Mara focused her attention on the edge of the clearing and tensed when she realized the forest was unnaturally silent. Not even a birdcall sounded in the still air. Fear pricked the back of her neck.
"Emile," she called softly. "It is too quiet."
He glanced at her, his head cocked, then he jumped up and grabbed the musket from her hands. "Get inside. Vite!"
Mara ran toward the front of the cabin, Emile close behind. But before they could reach safety, a man emerged from the other side and blocked the door. Tall and dark haired, he wore a breechclout and buckskin leggings. She skidded to a stop, her breath rasping in short shallow gasps.
Emile lifted his weapon to his shoulder and pointed it. "Run, Mara," he cried. "Save yourself."
She swung to her left and saw an armed Indian appear from out of the forest. She looked frantically behind her and saw another. There was no escape.
Death had come for them.
Emile’s musket wavered as he caught sight of the two Indians. The first man stepped closer until he stood less than ten feet from them. His face was long and narrow, with a prominent nose and heavy black brows. He was shirtless, his chest covered with black hair. That and his whiskered jaw told her he was French, not Indian.
"Don’t come any closer or I’ll shoot," Emile warned.
The stranger paid no heed to Emile’s threat. His implacable gaze flashed from Mara to Emile. "Put the gun down, monsieur," he said in perfect French. "I only wish to talk to you."
Emile glanced at Mara out of the corner of his eye. Then, a determined look hardened his features and he pulled the trigger. The shot exploded in the clearing.
A scream caught in Mara’s throat. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air. Through the gray smoke she saw the intruder, down on one knee, clutching his right shoulder as blood oozed between his fingers. Two more shots rang out, echoing in her ears like thunder.
Emile’s body crumpled. He hit the ground, his weapon falling beside him. She ran to his side and gathered him in her arms. Blood gushed from his chest and trickled from his mouth.
"Please, God," she sobbed. "Don’t let him die."
Emile opened his mouth but only a strangled moan issued from between his lips. One last ragged breath racked his body, his eyes rolled upward, and he went limp in her embrace.
Mara rocked back and forth, Emile’s body still cradled in her arms. She couldn’t let him go. Once she did, her past was over, and only an uncertain future lay ahead.
Suddenly someone grasped her braid and jerked her head back. She looked up into a grinning, painted face and gasped. Oh Lord, would the Indians kill her, too? Emile was dead, and she was alone. Helpless at the mercy of these savages. Her heart pounded so hard it nearly burst from her chest.
"No!" A voice of command rang out, and another figure stepped into view. It was the white man, blood streaming down his arm. "Let her go, Crazy Badger. She is our prisoner."
Her breath caught as the Indian held a knife to her throat.
"Bah!" The other man spat. "My brother is too softhearted."
Slowly but firmly, the white man said, "Let the woman go."
The older Indian spoke for the first time. "Perhaps our brother wants the woman for himself," he said, a sly expression on his face.
Mara’s gaze flew to the white man. Dear Lord, what was going to happen to her? Would a swift death be more merciful after all?
"Surely Raven does not desire a woman with pale skin and hair," Crazy Badger said.
"The woman must not be harmed. The British major may have told her something of importance."
The British major. Gideon. A shudder passed through Mara at the realization these savages had been watching them.
The two men glared at each other. For a tense moment each tested the other’s resolve.
"The commander will pay as much for captives as for scalps," the white man said.
Listen to him, please, Mara begged silently.
Crazy Badger tightened his grip, almost ripping her hair out by the roots. "Captives are too much trouble," he replied. "Scalps do not have to be fed."
Bile rose in Mara’s throat and she swallowed convulsively. God help me, she prayed. But when had God ever listened to her pleas? A harsh laugh broke from her throat.
Abruptly Crazy Badger let go of her braid. Mara slumped to the ground, shaking uncontrollably. Her life had been spared, but to what purpose? She’d heard tales of how the Indians tortured their prisoners. And the French were reputed to be worse. She spotted Emile’s musket on the ground beside him. It was empty, but she grabbed it and jumped up, wielding it like a club.
Crazy Badger started toward her, but the Frenchman motioned him back. "Don’t be a fool, madame. Put the gun down."
She stared at him, praying silently for a glimmer of hope. Then she noticed the crucifix glinting on his chest. Was he capable of mercy? She looked up into eyes as gray as the morning mist, eyes that compelled her to obey. Slowly she let the musket slide to the ground.
He held out a bloody hand, and she shrank back in horror. Everywhere she looked, she saw blood—on Emile’s chest, on her skirt, her hands, the ground. Dear Lord, she was drowning in the sight and scent of it. The world grew dim and distant as blackness descended on her.
© 2002 by Linda McLaughlin
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
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