Somewhere to Dream (Berkley Sensation) (27 page)

CHAPTER
43

Battle

The Cherokee war party stood in a line facing the distant woods, Jesse near the centre. No one spoke. Even the horses stilled, as if they knew what was coming, but their heads jerked up at the unexpected sound of hooves approaching from behind. A dozen armed white men, scouts from the town it appeared, rode to within thirty feet of them and stopped. Their expressions seemed determined, and though they tried, it was impossible to hide the fear in their eyes. Not a man alive could approach a war party of this size without it. No one spoke for a moment, and Jesse realized it was up to him.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said, nudging Blue toward the line of townsmen.

One of the men, wearing a tricorne and a droopy moustache, seemed to be in charge. He encouraged his horse forward, appearing relieved to hear English spoken.

“Good afternoon yourself. Do I know you?”

“I can’t be sure. Jesse Black.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Thomas’s boy.”

“No. My own boy,” Jesse snapped, hating the idea. “I’m here with the Cherokee.”

The townsman, jaw clenched, looked away from Jesse, and his eyes scanned the proud row of Indians. “Might I ask why we are honoured with this unexpected visit by the Cherokee? Something we should know about?”

Jesse nodded. “Well they have a bone to pick with you folks. Someone do something they shouldn’t have?” The man frowned, looking puzzled, then shook his head. “Seems the Catawba have a plan to teach your town a lesson. They’re on their way now. The Cherokee have decided that’s hardly fair.”

“Is that right?” The man sounded unconvinced. He gnawed on his lip, making the greasy strands of moustache disappear inside his mouth, then slide back out again. “Doesn’t sound right somehow, Cherokee helping us out.”

“That’s fine, but that’s what it is. Maybe you’ll keep that in mind the next time they could use a hand. Since you’re here, we could use a few good men with rifles helping out today. How’s that sound? Join the Cherokee and save your town? The alternative doesn’t sound near as nice.”

Soquili called from the crowd. Movement had been sighted at the top of the next hill.

“I have to go, gentlemen, but I invite you all to stay and help out.”

Giving the men a brief nod, Jesse wheeled Blue around and galloped back to the Cherokee, leaving the white men to huddle in a confused group. Having done what he could, Jesse forgot about them and moved up beside Soquili, letting him point out the slightly uneven sway of grass that shouldn’t have been happening, the shadows that seemed to move on their own. Blue muttered to herself, bumping flanks with Soquili’s horse, her ears alternating between seeking sound in front and flattening with concern. Jesse’s heart beat quickly, pounding against his ribs, his blood surging with excitement. One horse by the end of the line gave in, unable to stand the anticipation any longer. She screeched and reared straight up, pawing at the air as if fighting an invisible attacker. Her rider muscled her back down, but by then the ground had erupted, spewing Catawba from the grass, reminding Jesse of the summer the locusts had come.

The air was suddenly quick with the whispers of arrows, cheered on by whoops and answered by grunts and cries of those caught unaware. With a wild yipping that made Jesse’s hair stand on end, the Cherokee swarmed forward, and the two tribes crashed together like opposing waves.

For a moment, Jesse was paralyzed by the sight before him. The tribes seemed evenly matched, meaning almost a hundred ferocious warriors wrestled before him, fury and bloodlust shining in their eyes, sweat and blood flowing down the lean lines of their naked thighs. Cracks of musket fire clouded the air, and men fell back with jagged, smoking holes torn through them. Such a close battle meant muskets lost their use quickly, and the smoke gave way to blades. Within the first minutes, bodies lay still or writhing in the long, broken grass, many partnered by crouching enemies whose bloodied hands hacked or sliced life out of the fallen. For the briefest of moments, Jesse’s mind begged him to run, to flee this field of certain death, but he couldn’t consider the thought.

Blue shied under Jesse, prancing backward, tugging at the reins, but he leaned forward. “Come on, girl. Show ’em what you can do.”

She seemed to take courage from his voice. When he nudged her forward, she ran into the midst of a group of attackers, but a hand gripped Jesse’s thigh and held on tight, yanking him from her back. He landed hard on the ground, on his back, just in time to block the killing blow coming at his face. The young Catawba warrior, eyes wide in their painted circles, was unprepared for Jesse’s quick reaction and lost his balance for a breath, giving Jesse all the opening he needed. His knife arced up, slicing the man’s neck, and Jesse rolled out of the way as a hot spray of blood coated the grass. The body twisted, the voice made gurgling noises Jesse knew would be burned into his brain forever, then the body lay still. Jesse stared at it with fascination. He’d killed an Indian. He’d killed a goddamn Catawba.
For you, Mother.

He jumped to his feet and spun toward another Catawba staring straight at him, this time from the side of a bow about fifteen feet away. The nocked arrow was aimed directly at Jesse’s eye. He sensed it there, knew without any doubt that the warrior would not miss. He was about to throw his knife when a musket cracked, cutting the archer down from the side. The bow released, the arrow flew straight up, and Jesse nodded thanks to the shooter: one of the few remaining white men from the town.

By now, most of the Cherokee were off their horses, and the animals had fled to safety as the men plunged into the thick of battle. He had no time to check, but Jesse was sure Blue would have found her way back to the herd. It seemed important, knowing she was okay. He shouldn’t have brought her—but what choice did he have?

Ten feet from him, Jesse saw a tomahawk fly, spinning blade over handle, handle over blade, with perfect accuracy, chunking into the centre of a Catawba’s chest. The man fell flat on his back, and the thrower raced in, digging the blade out and hammering it back in, over and over, the meaty thudding of the weapon lost to the noise, as if it had been nothing but receding footsteps.

“Tloo-da-tsì!”

At the sound of Soquili’s shout, Jesse leapt to his feet, bloodied knife in one hand, tomahawk in the other, surprised to discover two leering Catawba standing before him. Their eyes—one circled with black paint, the other with white—sizzled with ferocious anticipation. As he’d predicted, he was an easy target, his hair practically glowing in the midst of all the black heads. Soquili, still on horseback, sent two arrows in, both of which lodged in the throat of one of Jesse’s attackers.

Jesse ran at the other one, bowling him over. The warrior reached up and thrust his blade at Jesse’s throat, but Jesse grabbed the man’s sinewy wrist and shoved it out of the way, then punched the Catawba across the side of his face, wincing as the man’s teeth cut through his knuckles. He pulled back his hand to slug the man’s bloody face again, but his opponent managed to lift his other arm and shove Jesse’s fist sideways, throwing him off. Now the Catawba rolled on top, his knife hand an inch from Jesse’s throat. Jesse gritted his teeth against the man’s strength. He had to drop his knife so he could grip his opponent’s wrist with both hands, and both men’s arms shook with exertion. Then the Catawba leaned down, pushing his weight harder, bringing his bloody face so it was mere inches from Jesse’s. Blood dripped off the dark lips and landed on Jesse’s cheek, and the warrior sneered through teeth painted almost black with more.

“Now you die,” the man hissed in slow, distinct English.

But Jesse heard a different voice, and the power of it sapped the strength from the warrior’s blood. Instead of the gore, Jesse saw a sweet pink smile, eyes as blue as the sky overhead. He felt a rush of strength pour through him, felt he could suddenly take on so many more than just this one warrior. He’d felt this surge of energy only once before: as he’d staggered through the gauntlet in the village, suffering the beating meant to either prove him or kill him. It had been too much, and he’d almost fallen, almost given up, then he’d heard that voice in his head, the one he thought he’d imagined. This time, he recognized it.

Be strong, Jesse. Come home to me.

He lashed out with the power Adelaide sent him, seeing again the moment when his father had struck Adelaide. With a roar, he shoved both hands up, forcing his attacker to his feet. Jesse rolled to his own, then used all his strength to deliver the same devastating blow Thomas had used on Adelaide, destroying the man before him. The Catawba warrior’s quick, surprised squawk went silent as he crumpled to the earth, then rolled into a ball. Having no desire to ever meet the man again, Jesse grabbed his knife from where he’d had to drop it before, then jerked it across the warrior’s throat.

There was no time to study his second kill. Soquili had dropped from his horse and was still screaming wildly, sweeping his knife through one enemy, his tomahawk through another. Jesse saw his mouth open wide, heard him roar when a knife caught him on his thigh, but it didn’t stop the big Cherokee.

Another Catawba stood before Jesse, ten feet away. The two stared at each other, eyes burning with determination. Then the Catawba started to run at him, knife held over his shoulder on an obvious path to Jesse’s neck. Jesse ran forward to meet him, too angry to be afraid. At the moment when the warrior’s knife arced down, Jesse dropped to his knees and slid under the outstretched arm, then swept his own arm backward, slicing his tomahawk through the Catawba’s side. The man dropped; Jesse stood and ran deeper into the fray. All around him copper skin shone with sweat and blood, black eyes of the ancients burned with fresh kill. Jesse joined them, losing all English words to his new Cherokee tongue, losing his past to the present, becoming the brother Soquili had always claimed he was. And he felt no fear. He imagined these unfamiliar painted men bearing down on the town, crawling like spiders toward Doc’s little white house, and practically lost his mind with fury.

Most of the men were locked together or stalking prey. When Jesse caught up to Soquili, he was coated in blood and kneeling over a fallen foe. He grinned maniacally at Jesse, looking disturbingly like a fiend with his wide eyes and gore-painted face, and Jesse knew he looked equally gruesome. Jesse glanced away, searching for his next target, and spied a victorious Dustu crouched just beyond Soquili. The weasel dropped his lifeless adversary, then howled ecstatically into the air, so caught up in his own euphoria that he didn’t notice the Catawba warrior approaching from behind.

For an instant Jesse stared, paralyzed. He hated Dustu. The man would like nothing better than to take Jesse’s golden scalp. But no one stood near enough to jolt Dustu from his daze, to warn him. And the Cherokee were Jesse’s family now.

“Damn weasel. What’d you say about turning your back to your enemy?” Jesse muttered. He stood and slid his hand to the base of his tomahawk handle, then stepped forward and launched the weapon, using all his skill and strength. The blade planted itself between the attacker’s shoulders, shoving him forward so that he landed with his arms outstretched, just behind Dustu. Dustu, startled, jumped back up, looking wildly around to find out what had happened. He met Jesse’s eyes and narrowed his own in question, looking skeptical. He pointed at the man Jesse had just killed, and Jesse lifted his chin. A reluctant smile snuck across Dustu’s face, and he nodded. A well-earned nod of thanks. Of acknowledgement. Of respect.

Then Soquili shouted, his voice overpowering all the wails around him. He called to his men, his warriors, his brothers, and the Cherokee went to him, grouping together as an invincible—though battered—army, standing as one against the scattered Catawba. Faced with the concept of having to fight this many-limbed monster, the Catawba turned and fled.

Jesse watched them go, the thrill of the fight still singing in his veins. The grass, stained black with blood, shimmered with the breeze as if nothing had happened, though patches of it were buried beneath bodies from both tribes. A lone vulture circled high overhead, and the Cherokee wandered the field, collecting their wounded. Nechama and a few of the other women had come with them, staying well out of danger, and now rushed in to do what they could.

Soquili stood beside Jesse, breathing hard, watching the aftermath of the battle. “Tloo-da-tsì is good name for you, brother. You have eyes, claws, and teeth of cougar. Yes. That is good name.” He chuckled and tilted his head toward two dead men on the grass nearby. Two of the men Jesse had killed. “Catawba should have asked your name first.”

Jesse laughed at that, the idea that he could frighten his lifelong demons. He gave Soquili a sideways smile, showing he was impressed. “And you are a powerful war chief, Soquili. You did well out there.”

Soquili tried and failed to hide how happy Jesse’s words made him. He nodded once, then changed the topic. “Now we go to village. Feast our victory.”

The horses had gathered in a familiar herd behind the battlefield. They began spreading out, calmer now that the noise had stopped. Blue perked up her ears when she saw Jesse looking at her. He shook his head.