Cherokee Storm (15 page)

“Stay inside,” Flynn ordered. “Until I see what's what.”

Oona threw her a look. As soon as they were out of the kitchen, Shannon took down the rifle hanging over the fireplace. She didn't need to check if it was loaded. Armed and prepared for whatever waited outside, she followed them.

It was immediately evident that whoever was at the front gate wasn't an Indian war party. Although Shannon couldn't make out what the men were shouting, it was clear that they were white.

“Open up!”

She heard horses whinnying and the unmistakable pounding of fists on the gate.

“It's Drake Clark!”

“Let us in!” a second voice called.

Oona drifted back and slipped past Shannon into the house. “It is the men from Green Valley.” She put her fingers to her lips. “Don't tell them that I'm here.” The Indian woman went into her bedroom and closed the door behind her.

Shannon stepped down from the porch, the rifle cradled in her arm. Da's hounds were still barking as they circled the horses. Drake had already dismounted. Both the twins were talking at once, and she could only catch snatches of what they were saying.

“…Hostiles hit us three nights ago,” Damon said. “Cory Jakes is dead. Ben Taylor took an arrow in his leg.”

“Ma's arm is broken. She fell climbing out of the loft.”

Shannon took the reins of Drake's mount. In the moonlight, she could see that his horse had been ridden hard. His hide was wet, and he stood head down, sides heaving.

“We didn't know what we'd find here,” Damon said. “Pa sent us to bring you back to Fort Hood. We're takin' all our women and kids there.”

“Did you see any Indian sign on the way here?” Flynn demanded.

“No. Nothing.” Damon ran a hand through his damp hair. “We're joining the militia soon as they call us up. The major has sent for reinforcements.”

“The war party didn't get away scot-free,” Drake exclaimed. “We killed two of them fer certain. Wounded more 'n that. Damon and me followed a blood trail the next day, but it petered out.”

“It's not safe for you folks here alone,” his brother said. “Just the two of you. Pa said you wouldn't want to leave your trading post, but stuff ain't worth your life. You've got Shannon to worry about.”

“Who attacked you?” Flynn closed the gates and dropped the heavy bar into place.

“Indians,” Drake replied. “Who the hell do you think we're talkin'—”

“What kind of Indians?” There was a hint of annoyance in Flynn's voice. “Shawnee? Creek? Cherokee?”

“Cherokee,” Damon answered. “The one I shot was a big son'a gun. Wearin' a turban. Painted for war. Had to be Cherokee.”

“Come down on us in the middle of the night,” Drake said. “I heard Indians never fought at night, but these did. They set fire to Ben's house and drove off his cows, then hit our place. The dogs warned us in time to give as good as we got.”

Her father glanced at her. “You tend to the animals, girl. Rub them down good, and keep them from water until they cool off.” He turned back to the Clark brothers. “You're certain they were Cherokee? The dead Indian couldn't have been Shawnee?”

“Cherokee, Shawnee, Creek. What's the difference?” Damon asked. “The only good Injun is a dead one. That's what Pa says.”

“I like your father, but he's wrong about the Cherokee. I've lived among them for years, and I've found a good Cherokee to be no different than a good man of any other color.”

“They weren't good Injuns that raided us. I agree with Damon. What's the difference, one tribe or another when they're tryin' to kill you?”

“The difference is between us livin' to see the next harvest and not,” her father answered. “Whites hit three of the Cherokee villages this past week. I know men from Split Cane's band went after the guilty ones, but they wouldn't have attacked Green Valley.”

“We're tellin' you that's just what they did.”

“It makes no sense,” Flynn said. “You shouldn't have been able to drive them off so easily. If the Cherokee nation takes the warpath, none of us will survive.”

“I'm tellin' you they were Cherokee,” Damon repeated. “I know one when I see one. Murderin' devils.”

Flynn shook his head. “If you killed two of them, there'll be hell to pay.”

A cold chill slithered down Shannon's spine. How many times had she heard Da talk about Cherokee revenge? If Cherokee had attacked the Green Valley settlement, and people had been killed on both sides, there would be no smoothing over what had happened to Split Cane's village. The Cherokee would go to war.

She and Storm Dancer would be mortal enemies.

When his mother didn't return, Storm Dancer lay down in his accustomed sleeping spot and closed his eyes. He was bone weary; the last time he'd slept was the night before he and Shannon had made love. He didn't remove clothing or moccasins. He fell instantly into a deep and troubled slumber.

In a dream world, he ran through heavy fog…Shannon just ahead of him. He could hear her voice calling out to him, but he couldn't see her. The mist muffled her voice, confusing him, making it impossible to tell where she was.

“I need you,” she cried. “Storm Dancer, where are you?”

“Shannon!”

“I need you.” A hand shook him. “Son?”

Jerked from his dream, disoriented, Storm Dancer leaped up, reaching for his knife.

Male laughter assaulted him. “Is this how you greet your father?”

Storm Dancer's eyelids felt gritty. He shook the cobwebs from his thoughts and concentrated on the tall man standing near the fire pit. “I'm sorry, Flint. I didn't—”

“It's nothing. If I've gotten too old to keep out of your reach when I wake you, I deserve what I get.” His father chuckled. “You're tired. I should have waited until morning to come to you.”

“No, no, it's all right.” He rubbed his eyes. His eyelids felt weighty, and the vision lingered in his mind. He had the uneasy feeling that Shannon was in trouble, and he had to find her.

“I examined the bundle you brought.”

Storm Dancer glanced toward the shrine where he'd reverently deposited the wrapped
Tsalagi
scalps he'd carried back for burial. Other sacred items, including a medicine bag and a Christian crucifix hung over a small shelf, directly across from the entranceway. Since he'd been a toddling babe, he'd watched his mother offer prayers there at dawn and dusk. She'd burned fragments of cedar bark or tobacco there, so that the smoke would carry those prayers to heaven.

“I wanted to ask Mother to send a runner to carry remains to Split Cane's village, but I thought it was best to settle the matter about my marriage first. I'll make the arrangements in the morning.”

His father settled beside the fire, folding his legs under him. He removed a stick of sugar cane from his pouch, and snapped it in half. “I don't know that Firefly considers the matter settled,” he said as he handed over half the sweet.

Storm Dancer bit the end of his sugar cane. He supposed the treat had been traded many times through many hands before arriving here in the Mountains of Smoke. A sweet tooth was something he and his father had always shared.

The last time Storm Dancer and Flint had both been home, the two of them had smoked a bee tree and raided the honey. Flint said that in the old days, there were no European bees and no fat caches of sweet honey. Storm Dancer thought that bees and steel were perhaps the only good thing the whites had brought to these mountains, and the bees had been an accident.

When he didn't answer, Flint continued. “Your mother is upset over your refusal to marry the woman she chose for you.”

“And so she complained to you.” Storm Dancer lowered himself to the mat. His father was still a handsome man in his prime, a warrior who had traveled far in his life and was considered a shrewd trader. The two pressed open palms together as Storm Dancer murmured the formal greeting, showing respect to his sire, whom he greatly admired and loved.

By Cherokee tradition, his mother's brothers were his Wolf Clan fathers, the ones to train him in the arts of hunting, fishing, and war. Since the
Tsalagi
counted bloodline through the mother and any child was born into her clan, the role of a birth father was always less important. Thus, Storm Dancer was of the Wolf Clan, as was Firefly.

Despite custom, Storm Dancer and his father, Flint, had always been unusually close. Flint was considered the best tracker and finest horseman among the Deer Clan, and he had taught his son his woods' lore and to ride, almost before he could walk. Flint had also insisted that Storm Dancer learn English and study the ways of the white invaders, a radical idea.

His parents' marriage—although rocky at times—was a strong one. Few men would have had the inner strength to go against Firefly, but Flint would if a matter was important to him. And even though his mother had never been able to carry another live child to birth, neither had ever considered divorce. More telling, Flint had never taken a second wife, an accepted practice among the
Tsalagi
when the first marriage was an arranged one.

“She won't take no for an answer, son,” Flint said. “Your mother is determined that you marry Cardinal.”

“You know that she is convinced that I'm the reincarnation of Walks With Lightning.”

“So is half the Cherokee nation. They expect great things out of you.”

He looked into Flint's lined face. “Do you?”

His father made a noncommittal sound. “What father does not expect miracles from a beloved son? These are dangerous times. It may be that what the people believe is more important than what is.”

“I'm not a great leader or a mystic.”

Flint chuckled. “Neither was your mother when we first shared our marriage bread and blanket.” His tone changed from amused to serious. “There was someone else for me too, a girl I loved more than breath—or thought I did.”

Storm Dancer tried to hide his surprise. Despite their loud and vocal disagreements, he'd thought that his parents' marriage was a love match. “No one ever told me.”

“It's not something people would talk about.”

“Who? Do I know her?”

“Her name was Tumbling Water. She is Split Cane's youngest daughter.”

“What happened to her?”

“The women sent her north to secure a political alliance with our cousins, the Mohawk. She married a powerful chief.”

“And you ended up with Mother.”

“I was always destined for your mother. Like you, I never questioned the decision.” Flint chuckled. “Not until the summer I met Tumbling Water and lost the power of reason.”

“This is different. I knew Truth Teller's daughter when she was a child, but I never imagined that I'd feel this way about her now. I'm going to make her my wife, if she'll have me. I've already settled the matter with Cardinal. What Mother says doesn't matter.”

Flint exhaled loudly. “Never think that. She can have you exiled. Or worse.”

“What could be worse than to be barred from my clan, my village?”

His father shrugged. “Firefly loves you, my son. She would do anything for you, anything but risk the future of this village or the
Tsalagi
nation. She's not above eliminating your white woman, if all else fails.”

Storm Dancer's gut twisted. “She wouldn't hurt Shannon. Mother likes her own way, but she's a good person. She wouldn't—”

“You may be right,” Flint conceded. “You're much like her, you know. Hardheaded as an oak. But I didn't come here to warn you about your mother. I need you. Your people need you.”

“You know I can refuse you nothing, Father, so long as you don't try to convince me to give up Truth Teller's daughter.” He tossed a piece of chewed sugar cane into the fire. “And whatever you want me to do, it must wait until I go back and ask Shannon to be my wife.”

“You've bedded her?”

Storm Dancer bristled. “That's none of your business. Or my mother's.”

“You have, then. I was afraid of that. Winter Fox will be displeased. Her father is his friend.”

“I did not say that Shannon and I—”

“There's a wide chasm between bed sport and a commitment to marriage. Most whites believe us soulless animals doomed to their Christ's fiery hell. Have you thought that your woman may laugh in your face? Many white women enjoy a red man in their blanket, because we are mighty lovers. But few choose a
Tsalagi
as husband. They would be shamed in the eyes of their own kind.”

Storm Dancer stiffened. “You think I don't know that? But Shannon is different. She sees me as a man, not as a Cherokee.”

“And if she refused your proposal?”

Flint rose, and Storm Dancer realized for the first time that he topped his father's height by half a hand. “If she refuses me, I still won't marry Cardinal. If I can't have Shannon, I'll have no wife at all.”

“Not ever?”

“No,” he answered stubbornly. “I'm going to her at first light.”

“First, hear me out. You know about Split Cane's village, but you probably don't know that whites attacked two other
Tsalagi
camps, as well. And at the English fort, soldiers and Delaware guides gather, perhaps to march against us.”

“Our alliance with the English is over, then.”

“I'm afraid it might be. Your uncle, Winter Fox, has asked me to ride north with him to a parley with the French Colonel Gervais.”

“You think we would get better treatment from the French?”

“The French come for furs and their black robes to spread the word of their Jesus-Who-Died-On-The-Tree.”

“And the English want our land,” Storm Dancer finished.

“We are like the boy on the log. On one side of the river, a hungry grizzly bear waits to tear him apart. On the other, a starving pack of wolves. And beneath him, rattlesnakes curl and hiss.”

“So far, the
Tsalagi
have survived by not fighting for or against either side.”

“Exactly. But it may be time for us to join the wolf pack or to become a bear.” He sucked thoughtfully on the sugar cane. “We cannot be snakes.”

Storm Dancer nodded. “I'd heard that there would be a council on the Ohio.”

“At the trading post of Big Pascal.”

“You're going, then?”

“I'm going, and I want you at my side. Representatives will be there from many nations, among them Shawnee, Delaware, Huron, and Seneca.”

Storm Dancer stroked his chin thoughtfully. “An interesting mix.”

“As dangerous as fire and black powder. All the more reason we need a strong escort. We will listen to what the French king across the water has to say and bring back his offer. The
Tsalagi
must decide whether we should try to mend the alliance with the English or join their enemies. The future of our nation may depend on our decision.”

“I can see why you and my uncle have to go, but why do you need me?”

“Each delegation is allowed only two handfuls of men. I expect treachery. And I trust no one at my back as I trust you. And if there's trouble, I'm gambling that you could get out with your scalp intact, and bring the news back to the
Tsalagi.
”

“If I come, it would mean postponing returning to Truth Teller's daughter. Are you sure this isn't my mother's idea?”

Flint shook his head. “This has nothing to do with Firefly. Your woman will have to wait. If the two of you are meant to be together as you believe, it will happen. We need you with us now. There's a good chance the Shawnee or the French or our English allies could ambush us on the Warrior's Trail and smoke our hair on their scalp hoops before we ever reach Pascal's.”

For a long moment, Storm Dancer considered his father's request, but he knew in his heart that there could be only one answer. “When do we leave?”

 

Shannon pulled her knees up and settled the hot stone wrapped in rabbit skin against her belly. Oona had taken one look at her through the open bedroom door this morning, recognized her problem, and brought her a mug of herb tea and the heated stone to ease her women's cramps.

Shannon's courses had started just before dawn several hours after Drake and Damon had arrived. Although she was rarely bothered by discomfort, this time her monthly blood flow had brought intense pain. The relief that she wasn't carrying a babe was oddly tempered with an inner sadness. Her mixed feelings confused her. She didn't want a child now; she certainly didn't want one born out of wedlock. She should have been doing cartwheels, and instead, she was curled up, hiding in her bed.

The Clark brothers had slept in the outside quarters. Oona would remain hidden in her bedroom when Damon and Drake came in to eat, so Shannon knew she'd have to get dressed and serve breakfast. She didn't want to talk to them, because she was afraid that Da would relent and insist she go to Fort Hood with them. She had no desire to be shut up with Hannah Clark and the other women she'd traveled west with. And, if the Cherokee hadn't attacked her father in all these years, she might be safer here than riding off with the twins.

Reluctantly, Shannon got out of bed and dressed. The herb tea tasted awful, and she was hoping that Oona had brewed a pot of Darjeeling for Flynn. Shannon was certain there had still been real tea leaves left in the tin caddy. If she had a strong cup, she'd be better able to argue her case for staying with her father.

Oona was heaping hot coals on the iron lid on the Dutch oven. “Bread will be ready soon,” she said. “There is fried rabbit, corn mush, and tea. Let them think that you cooked it.”

Shannon glanced around the spotless kitchen. “Where is Flynn?” She took a cup from the shelf and went to pour herself hot tea.

“He's gone to the spring for water. He did not want the white men to see me, so I could not go.”

“I'm sorry. I should have gotten up earlier,” Shannon said.

“Is good that you have your moon time. The herbs will help with the pain.”

“Yes, I'm sure.” Shannon thought the heat from the warming stone might have been what had eased her cramps, but she did feel better. “I can take over here, but…” She hesitated. “Is it hard for you? Both Indians and whites have died in the fighting. Da is white, but you must feel torn.”

“It is hard.” Oona rubbed the burn scar on her cheek lightly. “Once I was beautiful,” she said softly. “Once I had another husband and a son.”