Seneca Surrender (26 page)
Surely they had left tracks that White Thunder could follow … if he were still alive.
Presently, one of the Indians rose to his feet and stepped toward her. Watching him, realizing that his intention toward her was hardly social, she gathered her courage. Without warning, he flew at her and grabbed a handful of her hair. He pulled, practically plucking it out by its roots. Then he spit upon it. Then her.
He said, “Your … husband … dead. No sign … him.”
Sarah looked away from him, but the warrior forced her face back toward him.
“Our brother … killed. English kill … my father. You … pay. Will die in fire.”
Though the Indian held her face so she couldn’t glance away, Sarah refused to look at him, her gaze centered downward. Tears slipped over her cheeks.
“You cry now … cry more … later. Torture first … before fire. You feel … much pain.”
He untied her from the tree.
“You … stand …”
He put some effort into making her rise, but Sarah refused to obey. If she were to be tortured, then die by the fire, why make it easy for him by cooperating? If the only defiance she had left in her was to sit while he wanted her to stand, then that was exactly what she would do.
He pulled her roughly to her feet, but she immediately sank to the ground. The warrior repeated the same procedure twice.
Had it not been so serious, Sarah thought the situation might have appeared humorous. It was, however, anything but amusing.
Eventually, because the warrior couldn’t force her to stand, he let her sit. He came down onto his haunches before her and stuck his face in hers, smiling. His image was a horrible thing to behold, for his face was painted black, and the stark contrast to the white of his teeth made him resemble a walking skeleton.
All at once, he sliced away the bodice of her gown, as well as the sleeves of her chemise, leaving a large, red cut across her chest and exposing her entire upper body to the cold night air. Involuntarily, her cry shot through the night.
He tried to tear away her skirt, also, but she wore so many petticoats, her outer one being buckskin, that it became impossible. Eventually he gave up and said, “No matter. Soon you … feel manhood.” And he ripped away his breechcloth, exposing a man partially aroused.
Sarah was sickened by the sight of him, by his smell and by the idea of what he intended to do to her. Indeed, what food she had left in her stomach, she lost.
But there was no mercy to be found in this Ottawa warrior’s manner. He laughed and squatted in front of her again.
Sarah gasped as he took out his knife and once more brandished it in front of her. He brought it toward her, slowly, slowly, watching for her reaction like a wolf cornering a rabbit. He sliced off a portion of her hair, grinning at her all the while. “We do this … all over … body.”
Exposed, vulnerable, Sarah began to wonder if part of the torture were pure fright. If so, he was being very successful.
Again, he waved that knife in front of her as he once more cut off a portion of her hair. But this time, instead of her stomach losing its dinner, she lost what was left in her small intestines at the other end of her.
It was degrading, and perhaps that’s what decided her. If this were her fate, then so be it. The least she could do was to stop cowering in fear. Since that was exactly what he wanted, then she’d be damned if she would give it to him.
Thus, when next he came close, she took action, doing the first thing she could think of to do. After all, what did it matter? They were going to kill her in the most feminine, and probably the most horrible way possible.
She spit in his face.
Immediately he slapped her. But though the hit stung, it felt good. It was all she had … defiance … and so long as she was sane, she would resist him to the end.
She hadn’t counted on what happened next, however. He picked her up by her hair, brought a knife to her scalp and began to cut.
She screamed. And he laughed, the wickedness of his smile the last thing she beheld before she fell forward into a dead faint.
White Thunder heard Sarah’s screams as if from outside himself. He knew at once what it meant.
Silently he cursed himself for his stupidity. He’d made two mistakes. Big mistakes.
The first was that he’d gone off the trail to look for roots. He’d seen the plants on his trek through the woods, and he’d thought there was plenty of time to dig them and get back to the shelter before any possible trouble might befall them. But his second and major error was being unaware of the environment around him. He’d been so engrossed in hunting for the roots, he hadn’t felt the presence of someone else in these woods.
It could prove to be a deadly blunder. Could he correct it?
With all his strength, he shot forward, sprinting back toward the shelter. As he ran, he checked his gun for readiness. He felt for his other weapons, which were on his belt, awaiting only his hand to use them. Satisfied, he practically flew over the forest floor.
As he came within sight of the valley where the shelter lay, he sighted five of them. Three Ottawa, two French. He watched as two of the Ottawa pulled Sarah out of the shelter, one of them slung her over his shoulder, and the two marched off.
Instinct made him long to cry out and attack at once, but he held himself back. Not yet. They were five and they were ready for a fight, their guns held primed. He wasn’t going to be of any use to Sarah if he himself was killed immediately.
Let him first take them down with him.
Was there anything he could use to his advantage? He could think of only one circumstance that might be in his favor, and that was the element of surprise. But even that might not be helpful, for these warriors were wise enough to know that a white woman wouldn’t be in the woods alone.
Watching them, devising a plan, he crept from place to place in the environment surrounding the shelter. He waited until he had a good shot. He delayed, checking his front sight; he fired. A man dropped; it was the remaining Indian.
That was it—his only advantage—surprise. Because the musket had only the one shot, White Thunder threw it to the ground and leapt down into the enemy’s midst, his hatchet and war club drawn and ready. The Frenchman saw him coming and aimed a swing at him, but White Thunder ducked, and with a back hand, sent a fatal blow into the man’s middle section.
He was down.
There was one man left, but this one was ready for him, and had his rifle pointed straight at White Thunder. He fired. White Thunder ducked.
The shot flew by, and White Thunder instantly sprang up and met him with his hatchet, but the man dodged and White Thunder had to spin around in a split second to avoid a fatal backhand. He aimed his tomahawk straight at the Frenchman’s head, but again the man parried, the steel of their weapons clanged.
Thinking fast, White Thunder knew he had to do damage quickly, before the Frenchman did irreparable harm to him. Slamming his hatchet straight at the Frenchman’s shooting arm, White Thunder plunged his weapon unswervingly into the man’s elbow. It cracked; the arm hung useless.
That did it. The Frenchman knew he was hurt beyond repair, but he was big and predatory and he aimed a fatal blow at White Thunder with his left arm. But it lacked strength. White Thunder easily ducked, then with another pitch of his hatchet, struck the mortal blow. All three men were down.
But there were two more Ottawa and they had Sarah. And they were long since gone.
Picking up the Frenchmen’s guns and ammunition, White Thunder rushed back to pluck up his own gun, then darted forward to hit upon the Ottawas’ trail. There it was, right in front of him.
As he sped over the ground, following their footprints, White Thunder only hoped he wouldn’t be too late.
Eighteen
The Ottawa were moving fast, but they were also covering their tracks. The warriors were smart. They’d known White Thunder would come after them if he survived the fight with their three cohorts.
Their trail was difficult. Several times White Thunder had been led off on a false trail, and had been forced to go back and start afresh. It was slow work; slow at a time when speed was crucial.
But there was one thing he knew that the Ottawa didn’t: He had survived. If he lingered here on their trail, if he pretended he’d been taken down by the French, and that no one was following them—perhaps waiting until the last minute to attack, White Thunder might gain an advantage.
Finally, after grueling hours spent tracking, he found them. Luckily for him, his ploy had worked, and they must have assumed he’d been killed, because no one was standing guard, a very unwise move.
White Thunder smiled.
He spotted Sarah, and what he saw made his blood boil. Tied to a tree, she was bare-chested and exposed. Plus, there was a gash over her breasts. Even now, she was bleeding. Had he been a younger man, he might have rushed in upon them now, spoiling whatever edge he might have.
Older and wiser, he positioned himself into a good shooting posture. That’s when he saw Sarah spit in one of the Ottawas’ eye, and he smiled again. Not only did she possess a gentle nature—one that he had witnessed on more than one occasion—if pressed, she could be as dangerous as a she-cat.
But the Ottawa went too far. He slapped her. Older he might be, but even still, White Thunder could barely contain himself from taking immediate action. He knew, however, that he must control his anger. One single, sure shot was better than taking a chance at wrestling—and losing.
White Thunder watched as the Ottawa pulled her up by the hair, watched also as he brought a knife to her scalp. She fainted, but the Ottawa was having none of that, and he shook her awake.
White Thunder couldn’t remember a time he had felt more enraged. He took very careful aim, for the Ottawa was too close to Sarah, and he dare not miss.
He had the Ottawa in his front sight; it would be a fatal shot to the head. White Thunder pulled the trigger. Sarah screamed, and the Ottawa jerked sideways from the strength of the blast. He didn’t move.
But his friend, the other Ottawa, sprung to his feet, and crouching low, peered off in every direction. There was one other fine point these two hadn’t realized.
White Thunder possessed another rifle, taken from the Frenchmen. He leveled a clear shot, aiming for the Ottawa’s head. He pulled the trigger, heard Sarah scream yet again, then watched to see the result. The last Ottawa crumpled over, dead.
White Thunder waited only a moment to determine if either of the two Indians would get up. Carefully, slowly, he himself rose onto his feet and rushed forward to inspect the men before he turned his attention to Sarah.
What he saw wrenched at his heart. Her face was wet with tears, she was naked from her shoulders down to her waist and her skirts were ripped into rags.
“Mr. Thunder,” she sobbed, falling forward onto her knees. “I thought you were dead.”
He rushed to her, knelt in front of her and reached down to cut the bonds holding her hands. “Not yet,” he said gently. “Not yet.”
Once she was free, she fell into his arms, where she cried until he thought his heart might likely break.
“It’s all my fault,” she said. “If I hadn’t cried out, they—”
“Shhh.” He massaged her head, glorying in the feel of her silky locks beneath his fingers, thankful that she was alive and in his arms again. “I share the fault, if there is any to be found,” he said. “Had I been more aware of my surroundings, I would have been able to avoid this. Come, let’s leave here and fast, before more Ottawa come to find their friends.”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes.”
Taking off his shirt, he slipped it over her head, and helping her to her feet, he grasped her hand in his and they fled into the forest.
They shot through the woods as if demons were after them. Perhaps they were. Still, it was a different speed of travel than that of their earlier wanderings. Whereas before, they two had traversed slowly, taking one delayed step at a time—which had allowed White Thunder the opportunity to examine every piece of ground—now they sprinted over what was clearly a trail. They dashed up forest-covered hills, down into lush valleys and skirted every bend. They splashed through icy-cold streams, not paying any attention to their depths, and sometimes they had to swim. Always they pressed forward, and at a maddening pace.
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