Lord of the Wolves (21 page)

It
was not possible. Yet, as he barreled into the stunned Huron, knocking Sarah
roughly aside, she could have sworn she felt the sensuous slide of luxuriant
fur against her skin. She hit the ground hard, scrambling to hands and knees as
Kingston caught the war captain by the throat, the impetus of his wild leap
carrying him and his enemy back and back, over the edge of the high bluff and
into the empty air.

Sarah
ran to the edge of the cliff before the others could stop her and stood staring
dazedly down at the white froth of water far below. There was no sign of
Kingston or Tall Trees, only the rippling water that dashed around and over the
rocks in its haste to reach the Ohio.

Strong
fingers closed over Sarah’s arm, urging her away from the cliff. Raising her
gaze, she saw the warrior who had hit Kingston scowling down at her. “White
Wolf’s Woman come,” he said in French.

“No,
please,” Sarah pleaded. “I must stay. Kingston is down there, somewhere.”

“Gone,”
the warrior corrected. “White Wolf fly away. You come with Cat-Man Jacobs.” He
jabbed a thumb at his own chest.

Cat-Man
Jacobs reached for Sarah, but she shrugged him off. “Please, he may be hurt.”

Despite
her struggles, he seized her wrists, looping a rawhide noose over her hands and
drawing it tight. Then, without a word, he started off, dragging her along
behind him. Sarah bit back a cry of pain as she struggled to keep pace with
him. Her gaze constantly drawn to the cliffs which towered over the river.

Could
a man really make such a leap and live?

Was
it possible that Kingston had emerged from the fall unscathed? If he had, he
would almost certainly come for her, a prospect that Sarah found just as
chilling as the alternative, for he had more to fear from the Huron than she.

He
was their enemy, and as such, they would try their level best to take his life.

During
the hours that followed, they marched steadily toward the northeast. The
afternoon bled slowly away and evening came silently on.

Sarah
hardly noticed. She had long ago ceased to think. All of their energies, all of
her powers of concentration, were centered on keeping the rawhide noose from
cutting off her circulation. The pace set by Cat-Man Jacobs was grueling, but
because of Kingston’s teachings, Sarah kept up.

She
scanned the path ahead for obstacles and walked like a Delaware woman, her
movements swift and sure, her demeanor uncomplaining, though every muscle
groaned with effort to maintain the relentless pace; and when the Indians came
to a halt, she gave a silent thanks to God and asked for the strength she would
require to see her through another day.

The
campsite Cat-Man had chosen was high atop a hill, an advantageous perch from
which they were afforded an unobstructed view of the surrounding countryside. It
seemed obvious that they feared being followed, but by whom? Did they believe,
as she did, that Kingston had survived the leap from the cliff? She wanted to
believe it for it gave her heart cause to hope, and hope just now, was
especially hard to come by.

Night
came quickly. Cat-Man Jacobs tied Sarah’s tether to a sapling and sat down with
the others to eat. Sarah sat off to one side in the darkness, listening to the
rise and fall of the conversation without knowing what was said.

When
the Indians had concluded their meal, Cat-Man came and stood over her. “
Le
Loup Blanc Femme. Manger.”
He dropped a deerskin pouch into her lap, making
motions with his hand to lips that indicated she should eat.

“
Merci
,”
Sarah said. She took up the pouch as he walked away and poured some of the
pouch’s contents into the palm of her hand. It had the consistency of coarsely
ground meal, but it smelled strongly of bear fat. She wrinkled her nose as an
acute wave of nausea surged through her, horrible and quick, inundating her
senses, vanishing as quickly as it came and leaving an intense hunger in its
wake.

She
ate a small portion of the meal, tucking the remaining away for morning, and
curled on the ground like a cat to sleep. Somewhere between her troubled dreams
and wakefulness, Sarah felt an unnatural chill wash over her and opened her
eyes to see Caroline standing a few paces away, the bundle that was Kingston’s
babe clutched tightly to her breast. Her pale eyes were brimming with
compassion.
Take heart
, she said without moving her lips.
Be strong,
for Sauvage’s sake. You are his salvation.

Sarah
struggled up as the vision shimmered eerily, then, quickly faded. “Caroline!”
Sarah whispered. “Please, wait!”

But
Caroline Sauvage was gone.

The
second day Sarah spent in Cat-Man Jacob’s company was as intolerable as the
first. Hour after hour, Sarah trudged after the Huron. If she lagged a step
behind, the rawhide tether grew taut and sliced into her wrists. When she
quickened her pace and drew too near, her senses were assaulted by the odor of
bear grease and campfire smoke that clung to her captor’s skin and the
mysterious nausea of the night before returned with a vengeance.

The
illness struck with savage speed, and then was gone again. That morning, she
had been well upon rising, and in the next moment had vomited her breakfast
into the weeds while the Indians looked on in disgust.

Late
in the day, the party halted. Cat-Man Jacobs tied off Sarah’s tether, then went
to join his companions at the edge of a rippling stream. Their mood was one of
great joy, yet Sarah felt uneasy as she watched them wash and apply fresh paint.
Then, they shook out the scalps at their belts, readjusted their strouds on
their shoulders, and waited for Cat-Man to take his place in the lead. He did
so with all the pomp and importance of a conquering prince returning home after
a fierce battle.

Returning
home.
Sarah
missed a step, and Cat-Man cruelly jerked her tether. At last, she understood.

The
raiding party walked from the forest, Cat-Man Jacobs leading Sarah, and the
others bringing up the rear. She started as Cat-Man gave the “scalp hallo,” a
shrill savage cry issued for each scalp taken, and one to indicate he had a
prisoner. Sarah’s pulse was racing as they emerged from the deep shade of the
forest into the blinding light of a clearing. They had entered a wide fertile
valley, flanked by low, forested hills and bisected by three mighty rivers. The
broad, dark Allegheny—on which, at some remote point to the north, Kingston had
had his boyhood home—issued from the Northeast and met the smaller Monongahela
beneath the walls of Fort Duquesne to form the mighty Ohio.

The
fort itself was small and unimpressive. A stockade fifty yards long and forty
yards wide, with picket walls on the water side, comprised the main work.

How
lonely and forlorn it seemed, how out of place, an island outpost in a teeming
wilderness. And yet, civilized men had built, and now were housed within the
fort, Sarah thought. Men who worshipped the same God she worshipped, albeit
differently. If she appealed to them for mercy, would they aid her in gaining
her freedom so she could find Kingston? Or would they leave her to the tender
mercies of the savages?

“Do
not look to them,” a voice said from a little distance. “They will not aid you
in this, your hour of need, Mademoiselle. You are in our hands now, and you
must look to me for mercy.”

To
her immediate right and slightly apart from the crowd stood a man, the same man
who had spoken, Sarah was certain.

With
the sun slanting in her eyes, she could not see him clearly, but his heavily
accented English told her he was a Frenchman. “How did you know what I was
thinking?”

“I
know everything,” he said.

“Only
God knows everything,” Sarah replied.

“I
was godlike once, and will be again, very soon.” He limped forward, coming to
stand directly in front of Cat-Man Jacobs. As the two began to converse, the
crowd gathered ‘round on all sides, blocking out the rays of the afternoon sun.
For the first time, Sarah saw him clearly, and her heart gave a queer little
jerk before resuming its racing rhythm.

Had
she not known better, she would have thought that it was Kingston embracing
Cat-Man, clapping him roughly on the shoulder. But Kingston was gone, and this
could only be the infamous
La Bruin
. Sarah studied him more closely. The
physical resemblance between Kingston and Jean was uncanny. They shared the
same coloring, the bronze skin, black hair and eyes. Their features were
similarly molded, and yet there were subtle differences: the lifting of Jean’s
chin as she spoke to the Huron captain that smacked of belligerence, his
cocksure stance despite the fact that he favored his left leg, the cold,
unfeeling expression in his eyes as he turned back to her, his carnivorous
grin.

“Cat-Man
refers to you as L
e Loup Blanc de Femme
’,” he said, his chilly gaze
sliding over her, from head to toe and back again. “Can you possibly know what
that means?”

“My
name is Sarah Marsters,” Sarah insisted. “Mrs. Timothy Marsters. I am traveling
to meet my betrothed on the Muskingum River. Monsieur Sauvage, the man he calls
‘White Wolf’ was but taking me there as a favor to a mutual acquaintance.”

Jean
stepped closer, roughly grasping her chin and forcing her to meet his black
gaze. “It would not be wise to lie to me, Madame. I have little patience where
women are concerned, and none at all with women who are anything less than
truthful.”

Sarah
swallowed hard. “He was taking me to the Shining City on the Muskingum, to my
betrothed, Brother John Liebermann.”

Jean
ran the fingers of his free hand down the side of her face, seeming to test the
softness of her cheek, the pliancy of her skin. “I find it somewhat odd that a
man you barely knew would kill for you, risking his life in the process. Especially,
a man like Sauvage.”

Sarah
jerked her chin away from his hand, then turned again to look him in the eye. “Perhaps,
after all, monsieur does not know everything. Certainly, he does not know
Kingston Sauvage.”

His
smile never wavered. “The question remains: How well does Madame know him?” He
spread his hands. “Well enough to lure him here? I do hope so. It’s been a long
time since we had a visit, my half-breed brother and I. And I should very much
like to look in his eye when I inquire after his little family.”

“Kingston
Sauvage leapt from the cliff into the river,” Sarah replied tonelessly. “And no
one has seen him since. I doubt he survived. Ask Mr. Jacobs, if you do not
believe me.”

“The
tale that Cat-Man tells is too fantastic to be believed,” Jean said, narrowing
his sooty gaze and easing his weight onto his right leg. “He speaks of a great
white wolf that sprang upon Tall Trees, the Huron chief, and carried him off
the cliff to his death, and then the wolf became a bird of prey, and flew
away.”

She
looked at him dully. “And you believe him?”

“Who
can say what is fact and what is imagination when dealing with Indians? They
are like children, inventing wild tales to explain away their failures. Yet, in
Sauvage’s case, I take no chances. If he lives, he will know that you are in my
care, and come for you. And if he comes, he won’t live long.”

Turning
slightly, Jean tossed Cat-Man Jacobs a leather pouch that chinked as he caught
it.
Coins.
Sarah felt a chill slither up her spine. “Ten pieces of
silver,” Jean said. “The woman is mine.”

Cat-Man
tipped back his head and let loose with a hideous yelp, then loped into the
village, leaving Sarah with Jean. “What happens now?” she asked.

“Now,
I spread the word and wait.” He fingered a lock of hair that had come loose
from Sarah’s plait, wrapping it around his forefinger so tightly that Sarah
winced. “And you, my plump English pigeon, wait with me. But never fear, if
Sauvage proves stubborn and the wait is a lengthy one, I am sure we will find a
thousand ways to occupy our time.”

He
summoned one of the young men from Cat-Man’s band and thrust Sarah toward him. “Take
her to my hut, and post a guard outside the door, then send someone out to
paint the trees along the Warrior’s Path. I want everyone within a hundred
miles to know that Sarah Marsters is here with me.”

Sarah
paled. Jean’s threat had been thinly veiled, his meaning clear. She would share
in Caroline Sauvage’s fate, at least in part, and with Kingston gone, there was
no one to stop him.

The
young warrior led Sarah to a small bark hut and thrust her roughly inside. The
interior was dim, and smelled of musky furs. Sarah’s stomach rebelled, and cold
beads of sweat stood out on her brow. This time, the feeling of violent illness
was not as fleeting. Sinking down, she leaned heavily against a brass-bound
trunk, the only furnishing in the hut besides the makeshift bed of furs.

“Pssssstttt!”

The
sibilant hiss was so sudden, so unexpected, that Sarah jumped. “Who is it? Who’s
there?”

“An
ally, and ‘twould seem that ye desperately need one. Come closer. I’ve got
something to settle yer queasy stomach.”

Sarah
edged closer to the back wall, and saw a woman through the thin gaps in the
bark. She looked like an apparition, with wild locks of iron gray snaking out
around her head, and her gimlet green eyes as sharp as any eagle’s. “I be
Hergus Samp,” she said, “a guest of his lairdship, the bloody French jackass
who calls hisself the bear.”

“Then
you are a captive as well?”

“Aye,
but keep yer voice low. D’ye want ol’ Fester-Leg to hear?”

Sarah
sniffed and shook her head as her nausea increased. “Dear God, deliver me from
this strange malady! I have not been well for days.”

“I
wouldna call it strange, exactly,” Hergus replied. “It happens to most, at one
time or another. The trick is to get through the queasy times.” The woman’s
bony fingers pressed something through the crack. “Chew on this, and swallow
the juices. It’ll fix ye right up, and it waen’t hurt the babe none.”

Sarah
gaped at the old woman. “A child? But, it can’t be. I am barren. My husband
Timothy and I wanted children, but our union was not so blessed.”

“Mayhap
it were him, and not ye,” Hergus suggested slyly.

“But
surely—”

“Been
off yer feed a good bit lately, ain’t ye?”

“Well,
yes, but—”

“Queasy
stomach, and yer bosoms tender?”

“Exceedingly
so,” Sarah admitted with a troubled frown.

“Have
ye been with a man since ye last had yer flow?”

Sarah
flushed, but said nothing.

Hergus
was not so hesitant. “Thought as much. Now that it’s settled, what about old
Cripple Dick? If ye’re nae his paramour, then what’s he want with ye?”

Sarah
swallowed hard, still clutching the herb, and a painful lump clogged her throat.
“He intends to use my presence to lure a man name Kingston Sauvage here so that
he can kill him. I do not know if the ploy will work. In truth, I am not even
sure he still lives.”

One
green eye pressed to the crack. “Did the fair one nae tell ye so?”

Sarah
nodded. “How did you know?”

“I
seen her in the campfire’s smoke, jes like I seed old Cripple Dick an’ his
savages before he attacked my cabin. Truth be tole, I seen lots o’ things. ‘Tis
a gift the good Lord gave me, or a curse He bestowed, dependin’ on how ye look
on things.” She bent a look upon Sarah, her head cocked to one side. “Best be
careful ta keep yer secret well hid. Old Fester-Leg’s a mite loose in the
noggin’, if you know how I mean.”

“Jean
must never know,” Sarah readily agreed. “His hatred for Kingston is
unparalleled. If he were to discover the existence of our child—”

“That’s
why I’m here, deary,” Hergus said, as if she’d read Sarah’s thoughts. “Take
this here dirk and hide it under the furs, and if he tries to take ye, slip it
betwixt his ribs!” She passed a thin knife through the crack to Sarah, then
moved away. “Well, I gots to go, but if I kin, I’ll slip back afore nightfall
to see how ye’re farin’.”

Sarah
crouched against the back wall after Hergus Samp left her, contemplating the
weapon. Could she use it if it meant protecting herself from Jean? Could she
take his life to save the life of her child?

Her
protective instincts toward the baby growing inside her were already strong,
yet Christ’s teachings stated unequivocally that taking the life of another was
terribly wrong.

Still
clutching the blade, Sarah brought up her knees, resting her head on her arms. She
was weary beyond belief. God help her, she thought, for she truly did not know
if she had it in her to take the life of another, even to save her own.

She
would pray on the matter, and hope that circumstances did not test the limits
of her faith.

The
warriors’ triumphant homecoming did not go unnoticed by the garrison of French
Fort Duquesne. Just before sunset, Captain Dumas, the French commandant,
accompanied by several of his officers, came from the fort to view the scalps
and plunder and to bring presents of good will to their Huron and Ottawa
allies, strings of blue beads, and two kegs of brandy.

Sarah
heard screams and drunken laughter, and knew that the victory celebration had
begun. Rising, she crept to the door and peered out. At the same time, the guard
Jean had posted turned his brittle gaze upon her. Sarah retreated to her
corner, hoping that Hergus Samp would come again.

The
old woman was a true friend, an ally among a host of enemies, and then there
was Kingston’s babe, like a tiny wavering candle flame deep inside her, a ray
of hope and light that must be shielded from those who might try to snuff it
out.