Chapter 19
R
oss approached the Shawnee camp with caution, keeping Anne well behind him. He was still angry that she hadn’t obeyed him and stayed in the hollow behind the falls. Whoever the hell had decided to start shooting in the village could damned well have waited another quarter hour. He hadn’t meant to make love to Anne, not after she’d been so cold toward him. But just being close to her in the water, feeling her soft, sweet body next to his . . . It was enough to drive a man mad. God, but he loved her . . . exasperating or not!
He glanced over his shoulder to be certain that she was still following and that the pistol he’d put in her hands was pointed away from him and toward the ground. She was there, trudging along with the determination of a soldier, her lovely heart-shaped face set in a worried frown and her mouth pursed tight. His little English wife had courage—he’d give her that. The woods were new to her, and the Shawnee were enough to keep anyone from a good night’s sleep, but Anne hadn’t faltered. She’d pulled her weight during the fight on the river, and she looked ready to take on Matiassu’s war party single-handedly here and now.
He circled the village and came in from the direction of the east cornfield. Using the mature corn as cover, they could get close to the trouble before anyone knew they were there. At the edge of the field, just beyond the closest wigwam, he motioned Anne to get down.
“Put your face in the dirt and stay here,” he ordered. “Don’t move, and don’t shoot unless you’re in danger. But don’t let anyone close enough to take that pistol away from ye.” He didn’t give her any instructions as to what she should do if the shooting started and he didn’t come back. If that happened, Anne would be on her own. For the first time since the battle on the river, he was sorry he hadn’t left her at Fort Campbell.
To his relief, she did as she was told. He got down on his hands and knees and crept forward. Using the wigwams to screen his approach, he crawled around the first one, then got to his feet and dashed to the second. There he checked the powder in the frizzen pan on his musket and peered around the wigwam.
Roquette stood in the center of the dance ground. There was no mistaking his long yellow hair and beard, or the white and red French military coat he wore. Two other white men were with him. One was a half-breed by the name of Charley Sacre; the other was a stranger to Ross. There were six Indian braves, Menominee by the look of them, and they were all heavily armed. The whole party was back to back, hackles raised, muskets leveled and ready to fight for their lives. Roquette was arguing with someone, but Ross couldn’t see who.
Slowly, Ross moved out onto the edge of the dance ground. “Afternoon, Roquette,” he called.
The Frenchman’s head snapped around. “What are you doing here, you Scots bastard?”
“Looking after my interests, same as ye.” Ross walked forward, keeping his hammer back and his finger on the hair trigger of his flintlock. Scattered around the outside of the dance ground were taut-faced Shawnee with bloodlust in their eyes. He caught sight of one or two women, but most were men—all holding muskets or drawn bows. The Shawnee looked as primed for battle as Roquette and his followers.
“I came here to the High Council in good faith,” Roquette shouted. His English was accented, but clear enough for Ross to understand him plainly. “That son of a bitch Mackenzie tried to kill me.”
Ross glanced to his left and saw Amookas’s husband, Alex Mackenzie, leaning on a crutch with a flintlock musket in his hands. Alex was Liiuan and Niipan’s father and the man who’d acted as father to Moonfeather since she was a child. The grizzled old Scotsman had been one-legged ever since Ross had known him, but it had never slowed him down. A gunsmith and crack shot, Alex had made his home among the Shawnee for over twenty years. Ross couldn’t understand why Roquette was still breathing if Alex Mackenzie wanted him dead badly enough to fire on him.
“I wouldna ha’ missed the devil if Moonfeather hadn’t spoiled my aim,” Alex grumbled. “Drop yer gun, Roquette. I’ll fight ye wi’ tomahawks or knives. I’ll fight ye barehanded, do ye dare stand against a mon!” The Scotsman’s voice was thick with the burr of the Highlands. His narrowed eyes and grim expression left no doubt in Ross’s mind that he was dead serious about killing the Frenchman.
“Ye best lower your weapons,” Ross suggested to Roquette. “If the shooting starts, not one of ye will see sunset.”
“Mackenzie started this,” Roquette said. “Tell him to put his gun down.”
Alex spat on the ground. “Ye murdered my son.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, you crazy old fool!” the Frenchman shouted.
“Ye and Matiassu are in this together,” Alex retorted. “He may ha’ pulled the trigger, but ye be the one who’s paying him for scalps.”
“Liar,” Roquette flung back.
Moonfeather moved into Ross’s line of vision. She raised her empty hands and stepped away from Alex. “Put down your guns,” she called to Roquette in English. “I give ye my word that ye willna be harmed here.”
“A half-breed squaw’s word is not good enough,” Roquette snapped.
Ross stiffened. He wanted to hurl himself at the Frenchman and beat him to his knees for the insult he’d offered Moonfeather. Roquette knew that she was a peace woman, and he knew that she carried the burden of her tribe’s honor as well as her own, yet he dared to speak to her this way. Ross glanced at her—she was still watching Roquette—and her composure left no doubt as to who possessed the strongest will. Roquette’s face was twisted in fear and anger, Moonfeather’s expression gave no hint that she had even heard his foolish taunt. Ross’s rage receded to a manageable level as Moonfeather’s voice rang out in clear melodious French.
“A half-breed squaw’s hand was good enough to save your life.”
To Ross’s surprise, Roquette’s face flushed. Ross wouldn’t have believed the French renegade had enough humanity left in him to feel shame.
“If you will not accept the word of a Shawnee peace woman, will you accept mine?” A tall, imposing figure wearing a wolfskin cape complete with head and bared teeth came from Tuk-o-see-yah’s wigwam. He straightened to his full height and raked the scene with dark, smoldering eyes. The wolf’s head fitted over the man’s like a tight-fitting cap. Mica chips had been sewn into the eyesockets of the headdress. The mica glittered in the sunlight, making it appear as though the Indian possessed a second pair of ghostly eyes. Beneath the wolfhide, his wide, muscular chest was bare except for a necklace of mountain lion claws. He carried no weapons other than the skinning knife on his belt, and the fringes of his rawhide leggings were decorated with silver bells.
Ross heard a woman behind him murmur, “Wolf ’s Shadow.”
“Wolf’s Shadow,” another brave repeated. “It is the shaman.”
Ross waited until the medicine man’s gaze met his own, and Ross nodded. He’d heard plenty about the Shawnee shaman, but he’d never seen him. Wolf’s Shadow was the stuff legends were made of—a man dedicated to welding the Shawnee and Delaware into a single nation. Both a spiritual and a political leader, he traveled among the tribes from the Great Lakes to the Chesapeake. Ross hadn’t realized Wolf’s Shadow would be attending the High Council.
The shaman nodded back, then turned his attention to the Frenchman and his men. “If the word of Wolf’s Shadow means anything to you,” he began in perfect, precise English, “then lower your weapons and let us settle this as men—not as animals.” He repeated himself in French, and again in the Menominee dialect.
Muttering to his companions, Roquette turned his musket barrel toward the ground. The others followed suit.
“Now you must do the same,” Wolf’s Shadow ordered the Shawnee in their own language. When they obeyed, he waved toward a shady spot beneath the trees. “Come.” He switched to English. “We talk.”
Niipan and two Shawnee braves closed around Alex and coaxed him away from the dance ground toward his wigwam. Alex glowered and grumbled, but he handed his musket to his son as he stooped to enter his house.
Anne appeared at Ross’s side. “Does this mean there isn’t going to be a fight?”
“I thought I told ye to stay where it was safe,” he said to her.
Moonfeather walked quickly across the hard-packed ground to her sister. “That was a bad situation,” she said. “Uncle Alex tried to blow Roquette’s head off. He blames him for Matiassu’s actions, and he’s probably right.”
Ross frowned. “We heard more than one shot.”
“Aye.” Leah sighed. “Alex fired and Roquette fired back. I’m not sure who shot the last time. I should have let Alex kill him, but the peace of the council can’t be broken.”
“Matiassu broke it,” Ross said.
“Maybe. Probably. Tuk-o-see-yah thinks so. He’s decreed that Matiassu has the turning of one moon to come in and explain himself. If he doesn’t, he’s declared an outlaw—dead to his people and fair game for anyone to kill.” She glanced at Anne. “Dinna worry. I think the shooting be over for the day. Roquette willna swing anyone to his way of thinking. He’ll bluster a wee bit to save face, but I dinna think he’ll want to spend the night here.”
“A good thing Wolf’s Shadow was in camp,” Ross put in. “When did he arrive?”
“Sometime in the night. He’s been with Tuk-o-see-yah all day. Amookas told me he’d come in, but I wasn’t invited to their smoke, so I didn’t get a chance to talk to him.” Moonfeather glanced at Anne. “Wolf’s Shadow is a great shaman—a medicine man.”
Anne’s brow furrowed. “You mean he’s some sort of physician?”
“Aye, but he be more than that. They say he can read men’s minds. He is a good man. Very mysterious—very powerful. The Shawnee will listen to his words.”
Ross took his pistol out of Anne’s hands and eased down the hammer. “We’ll have to join the council members, hinney,” he said. “Go back to the wigwam and wait for me. You’ll be safe there.”
She looked uncertain.
Moonfeather touched her sister’s arm. “Go,” she agreed. “We will be all right. Roquette be evil—nay stupid.”
Ross flashed Anne a smile. “Maybe we can finish what we started a little later.”
Anne’s eyes twinkled. “If you think you’ll be up to it,” she murmured huskily.
His throat constricted as he remembered how good she’d felt pressed against him. “To the wigwam, woman,” he teased, thrusting the pistol into his belt. “I’ll join ye as soon as I can.” He waited until Anne entered the hut, then followed Moonfeather to the council circle.
It was evening when Leah returned to the wigwam where Anne waited. Earlier, Kitate had brought Anne something to eat. She’d thought she was too worried to have much appetite, but she’d finished every bite of the hot bread and squirrel stew.
Leah smiled at her. “All be well, sister.”
“Where’s Ross?” Anne rose anxiously to her feet.
“He will be with ye soon. He makes arrangements for your journey to the coast. At dawn, ye leave for Annapolis and our father’s house. The Delaware will go with ye as escort, so that ye need have no fear of another attack by Matiassu.” Leah sank down on the bearskin beside her and added another log to the fire. “There will be no High Council. Matiassu’s treachery has shamed those who would speak for him. His ally, Roquette, is on his way north out of Shawnee hunting ground. Wolf’s Shadow travels with him to prove our good faith.”
“How can you be certain that it was Matiassu who attacked us on the river? Maybe it really was Iroquois.”
Leah shook her head. “Nay. Once, long ago, Matiassu tried the same trick with Seneca arrows—the Seneca are a tribe of the Iroquois Five Nations and our old enemies. I discovered what Matiassu had done, but I did not reveal his perfidy to my people. That was a mistake. Now he has done it again.”
“But if he knew that you had caught him before, wouldn’t he—”
Leah’s eyes narrowed. “He thought that I would be killed. A dead woman accuses no one.”
“If the council won’t talk, does that mean peace or war?” Anne put out her hand to the warmth of the fire. It seemed like a dream that she should be sitting here in an Indian wigwam in the middle of the American wilderness talking to her sister as calmly as if they were sharing high tea in Scarbrough’s London mansion.
“I think we maun have peace—at least through the winter. When spring comes . . .” Leah shrugged. “Who can say?”
“Are you coming with us to Annapolis?” As much as she wanted to see her father and talk with him, the thought of being parted from Leah was alarming.
“Nay. Later I will come—after harvest. When the geese fly south to the Chesapeake, then I return to my husband with my little ones. He will be surprised when he sees how much the two of them have grown.”
Anne clasped Leah’s hand. “It pains me to say good-bye to you. There is so much I want to ask you. When will we be together again?”
“Wait for me in Annapolis. My Brandon makes much of your Christmas. Stay with us and share the festivities.”
Anne nibbled at her lower lip. “
I . . . I
don’t know. I want to see Cameron, but I cannot invite myself to stay with him indefinitely. And Ross may not—”
“Ross has a house and a store in Annapolis.” Leah cut her eyes at her sister. “He didna tell ye, did he? That one!” she scoffed. “He wouldna think it was important. Many years ago, before Angus went west and built his trading post on the Mesawmi River, he owned a small plantation on the bay. In the town, he has the place of selling and a dock. Angus’s wife—not Ross’s mother but Angus’s first wife—was a merchant’s daughter. From this woman came the Annapolis land. No one lives in the plantation house, but it be . . . Nay!” she declared. “We be sisters. Ye maun go to Brandon and stay with him.”
“With Brandon?” Old memories welled up in Anne’s mind. Once she had believed that she loved Brandon. Could she think of him now as a friend . . . as her brother-in-law? “Ross—”
“Not what Ross wishes, Anne—what ye wish.”