Cherokee Storm (20 page)

 

The ripple of smoke under the cabin door became a cloud. Above, the roof shingles popped and hissed. The cabin below was quickly filling with black, choking smoke. Shannon coughed. Soon it would be impossible to breathe. She wondered how long it would take her to die without air.

She scanned the room below in search of some way to survive the fire. And then she saw it! Where the table had stood, the floorboards ran a different direction. How had she been so stupid?

There was a trapdoor leading to a root cellar. Drake had bragged to her father about the cellar beneath his house. Taking the rifle, shot bag, and powder horn, she climbed down the ladder and ran to the hatch. It was much harder to breathe here, and she began to choke. Her eyes stung and ran with tears. But she found the loop of leather that served as a handle, yanked it up, and took a deep gulp of the fresh air rushing up from the rock hollow below.

There was no time to hunt for a candle. She half slid, half jumped into the darkness below. The hatchway dropped shut over her head, leaving her in total darkness. She stifled a scream. The floor was farther away than she'd thought, and she fell sideways when she hit bottom. The rifle jolted out of her hand and she stuck her head against the hard-packed dirt.

Half-dazed, she sat up. Faint lines of light showed over her head. The crackle of fire had become a roar. Shannon reached out, blindly trying to find her way. It was becoming hotter. If the floor above burned, she'd be caught in the falling timbers.

Too dizzy to stand, she began to crawl. One hand brushed the cold steel of the rifle barrel, and she caught it and dragged it along with her. Abruptly, wall of rock blocked her passage. She nearly panicked, but then realized that the air on her face was still musty and earth-smelling but fresh.

The cellar must extend beyond the walls of the house.

She kept moving forward, keeping her face close to the ground. Suddenly, she realized that she could touch both sides of what must be a passageway. The wall here was crumbling dirt interlaced with what she guessed were tree roots. She couldn't guess why there would be a tunnel leading away from the house, but it was cooler here, so she kept creeping and dragging the rifle behind her.

The sound of the crackling logs and roaring fire receded. Her head hurt, and she stopped to rest. She knew she must move, that she wasn't far enough from the fire, but she was so weary. She would catch her wind and then go on. Her eyes closed, and her body went limp.

Later, she had no idea how much later, she awoke with a start. For an instant, she thought she must be dreaming. She could smell smoke, but she couldn't hear a sound. She thrust out a hand, hit a dirt wall, and cried out. Was she dead and in her grave?

“Holy Mary,” she began praying softly.

Her prayer was answered almost immediately by a horse's whinny. No, not a horse, a very familiar pony. Badger! She couldn't be dead if that rascal was nearby. She got to her feet and stumbled down the passage toward the source of the sound…

…And crashed full-tilt into a wooden door.

Shaken, she pushed against the hand-hewn boards. Something was holding the door from the outside. She grabbed up the rifle, wiggled it until she held the barrel, and then slammed the butt against the wood.

The door burst open and Shannon flung herself out onto the rain. When she looked around, the first thing she saw was the remains of the cabin, three blackened walls and a stone chimney silhouetted against fire-scorched trees. She was perhaps thirty feet away, just beyond the woodpile. The outer entrance to the cellar was low, hardly tall enough for a man to stand upright, set into a mound of earth and nearly concealed by flowering shrubs.

There were no Indians, no remains of a roasted cow. Smoke still rose in waves from sodden ashes. The only signs of life were the pair of wrens in the walnut tree and the big-headed pony standing not six feet away from her and watching with white-rimmed eyes.

The rope she'd hobbled the animal with was still trailing from one leg. Cautiously, she moved close enough to grab the rope, looped it around his neck, and then untied it from his right foreleg.

No war party.

She was alive.

Shannon began to laugh. She flung her arms around the pony's neck and dissolved into great sobbing tears. Once she'd had her cry, she wiped her eyes and tried to decide what was the wisest thing to do.

She had a mount, a gun, and the means to use it. Somewhere in her panic, she'd lost the powder horn, and she had to gather her courage to crawl back into the tunnel and bring it out. Luckily, none of the precious black powder had been lost. Her shot bag was half-full, and nestled in the bottom was flint and steel for fire-making. If she could catch a fish or shoot a squirrel, she wouldn't have to eat it raw.

In the cellar had been barrels of supplies, but they had been destroyed in the conflagration. She was on her own. She knew the way to Fort Hood. That was only hours away, but she had no intention of going to Drake. Now that she had lost Storm Dancer forever, there was only one place she wanted to be.

Shannon fashioned a crude bridle out of the pony's rope, tied it around his head, and climbed up on him bareback. Her father's trading post lay three days to the west through the mountains. Hostile Indians, flooded rivers, and wild animals couldn't keep her from him. She was going home.

The problem with making the journey from Green Valley to the trading post on her own was that there were no roads, not even a trail, and Shannon had never traveled the route. When she'd last left home, she'd ridden northwest to Fort Hood. Da's post was south and west, and she had to follow the valleys and passes.

Going directly over the mountains on horseback wasn't possible, at least not for her. The way was too steep and rocky. She could easily get turned around and end up back in Green Valley or totally lost.

The first day, she traveled on nerve and high spirits. She wasn't hungry or thirsty, and she was eager to get as far from the burned cabin as possible. She wasn't certain the hostiles had left the valley, and if they had, she didn't want to be there when Drake and the other settlers returned. She wasn't waiting for Damon to guide her home. She'd find her own way. At least, she hoped she would.

That night, she was lucky enough to find a small hollow in a rock outcrop that faced south. There was a spring nearby, and a ripe blackberry patch that she feasted on until her hands were stained with juice and her stomach stopped growling. The nook wasn't deep enough to be called a cave, but the depression had three walls, and an overhanging tree that she could convince herself was a roof. The crevice gave her a feeling of security.

She tied the pony securely to a tree. He hadn't grazed, but she couldn't take the chance that he would escape in the night and leave her on foot. On the far side of the spring were a few ripe elderberries and a plant her mother had called yellow dock. The leaves were edible raw and not bad tasting.

It was the wrong time of year for nuts, but she did find a cluster of tiny white mushrooms. Oona had regularly served mushrooms with their meals, but Shannon wasn't certain enough of the variety to eat these. Some mushrooms were deadly poison, and some of the good ones and bad ones looked much the same. How she wished she'd paid more attention to Oona's advice.

Shannon hadn't expected to sleep that night, alone without so much as a blanket, but she dropped instantly into a deep and dreamless slumber. When she awakened to Badger's snorting and the stamp of his hooves, light was already breaking over the treetops. She was stiff and sore, but felt proud of herself. She'd survived one day and night, found food, and hadn't been eaten by any wild creature.

It had been her intention to shoot small game or to fish, but when she saw smoke from what looked like a campfire, to the south, she was afraid whoever was responsible might be unfriendly. After that, she was reluctant to fire the gun and signal her presence. As for fishing, she didn't come upon any spot that seemed right. She knew there were small fish, frogs, and crayfish in all the streams, but it was more important to cover ground than to spend time searching for food when Oona would have plenty to eat at home.

The second night, Shannon wasn't so fortunate. She had to sleep in the open, and the night was damp. When Badger lay down, she was all-too-ready to curl up beside him, savoring the heat from his furry body.

By the third day, she was certain she should be coming into familiar territory, but the gullies and mountains, the rocks and expanses of hardwood forest all looked the same. She was afraid that she'd gone too far south. She hadn't eaten since she'd found a patch of wild lettuce midmorning, and she was growing light-headed.

Shannon was fast losing her nerve and wondering if she should have waited for Damon to escort her home, when Badger suddenly seemed to know which way to go. Ignoring her tugs on the rope bridle, the pony broke into a trot, plunged through a muddy creek, and turned even farther to the south.

“Do you know what you're doing?” she asked. If she didn't find the post soon, she'd have to spend another night in the woods. Her stomach hurt and she'd had a headache for most of the day. More than anything, she wanted a bath, clean clothes, and the sight of her father's smiling face.

Dusk fell, and then full darkness. The ground underfoot was rocky, and twice Badger stumbled. Once they did slide halfway down a slope. Reluctantly, she slid off the pony's back and led him. When her way was blocked by a fallen tree, she gave up. She was exhausted. They would have to venture on in search of the post in the morning.

That night was the worst. The forest around them seemed alive. The sound of a hunting pack of wolves echoed from the next mountain, and Shannon shivered at their eerie howls.
A deer,
she thought.
The wolves are after a deer. If they're on the trail of prey, they're no danger to me.

Then, closer, branches rustled, twigs snapped, and a rumbling growl came from the nearby woods. Her pony squealed and laid his ears back. His eyes rolled back and he pawed the leaves under his feet nervously. Shannon scanned the shadows, heart thumping. Minutes passed like hours until sometime in the deepest part of the night, she saw a pair of golden eyes peering at her from a branch ten feet above the ground. And at the same instant, she became aware of an acrid feral stench in the air.

Mountain lion!

Badger snorted and reared, stretching his tie rope taut. Shannon jumped to her feet and shouted, “Go! Get out of here! Shoo!” She had the rifle ready, but she was reluctant to fire. If she missed, she would be defenseless against the big cat's charge. “Get away!” she screamed.

Pulse racing, she waited, rifle against her shoulder, as the pony kicked and snorted, trying to escape. And then, as silently as the glowing eyes had appeared, they were gone. There was only darkness.

Badger calmed down. He thrust his head against her and nickered softly. “I know,” Shannon said. “I was scared too. But it's gone. Whatever it was, it's gone. We scared it away.” She hoped what she'd just said was true.

It was the longest night of her life, and she'd never been so glad to see the first orange and purple rays of sunrise. As soon as the shadows faded and she could see clearly, Shannon mounted the pony and gave him his head, letting him pick the way he wanted to go.

This morning her night fears seemed far away, the mountain lion a dream. Riding alone for so long gave her time to think. Time and time again, Storm Dancer's image materialized in her mind. She couldn't help but think how different this journey would be if they'd been together.

But he was gone. She'd lost him…if she'd ever had him. And she would never find another man to match him. The color of his skin didn't matter anymore. For one night, she'd known passion, and that memory would have to last her for the rest of her life.

Within an hour, her decision to let Badger find his own way home proved right when they picked their way around a greenbrier thicket and came out under a giant beech tree that had been hit by lightning. “I know it,” she cried. “I know that tree.” Home lay to the left, just over that hill and down through a flat valley. Soon, she'd be safe in her father's arms.

 

Her first indication that something was wrong at the trading post was the absence of smoke from the cabin chimney. It was midmorning now, but even if Oona had cooked breakfast at dawn, she'd still have a kettle on over the coals.

Shannon told herself she was worrying needlessly, that last night's encounter with the big cat had made her jumpy. In no time at all, she'd be sitting at Da's table, telling him about her adventure. Mention of the mountain lion would bring stories from her father about other near misses from lions. They would both laugh about her choosing not to fire, but chasing the cat away by outscreaming it.

But as she rode through the meadow, she could smell smoke. The odor was strong, but she couldn't see any smoke. The front gates were closed tight, but the dogs weren't barking, and Da's horses weren't in the outer pasture. If they were still on guard against an attack, why were the hounds quiet?

Shannon kicked the pony hard in the sides, and he broke into a canter. As she neared the creek crossing, she saw a flurry of movement in the tall grass. A dozen buzzards flew into the air, startling Badger so that he leaped sideways, and she nearly fell off.

“What…” she cried as she locked her hands in the pony's mane and regained her balance. “What could they be…” A feeling of dread swept over her as she dismounted and ran toward the place where the carrion birds had been feeding.

There, in the flattened grass sprawled the remains of one of Da's hounds. Obscenely protruding from the dead dog's ribs was a black-feathered arrow.

Shannon dropped Badger's reins and ran toward the palisade wall. She cut left, intending to enter by the small gate that opened on the spring pathway, and then stopped short and stared.

A great fire-blackened hole gaped in the upright logs. In the compound, nothing was the same as it had been when she left. Da's store was gone, burned to the ground, and the house roof was missing. “No!” she cried. “No!” And then, “Da! Da! Where are you?” She climbed over the burned and fallen logs and ran toward the cabin.

Another dog lay dead halfway between the wall and the store. The grass was blackened, as though fire had raced across the entire area. The door to the house hung by one hinge; the porch, where Flynn liked to enjoy his pipe at night, had nearly been destroyed by flames. Shannon climbed over the wreckage to the kitchen.

The inside of the cabin had been stripped—every object of value smashed or missing. The charred table lay on its side, one leg shattered, a tomahawk buried in the top. Strewn across what remained of the floorboard were beads, shards of Oona's cradleboard, and a single torn moccasin.

“Da!” Shannon shouted. “Oona! Where are you?” She darted to her bedroom, but the flames had been there before her. Her beautiful carved poster bed was in ruins, her mirror cracked and blackened. Nothing remained of her blankets and bed linen, and she could see patches of sky through the shingled roof.

Her father's bedroom next. No bodies, she prayed. Please, God, no bodies. The chamber was an empty shell; one back wall gone, the floor burned through to the dirt below.

“Da,” she whispered, no longer able to control her fear. “Da, please. Where are you? I'm home. It's me. Mary Shannon. I'm home.”

The snap of a board at the front of the house made her whirl around, afraid to go and see, afraid not to. “Who's there?” she called. “Da?” She forced herself to retrace her steps. Whoever it was, she had to know.

Sweat broke out on her forehead. Her legs moved as though she was wading through deep mud. “Da? Is that you?”

A whine. As she reached the door, the bitch hound gave a yip and wagged her tail. “Oh, baby,” Shannon said.

She dropped to her knees and embraced the dog, then realized that the bitch must have had her puppies. The dog's belly was no longer full; her ribs were visible, her teats swollen with milk. “Where's Da? Where's Oona? Are you here by yourself?” Wiggling with joy, the hound licked Shannon's face and hands.

Shannon went into the yard. She couldn't panic. She'd found nothing dead here but the two dogs. Maybe her father and Oona had been warned. Maybe they'd gotten away before the Indians attacked the post. That's what it had to be, she told herself. That's what had happened.

But even as she tried to convince herself, she knew differently. Da would never have left his dogs behind. If he and Oona had fled, they would have taken the hounds.

Dazed, she wandered aimlessly around the house and found in Oona's garden what she'd been dreading most. There, amid what had been green corn sprouts and spreading squash plants was a mound of earth heaped high with rocks that could only be a grave.

Tears blurred her eyes as she stumbled forward. A grave didn't mean her family was dead, she told herself. It could be anyone, a stranger, someone who'd come to trade at the post and been caught in the fighting. “Who are you?” she whispered. Not her father…she bargained. Not Oona, who'd already suffered so much….

But as she drew near to the grave, her heart sank. At the foot of the mound was a hunting knife, thrust blade first into the earth. And at the head, rose a crude cross fashioned of sticks and held together by a leather binding. And dangling from the cross was Flynn O'Shea's pipe and tobacco pouch.

 

Hours passed before Shannon ceased her weeping, finished her prayers, and began to think about survival. Whatever she was going to do to save herself, it had to be here. There was nowhere else to go, and it had been too long since she had eaten a full meal. She was Flynn O'Shea's daughter. She'd have to face him in heaven some day, and she'd be ashamed to admit she'd given up…she'd laid down and died because she was too weak to fight.

Her first thought was to find the pony, but Badger hadn't gone far. Shannon found him standing in the lean-to behind the house. She turned him into the pound, raised the bars, and tossed in an armful of hay. The water bucket stood full, thanks to the rain and no animals to drink it dry.

Now that she'd seen to the pony, she could try and find dinner. Nothing edible remained in the house, but there were young squash on a half-dozen plants that had escaped the garden's destruction. She nibbled them raw as she walked down to the creek to check Oona's fish trap.

Two trout swam in the woven cage, and Shannon lifted it gratefully onto the bank. In minutes, she had a fire, and fish cleaned and grilling. The dog came to the fire, and as hungry as Shannon was, she thought of the puppies, and shared her meal.

Tonight, she would sleep in the lean-to. There was nothing for her in the house, and the hay and an old deer hide tacked to the wall would keep her warm. The fish were small, but she devoured every bite, and scratched in the garden for wild onions and a few beans.

Tomorrow, she would have to put aside her squeamishness and hunt a rabbit or a deer. She'd have to find food for the dog as well as tend the pony. She was surprised that there were just the two fish in the trap. If no one had been here for several days, there should have been more fish. Oona usually took three or four trout from the trap on long summer days when the creek water was warm.