Lord of the Wolves (20 page)

Beneath
his tender ministrations, his somewhat wicked words of love, his trust, Sarah
had begun to blossom, and selfishly, she did not want it to end. If only they
could stay in this valley, this secluded cabin, she thought, she would truly be
happy, sublimely content. If only there was some way to hold onto this time, to
keep the world at bay.

Sadly,
she was still promised to Brother John Liebermann, Gil still awaited her
arrival on the Muskingum,
La Bruin
was still out there somewhere
destroying lives, and Kingston remained convinced that only he could stop him.

The
world would not stop spinning, no matter how hard she wished it.
La Bruin
and all of the dangers he represented would simply not go away, a fact that was
impressed upon Sarah as she caught sight of Kingston, who topped the rise and
dashed toward the cabin at a ground-eating lope.

Her
heart leapt at the sight of him. Something was terribly wrong. She ran from the
cabin, meeting him in the dooryard. “Quickly,” he said, grabbing her hand and
pulling her with him into the trees. They came to a thicket, and he pushed her
through the leafy barrier, then dove in after her, pulling the pistol he’d
taken from the cabin from his belt.

Through
the cover of the thicket, Sarah saw movement in the cabin dooryard, men, garbed
in a mixture of leather and bright calico, some barely clothed, all milling
about the very spot where she’d been standing a moment ago.

“A
war party,” he whispered. “Six men. Maybe more. Ottawa and Chippewa. I could
have picked them off well enough with my rifle, but this pistol is useless at
more than a dozen paces. Too close for so large a number. I could not take the
chance with you so close at hand—”

Breaking
off abruptly, he put a finger to his lips and sat, holding the pistol aloft. Voices
sounded at a very short distance. Sarah’s heart pounded alarmingly. Closing her
eyes, she willed herself to calm, but she could not dispel the images that came
rushing back... the dark, decaying space that was the hollow log, the dank,
noxious smell of rotting wood and animal droppings that had clogged her lungs
and lingered for hours afterward, and the hoarse, heart-wrenching screams of
Benjamin Bones....

Complete
composure was beyond her grasp, yet she managed to regulate her breathing and
remain quiet and motionless as the voices and footsteps neared. Sarah watched
in horror as Kingston lowered the pistol and took aim at a patch of brown skin
visible through the heavy screen of vegetation.

Laying
her hand on his arm, she slowly shook her head.

He
frowned at her, but held his fire, and in the next instant a familiar but
unexpected sound came clearly through the thicket. The sound of water splashing
onto the bushes; the smell of urine wafted on the breeze.

A
moment passed, and then, two, and the sounds of the searchers grew dim and
indistinct. Sarah sank back with a sigh of relief. Praise God,” she breathed,
“that was uncomfortably close.”

“For
the Ottawa, more than for you and me,” Kingston replied. “He came within a
hairsbreadth of forfeiting his manhood. Not that he was undeserving. Only a
fool pisses against blind cover. There might have been a slumbering she-bear
back here, or a catamount and her cubs.” He traced his fingertips along the
curve of Sarah’s cheek, then leaned forward to kiss her lips. “You did well,
mouse. Now, let’s get out of here.”

He
got to his feet and, taking her hand, led her off through the forest, striking
out for the west.

Sarah
struggled to keep up. “Are we not going back?”

He
shook his head. “They will return and lay in wait awhile to see if we come back.
We head west, as quickly and as carefully as we can.”

West,
to the Muskingum, toward a future that was more uncertain than it had ever
been, to the arms and bed of a man she neither loved, nor wanted to know. Kingston
traveled toward his enemy, and perhaps, ultimately, toward his end.

Best
not to dwell on the things she could not change, Sarah thought, but as they
topped the far ridge, she could not help glancing back wistfully at the low log
building where she had discovered love, nor wishing that things were different.

The
great mountain ridges were behind them. The land though which they made their
way was lush and wild and beautiful. A wilderness paradise that had never known
the bite of a plow.

By
day, they plunged on, fording the numerous creeks and rivers which sliced
through the rich forest loam, inching their way along treacherous paths and towering
cliffs—silent as wraiths. At night Sarah pillowed her head on Kingston’s chest
and slept, worn from her day’s exertions, secure in his embrace.

Late
afternoon of the third day out from de Angelheart’s cabin found them on the
bluffs above Parson’s Creek, the last stream to be forded before they reached
the Ohio River. Standing on the bluffs above the rippling water, his
waist-length hair tossed by the fitful breeze, Kingston glanced down at Sarah.

She
looked like a lost child, and he could not help but wonder just what she was
thinking now that her long and arduous journey was nearing an end? Once they
reached the Shining City, would she settle back into her sedate and pious
existence without difficulty? Would she marry the man to whom she was betrothed
and be happy the rest of her days?

His
dark gaze warmed as it touched the lush fullness of her kissable lips. Or would
she be unwed and waiting when his reckoning with Jean had been completed to his
satisfaction, when Caroline’s spirit had been set free, and he returned to the
Muskingum? Aloud, he said, “Beyond the trees is the Ohio, and beyond that, at
the edge of the horizon, the Muskingum.”

Sarah
narrowed her eyes. “Are you certain?”

Sauvage
smiled. “Positive. We’ll be standing on the sandy banks of the Ohio before
nightfall, and if all goes well and I find the canoe that Angel secreted there
in good repair, we will reach the city of the United Brethren tomorrow.”

“Then
I must pray,” she said in a voice that was oddly toneless, “and ask God to aid
us in the search for the canoe.”

“
Oui
,
Madame,” he murmured, thoughtfully. “Prayers are good. I would sooner have the
Creator for an ally than an enemy.” Taking her hand, he started to descend the
narrow trail that led to the water when a sound issued from below and he spun,
fairly pushing Sarah back up the steep incline she had just descended.

When
they reached the top, he pulled her into a thickly wooded copse, forced her
down, and with a warning look, bade her to stay hidden. Flattening himself
beside her, he snatched the pistol from his belt and waited.

A
moment later, a pair of Indians topped the bluff. The first man was short and
paunchy with a graying scalp lock and a face deeply scored with age. The second
was a light-skinned man with an impressive stature and an ingrained hauteur. Sauvage
tensed. It was Tall Trees, Jean’s lieutenant.

A
fine red haze swirled around the edges of Sauvage’s vision, around the Huron
and his companion, who stood gesturing to the copse where they lay concealed. Sauvage
steadied the pistol, took careful aim on the painted breast of the Huron war
captain. He had forgotten about Sarah, forgotten everything but the cabin
burning in his mind’s eye and the woman  lying so still and lifeless in the
dooryard.

He
slowly squeezed the trigger. Beside him, Sarah grabbed his arm. “Kingston, no! You
must not!”

Flint
struck steel, and the weapon bucked and roared, but the shot went wild. He was
on his feet before the smoke cleared, racing along the forest path that wound
along the bluffs, dragging Sarah with him. When they rounded a curve in the
path, he shoved her out ahead of him. “Run!”

She
shot ahead of him like a frightened deer while he reloaded. Moccasined feet
pounded the path behind him. Sauvage’s blood pulsed through his veins, but he ignored
it, pouring a measure of powder down the muzzle, then taking one of the balls
from his mouth and ramming it home. One of the pursuers drew near enough to
touch him. He felt fingers pluck at the fringe on his sleeve. A trickle of
powder in the frizzen pan and he spun, firing.

The
ball caught the man in the chest, and slammed him backward, into one of his
fellow warriors, knocking the second man off his feet. He fell with a curse,
struggling to throw off his comrade. Sauvage was about to reload when a scream
stopped him dead in his tracks.

A
few yards away, Tall Trees stood behind Sarah, her soft brown hair was wrapped
around a cruel fist. In the other hand, he held a scalping knife, its edge pressed
to her throat. “Lay down your arms,” he said in passably good French. “Or I
will kill her.”

Kingston
dropped the weapon, but his fingers itched for the hilt of his scalping knife. The
Huron seemed to read his thoughts. “Your knife and war hatchet. Place them on
the ground.”

Kingston
complied. “You want me, not the woman. Let her go.”

“You
are the one called White Wolf?” Tall Trees said.

“Once
long ago, I was called by such a name. But White Wolf is no longer. Now, I am
Kingston Sauvage.”

“Son-Of-A-Vengeful-Spirit,”
the Huron finished for him. “Your past deeds are not unknown to me. And this,”
he said, looking down at Sarah, “is White Wolf’s woman.”

Sauvage
shook his head. “Her name is Sarah Marsters, and she does not belong to me. I
had a woman once, but no longer. She was killed by the French renegade,
La Bruin
,
and his band of cowardly Huron dogs.”

Sauvage
saw Sarah’s glance slide from her captor to the others, eight in all, who had
gathered ‘round. “What will they do to us?” she asked in a voice that clearly
conveyed her fear.

“This
is not the time for questions, Madame,” Sauvage told her. “Be still, and do as
you are told. If you provoke them, they will not hesitate to kill you. They’re
Chippewa, Ottawa, and Huron, allied to the French. They do not treat their
women well.”

One
of the warriors took great offense at his words, for he struck Sauvage a
vicious blow with the brass butt plate of his musket, driving him to his knees.

Pain
exploded in Sauvage’s chest. His vision blurred, and he had to struggle for
breath. “Fatherless cur!” he grated in French, to assure himself that the man
understood. “You were bred in the white man’s hog sty, and born in the mud and
the offal. That is why you do not fight as a man fights!”

The
Huron’s face flushed dark; he lifted the musket for yet another blow. At the
same time, Sauvage bowled into the Huron, knocking him off balance, and onto his
back. In the next instant, Sauvage was on him, one fist wrapped in his scalp
lock, the other curled around the musket stock. Face a mask of fury, he jammed
one knee into the man’s throat, cutting off his air. “Have you not been
listening, Huron? Are your ears stopped with mud? Do you not know who it is you
threaten?
I am Sauvage, and I will feed your liver to the wolves!”

Sauvage
brought the musket back for a killing blow, but a chorus of soft clicks and
Sarah’s soft, pleading voice made him go still. “Kingston, please. Release
him.”

“Enough!”
The shout came from Tall Trees. “You have proven that you need no weapon to be
dangerous, White Wolf, but do you need the woman? You say she belongs to
another, but I think you lie.” Tall Trees turned the blade at Sarah’s throat. “I
could pry the truth from you, yet there is one way to tell. I could kill her
now, and it would not pain me. What of you? Would it pain White Wolf to see the
soft one die? Or, are you accustomed by now to losing your women?”

Sauvage
released the man who’d struck him and stood. The pain in his chest was a dull,
throbbing fire. It burned away his last ounce of caution. He took a step toward
Tall Trees, and the war chief applied pressure to the knife so that Sarah cried
out, and a small trickle of crimson wound its way down her throat. “Shall I
take her life here?” he taunted. “Or give her to
La Bruin
?”

Sauvage
stiffened, and the Huron laughed, “Yes, a gift is what the gentle one will be. A
gift of fine white flesh for the bear.”

“Mention
his name again in connection with hers and I will kill you.”

“Then,
you did lie. The woman is yours—or was.” Tall Trees was gleeful. “She belongs
to me, now. A pretty English captive to do with as Tall Trees wishes.”

Numbness
welled up inside Sauvage; the black rage stirred to life inside him, rising up
and roaring its fury, until he saw nothing but the fine crimson thread at
Sarah’s throat. Vivid against her pale skin, it blocked out everything. He had
no sense of time or place, no sense of self aside from the rising fury, which
now was a pulsing, living thing.

Sarah
alone seemed to notice the change taking place in Kingston, and felt a surge of
alarm. A strange electric tension seemed to radiate from him, unlike anything
she had ever witnessed. She saw him crouch and then spring, launching himself
at Tall Trees, and for the shocking space of a split second it was not Kingston
she saw, but the great white wolf from her fevered dreams, hackles raised as it
hurdled through the air.