roared and dove for him but two more warriors seized him, wrestled his rifle and weapons away, and began dragging him toward the village. Gall hobbled alongside, talking loudly, hopefully attempting to quench the crowd's lust for revenge. No one seemed to hear him, or if they did, to care.

The Indians were shouting in their own tongue and Shannon couldn't understand them. Someone shoved her roughly from behind and she stumbled. Only her captors on either side kept her from falling. Frantically, she looked around for Storm Dancer.

More men and women hurried from the town and joined the angry throng. One enraged youth, barely fifteen, shook his fist in the air and howled a chilling war whoop. Hostile cries rose from the shadows.

“Courage,” Flynn urged. “We'll be all right.” A woman spat in his face and shook a length of firewood at him. He spoke to her in Cherokee, and she lowered the weapon and began to cry.

Not knowing what they were saying was horrifying, and Shannon vowed that if they survived this night, she would learn the language. She raised her head and tried to keep from showing just how frightened she was. Where was Storm Dancer? How could he let this happen to her? He'd said he was leaving the village, but he couldn't be gone yet, could he? He must have known what would happen to her and her father.

Suddenly, the crowd around them stopped short. Indians stepped back to allow a battered old woman to approach. Shannon stared at her. One side of her face was swollen and bloody. A gash ran through her thin hair, and one leg was streaked with blood.

“Split Cane,” Flynn said. “She'll put this right.”

The matriarch raised a bloody walking stick. Her bear-claw necklace was gone, and the earring had been ripped from one torn earlobe. Still, the plump headwoman radiated power, causing the younger braves to shrink back. The bereaved mother holding Shannon's arm released it. Even Gall seemed intimidated.

Split Cane waved the stick. The seasoned warriors scowled but stepped away from Flynn, who nodded and touched his forehead out of respect for the headwoman. “Much obliged, my lady,” he said in English, and then quickly switched to Cherokee.

Split Cane's lip was bloody, one eye swollen nearly shut and rapidly turning purple, her thin hair caked with dirt and something dark and wet, but so regal was her bearing that she might have been a Spanish queen seated on her throne. “Have shame,” she rasped in English to those gathered around her. “Truth Teller is brother to Cherokee.”

“His skin is white,” a woman dared.

Split Cane turned a hard gaze on the speaker. “It matters not. Truth Teller's heart is Cherokee.”

An old man hobbled to the circle and said something.

“Truth Teller killed one of the English dogs to save my life,” Gall translated. “I saw him slay the scalp hunter.”

Split Cane looked at Flynn and spoke softly.

“Take your daughter,” Gall translated. “Go in peace, my friend. Return to your home and stay until I tell you it is safe. And forgive angry hearts who forget Cherokee laws of hospitality in their sorrow.”

The headwoman pointed at Gall with her staff of office. “This man will guide you home,” she said.

Flynn nodded. “No need. I know the way, lady.”

Ignoring him, the old woman pointed at two more men and gave a command.

“Pine Martin and Black Walnut must come with us,” Gall explained. “Split Cane says if one finger on Truth Teller's hand is harmed, we all pay with our lives.”

Quickly, a boy led her pony, Badger, forward and Flynn motioned for Shannon to mount. To her left, Shannon saw another group dragging a battered white man toward them. “What will happen to the prisoner?” she asked her father. But Flynn had already grabbed the pony's rope and was leading her forward. Those who had been so quick to seize them now rushed toward the other captive. Gall limped beside the pony.

“Da?”

More shrieks and whoops echoed in the night air. Scowling and reluctant, Black Walnut and Pine Martin fell in behind the pony. Someone stepped from the darkness and pushed Flynn's rifle, powder horn, and shot bag into his hands.

“Will they kill the prisoner?” Shannon asked. Where was Storm Dancer? Why hadn't he come to help them? Had he already gotten so far away that he hadn't heard the angry mob?

“Don't look back,” Flynn said.

A woman brought a horse, not her father's, but he mounted it and nodded his thanks. Gall and the other two braves found animals. Faster than Shannon would have thought possible, they had left the village behind and pressed on into fog-shrouded meadowlands.

High-pitched shrieks from the camp made her stomach churn. “They will kill him, won't they?” Shannon said.

“He will burn at the stake,” Gall assured her. “But his dying will be slow.”

“That's barbaric,” she answered. She felt cold, colder than she should have been on a mild summer night. Where was Storm Dancer? Had he been part of the mob? Or was he one of the savages that would now torture and murder a helpless captive?

“Aye,” Flynn agreed. “Almost as barbaric as a man who would slay innocent babes in their mother's arms. War is never pretty, girl. Skin color don't matter. It's the same everywhere. Weeping and dying.”

“But why?” she demanded. “Why would anyone do this?”

“Same reason every war's been fought since Adam and Eve were thrown out of the Garden. Land. Land, girl. That's why men fight and die. Because land is life. The strongest claim it and the weak ones who lose it die.”

“It's wrong,” she protested. “This is Cherokee land.”

“Aye. And it was Irish land the English took with steel and shot. All the same.”

“What will you do, Da? What will we do?”

“Try and ride out the storm. Same as we've always done. Try and stay alive.”

 

The journey home was fast and silent. Gall and his two Cherokee companions spoke only in their own language. Shannon's father rarely spoke at all. They drove the animals hard into dawn, and when the sun rose over Bald Mountain, they kicked their mounts into a gallop.

Hours later, Shannon caught sight of the post compound. The gates were shut, and a single thread of cooking smoke rose from the house. She glanced at Flynn. His horse's hide was streaked with sweat, and foam flew from its nostrils as he covered the final distance, pulling ahead of her by several lengths.

“Take care,” Gall called.

He had remained close while Pine Martin and Black Walnut had ridden one on either side, keeping careful watch. However distasteful they had found the task of escort duty, they had done their jobs well. None of them had seen another human—hostile or friendly—on the trip.

Shannon smiled at Gall. “Thank you for riding home with us.”

He reined his spotted mount close to Badger. “Don't trust him,” he said.

“Who?” The pony slowed to snatch a mouthful of grass, then stopped, sides heaving. When she tried to pull up his big head, the animal mouthed the bit and laid back his ears in stubborn rebellion.

Gall rolled his eyes. “I never took you for a fool, Shannon. Storm Dancer cares nothing for you. Another woman to boast of.”

She yanked at the reins but Badger kept eating. “I don't know what you mean.”

“I saw you leave the camp in the night. You went to him, didn't you?”

She felt herself flush. “That's none of your business.”

“He boasted to the young men that he would have you.”

Anger replaced her shame. “That's not true,” she flung back.

He shrugged and motioned to the two braves who sat watching them. “Ask them.”

“You know I don't speak Cherokee.”

“Who stood beside you in the cornfield when the villagers would have driven another stake in the dance ground for you and your father? Where was he then?”

A sour taste rose in her throat and she felt suddenly sick. “He went after the raiders. He said he—”

“You are just a white woman to him. He would never have you to wife. Never take you to his mother's house.”

Tears sprang to her eyes. “How can you speak about him like that?”

“All my life he has taunted me for my French blood.”

“Where's your loyalty? Storm Dancer is your cousin.”

“He is my cousin, and I know him well. Better than you.”

“He wasn't there. He would never have watched and done nothing.”

Gall shook his head. “If you think that, you are as stupid as he believes.”

“He wouldn't have left if he'd known—”

“He left you to the Englishman, didn't he? Left your bed to go to Feather Blanket's furs. Together they laughed at you.”

“That's a lie. He wouldn't.”

“Shannon!” Flynn had reined in and was waving to her. “Come on! Why are you stopping?”

Gall leaned down and smacked Badger on the rump with his bow. The pony leaped ahead, and it was all Shannon could do to hold her seat. By the time she caught up with her father and looked back, Gall and his friends had put heels to their mounts and were galloping away through the tall grass. She averted her face so that Flynn wouldn't see the tears streaking her cheeks.

“No sense getting complacent,” he said. “Sooner we're behind the walls, the better.”

She had to ask. “Before, when…when the Cherokee turned on us…did you see Storm Dancer anywhere?”

Flynn turned shrewd eyes on her. “Why?”

“He's our friend.” She heeled Badger into a rough trot. “I just wondered if he—”

“Didn't see him. Not when the English attacked. Not after.”

“Oh.”

“I didn't see you either. Not until later—in the cornfield. You must have run when the shooting started,” he said.

“A man chased me,” she said, carefully trying to avoid an outright lie. “He thought I was Indian. I ran into the dark. Then I fell, and…”

“Thought as much,” Flynn said. “Lots of confusion. The shelter where you were sleeping with the other women, it burned. Dove was killed. Did you know that?”

“Dove?” Sorrow gripped her. How could that sweet, shy girl be dead?

“You were lucky to get away.” He coughed. “I was scared, girl, scared half to death. Worried that you were—”

“No, I'm good, Da. Nothing but a few scrapes and stone bruises. I hid in a blackberry thicket.”

“Good thinking,” he said gruffly. “Knew you had a knack for takin' care of yourself, darlin'. If anything happened to you, well…” He coughed again.

“Let's get on to the post. See if Oona's heard the news.”

“How could she? We rode so fast, and it only happened last night.”

Flynn scoffed. “Shows what you know about Oona. She may wear a white woman's dress and bake Irish soda bread, but she's pure Indian. Uncanny, the way they know stuff. You wait and see. 'Course, what she knows and what she tells us could be a different shade of horse altogether.” He slapped his mount's neck with the reins and guided the animal back toward home.

 

Miles away, Storm Dancer knelt beside a stream and washed the blood from his hands. Four Englishmen he had found. Four who would never return to their homes and families…four who would never claim the bounty on the Indian scalps they carried in their saddlebags.

They had found tracks early in the day where the fleeing band of scalp hunters had split up. These four had turned east while the larger group had continued north on through the pass toward the English Fort Hood. The nine warriors from Split Cane's village had followed the larger group. He had chosen to track these men alone.

He had seen Dove's body after the murderers had taken their pleasure with her. They had committed butchery as well as rape. Feather Blanket's death had been an easy one compared to the younger girl's. Dove's mother had invited the village to a feast to celebrate her daughter becoming a woman, but she died an innocent child who had never known a man until the beasts who walked on two feet had come.

He had tracked the guilty ones and had done what must be done. He had taken them by knife and blowgun and arrow. The last he had drowned in this stream. He had dragged the louse-ridden and bearded monster into the bushes and left his body to be devoured by wolves.

Storm Dancer's conscience bore no guilt for the executions.

Who these white men were and why they had come so far into the Cherokee lands, he didn't know. Perhaps they had taken the pay of the French and attacked the Cherokee so that his people would turn against the English. Perhaps they were simply killers whose crops had failed or who would rather hunt women and children than deer or bear. It was said around the campfires that the governors of Pennsylvania and Virginia paid yellow gold for Indian scalps.

Maybe they wished to murder the Cherokee and claim the rich cornfields and hunting grounds for themselves. White men believed they could own the earth as well as the water. They thought nothing of hunting until every deer was shot and every beaver trapped. Wherever they went, they dirtied the streams, cut down the trees, and lorded it over men whose skins were a different color. What reasonable man could know why they did anything?

The scalps that the raiders had taken from the Cherokee he wrapped tenderly in a blanket. He had built a small fire and burned cedar bark and tobacco so that his prayers for the dead Cherokee would rise with the smoke. He would carry the
Tsalagi
scalps to his own village where the shaman would offer up holy rites. Later, a runner would carry the remains reverently back to their clans so they might be laid with the dead. It was right that a Cherokee enter the sky path whole.

Lastly, he pulled the saddles and bridles off the horses of the dead Englishmen and turned the animals loose. He was no thief. He wanted nothing their foul hands had touched. The rifles he smashed on the rocks and threw into the water. The knives and hatchets he buried.