Sword of Vengeance (20 page)

“She does not see you with her heart, my brother,” Young Otter said.

“And who does she see? The white-skinned one who will betray us?” Stalking Fox snapped back.

“Your spirit is poisoned against him. Your words fly like arrows to strike him down.” The normally jovial Young Otter frowned and shook his head in dismay. “But I have also walked the trail with this man and found he speaks straight.”

“Then you are as easily tricked as the foolish daughter of our chief.”

“And does not Iron Hand also have white skin? Do you say he will betray us?” Young Otter challenged.

“It may be so,” Stalking Fox retorted. His friend had pinned him there, for in truth Chief Iron Hand had proven himself a devoted and capable leader. Still, he did take the warriors of the village off to the Cherokee stronghold, permitting the Creeks to mount a successful raid against the Choctaws. “When the white general, Jackson, brings his army against us, who can tell where Iron Hand O’Keefe will stand?”

“I will not hear it,” Young Otter scolded. “Because Raven has not come to your blanket, you strike out like a wounded panther.”

“And you have become fat and foolish as an old woman,” Stalking Fox said.

He rose and, taking up his rifle, muttered he would take the first watch. Then he stamped off in the direction of the river.

Young Otter started to call his friend back to the campfire, then reconsidered.
No
, the Choctaw thought,
it is better for Stalking Fox to be alone where he will only have himself to argue with and no one’s appetite to sour.

Moonlight, and bittersweet, and the splash of a fish breaking the surface of the river, and the faint perfume of distant pines mingled with woodbine and wild geranium. The world was steeped in magic this night. For a brief moment, for Kit McQueen, it all seemed to stop. The silver moon, and the clouds, diaphanous as starswept bridal veils, froze in place. The forest creatures, the night wings, halted in place as if rooted by a sudden gap in time.

He turned to Raven, who was sitting beside him on the riverbank, and pulled her into his arms. To her own surprise, she did not resist as his mouth covered hers in a hungry kiss. And when it ended, the world wheeled onward, unchanged. But for two people, it wasn’t quite as dark or empty as it had been before.

Kit inhaled slowly, then exhaled and tried to make some sense out of what had just happened. There were no words to explain his actions. Alone by a riverbank with a beautiful young woman beside him and a silver moon overhead, what man wouldn’t have thrown caution to the wind and taken his chances? No, sir, a comely lass on a warm late summer’s eve, alone … damn!

“By my oath, him again, is it?” Kit glowered as he stared upriver, where a familiar figure spied on them from about fifty feet away. “Enough is enough. I’ll not have him sneaking around behind my back.”

“Kit, no. Let me.” Raven protested. She had never been kissed before. It had been a pleasant experience, one that seemed right with this stranger who had come riding into her life. Stalking Fox was no man to take lightly. She reached for Kit’s arm, but he shrugged loose and strode along the bank toward the intruder.

Stalking Fox saw him coming. He’d wanted this all along. There was no need to offer a challenge. Kit his risen to the bait. Stalking Fox set his rifle aside and pulled the tomahawk from his waist. Kit unbuckled his belt and the “Quakers,” holstered butt forward, dropped to the ground.

As the distance closed he could hear Stalking Fox laughing softly. Twenty feet separated them, then fifteen. At ten Kit charged. His sudden speed caught Stalking Fox off guard. The warrior raised his weapon. But his timing was off as Kit dove toward him and knocked Stalking Fox backward onto the sand.

Both men rolled over and over along the muddy bank. Kit caught hold of his opponent’s wrist and slammed it against a rock until the warrior lost his hold on the tomahawk. Stalking Fox momentarily kicked free. The two men traded blows, then locked together again, this time toppling into the river.

Kit managed to catch his breath as he was dragged under the surface. Stalking Fox tried to pin him beneath the surface. Kit twisted, reached out and caught a handful of hair, and pulled the warrior over on his side. He sputtered clear of the water and caught Stalking Fox with a hard right to the jaw. Kit shoved him back into the mud and kneed his opponent in the gut, then held him under long enough for the Choctaw to gulp river water. Kit dragged the man back onto shore and left him sprawled and gagging among the rushes.

“We have a job to do. But so help me, you come prowling around me again and I’ll settle this proper,” Kit gasped, his features dripping and flushed with anger.

Stalking Fox crawled up the bank, wiped the mud from his eyes, and staggered toward his rifle. The fight wasn’t over.

“Son of a bitch,” Kit muttered, and made for the pistols he had dropped along the way. Where the hell were they?

Young Otter emerged from the shadows. He’d heard the commotion and come to investigate, rifle in hand. He took in the situation at a glance. Stalking Fox altered his course and reached for his friend’s long gun.

“No.” Young Otter tried to retreat. Stalking Fox had a viselike grip on his companion’s rifle and wrenched the weapon free. Young Otter called out a warning. Kit turned, unarmed, to face the Choctaw. Then, from out of nowhere, Raven stepped between them. She held a pistol in each slender hand and pointed them at Stalking Fox.

“No,” she said.

“Stand aside,” the man with the rifle snapped.

“Will you kill the daughter of your chief? Has the heart of Stalking Fox become so poisoned he will do the work of the Red Sticks?”

Kit tensed his muscles and prepared to spring toward Raven and knock her out of harm’s way. If he was lucky, maybe he’d be able to catch one of his pistols and defend himself.

Suddenly the game changed, and the odds, too, for that matter. A long, wailing shriek sounded on the night air like a lost soul spinning into hell. Stalking Fox paled and lowered his rifle. Young Otter, behind him, muttered a prayer to the Master of Life. Raven slowly turned, looking to Kit for confirmation.

Kit nodded. That shrill, piercing whistle could only belong to a riverboat. They’d found the
Alejandro
.

K
IT SQUIRMED HIS WAY
through an emerald netting of vines and underbrush and raised a spyglass to his eye to study the
Alejandro
. The craft was a shallow draft sternwheeler, about ninety feet from bow to stern, with twin stacks that should have been trailing banners of gray smoke as the capable-looking craft forged its way upriver, its steam-driven engine driving against the Alabama’s steady rush to the Gulf. But the riverboat wasn’t going anywhere, not for a while. The sternwheeler had run aground during the night. Its bow tilted up where the boat had tried to plow a furrow through a sandbar that jutted out from the east bank. Concealed beneath a foot of muddy water, the sandbar held fast its prey. The main deck was aswarm with activity as the
Alejandro
’s crew worked to extricate the riverboat. Other men were repairing the boiler and engine, damaged when the boat came to its violent stop. Kit took a moment to check the hurricane deck and pilot house, but these decks were devoid of activity. No one needed to be at the ship’s wheel. The
Alejandro
wasn’t going anywhere until its crew dug it loose from the river’s sandy grasp.

While half a dozen hardcases labored at the bow, another group had been assigned to replenish the sternwheeler’s supply of firewood. No doubt the
Alejandro
’s captain had ordered the boat’s engine kept under pressure and ready to work. That meant keeping the hungry boiler well fed as soon as it was fixed.

One of the crew hurried along the hurricane deck and stopped at the captain’s cabin located just below the pilothouse. The crewman knocked at the door and a few seconds later entered.

Kit kept the spyglass trained on the cabin door in hopes of discovering the
Alejandro
’s captain. A few moments later the crewman emerged from the cabin, this time bearing a tray laden with plates, a thick wedge of cheese, a coffeepot, cups, and half a loaf of crusty bread. This crewman, whom Kit took to be the ship’s cook, was immediately intercepted by two mean-looking guards who were armed with rifled muskets.

The guards helped themselves to the remainder of the bread and cheese before resuming their rounds, patrolling the hurricane deck as they kept watch over the forested riverbanks.

The door to the cabin beneath the pilothouse opened once more and Kit shifted his spyglass yet again. A man in a black frock coat and a short-brimmed cap stepped out onto the hurricane deck. He was a tall man with stringy black hair that fell to his shoulders. In contrast to the riverboat’s swarthy-looking crew and his own dark clothes, the captain’s features were pale, as if the sun’s fierce rays had no affect on his white skin.

Kit adjusted the focus on his spyglass, his pulse quickening. There was something uncomfortably familiar about the man in the frock coat. Features took form in the lens, the blurred image defined itself, becoming the one face that Kit McQueen would never forget.

“Bill Tibbs,” Kit said beneath his breath.

It was all he could do to keep from charging down the riverbank and roaring out a challenge to the “friend” who had left him to rot in some Spanish dungeon.

Tibbs walked to the edge of the hurricane deck and bellowed orders to the men on the sandbar, exhorting them to greater effort. The crewmen gestured toward the sandbar, where a jagged log had ripped a hole in the hull. The sternwheeler needed to be patched as well as dug free. Tibbs finished with his crew and started back toward his cabin. But he slowed and then turned to look across the river, as if sensing he was being watched.

Kit lowered the spyglass. Sunlight glinting off the lens would be a surefire giveaway. Tibbs continued to study the opposite riverbank. A breeze sent the branches shuddering overhead.

A gray fox appeared out of the shadows not five yards from Kit, who remained motionless despite the blood pounding in his veins. The fox picked its way to the water, and after checking the commotion surrounding the riverboat for any indication of a threat, the animal lowered its head and drank.

Tibbs shrugged and went into his cabin. Kit gasped for air, realizing he’d been holding his breath. He tucked the spyglass into its case and with trembling limbs crawled into the forest and clumsily retraced his steps back to his Choctaw allies.

Raven noticed the change in the lieutenant the moment he arrived in the clearing. Curiosity etched her features. She and the other Choctaws had watched the
Alejandro
from a distance, leaving Kit to chance a closer observation. What had he seen?

His features were tightly drawn, and his eyes filled with grim resolve. The transformation wasn’t lost on Young Otter or Stalking Fox. The two warriors exchanged glances and then peered at the white man with renewed interest when he spoke.

“The riverboat’s hung up and damaged,” Kit said in a leaden voice. “And there seems to be a problem with the engine. Maybe something broke when the boat ran aground. I can’t see them going anywhere today.”

“And tonight?” Raven asked.

“We’ll need a fire raft,” Kit told her. He looked at the two braves. “Bring it downriver under cover of dark and set the paddle wheel afire.” He kicked at a small mound of twigs at his feet. “We’ll blow it to kindling.”

Kit started down the path that led to their campsite, but when he drew abreast of Stalking Fox he turned and faced the warrior. Both men were bruised from their altercation. Stalking Fox met the white man’s eyes, then faltered and broke contact.

“Is the trouble finished between us?” Kit said. “I want to know. Now.”

The warrior looked at his companions, then at the ground, at the shadows, everywhere but at the man before him, in whose burning gaze the Choctaw had seen death.

“It is finished.”

B
ILL TIBBS WOKE WITH
a start. Perspiration beaded his features, but his mouth felt dry as a discarded flask. He cleared his throat, working up enough spittle to aim into the spittoon by his bed. He rubbed his chest, hoping to ease the pressure. It was always this way after a dream, after the same cursed nightmare that had plagued him for these many months. He thought they’d played out, for he’d enjoyed a good five months of uninterrupted rest. Now it was back, the same blasted dream.

He was stumbling through a forest, the sword clutched to his chest. Someone was chasing him. He did not know who and was afraid to find out. Panicked, he continued to slog his way from bayou to bayou, pursued by the sloshing steps of an unseen enemy. His guns were gone. All he had was the sword.

At last, unable to run another step and knee-deep in the primordial muck of the swamplands, he turned to face his enemy. And waited. Waited. Just as his spirits began to rise, lichen-encrusted arms shot up out of the bog to imprison him in their ghastly hold, closing about his throat.

Tibbs could not even scream as he stared in horror at the decayed remains of Kit McQueen, reaching up to claw at his friend, his betrayer.

Oh the nightmare lingered after waking. Bill Tibbs knew it by heart. And there was only one antidote for the horrible dream. The gunrunner crossed the room to his liquor cabinet, fumbled with the latch, and swung the door open. He reached for the Irish whiskey, uncorked the bottle, and poured a river of fire down his gullet.

“Take that, old friend,” Tibbs gasped.

He returned to his bed and sat on the covers, his hand closed around the hilt of the scimitar, the Eye of Alexander, the last of the treasure that had cost him his honor. The rest of the baubles he’d squandered in ill-ventured speculations and lost on the gaming tables in Mobile’s cantinas. But he owned the
Alejandro
, free and clear.

When British agents approached him about running guns to the Creeks, Tibbs had sensed the opportunity to recoup his losses. The British paid him well for each trip upriver.