Wind Dancer (9 page)

Julian and Isabelle, along with the whole town, had bowed on one knee and sworn allegiance to the Americans and the ideals of American freedom. Then it was decided that Samuel would guide brother and sister back to Vincennes.

It was early afternoon on the second day of the return journey, with sun rays pervading the shade of the leaves overhead, lighting their path through the woods and making it dappled with shade and light, that the three of them happened upon a cabin in a little clearing. Twin, giant oak trees stood sentry on either side. A swing hung from each tree's sturdiest branch, swaying, empty in the summer breeze.

“Look, they have a well,” Julian pointed out, relief in his voice. “Maybe they will be kind enough to feed us too.”

Samuel nodded, scanning the area and committing the lay of the land to memory. It was a small cabin, typical in its lonely simplicity. A rough-hewn door hung on leather hinges and fitted in the hole none too well. Two windows were cut, rough and ragged, on each side of the door that, in the middle of summer, was open and without their winter paper to seal
out the cold. At night the family might hang mosquito netting over the windows to keep out the insects. Then again, maybe not. Netting could be hard to come by and a luxury not afforded these folks.

Samuel thought of his home in Virginia, where his family owned a tobacco plantation. Their house was a white stone mansion that sparkled in the sun and could be seen from a mile away amid its setting of lush poplars. His sisters were the beauties of the county, and his mother reigned as social queen in nearby Williamsburg. Theirs was the life of the English gentry, an imitation of worldly prosperity. But Samuel had been bored and restless with it all and, after signing on with General Washington, had few occasions of looking back. It hadn't taken long for the life of a soldier, then a frontiersman, to latch onto him, body and soul, stirring him to life abundant.

As they approached this home on the outskirts of nowhere, Samuel acknowledged to himself that he would be happier here in this meager cabin in the woods, with its smoke-spitting stove and paper windows, than back in the tight-noosed whirl of Virginian society.

A little boy of about six suddenly ran out the door, shrieking with laughter. Two other boys, each looking two years older than the last, barreled out behind him, yelling and chasing each other with whittled wooden rifles. When they saw Samuel and then Isabelle and Julian, the boys came to a collective stop and shyly stood and stared.

A woman's voice called out from within the cabin. Then she appeared in the open doorway, a tall, thin woman with dark-blonde hair.

“Thomas, Eli—” she called, then stopped, suddenly seeing the strangers. Her hand went to her hair, trying to catch up wisps that had fallen out of the loose bun she wore. Her face was pretty
but looking older than it should. She stepped out into the light with a wary but friendly smile. “Good day to you.”

Samuel nodded his head, quickly closing the gap, respect in every step he took across the cool, green grass. He knew this kind of woman, had seen her type a hundred times, and still it brought a response from deep within him. He swept his hat from his head and clutched it to his chest as he said, “Good day, ma'am. We're traveling to Vincennes and wondered if you might spare some water. The name's Samuel Holt.” Samuel held out his hand to the woman, who smiled very prettily at him and shook it. “Naomi Lynn, sir.”

Isabelle stepped forward. “Hello, I'm Isabelle Renoir, and this is my brother, Julian.”

The woman nodded politely to them, her gaze returning to Samuel. “My husband's just come in for the noon meal. Please, join us.” She turned back to the house, waving for them to follow her. “We have a watering trough for your horse at the barn.” She must have noticed the surprisingly good horseflesh Father Gibault had loaned them to carry the books. “Boys, water Mr. Holt's horse, then go and fetch more wood from the woodpile,” she said to the wide-eyed threesome. “And don't dally. Dinner is nearly ready.”

A tall, lean man, wearing a faded calico shirt that matched his wife's skirt, introduced himself as Jake Lynn. Inside were two daughters—Rose, a cherubic three-year-old with chubby cheeks and round, brown ringlets, and Millie, tall and solemn like her father, the eldest, who looked up from her chore of setting the table and stared at the visitors.

Samuel learned that Jake was an American sympathizer and began a scout's discussion as to the state of the fort and the Indians in the area. The family had not yet heard of the capture of Kaskaskia nor of George Rogers Clark.

“The British have been taking great pains to stir up the French against the Americans for some time. But I reckon the French pay little heed to them. As long as they can trade and live the way they want, they don't much care who is running the forts.”

Samuel nodded. “And the Indians. Have they been peaceable here?”

Jake lowered his voice and leaned in a little. “You never can tell what they're up to; that's the only certainty with them. No trouble lately, but we live close to our rifles.”

“Yes.” Samuel grinned at the little girl, Rose, who was staring at him with big, round eyes from across the table. His own daughter's infant face flashed across his mind, then he quickly moved beyond it. “You've a nice family, Mr. Lynn. The farming good here?”

“Corn's as tall as Millie.” Jake leaned back in his chair, grasped the waist of his daughter, and pulled her close. “We've been here three summers now. The first year was lean, but this year should be the best yet, eh, Naomi?”

His wife smiled and sat down, her hand finding his across the table. “We pray every day it will be so.” Her face was tired, but she wore a contented smile.

Samuel's gaze sought Isabelle as she sat silently across from him. He wondered, for a moment, what it would be like to be married again, imagining what it would be like to live with a woman like Isabelle, to have children with her. And, for only a moment, he let himself imagine that this was his cabin, his life.

Something must have shown on his face, because Isabelle suddenly grinned at him, full of devilment and knowing, and sassed him by announcing, “I don't imagine growing corn is so exciting.” Then quickly to her hosts, “Noble, I am sure, but I crave a life more adventurous than fields to hoe.”

Naomi laughed, ladling steaming stew into bowls. “No, miss, growing corn doesn't hold much excitement,” then she reached for Rose and pulled gently on a ringlet, “but feeding growing youngsters can be pretty satisfying, all the same.”

“I suppose so, ma'am, but …” Isabelle sighed, seeming in genuine resignation of her own nature. “I want something … more …”

They all laughed, but Samuel felt a pang in his chest. He might be a man like this Jake Lynn, but Isabelle was no Naomi and never would be. It would be good to remember that.

Naomi rose from the table. “Speaking of youngsters, those boys should be back from the woodpile by now.” With a frown she walked to the door. Then a thin, boyish scream rent the air. Then another. Naomi jerked the door open, her face void of color.

* * *

SUDDENLY, THE WORLD was chaos.

Indians charged into the cabin, tomahawks swinging. Naomi, being just inside the door, was the first target. A tall savage, heavily painted, with his head shaved save a tuft at the crown, grasped a handful of her hair and lifted it high above her head. Naomi screamed, wild-eyed, as he swung his lean, muscled arm, scalping her with one sure swing.

Samuel registered the blood dripping from the weapon as he snapped back to conscious thought and action. Naomi fell to the floor in a crumpled heap as Samuel dove for his weapon, seeing everything, assessing the enemy's strength. War whoops and a flurry of swinging weapons surrounded them, making it difficult to hear and see what was going on.

Samuel grasped his long rifle that had been lying on the floor beside his chair. He looked to Jake in time to see the blade
of a knife being shoved into the farmer's chest, hearing the gasp of bubbling air that followed. Then Samuel locked eyes with Jake's killer who now turned toward Samuel, advancing, intending to kill the men first.

Samuel raised his rifle and shot his attacker through the heart. He then scooped up Jake's gun, took quick aim and fired again, killing the one he thought to be the leader, judging from his face paint and the ring of ornate feathers woven into his black hair.

With no time to reload, Samuel dropped the rifle to the floor and grasped the familiar handles of his tomahawk and knife.

Now would come the hard part.

Glancing across the room, he saw that Julian had been cornered and was without defense. Isabelle was in the other corner, rifle in hand, God love her. Samuel found he couldn't think clearly. Which way to go? Julian or Isabelle? Julian had no chance without his help. Isabelle was armed, but could he turn his back on her? For a moment he stood, motionless, wavering. He could not save them both.

The choice was taken from him as a warrior advanced. On instinct alone he fought off the Indian in his face, a giant of a man with a war club. Reaching out he grasped the club, feeling the man's strength pushing against him. Samuel allowed his foe to push the club up near his throat, a trick he had learned from Simon Kenton that misled the opponent to believe his enemy was weak. Just as the club touched his throat, Samuel put the full force of his muscle behind it, turning it neatly with practiced ease and smashing the man's head with his own weapon. Instinct had him moving toward Isabelle. Had she fired the rifle?

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Millie was hiding behind the door, unnoticed. He thought he had seen Rose hit but was reasonably sure she had crawled under the table, alive. He
heard a gun go off, saw a warrior fall at Isabelle's feet, but another nearby was reaching for her hair.

Fighting off what looked to be little more than a boy, Samuel quickly knocked him to the ground with the blunt side of his tomahawk, ducking under the swing of yet another war club, moving deftly to drive his knife between the man's shoulder blades. Samuel was almost to Isabelle.

He heard her then. A sound coming from her throat, a screaming, enraged whooping as savage as that of any Indian in the room. He felt more than saw her stab her attacker with the long knife Clark had given her. The blade effortlessly penetrated his throat, immediately silencing the warrior, and he crumbled to the floor. With a quick jerk she pulled the weapon from his neck and looked up into Samuel's eyes, legs spread in a fighting stance, her black hair wild about her face, eyes flashing fire. “Julian,” she breathed, knowing his thoughts and telling him she could take care of herself. Where had she learned to fight like that?

Samuel turned from her, pulled his smaller knife from his thigh, found a vulnerable spot between the upper ribs of the Indian to his right and buried the knife in his heart, thus clearing the path to Julian.

Only four enemy warriors remained standing. One, tall and hairless, with a lone feather hanging down his back, his face painted half black and half white, had backed Julian into a corner. Samuel saw that Julian had a knife raised, something that must have been hidden on his person. The warrior easily knocked it from his hand and advanced with a panther-like grace that bespoke his skill. This man was no mere brute; he knew hand-to-hand combat as a dance. Samuel had seen it before and knew that if he didn't get to Julian immediately, he was a dead man. And it wouldn't be a quick death either. This man would torture him.

The warrior in front of Samuel fell to the floor with a sinking thud. Samuel couldn't even remember how he'd killed him—he was fighting from his subconscious now, moving on instinct more than anything. He reached Julian, thinking the young man should have been dead long ago; it seemed to Samuel that hours had passed since the first Indian had appeared in the doorway. Something shifted inside him, and he realized: Something other than a cold-blooded massacre was intended here.

Samuel let out a guttural yell as the Indian swung his war club into Julian's body, dropping him to the floor like a rag doll. The savage turned then, sudden and aware, toward Samuel. There was a light in his wide-eyed challenge—a light of certain victory.

Samuel faltered as recognition bloomed inside him like an explosion.

It was Quiet Fox.

His wild, painted face and savage grace bore no resemblance to the sulking guide he had met on the trail …
but it was him.

Samuel didn't have time to assimilate fully the implications of Quiet Fox's presence in this room. To his left, Isabelle had managed with light-footed swiftness to move closer to Samuel. In mere seconds she had picked up another rifle, loaded it, swung around in a semi-crouch, aimed, and fired, killing another assailant. The sound reverberated through the room as Samuel's heart swelled with pride. She was amazing.

Suddenly there came a horrendous cry from outside the cabin, and Samuel could now smell smoke.
God help us.

Isabelle screamed then, drawing Samuel's attention away from the door. The man they had known as Quiet Fox had grasped Isabelle by the hair and turned her toward him. Time stood still as he swung back his mighty arm, and there he held his war club poised in midair. He turned his shaven head and stared,
victorious and deep, into Samuel's eyes while Isabelle kicked and clawed at him. Then, with abrupt movements, the savage leaned his face into Isabelle's, his black eyes wide and demented, looking as though he had no soul.

Isabelle's face changed, from that of warrior to slave, her gaze now terrified. Samuel heard her gasp of recognition.

He dove for Quiet Fox's arm, wrenching it behind his back. He heard a crack as the man's shoulder gave way, then a grunt from the Indian. Shock and rage lit the Indian's features as he looked back at Samuel. Then, using his other hand, he grasped his war club and broadsided Isabelle across the head.