Lord of the Wolves (17 page)

“Yes,
but when I arrived at the village, nothing was the same. The old life was
gone—only Great Wind remained, and he was old and bitter. He did not recognize
me in my white man’s clothing, and cropped hair. And though I told him that I
was White Wolf, he remained unconvinced. ‘White Wolf’, he said, was a young man
who had shown great promise as a warrior, and in whom he had taken great pride.
He said that he had been a good hand with a rifle, and had possessed an eye as
sharp as a hawk in flight... but he had gone away to become a Frenchman, and
alas he was no longer. Sadly, Great Wind was right. The Delaware boy was gone,
and Kingston Sauvage, the man who had taken his place, and who had not belonged
in Quebec, did not belong in the village, either. Indeed, he did not belong
anywhere. He was lost, doomed to exist between worlds.”

Sarah’s
sapphire eyes were shining as Sauvage finished recounting the tale of his past.
“Not lost. There is a place where you could belong, a people who would rejoice
in your presence should you choose to dwell among them. A place where peace,
love, and harmony still exist. It is the Shining City. Come with me, Kingston. Come
and dwell among us. To know that you are near and safe would bring me great
joy.”

Sauvage
found her plea oddly touching, for he knew that it was genuine. Reaching out,
he brushed her cheek with his knuckles. Her skin was so soft, her sudden blush
becoming. “And it would make me miserable. To be so near to you, to think of
our time together, and to know you were wed to another?” He shook his head. “No,
Madame. My capacity for generosity is not as great as yours.” He smiled down
into her face, so grave in the firelight and turned his hand to cup her cheek. “You
know that I cannot accept your invitation. I am not a man of peace.”

Sarah’s
invitation was set aside, but not forgotten. Stubbornly, it lingered in the
back of Sauvage’s mind, to be secretly touched upon again and again throughout
the course of the evening.

Was
the Shining City truly a place where peace and brotherhood still existed? And
if so, would a man like him be welcome there? It hardly seemed possible.

Yet,
he found the prospect strangely appealing. It had been so long since he had
felt a sense of belonging. Not since his boyhood in Kit-han-ee had he belonged
anywhere, and for a moment he allowed himself to imagine a life with Sarah, and
the ever-present shadow of her betrothed was far, far away.

The
Ohio Country

Late
August, 1757

Hergus
Samp was dozing in her chair by the fireside when the vision came to her. Seventy-seven
years of hard living and the death of a quartet of husbands had taught her to
heed the gift when it came, and to prepare.

Before
the first sifting of soot trickled down the chimney, Hergus had doused her
straw tick with a vial of bear oil and thrown it on the fire. As the flames
tore up the chimney, the first of the attackers lost his grip and fell,
scattering sparks and ashes. The painted Huron rose to a crouch and the old
woman cleaved his skull with the ax she kept by the hearth.

“Cum
on, noo, ye heathen bastards, daen’t be shy! Send me down two more, and I’ll
bury them beside my poor dead husbands.”

Another
tried to enter by way of the chimney and he, too, fell beneath the old woman’s
weapon. When the chimney piece fell quiet, Hergus turned her attention to the
heavy plank door, which nearly buckled beneath the savages’ blows. Hergus
shoved the table against the door and once again hefted her ax.

Outside
the door,
La Bruin
gave the signal to his lieutenant to break the door
in. The Indian was reluctant. “The Chippewa have gone. They say the old woman
is bad medicine, a warrior squaw, and they do not wish to stand against her.’

“To
hell with the Chippewa!” the renegade roared. “Red Legs, Standing Elk! Break
down the door! No one defies
La Bruin!
”

Red
Legs and Standing Elk rushed forward, chopping furiously at the door with their
war axes. The door fell inward at the top. Red Legs tried to squeeze through,
screamed, and fell back with a gaping gash to the throat. Standing Elk fell
back with his war ax, and no amount of encouragement or abuse from
La Bruin
could convince him to try the warrior squaw again.

Infuriated,
La Bruin
snatched the ax from Standing Elk’s hand and furiously attacked
the door. In a moment, the panel fell in, revealing the old woman, whose height
was an impressive six feet. Iron gray locks snaked out in all directions around
a thin face, blackened with soot. “Fool,” she sneered. “Ye ain’t welcome here.”
She raised the pistol she’d concealed in the folds of her shabby skirt, and
fired.

When
the smoke cleared,
La Bruin
still stood in the doorway, staring stupidly
down at the crimson blood welling from his left thigh. “Accursed witch! I’ll
have your scalp for this!”

Lunging
for Hergus, he raised the ax for the killing blow, but the war chief, Tall
Trees grabbed his wrist, forcing it down. “The old one has taken the life of my
nephew, and I decree that she must live as a slave in the house of Autumn Woman
until she is no longer useful.”

No
argument would change the Huron’s mind, and as they began the long trek back to
Fort Duquesne of the Blessed Virgin, the act of outright defiance against him
by one of his allies troubled the French renegade far more than the trifling
wound in his thigh.

From
Burnt Cabins, Sauvage led Sarah along the Raystown Path westward through
Edmund’s Swamp, into the wilderness realm known as the “Shades of Death.” Between
Evitts Mountain and Laurel Hill, the trees soared a hundred feet above the
forest floor, their limbs so thick with leaves and tangled vine that the sun
could not penetrate, creating an ever-present gloom that turned bright day to
night, and night to hellish blackness.

Sarah
was unnerved by the lack of sunlight and sound. There were no birds in the
branches overhead; songbirds kept pace with the settlements, and there were no
white men foolhardy enough to defy English law and bring their families west of
the mountains known as the Great Blue wall. The land was ruled from the air by
birds of prey: the eagle, the owl, and the red-tailed hawk—from the ground by
the silent stalkers—the bear, the panther and the wolf.

It
was Kingston’s world through which they made their way, and it was a world of
profound silence, unbroken except for the hoot of an owl, or the lonely cry of
a wolf calling to its mate.

The
absence of sound and light and cheer was having an impact on Sarah. Her
imagination ran rampant. At intervals during the past few hours, she had caught
sight of several shadowy gray forms, barely discernible through the dimness,
yet eerily present, slipping silently through the trees and following a course
that ran parallel to the one she and Kingston followed.

Wolves.
Sarah shivered, searching for their sleek forms in the near darkness. Oddly
watchful, they kept their distance, never offering to venture near.

Kingston
seemed not to notice, and she was somehow reluctant to mention their presence,
afraid to discover they were nothing but a product of her fear. She was afraid,
though she strived to hide it. Afraid of this place, of the wolves. Afraid of
the catamount whose blood-chilling cry she had heard in the night. Even the
smallest bit afraid of what would come after she emerged from the ocean of
trees and arrived at the Shining City.

Kingston
inclined his head to indicate the wolves, mere shadows in the near distance. “There
is bad weather coming. That’s why they are so near.”

Sarah
said nothing and thunder rumbled along the ensuing silence, trembling the earth
underfoot. Kingston grasped her hand. “Come. We must hurry.”

He
started off, and Sarah struggled to keep up. All at once, the wind was rising. Gathering
speed, it howled like a living thing in the treetops.

Sarah
cast a nervous glance heavenward, and in the same instant the natural gloom of
the forest disappeared in a blinding flash of blue-white light. A sizzling
crack sounded a dozen yards to the right of the path, followed by the sound of
splintering wood. Kingston lunged to the left, dragging Sarah with him. A hail
of broken branches struck the earth all around them. Another flash of
lightning, a deafening boom that seemed to split the heavens open wide, and the
rain fell in a torrent.

It
pelted Sarah as they ran, cold and stinging sheets that drenched her hair and
coursed in thin runnels into her eyes. It sluiced down the boles of trees,
pelting the ground with hail that gathered in icy pools on the ground.

It
came so quickly, and with such force, that within minutes the creeks which cut
through the marsh surged swollen and brown.

Sarah
had never seen anything like it. It was as if a strange and unseen force had
unleashed its pent-up wrath upon the land, and she and Kingston were caught directly
in its path. He’d mentioned a shelter moments ago, but there was no end to the
ocean of trees, no safe place to wait out the storm.

Another
sizzle and crack, a burst of blue-white light. The deluge strengthened; the
smaller of two creeks edged toward its banks. “We must find higher ground!”
Kingston shouted above the roar of the wind. They reached a place where two
small streams converged into one wide and swirling mass. A few feet above the
water was an Indian bridge, a log which had been wedged into the forks of two
trees to form a narrow, makeshift walkway.

Kingston
leapt onto the log, then turned to help her, but Sarah shook her head. “There
is nothing to fear, Madame. Take my hand. I will help you.”

Sarah
shook her head again. “I cannot!”

“You
must!” he shouted. “The water is rising fast!” Executing a graceful turn on the
surface of the log, Kingston grasped Sarah under the arms and lifted her onto
the bridge.

Sarah
crouched there, terrified, her gaze drawn to the swift, muddy flow. With a
softly uttered imprecation, Kingston reached out, cupping her chin in his palm.
“Do not look down! Keep your eyes on me! Think of your betrothed, of the
children with whom you will work. Think of the future that awaits you on the
other side, and follow me, eh?”

Sarah
nodded, too frightened to speak, then watched as he turned and started to make
his way across the bridge. With each step, the gulf separating them became
greater. His lithe grace served him well, but Sarah had never been graceful. She
stumbled often when walking, at home in London, she had often dropped things,
and sometimes she bumped into walls.

She
could not traverse the log, she thought, staring dry-mouthed at its length. It
was too narrow.

Halfway
across, Kingston turned to frown at her. He held out his arm, fingers reaching.
“Come to me, Sarah. Now!”

Sarah
crouched, her legs trembling so violently they threatened to pitch her into the
shallows. “Come!” he insisted.

She
wanted badly to comply. Desperately. But she was paralyzed with fear. A mere
two feet beneath the log, the water swirled and rushed and eddied, rising
higher as the unrelenting rain continued to fall. How long until it reached the
bridge? As she stared, mesmerized, it edged a fraction closer. Her heart was
pounding madly in her chest.
Cowardly wretch! s
he chided herself.
Force
your feet to obey your commands!

Slowly,
she began to move, feeling her way along the log. An inch, then two. She crept
along as the storm buffeted her. She was almost to the center of the structure
when lightning struck a towering sycamore a few dozen yards along the creek
bank. The resounding crash, the roar of the thunder, died away, and another
sound intruded: the slow protesting creak of wood giving way under great
stress, the rattling shiver of falling leaf-covered limbs. Sarah looked up,
startled, and saw the forest giant toppling toward them, Kingston directly in
its path.

Time
seemed to stand still. A thousand thoughts flashed in her mind as disaster
rushed toward her, and not one included her future husband, or even the
children who awaited her arrival on the Muskingum. They all centered on the
future, and a world without Kingston in it was a prospect she did not wish to
face.

As
Kingston turned to look at her, Sarah lunged, hitting him low and knocking him
clear of the falling giant, throwing herself into its path.

Sauvage
hit the water and sank like a stone beneath the raging brown torrent. Water
stung his eyes and filled his nose and mouth as he clawed his way to the
surface again. He broke from the depths with a splash, glancing wildly around. Sarah
sprawled on her belly on the Indian bridge. The huge sycamore, uprooted by the
storm, toppled straight toward her.

He
opened his mouth to cry out, and water rushed in, choking him and filling his
mouth with sand and grit. As the current took him, he saw Sarah rise to her
knees. Then, with the sound like the crack of a rifle, the tree struck the
Indian bridge in its vulnerable middle, the bridge snapped like a twig beneath
the enormous weight, and Sarah was toppled headfirst into the stream.

The
current proved too strong to fight. It bore Sauvage along on his back, hurling
him against rocks, pushing him to the surface, dragging him down again. He
fought to locate Sarah. She’d saved his life, but at what cost?
Mon dieu
,
where was she? He hit bottom and shoved off, forcing his face out of the flow. “Sarah!”
he cried, swallowing a mouthful of filthy water, coughing and choking on the
grit. “Sarah!”

And
then, he saw a small patch of darker brown bobbing along in the current ten
yards behind him. His heart constricting in his chest, he fought the current
with every ounce of strength he possessed. The object swept closer, a leather
shirt... and there beneath the water was the pale oval of Sarah’s face.

Sauvage
fought his way to midstream, then, reaching out, made a wild grab for her. His
fingers brushed the leather of her shirt, her knotted sash. Desperate now, he
closed one hand over the trailing ends, dragging her toward him.

She
was limp as a rag doll, unconscious. It was impossible to tell if she was
breathing or not as they tumbled madly around a bend in the stream and into the
rocky narrows. Ahead was a huge deadfall, the roots of which hung over the bank
and into shallower water. All manner of twigs and debris had caught and were
lodged in the tangle of roots.

 
Salvation.

His
lungs on fire, Kingston inched his way to the opposite side of the
swift-flowing stream and the mad tangle of roots. Still holding onto Sarah, he
fought for purchase, working his way into the shallows, protected by the great
fallen tree, and finally, dragged Sarah ashore.

How
still she was. How ashen. Except for the deep purple bruise on her right temple.
Sauvage put his cheek to her lips. She was not breathing. Taking her by the
shoulders, he shook her hard. “Sarah! Damn it, Sarah! Breathe!”

She
did not respond, but lay, still as death, her dark hair streaming over her face.
Sauvage’s heart turned to ice in his chest.
I cannot lose her. Not now, not
this way. I cannot let her go!

Desperation
clawing at his vitals, he rolled her onto her stomach and draping her head down
over a log, shook her again.

She
coughed weakly, then, with a soft groan, spewed up a great deal of water. When
she started to breathe, Sauvage gathered her into his arms and turned inland
again. His rifle was gone, lost somewhere in the muddy waters of the raging
creek. He had his bullet pouch and powder horn, but the powder was wet. Ruined.
All of their supplies had been lost when he’d tumbled into the water.

Strangely,
it didn’t matter.

None
of it mattered now.

Sarah
was the only thing of importance in his universe. Somehow, he had to get her to
Angel’s hunting lodge near the Juniata River, where he could make her well
again.

Sauvage
carried Sarah from Edmund’s Swamp, heading west along the Raystown Path, loping
uphill and down, inching his way through impenetrable underbrush, marsh and
thicket, then, on open ground, picking up pace again. Through it all, she never
wakened.

The
rain ceased, and evening came on quickly, all golden light and purple shadows,
quiet and serene in the aftermath of the storm. Sauvage barely noticed. Nine
miles lay between Edmund’s Swamp and Angel’s hunting lodge, yet it might as
well have been nine hundred. Sarah needed a place to rest, a fire to chase the
chill from her body, herbs and maybe some brandy to warm her and lend her
strength, none of which he could provide.

Everything
was lost, washed away in the muddy torrent, his medicine bundle, their
blankets, his rifle and food. Without the flint and steel from the rifle and
hampered by the fact that everything in his world was wet, he could not even
make a fire to warm her, and night would be coming on soon.

His
belly clenched at the thought. She already trembled with cold. If he could not
get her out of her damp, muddy clothing, she could sicken and die.

With
Sarah’s survival foremost in his mind, he ran, slowing his ground-eating lope
to a dog-trot only when the fiery pain in his lungs grew too intense to bear,
pushing himself beyond the limits of his endurance in an effort to reach his
goal before it was too late. Time was his enemy. He was painfully aware of the
passing moments, the shifting of the light, which, with each beat of his racing
heart, grew increasingly dim. It would soon be too dark to see the path, yet he
knew he could not stop.

Darkness
fell. The night was moonless, the forest black as pitch. Visibility reduced, Sauvage
was forced to slow his pace to a walk. Trees and laurel thicket, rock and winding
path all blended into one another.

Panic
flooded his mind, and his chest grew tight, his breathing shallow and quick. He
was lost... and Sarah was doomed because of it. Sarah, the good and the
innocent... Sarah, who just like Caroline, he was powerless to save.

Standing
in the middle of the stygian maze of the midnight forest, Kingston fell to his
knees, crushing Sarah’s chilled and unresisting body to him and, tipping back
his head, let loose a howl spawned in rage against an unkind fate and born of
utter hopelessness.

Into
the midst of Kingston’s dark despair, a shiver of unnatural sound wove its way,
a husk of a whisper, a woman’s voice, seeming to issue from a great distance,
and carried on the faint night breeze.
Sauvage. Sauvage!