Savage Betrayal (44 page)

Spring Fern protested, “That doesn’t give me much time.”

Rottenwood smiled lazily. “Time enough. If she can’t help us, we’ll go back to my plan.” He wrapped her in his arms. “I think you’d make a lovely mistress,” he whispered.

She pushed at his chest gently. “Oh, I would,” she murmured. “But I’d make an even better wife!”

With that she slipped out of his arms and ran back into the longhouse, leaving him chuckling in the rain.

The Ahousat warriors had started out late in the evening. Fighting Wolf noted the ominous cloud cover. He hoped the approaching storm would hold off for one more day, long enough for him and his men to get close to Hesquiat territory. They needed shelter until the storm passed. But a search of the inhospitable coastline proved fruitless. No sheltered cove or bay beckoned the weary men. Disheartened, they had to keep paddling north.

The storm lashed them with its mighty force the following morning, just as dawn was breaking.

Barely in sight of the coastline, the pelting rain obscured the men’s vision and pounded against their naked bodies. Crashing waves threatened to overturn the bobbing canoes and dump the frantically paddling men into the depths of the rolling, gray sea.

It was the whipping wind, however, that really damaged the close formation of the canoes. Carelessly tossing them about as if they were toy boats, the wind blew them farther and farther off course, and farther and farther apart.

Fighting Wolf watched in aguish as the canoe closest to him was lost behind a wall of rain. It would take days to gather his men together again, that is, if they survived the storm.

The roaring wind assaulted the men’s ears as ferociously as the rain pelted their bodies. Fighting Wolf cupped his hands over his mouth and yelled to Otterskin, “There’s a sheltered cove not far from here. We’re heading for it.”

Otterskin’s shouted response blew away on the wind.

Slowly, the twelve aimed the canoe in the direction Fighting Wolf pointed. They paddled with all their strength. It was as if they stood still. Every time the canoe bounced up on the crest of a gigantic wave, half the paddles were out of the water. Then the craft was plunged down into a wave’s trough, the nose of the boat thrust into an oncoming wave. Time and again the frail craft plodded onwards, only to be swept back, as though by a giant hand.

Fighting Wolf was thoroughly alarmed, but he tried not to let his men see his fear. Never, in his many years battling the sea, had he been caught in such a storm. He glanced quickly over his shoulder at the men. Fear was on every face. Several of them gazed, agonized, at him. He knew they were depending on him for the strength to fight the raging elements. Others were mumbling. Praying, no doubt.

Almost unconsciously, Fighting Wolf, too, found himself praying to Qua-utz. Interspersed with prayer were thoughts of Sarita, and the child she carried. Uppermost in his mind was the fear he would never see her again, never hold the woman he loved in his arms.

Because he could no longer lie to himself. He loved her. Facing death, he was honest with himself, with Qua-utz. Tossed about like a leaf, he faced only the important moments of his existence. He had risked his life, and the lives of his men, in the pursuit of the only woman he had ever loved.

He raised his arms to the raging wind, the churning sky, the pounding rain, to Qua-utz. He chanted into the wind, his words lost to those around him. “God over all, spare my men. They did but follow where I led. It is true I pursue the woman, Sarita, to bring her back to my village. You have now shown me the foolishness of my decision. Spare my men, spare me, and I will cease my foolish quest. When you sent her into my life, you gave me a gift, a precious gift. One that I was too blind to see. You have shown me the folly of my actions. Spare my men from the results of my wrong actions. Should you also spare me, I will no longer seek to enslave her, but will cherish her as long as you allow me to walk the earth, and to paddle the seas.”

Fighting Wolf squatted down in the tossing canoe, his only answer the howling of the storm. To trample on what he had had, to deny the powerful love he felt for Sarita, to make her a slave again, was terribly wrong. He realized that now. The whole world, the rain, the storm, the sea, was telling him that.

His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden lurching of the canoe. Thrown to one side, Fighting Wolf fell heavily against the gunwale. A wave lashed the boat sharply from the other side.

In the space of a heartbeat, Fighting Wolf felt himself hurtling through the rain into the cold, seething water. As the treacherous liquid closed over his head, he fought desperately to reach the surface. Gasping for air, another large wave swamped him. He inhaled water, and sunk under the waves. He opened his eyes in the dark water but could see nothing.

Suddenly he felt the lash of a whip-like tail sweep past his leg. A sea snake? A serpent? It slithered by him again. Aah, a cedar rope.

Bobbing once more to the surface, he lunged for the thin lifeline that sank under the waves. He almost reached it, but another wave sucked at him, pulling him further under.

With superhuman effort, he kicked back at the towering waves, his whole being concentrating on the one small, skinny rope that led to the canoe. Seizing it, he wrapped it around his fist. When next his head cleared the water, he yelled. The yell came out as a gasp and he knew whoever tossed him the rope couldn’t hear him above the roar of the storm.

He felt the line go taut, and slowly, slowly, he was pulled through the waves. Kicking again and again with all his might, he fought his way to the side of the plunging craft. Eager hands reached over the side and pulled him in, his body a dead weight, so exhausted was he from fighting the sea. He slumped to the floor of the lurching canoe, oblivious to its wrenching motion.

The quiet motion of the canoe awoke him. The storm had spent itself. Haggard, Fighting Wolf raised his eyes to the darkened sky and realized anew that his life had been spared. He lived, and would see those he loved once again.

Sarita’s face flashed before his mind’s eye. Struggling to sit up, he surveyed the exhausted paddlers in his canoe. Weary they were, but all twelve were there.

His next thoughts were for the rest of his men. How many had survived the storm’s rage?

He got slowly, wearily, to his feet. Standing at the bow of the battered canoe, legs planted apart, he raised his arms again to Qua-utz and chanted a prayer of thanks.

“Many times I thank you, God over all, for sparing the precious lives of these twelve brave men from the fury of the storm. Many thanks also for sparing my life. I pledged my word to You that I would cease my quest to enslave the woman, Sarita, and I will hold to my word. Thanks upon thanks for your mercy in the face of the storm.”

He sat down again, his body aching and cold. He looked at his men. Bleary eyes stared back at him. Then, tired grins broke through the weary faces and Fighting Wolf knew they had rallied. “Who tossed me the rope?” he asked.

“Comes-from-Salish,” came the answer.

Fighting Wolf looked over at the ex-slave. “If it were possible to set you free again, my friend, I would do it. My thanks for saving my life. I thought I’d never look upon a human face again.”

Comes-from-Salish shrugged, embarrassed at the words of his chief.

Fighting Wolf saw the other’s self-consciousness. He laid a hand on the broad shoulder, and lowered his voice. “Nevertheless, I mean it. I thank you for tossing me that rope. If there’s anything I can do to help you, any favor I can give you, you need but ask.”

Comes-from-Salish looked at the floor of the canoe and mumbled, “There is nothing, my lord,”

“Come,” encouraged the war chief. “I want to repay you for what you did. Let me at least do that—“

Realizing that Fighting Wolf seriously did not wish to be beholden to him, the ex-slave said slowly, “There is one thing. My daughter, my youngest girl, will be coming of age soon—“

Fighting Wolf seized upon his words with alacrity. “Then allow me to make gifts in her name. I’d consider it a great honor to share in sponsoring her puberty potlatch.”

Comes-from-Salish grinned tiredly. “It is I who am honored. I can’t believe my good fortune. I was only a lowly slave. Now my children live in freedom and I’m about to give my daughter a ceremony—“ Overcome, he choked on his words.

Fighting Wolf clapped him on the back once more. “You deserve such honors. Your bravery won them for you, my friend.”

Fighting Wolf turned at last to his men. “Let’s head for that point and light a fire. The others should see our beacon and come to us.
If
they survived the storm,” he added grimly.

The weary Ahousat men paddled slowly in the direction their war chief indicated.

Fighting Wolf and his men set up camp near some large boulders on the stony beach of the point. He surveyed the men gathered around the large fire. Many of his straggling warriors on the sea had been beckoned to safety by the bright leaping flames. Several familiar faces were missing, but the storm had spared more men than Fighting Wolf had dared hope. Those men who had not shown up by now, well, he would just have to assume the worst.

There was much to do before they could push on to the Hesquiat winter village. Canoes had to be patched, food hunted, and the wounded tended.

Things were quiet for the moment, and Fighting Wolf relaxed, looking into the dancing orange flames as though in a trance. Ever since the storm, he had been unable to tear Sarita from his thoughts. He mused about what he would say to her.

He admitted again that he loved her. This time he felt more comfortable with the thought. No longer could he think of her as a possession, a woman to be used and thrown aside when another attractive female came along. Now he realized he wanted her, and their child, with him for the rest of his life.

Years suddenly stretched before him. Without her, there would be only emptiness. But with her, those years would be filled with joy and happiness. Oh, there would be angry times, he couldn’t deny that, but he knew he loved her enough to accept those, if he could only have the good times.

He thought back over his treatment of her. He’d used her, he realized now. He’d expected that she’d always be there for him to come home to. That’s why he’d been so angry when she’d left. Not only was his pride hurt that she could leave him, but he’d
needed
her to be there for him. When she’d gone, he’d felt sorely, savagely betrayed.

With her, he’d begun to feel alive again. He’d begun to love again, after that cold, dark period of his life when he’d been afraid to feel, afraid to love ever again. She’d brought him the gift of life, and in return, he had walked on her pride, her love, and for what?

Revenge. He almost choked on the word. How paltry it seemed now. To sacrifice someone so precious, for an ideal like revenge. All his life he’d heard how he should revenge the wrongs done to his people, done to him. Since he was a young boy he’d been taught that vengeance against his enemies was noble, the correct and honorable thing to do. But the events of his own life had proved to him how wrong such notions were. All those people who’d taught him—his father, his uncle, others—were wrong. He’d paid a high price for following their dictates so blindly. Vengeance had cost him the woman he loved.

He hoped she would understand his changed thinking. He loved her and wanted her back, but he couldn’t blame her if she wanted nothing further to do with him.

He agonized over the possibility that she’d refuse to marry him. Surprised at the direction of his thoughts, he realized marriage was what he wanted. She would be his equal, honored and protected, walking with him through life. And, he added with satisfaction, in his bed at night.

His thoughts rested briefly on her child. His child, too. He had no doubt of that. He squirmed inside as he remembered the last night he had held her in his arms. She’d asked him then if he’d allow his child to be born into slavery. He hadn’t seriously considered her question. Now he realized he could never allow a child he loved—and he already loved this child—to be born a slave. To let his own flesh, a child of his own blood, be raised as anyone less than the noble he or she deserved to be, was an excruciating thought.

Otterskin approached. “Some of the men are asking if we’re heading back to Ahousat. I’ve told them I’m awaiting your orders.”

Fighting Wolf looked at his faithful lieutenant, “We’ll be heading for the Hesquiat winter village.”

“But, sir. Some of the men heard your chant to Qua-utz—“

“And they heard me promise to cease my quest to enslave the Hesquiat woman?” finished the war chief, a glint in his eye.

The other nodded sheepishly.

“I may have ceased my quest to make her a slave, but we will continue on to Hesquiat. My business there is not finished,” explained Fighting Wolf tolerantly. “As far as the men are concerned, I have every intention of keeping my vow to Qua-utz.” He paused, then ordered, “We leave in the morning. Tell the men, and make the necessary preparations.”

Otterskin nodded and turned away to carry out the orders. Watching him walk away, Fighting Wolf smiled to himself. Like his men, he had no wish to incur Qua-utz’s wrath. But he knew too that he had not given his word lightly. He would abide by what he had promised.

With dawn’s first light, the Ahousat warriors paddled closer to their destination. They traveled quickly, their paddles dipping rhythmically into the green sea. Heading into the quieter, inside waters, Fighting Wolf recognized the inlet described by his “uncle.” Soon they would come upon the Hesquiat winter village.

The fjord-like inlet gradually narrowed, but the water remained deep. The weak morning light showed charcoal colored cedars rising from the rocky shoreline and melding into thick forests. Gradually, the damp mist muted the charcoal to a lighter gray.

Along the smooth surface of the water skimmed a kingfisher, searching out its breakfast below.

After several miles of journeying, Fighting Wolf signaled a halt. As previously planned, half the men paddled over to the narrow rocky beach on one side of the narrow pass. The war chief watched approvingly as they hid their canoes in the thick tree line, then melted into the forest. The last to leave was Otterskin. He waved to Fighting Wolf before he, too, disappeared silently into the thick undergrowth. Otterskin and his forty men were to sneak through the forest and silently surround the Hesquiat village.