“But what is it that you think? You must have some idea of where they might have gone.”
While she was speaking, White Thunder had begun to reconstruct the shelter, filling in its gaps with bark and logs. It took him several moments before he answered. “You know your friend. Tell me, would she have taken her Mohawk husband back to her village?”
“You mean Albany?”
“If that is her village, yes.”
Sarah looked away from him and frowned. “I don’t think so. Her uncle was against the two of them even talking to each other, let alone marrying. Right from the start there was trouble, because of Marisa’s position as John Rathburn’s niece. She was expected to marry a man of Rathburn’s choosing. This she knew; this she expected to do. But she rebelled at the last minute, although I do believe she meant her rebellion to be small, a one-night affair only. And so she escaped one evening to make love with this young man. She never expected to marry him. Rather, I recall her saying to me that she wished to make some memories to last her all her life.”
“As you have said to me,” he observed.
“’Tis true.”
“So this evil one, this Rathburn, not only forced himself on you, but he felt himself so superior to others that he could dictate to your friend how she should live her own life? That he, and he alone, should pick her husband?”
“’Tis the way of the English aristocracy.”
“It is their way?”
“Yes, sir, ’tis so. Is it different with the Seneca?”
“
Nyoh
, yes,” he said. “A Seneca maiden picks her own husband, not the other way around.”
“That is often the way of the English, too, for someone who is not of the aristocracy.”
As White Thunder set the last of the branches onto their shelter, he said, “The more I learn of the English, the more I like the Seneca way.”
She smiled at him, and staring down into her lovely face, he melted a little. He reached out to run a hand over her hair, bent down to kiss the top of her head and said, “Stay here. Prepare the shelter as we have done every night while I backtrack to erase our trail. I should return soon.”
“Yes, sir. I will.”
He smiled at her and it came to him that he was a lucky man. Very lucky, indeed.
Seventeen
Across the Lake-That-Turns-to-Rapids, a party of five men slid their canoe silently to shore. Three of the men in the party were Ottawa, the other two were French. Though they were en route to the French fort at Niagara, the Indians had a stop to make here: They had left a man, Dirty Hands, at this place almost two months earlier. Because Dirty Hands had not been in his right mind at the time, no one had desired to accompany him as he went about a self-appointed mission to find his son’s killers.
But Dirty Hands had not returned to the Ottawa village, and his wife and relatives were asking about him. These few men had promised to discover his fate, and possibly to send him home if he were still alive.
Because they were a party of five well-trained men, they were not long in locating Dirty Hands’ remains. It took them little time to discover that Dirty Hands had been brutally killed. Quickly, they assessed that the murder had been committed several months ago.
But what was this? Here were fresh tracks, perhaps only a few days old. Here also were the remains of dried sage, which had been crumpled and scattered over the body.
Was it his murderer returned to this place to propitiate the spirit of the departed?
They scoured the area further, looking for more footprints. Those they found were Seneca made, two different prints—that of a man and a woman.
Carefully, the five men took up the trail, if only to solve the mystery of what had happened to Dirty Hands. Moving single file they made a path and like silent shadows, they slid into the forest.
At last, she and White Thunder had found Marisa’s trail.
Sarah smiled as she set to work within the shelter, unpacking their bags and setting out a meal of pemmican and water for herself and White Thunder. It was comforting knowing that this was the shelter Marisa and Black Eagle had used, and that they had somehow survived the falls.
As Sarah settled in to begin her work, quite unexpectedly, the memory of that fateful day slid into view. Again, like once before when her recall had suddenly returned, it came instantly, easily and without having to strain.
It had been a day much like this, sunny and bright, when the Ottawa and the French had attacked herself, Marisa and Black Eagle. The three of them had escaped in a canoe. But what they hadn’t been able to avoid were the falls of the Lake-That-Turns-to-Rapids. At least, she hadn’t.
There was another aspect about that day. Thompson, who was supposed to have been their guide, was a traitor. All those months ago on the trail, there had been accident after accident. It hadn’t been completely apparent who was creating those series of mishaps, or indeed, if they were even accidents. Not until Thompson had floundered into the canoe that day and had tried to kill Marisa had he finally showed himself for what he was.
But why had he done it?
Why would Thompson … all at once Sarah understood. It was John Rathburn. Rathburn had hired Thompson. For some reason that Sarah couldn’t fathom, Rathburn had wanted his niece dead. It had to be. But why?
Sarah strained to remember … There was something there that was important—something just out of reach—something that made this all make sense, if she could but remember.
But as often happened when she was straining to remember, her head began to ache, and soon Sarah realized it was useless to try to recollect it. Her mind was determined to remain blank. But at least there was one detail that was now apparent. She had to find Marisa and warn her not to go home. Until her doubts about John Rathburn were put to rest, Albany was not safe. But what if she had already returned home? Sarah’s stomach churned at the idea, and urgency rose up to fill her mind.
As might be expected, Sarah could barely contain her need to leave here and find Marisa. But she couldn’t go. Not yet. Not until White Thunder indicated it was safe.
In the end, Sarah busied herself with straightening their bags and placing the blankets on the ground in preparation for the evening. She was careful to be quiet. White Thunder had warned her to make no noise and no jerky movements. War parties, he had said, were out in force upon the trail.
It seemed a small thing. It shouldn’t have produced the reaction from her that it did. But she thought she’d been alone in the shelter.
However, what she had missed, and White Thunder, also, was that a skunk had found this place long before they had. Its home apparently was within one of the hollowed-out logs that created one of the “walls” of the shelter.
Alas, one moment she was by herself, the next she was confronting the skunk eye to eye. She should have done nothing. She should have controlled herself and frozen all movement.
But she was female, plus she was untrained in the ways of the woods. Her first reaction was involuntary, and she let out a shriek. The skunk left in haste, but Sarah was overwhelmed at what she’d done.
Immediately, she clasped a hand over her mouth and shut her eyes.
If a war party were anywhere near, she had very nicely given away her location. Hopefully her mistake would go unnoticed.
Crunch!
Her eyes flew open. It was a footfall outside the shelter. She recognized the sound at once. Worse, it was close-by.
Silently, she chided herself for her foolishness.
There were cracks in the branches that held the shelter together. Staring out through them, she could see the figures of two men coming toward her cautiously. They were French.
Were Indian scouts with them?
She swallowed the lump in her throat. Dear Lord, where was White Thunder?
Presently, three Indians joined those French, and Sarah watched as the party approached her shelter, watched also as a red, white and black-painted face stared into the cracks of the structure. All it would take was one of them to pull back a few of those branches and they would discover her.
Sarah’s heartbeat began to pump blood furiously through her body, while her mind was swamped with thoughts of regret. It was her own fault. Why hadn’t she controlled her reaction?
One of the Frenchmen took up his rifle and fired a shot into the shelter. It missed her, the ball whizzing by her harmlessly, landing in the dead log behind her with a
thunk
. But it didn’t matter. She screamed.
They were upon her in an instant. They dragged her from the shelter. But Sarah was not going to go willingly. She screamed until her voice was ragged. She kicked out at them.
One of the Indians placed a hand over her mouth, while another picked her up and threw her over his shoulder.
This was it, then. Was her death to be as easily accomplished as this? The two Indians were chattering away in their own language, when suddenly a single shot split though the air. One of the Indians who had been accompanying the French fell back, hitting the ground, dead.
Sarah heard the yelp of a war cry. At once she recognized the voice: White Thunder. But, dear Lord, there was only one of him. The odds were against him. All the same, Sarah listened helplessly as White Thunder must have plunged himself into the midst of the French soldiers. What followed next must have been hand-to-hand combat. Sarah could hear the deadly clang of their weapons. Then came the cry of yet another man as she listened to him fall to the ground.
Was it White Thunder? She tried to look. She couldn’t. But it had sounded like him. Sarah hung her head as tears spilled down over her face. She began to pummel the back of her captor, cursing at him. He, in reaction, threw her to the ground, which she hit with an
oomph
that knocked the breath out of her. He bent over her and quickly tied her hands together.
Not bothering to throw her again over his shoulder, the one Indian, along with his friend, shot away from the scene of action, pulling her along with them. Sarah had no choice but to follow at a sprint and to try to keep up with their maddening pace. It was either that or be dragged. As she ran, she dared to cast a look back over her shoulder. White Thunder was still on his feet, still fighting.
He was alive. He was still alive.
But then Sarah lost her footing. She was hauled a good distance before she was finally able to struggle to her feet. There came yet another manly cry. And then she was lost to the sound and sight of the fight.
Onward they raced, into the forest, going ever farther and farther away from White Thunder. Uselessly Sarah wished herself away from here; she wanted to be back there, with White Thunder, and she cried out at her vulnerability. Was he still alive?
Dear Lord, she prayed. Let him still be alive. Please let him be alive.
Evening came at a much faster pace than Sarah would have liked. At present, she and her two captors had stopped and set up camp. Sarah was sitting upright against a tree, tied to it with a rope around her waist; also there was one tied around her hands, which had been positioned in front of her. The rope around her hands chafed and cut into her skin, and she could see blood oozing from the sores. The rope around her waist, though restrictive, was merely uncomfortable. Looking down, she despaired at the state of her skirts and her bodice, which were both torn and frayed, and her petticoats, which had been soiled beyond repair. Plus, to her shame, these men hadn’t granted her the courtesy to allow her to relieve herself along the trail. Somewhere in their trek this day, nature had had its way.
She’d never felt so wretched, nor so dirty.
The two Indians were busying themselves with a fire, and it was a big one. They said nothing to her—not that she would have been able to understand them had they tried. But human decency would have thought they would have at least ventured to attempt it.
What were they planning for her? The question was one that was likely to drive her mad if she didn’t gain an answer to it, and soon. If her death were fated this night, knowing it seemed more preferable than being caught unaware.
Of course, she’d never been more frightened. Nor had she ever felt more alone. Death awaited. She knew it. It was there in the way those men looked at her, and in the way they treated her.
But how were they going to go about it? Was it going to be painful?
There was every indication that it would be so. Even now, she watched them as they sharpened their knives and their tomahawks. They were even priming their weapons.
Where was White Thunder?
Many hours had passed since her capture. Hours that had been spent fleeing along an obvious trail, her feet flying over ground covered with moss, slime and dead leaves. At times she’d been dragged when she’d fallen and couldn’t keep up with the pace. During those times, it had always been a struggle to get back to her feet. Sometimes she’d managed it, sometimes they had simply dragged her.