Scalpdancers (30 page)

“It don't seem right,” said Zekial Bedlow, the taller of Tim's companions. He wore his dissatisfaction like a badge. But he was not a leader, and when Tim acquiesced, the narrow-faced man in the short-brimmed cap gathered a mound of beaver pelts in his long-armed embrace and started for the stairs.

Meanwhile, young Tim sauntered across the empty tavern. His worn-at-heel seaboots beat a lazy cadence as they tapped the wooden floor. He stood in front of Emerson's table, where the reverend and Temp were only just subsiding in their humor.

“I don't see what the devil is so funny,” he snapped.

“Give yourself time, lad,” Emerson replied, drying his eyes. God, he felt better. “You will.”

It was about then that they heard the gunshots. For a moment no one paid them any mind. Then Faith McCorkle appeared at the top of the stairs. “They're killing them. They're killing the British!” she gasped.

The men below shoved away from the tables and headed for the front of the inn. Emile Emerson and Temp Rawlins were the first to reach the door, throwing it open and stumbling out onto the porch. Out in the river a sleek, three-masted bark had anchored alongside what had once been Emerson's ship. Several johnboats were pulled up on the shore and roughly two dozen men, brandishing an assortment of rifles and pistols and cutlasses—the steel blades flashing in the sunlight—had disembarked and arranged themselves within range of the English marines manning the stockade walls.

Two red-coated soldiers were sprawled on the sand and another three, including Chadwell, who no doubt had come to meet the longboats, stood with their hands in the air. A fourth man, a bound British officer, was kept in full view of those manning the walls of Fort George. The officer was Captain William Black. It was obvious that any attack mounted from the fort would result in the death of Black and the others.

“By God, it's the Americans come to claim Astoria!” Tim Britchetto cheered from the window and slapped the sill with the flat of his hand.

“I don't think so,” Emerson replied as a detachment of the men on shore started up the hill toward the Sea Spray Inn. The man leading them looked strikingly familiar to both the missionary and Temp Rawlins standing at his side.

It was Temp who burst into action. He ran back inside the tavern, brushing past Reap McCorkle in the process. “Americans nothing. Them's raiders. And they ain't come for the redcoats; they come for the pelts.”

Tim Britchetto glanced at Bedlow and Stout, then turned back to Temp. “Are you certain?”

Emerson darted through the doorway and slammed the door and slid the bolt home. “As certain as that's Demetrius Vlad!”

Gunfire punctuated his statement. Rifle balls thudded into the door, buzzed through the unshuttered windows, and ricocheted off wooden beams. A lantern dropped to the floor and shattered. Zekial Bedlow groaned and clutched his throat. He toppled backward onto a table, blood spurting through his fingers.

Faith rushed forward to close and bar the shutters. Reap McCorkle headed for his rifle rack. Faith returned to the dying man's side. There was nothing she could do. Emerson sagged against the door, his features drawn and bloodless in the wake of what he had seen.

“We'll need help,” he said in a weak voice. Sometimes courage needs a second wind to get started. It was that way with Emile Emerson. He had to dig deep in himself. He muttered the Lord's Prayer beneath his breath, took hold, and hurried across the room to Tim Britchetto.

“Are there any camps close enough for you to reach?”

“Frugé, you know, the French Canadian, he and about a half-dozen men set out for Miles Point this morning.”

“Bring them back,” Emerson said. “Use the side window. Hurry before they surround the tavern.”

Three rifles roared in unison as Temp Rawlins, Reap McCorkle, and the trapper known as Stout opened up on the approaching raiders. The triple blast deafened everyone in the tavern but served to scatter the men coming up the trail from the fort.

“Hurry!” Emerson told the younger man. Tim ran to the rear of the tavern, then paused to look back. The cellar below was stacked high with prime pelts awaiting shipment and the Hudson Bay representative with his bag of silver. Losing the pelts to raiders would be a disaster all the way around.

“I'll bring 'em on the run,” Tim said and climbed through the window. Faith set down an armload of pistols and closed and barred the portal behind the young trapper. She remained at the gun port until Tim made good his escape and disappeared into the heart of the forest. She gathered the pistols and powder flasks and hurried to the front of the tavern. Emile Emerson took his place alongside Temp Rawlins. The old sea dog handed the missionary a pistol, smoke curling from its barrel.

“Load and prime, Dr. Emerson. Load and prime,” Temp said.

For the first time in his life Emile Emerson was grateful his daughter wasn't with him. Demetrius Vlad had probably recognized him. Emerson had to hope and pray Vlad didn't learn of the mission site and the man and woman who were there. Morgan and Julia wouldn't stand a chance against Vlad's men.

He swabbed the gun barrel, tamped in powder, patch, and shot, and dusted the pan with gunpowder, then exchanged the gun for the one Temp had just emptied. Ears numb, the stench of powder smoke burning his nostrils and lungs, the reverend loaded and primed, loaded and primed—and prayed for help.

17

Morgan rolled out of bed and tugged his trousers and boots on. He'd heard the distant sound of scattered gun-fire. For a few minutes after it had stopped he waited, silent and listening, expecting the gunshots to resume. Either some of the fur trappers were having a real celebration or Reap McCorkle had finally talked some ignorant yahoos into storming the fort. He hoped Temp Rawlins wasn't among their number. The more Morgan thought on it, the more worried he became. Temp could act mighty foolish at times and had been known to tempt the Fates on more than one occasion.

He ran a hand through his chestnut-colored hair and scratched at his craggy jaw and rubbed the back of his neck. Maybe he had better go check.

Julia rose and quickly dressed, blushing beneath his appreciative stare. She pulled the buckskin dress over her head, slipped into her moccasins, and crossed around to stand at the foot of the bed.

“I love you, Morgan Penmerry. Now what do you think of that?”

“I think I'd better talk to your lather,” he replied. “A marrying ought to break in his church just fine.” His thoughts were still on the gunfire.

Morgan Penmerry left the bedroom, stepped out through the front door and into the amber glow of late afternoon. He thought to himself how good it was to be alive and to be loved, to feel so full that another minute of such contentment must burst his heart for sure. He looked toward the church and imagined Boudins Reasoner blissfully asleep beneath a bench, a bottle cradled (with all the care of a newborn infant) in his grasp. Morgan congratulated himself on his own cleverness. Julia emerged from the cabin and joined him, working her arms around his middle. Her auburn hair was tousled from sleep and in Morgan's eyes made her look all the more fetching.

“My father—” she began.

“Will give us his blessing,” Morgan finished. He turned to face her. “And if he won't, then, by heaven, I'll take it. Either way, I'll have you for my wife.” He ran a finger down the side of her neck, then beneath her chin, tilting it and kissing her.

“How very touching,” a silken-tongued voice purred. A familiar figure rounded the corner of the cabin.

Morgan recognized the voice before he turned and looked into the scarred visage of Demetrius Vlad.

The Russian exile doffed an imaginary hat and, mocking the couple, bowed in a grand gesture of courtesy. The mark Morgan had left on him was a boldly livid slash that ran from Vlad's forehead to his left cheekbone. It was an angry inflamed reminder of the only time Vlad had ever been bested with a sword.

Morgan froze, astonished at the sight of the man who so casually stood there, hands thrust in the pockets of an acorn-colored waistcoat. Unlike Morgan's rough-spun garments, the Russian wore a ruffled white shirt and green silk pants molded to his lower torso and thrust into high-topped boots.

“Imagine my delight when we anchored alongside the
Magdalene
. I recognized the ship.”

“What the hell do you want here?” Morgan tensed like an animal preparing to strike.

“I came for the furs, of course,” Vlad said. “I'll take them too. Only there's a slight problem.” He took a step forward and smiled at Julia. “A handful of stubborn fools led by her father have barricaded themselves in the tavern on the slope above the stockade. They will not surrender even if I threaten to execute a few English soldiers.” Vlad paused just out of reach. “That's where you come in, my dear,” he addressed Julia. The Russian extended his slender hand to her as if he were a gentleman come calling to escort her to a ball. “Sergeant Chadwell told me where I might find you. Just before I slit his throat.” Vlad chuckled. He curled his fingers, motioning for her. “Hurry now, my pretty. I dare say, your father will throw wide the blockhouse doors to save your life. And we'll take Morgan with us; after all, he knows your worth better than any man, I imagine.”

Vlad flashed a leering grin. Morgan's fist landed right in the middle of it.

Once again, Demetrius Vlad had underestimated the large man's quickness. He tried to duck and pull one of the small-bore flintlocks secreted in his waistcoat pocket, but the frizzen caught on a loose stitch in the lining as Morgan's big fist crashed into his mouth. Vlad landed flat on his back.

He spewed a mouthful of crimson. “Take him!”

“Morgan!” Julia screamed.

Morgan spun around as Abdul and Vlad's first mate charged from the opposite direction. Abdul held a musket as he darted inside a wild punch. The musket stock shot up and clipped Morgan just beneath his chin. Morgan's head snapped back. The blow brought him up on his heels, and the world fractured like a broken pane of glass. Abdul's black features became a pool of darkness spreading across the sky, blotting out the light. Now the world turned and tumbled. The darkness was below, a place of utter peace beckoning—Morgan dived into it. He heard someone laughing—Vlad, damn him! And he heard Julia calling him by name, throughout the long free-fall.

On the banks of the Columbia where the johnboats were drawn up on the shore, they crucified Morgan Penmerry by the light of the dying sun. Two of Vlad's crewmen lashed Morgan's arms to the cross beam, then Abdul and another man lifted the cross and secured it to the raised singletree on one of Reap McCorkle's wagons. A bucket of water dashed in the face of the unconscious man washed the blood from his bruised face and brought him around.

Morgan sputtered and gasped and struggled against the bonds, then sagged against the rough wood. The weight of his body wrenched at his arm sockets and a groan escaped his lips. But the pain cleared his head. He looked down at Vlad's smug expression and tried to kick it in. The Russian easily avoided Morgan's clumsy attack and he slapped the flat of his saber across the crucified man's belly in return. Morgan groaned and tried to work his wrists free but only succeeded in peeling a patch of skin off his arm.

“Well, my friend, we meet again. Emerson's destination was common knowledge in Macao. You did not think I would follow?”

“I knew you were a bastard, Demetrius,” Morgan said, at last giving up the struggle. “But I didn't think you were a sacrilegious bastard.”

“On the contrary, my friend, the cross suits you.”

“You use that word ‘friend' like a whore uses powder; it doesn't hide what you are.”

Vlad's expression stiffened. He touched the scar on his face and then moved in close.

“Look up the hill, Morgan; see her, yes?”

The river behind him, the path to the inn before him, Morgan lifted his eyes. He saw a bound-and-gagged Captain William Black and three other British marines under guard a stone's throw away. More of Vlad's men busily lined the path with torches, anticipating they would soon be supplying their ship from the inn's storage and making off with a cargo of fine pelts McCorkle always had at this time of year.

“Ah, you notice—Captain Black.” It gave Vlad pleasure to recount his successes. “I flew England's colors from the mainmast and when his ship closed with us, I sent word our own captain was grievously ill and could he help us. Black, being a gentleman, came across with his own ship's physician.” Vlad winked at Abdul, who grinned, flashing a row of white teeth. The Moroccan's ebony features were beaded with sweat. He patted Morgan's own pistol belt draped over his shoulder; another pair of ornately carved weapons were thrust in the scarlet waist sash he wore. “Those in the fort will not lift a finger to help, being loath to risk the life of the good captain. As for those in the blockhouse, Black means nothing to them. But the girl does.”

The Russian raised Morgan's head, placing the saber beneath his chin.

“Do you see her now?”

Morgan noticed a half-dozen brigands within hailing distance of the blockhouse. Julia Emerson stood among them, defiant yet completely at their mercy.

“She is the key that will open the blockhouse door. Wait and see, Morgan Penmerry, I'll have what I came for, wealth and vengeance. No, I won't kill you. But I'll mark you for the rest of your days, on my oath. Whenever you think of her, you'll remember me as well and think of this night. It will burn in you until love and hate become indistinguishable.”

“Leave her alone,” Morgan said, shaking with fury. “Demetrius, so help me, God! You harm her, I'll see you dead.”

The Russian pirate motioned to the crewmen near the longboats to come forward. “Load our English guests into the wagon.” As the raiders hurried to gather up the bound Englishmen, Vlad turned to the most loyal of his men. “Abdul?”