Thorns in Eden and the Everlasting Mountains (45 page)

 
For a week now, he ate the dried venison in his pouch, drank from the river and
streams, and slept restless in the woods. He followed the old hunting paths.
Here he found broken twigs on bushes and a woman’s ribbon. He snatched it in
his hand, smelled lavender and rosewater upon it.

Rebecah!
He knew then she was alive.

He
had seen crouching on a limestone cliff a mountain cat with its ears flattened
and its jaws snarling with hunger. He had seen a solitary bear on the hillside
prowl through the woods, halt, and pant, with its hair on end. 

All
these he expected, but what he saw now evoked a deeper instinct of caution. He
crouched and examined tracks. He waited, listened to the sounds of the woods
and wind, discerning anything different. A moment more and he stood, the
tassels of his sleeves flitting in the breeze.

Sinking
back, he fixed his eyes upon a man coming in his direction. Sweat beaded on his
forehead and soaked his hair. A green-eyed horsefly whirled before his face,
fierce for the taste of salt and blood. Nash flinched, but dare not move.

The
Indian paused. Then he bent and drank from a stream of water flowing down the
limestone wall. He wore no war paint. But his dusky, half-naked body glistened
with oil. He stood there, dressed in his beaded leggings and moccasins, clout
and sporran, like some regal prince of the wilderness.  His face umber. His
eyes black as coal.

Narrowing
his eyes, Nash looked through the trees. Another warrior crept among them. A
moment more and another brave moved up the edge of the mountain slope, so close
that Nash could make out the scar on his right cheek.

This
was enough evidence for him, and so he remained still until they moved on. He
started at a run up the mountain slope, plunging through rhododendron and wild
grape vines. Meteor lifted his head, flicked his ears. Nash pulled up onto his
back and dug in his heels.

The
sun sunk deeper. The last remnants of rays drove deep into the water and the
fathomless forest. Faster Nash went along the leafy trail. He smelled pine and
rotting leaves. Another odor hung in the air, the putrid scent of death and
blood. He drew rein. Before him hung scalps, eagle feathers, and other
ornaments meant to strike fear into the heart. His blood ran cold. A chill ran up
his spine. He saw something hunched against a tree. 

Clarke
was dead. Blood covered his face and dripped down his neck into his buckskins.

Anger
rose and Nash choked under its force. Then he smelled the scent of savage men,
unmistakable as the scents of bear and elk, fox and wolf. There was no time to
grieve or bury his friend.

He
moved off the path and dismounted. A bullet smacked the trunk of a pine, splintered
the wood beside him. He turned to meet the attackers. Angry Bear was on Nash
before he could fire. One sinewy fist slammed into his face, while a knife
caught the last glimmer of sunlight across its blade.

Nash
raised his musket and blocked the blow. Angry Bear threw his body against him,
and they tumbled together down the slope.

Nash’s
head struck a rock and the world went dark.

* * *

Awakening
to the smell of charred flesh and the angry speech of those not his own people,
fear seized Nash. His heart quickened to strike against his chest. His temples
throbbed. The taste of blood and earth were in his mouth.

Before
he lifted his head from the ground, he uttered, “Preserve me from men of
violence. Help me now in my time of trouble.”

The
words slipped from his lips slurred and whispered. His head ached. Scratches
from woodland bushes were upon his face and hands, caked with dirt and sweat.
He had been dragged through thorny briars and sharp twigs on the way to the
Indian encampment. 

His
bruised mouth bled and the blood caked in a corner of his lips. He tasted it,
and spit out the tainted saliva into the dust. He pushed himself up on his
knees. A word was shouted fierce and bitter. Laughter followed. Warriors moved
around him.

His
vision cleared and what he saw before him caused his stomach to heave. He gasped
at the gruesome sight—a blackened corpse. Flesh peeled away, revealed bone and
sinew, the faceless head hanging against a hollow breast, now fodder for crows
and buzzards. 

Who
this unfortunate soul had been, Nash did not know. He could have been anyone—a
settler, soldier, or trapper. A gust of wind whipped through the trees, stirred
the embers at the foot of the pyre.

“You’ll
die as this one did.” An Indian crouched beside him. “You’ll die for the death
of Logan’s people.” 

 
It was Angry Bear who spoke. He now carried Nash’s musket, pouch and powder
horn. A fresh scalp hung from his belt, no doubt the scalp of the unfortunate
human being dead against the charred post—or,
dear Lord
, Andrew Clarke’s.

He
stood to face him, his muscles stiff with rage. The bitter wind howled in his
ears, and clouds above him blocked the sun.

Clenching
his teeth, Angry Bear struck him in the ribs. The fierce blow knocked him to
his knees. He remained there a moment with his breath heaving. Angry Bear
pulled his knife. Nash believed the warrior would have plunged it into his
heart. But it would have been too quick a death. The stake was slower.

He
hoped he could have broken free and wrestled the warrior’s knife from his hand.
But other hands held him fast. They tied him to the post. He strained to get
free. His sweaty hair hung over his eyes. The shadow of death approached him,
and in the horror and gloom, he saw it leering. 

The
Indians’ awful cries were deafening. They piled sticks and branches around his
feet, stuffed dry moss into the spaces. Terror shocked Nash out of his senses.
He cried out to God, and called Rebecah’s name in a coarse murmur, for his
throat closed and choked.

Angry
Bear stepped up to him, a splinter of lit wood in his hand. He passed it before
Nash. Nash drew back. Then Angry Bear touched it to flesh. Nash clenched his
teeth and let out a muffled cry. He panted for air, forced back the sting of
tears forming in his eyes.

A
voice called out. As one the Indians turned. Out of the forest a chief came forward,
his half-naked body glistening with bear fat, his beaded leggings gartered
above his knees with scarlet cloth, his hair dressed with eagle feathers.

With
his face painted for war, he looked fierce and aged from his turmoil. An
entourage of braves followed him. Raising his face proudly, he stepped up to
Angry Bear and took the flaming stick from his hand. His eyes turned to Nash.

Would
he remember their friendship? Would Logan show mercy on his brother who never
did him or his people any harm?

The
women huddled in each other’s arms. LaRoux sat across from them eating a piece
of meat his men had roasted over the fire. His face looked hard, creased, and
his black eyes cold as onyx. 

Rebecah
watched him through the gray haze, wondering what he planned to do. Theresa’s
head nodded against her shoulder. She was thankful the girl slept, that her
tears had dried for now.  Maddie too.

Terrified,
her emotions ran as high as the mountain that loomed before her. Yet for the child
she carried, Theresa and Maddie, she knew she must bury her emotions and guard
her tongue. She must clear her head and use God-given wisdom and courage as her
guides.

LaRoux
glanced over at her.

“What
is it you intend to do with us?” she asked.

He
threw a gnawed bone into the fire. “Much of that will be up to you. We go to a
village west of here. Life among the Indians isn’t so bad.”

“Then
you mean to trade us to the Shawnee.”

LaRoux
crawled forward and crouched in front of her. “When we first met, it was not a
good thing?” 

 “No.”

 “You
will find it was. I intend to keep you for myself.”

Rebecah
stared back at him, panic growing within, as he stood and walked away. Theresa
moved in her arms and awoke with a fright. 

“Hush,
my dear.” Rebecah caressed Theresa’s hair. “It is well. Go back to sleep.”  

Rebecah
felt her shudder. She watched LaRoux stand and walk away. He blended with the
darkness as if it were a part of him. And she thought how true that was. 

“Are
you frightened, Rebecah?” Theresa whispered.

“Try
to sleep.”

“Are
you weeping?”

“I
am, though I’m trying not to.”

“We
shall help each other, you, Maddie, and me.”

“At
least we have each other.”

“Oh,
my poor father. How shall he bear it?”

“My
husband and his men will look for us.” Her heart throbbed and her hands shook. “We
must try to find home again. We must believe and trust that it shall be so. As
we travel we must leave signs for the men so they can find us—cloth from our
dresses, ribbons, broken twigs on the bushes, anything to give them a sign.”

 
Theresa looked over at LaRoux, his back to them and his figure cut in blackness
against the shadows of the hemlocks, etched by grim moonlight. 

“I
pray he pays for the evil he has done,” she said.

Rebecah
pulled her closer and looked at LaRoux, but with different eyes. “What matters
is escape and rescue. Leave LaRoux’s fate to God.”

* * *

Dawn
rose. Rebecah opened her eyes. A broken night of restless sleep had ended, and reality
came flying back at her. 

LaRoux
pulled her up, separated her from the other women. Hands stretched out to her,
but she could not reach them. The Indian who had been kind to her followed,
then the women and the rest of LaRoux’s ragtag band of scoundrels. 

Rebecah
stumbled over a root. The Indian helped her up. She asked his name. Grey Wolf
it was. He could speak not much more English than that. His speech was Delaware,
and from time to time he motioned with his hands for her to understand. There
upon a limb, a red bird.  Here a stream to drink from. What had brought him
into LaRoux’s band of men she did not know. She found it bewildering he was
with them. 

They
entered a mountain pass where the river roared over rocks and black cliffs
loomed. Theresa and Rebecah were strong enough to make the difficult trek, but
Maddie struggled. Rebecah moved back to her and looped her arm around Maddie’s
waist.

“Here,
let me help you.”

Maddie
held onto Rebecah. Roots and stones barred the way. With each step, Maddie heaved
her breath. She was testing LaRoux’s patience, which was a perilous thing to
do. Rebecah tightened her hold.

 “Maddie,
you mustn’t weep. We will make it. Once we reach the bottom it will come
easier.”

LaRoux
turned his fierce eyes. He waited as they drew closer. “She is too weak.” His
lips curled into a snarl. His dirty hands were upon Maddie and he yanked her
away. Rebecah and Theresa cried out, shrieking and clinging to Maddie as he
dragged her from them. 

Grey
Wolf looked on. 

“You
would leave her here to die,” cried Rebecah. “You mustn’t.”

LaRoux
thrust Maddie on the ground. “Would you rather I kill her now?”

Rebecah
rushed forward. “Let her alone.”

“She
stays behind,” spat LaRoux. “She is too slow.”

 “I’ll
not take another step without her.”

LaRoux
put his hands on his hips and laughed. Rebecah burned with anger. She had tried
to be diplomatic for the good of the women and herself.  However, with LaRoux’s
cruelty, those reins of constraint slipped through her hands.  

“How
I wish I had that knife of yours,” she said, her eyes aflame. “For if I did, I
would plunge it into your heartless chest before you laid another hand on us.”  

His
smug smile faded. He grabbed her wrist and squeezed.  

“You’re
a woman. You are weak. What you wish to do cannot be done. For what you speak is
it not a sin in the eyes of your god?” 

“What
is in my heart, you’ll never know.” 

He
threw her off.  Grey Wolf stood behind her and caught Rebecah. LaRoux grunted
and turned to go. “Mother,” said Grey Wolf, “needs dark-faced woman.”

LaRoux
paused and watched as Grey Wolf helped Maddie to her feet. He lifted the old
woman into his arms and carried her as if she were a feather.

Rebecah
wondered if LaRoux were losing the allegiance of Grey Wolf. He would have no
man turn on him. She had no doubt at the first sign of betrayal he would try to
kill Grey Wolf.

She
glanced back. It was the farthest she had been from home. Her Maryland, her
home, her beloved—they were behind her now and how her heart throbbed.  

The
wind murmured and it began to drizzle. She clasped her empty stomach, where
hunger was now a common thing. She longed to comfort the child within her womb.
Let my child survive, dear God.

A
few miles upriver, they made camp for the night. Exhausted, their feet sore and
their bodies aching, the women huddled together against the trunk of a beech
tree.

Grey
Wolf walked into the forest. A moment later the crack of a musket echoed
through the woodland. The sound startled the women, all looking up hoping it
meant rescue. Instead, it meant they would eat that night. He brought them
meat, of what kind they did not know.

Grey
Wolf glanced over at Rebecah, and in the glare of firelight and smoke, she saw
pity in his eyes. Could it be possible he felt compassion for three unfortunate
women, one carrying a child, the other young and frightened, the last a poor
black woman who had endured hardship and despair all her life only to think she
now faced the remainder of her days a slave to Indians? Rebecah could not tell,
yet she hoped his heart convicted him.

* * *

At
the break of dawn, the women were given water, but no food. Her stomach
growling, Rebecah quickly gathered the nuts that lay on the ground. Before
LaRoux could catch her, she handed some to Maddie and Theresa, and shoved the
rest into the pocket of her tattered dress.