Read an Excerpt
From Chapter One
"Damn it, Thomas, I thought you said we were in Cherokee Territory and would have safe passage!" James Fitz-Gerald yelled above the bloodcurdling whoops of their attackers.
"We are! And we do!" Thomas Brown yelled in answer. He aimed his flintlock and fired at an advancing warrior. "In fact, we're so close to Chota Town they can probably hear the racket." He tossed the gun aside and snatched a loaded one from Little Buffalo. "Keep'em comin', boy! Yer maw would be proud of you."
James fired and missed. With a curse, he tossed the gun to Buffalo. He had been in many dangerous situations but he had to admit, none quite as exhilarating as being pinned down by a dozen or two screaming natives. He leaned toward Thomas and yelled to be heard above the earsplitting noise, "Then why are they attacking us here, so close to a village?"
At that moment a particularly fierce looking native jumped up from cover and dashed toward them. James snatched up a tomahawk and sent it flying. The primitive instrument buried itself into the chest of the charging Indian who jerked back from the impact.
With what seemed inhuman strength, the Indian stumbled the last few steps before finally crumpling forward. James leaned back as the warrior fell. The dead body draped motionless across the log behind which James, Thomas, and young Buffalo crouched.
Thomas's gravely, ever complaining voice pricked at James. "I thought maybe you was goin' ta invite that one over fer tea," he snorted and reached up to push the body away. Thomas's hand froze halfway to its mark as Buffalo yelped in Indian fashion and scrambled forward. Before either man knew what the boy was about, Buffalo expertly, and with seemingly great enthusiasm, scalped the fallen warrior.
"Damn!" Thomas swore as he scratched at his ragged, gray whiskers. His gaze swung to James and his lips pulled back in a toothless grin.
James was glad he was far enough away not to smell Thomas's breath. What few teeth the man had left were black with neglect and decay.
"I guess I lied when I said this one was tame," he intoned with obvious pleasure.
Before James had a chance to ponder Thomas's propensity to increase his discomfort at every opportunity, a yell rent the air. Another warrior sprang up and charged.
Thomas quickly turned and fired. "I'd be careful if I was you, Fitz-Gerald." He glanced at Buffalo and then back to James. "Some savages take a special likin' ta red hair."
Buffalo looked proudly at Thomas as he stuffed the scalp into his waistband. With the blood still on his hands he reached for the spent musket.
James ignored Thomas and the boy as he aimed his fire- arm. This time he didn't miss.
The past ten years of James's life in the king's service had been a life spent alone -- a life filled with secret missions. The face of death was always neatly hidden behind the mask of civilization and clothed in miss-matched loyalties, a dark deadly puzzle to be figured out.
Now he was here, where death was a painted face with a gaping mouth and mobile tongue frantically pumping to fill the air with nerve shattering screams.
He'd never felt so close to death ... or so alive. Out here the two went hand in hand.
James smiled at Buffalo. "You know the scalp really belongs to me." Some might think their humor misplaced at a time like this but, having danced with death on numerous occasions, James understood the need for levity.
"You owe me. Remember?" the boy yelled back and tossed a fresh gun in his direction.
James snatched the loaded musket from the air just as he heard Thomas gasp. He saw Thomas crumple forward grasping at his shoulder. There was no time to examine his wound. James swung his musket around and fired. Another Indian fell.
"If we get out of this one alive, boy, you can have all the scalps!" he promised Buffalo with a yell.
"Look!"
James spun around at the sound of Buffalo's voice. He had known it would be only a matter of time before some of the warriors circled around to their rear.
He froze for the span of a heartbeat. Not fifty feet away an Indian woman stood, her face partially hidden from his view by the bow she held stretched and ready to let fly an arrow.
Quickly pulling up his musket, he pointed the barrel in her direction. James had never killed a woman. The muscle worked in his cheek as he aimed then suddenly searing pain shot up his arm.
As he fell to one side he looked at Thomas in disbelief. The old mad man had actually kicked him on the elbow sending his shot well wide of its mark.
Thomas gripped his bleeding shoulder as he choked out, "Cherokee!"
At that moment an arrow whistled past James's head and the Indian who stopped it stumbled over their barricade to land across one of his legs. A quick look back revealed the woman was gone.
Cherokee burst upon the scene. James would not have believed the din of earsplitting whoops could increase, but increase it did.
"Hot damn! I knew they would make it!" Thomas cheered through gritted teeth, then moaned just as enthusiastically.
James noted the pride that glowed in his partner's face. It appeared the old thorn in the flesh had a particular liking for this tribe.
"That's right, lad." Thomas chuckled as if he'd heard James's thought and then shifted himself to better wait out the battle. "These here are Dancin' Cloud's warriors."
Their attackers, as of one mind, slipped back into the trees and disappeared. The forest again turned into a troubled silence as the whoops died down and the Cherokee warriors followed the retreating renegades.
Buffalo wasted no time climbing over their arrow-laden barricade to scramble, knife in hand, to lift whatever scalps were still available.
Pushing himself to his feet James looked out at the scene before him. Bodies lay scattered about as the boy scurried, dipped and danced among the dead he further mutilated.
The stench of spent gunpowder and the coppery sweet odor of blood hung heavy in the early morning air to mix with the scent of forest mint and kicked-up soil. The scent of death mixed with the smell of life.
Remembering the woman James looked back once more. "That was a woman that popped up over there," he said, sounding stupid to himself.
"Sure was." Thomas whistled loudly, mimicking James's call to bring his mount. "Now where do you suppose that crazy horse of yours is? I imagine the mules are long gone by now and my Daisy along with 'um."
"They're not gone." Buffalo, who was back from his scalping excursion, intoned with awe.
Both men turned around to get a look at what could have so enraptured their young companion.
Walking gracefully toward them was a warrior whose size very closely matched James's own impressive physique. In one hand he gripped the lead ropes of both mules.
Amazingly the packs were still tied in place. Eagle, James's black stallion, followed docilely behind. Unfortunately, Daisy, Thomas's old mare, was not with them
James watched as the proud warrior squatted down in front of Thomas and examined his shoulder.
"You will live, old friend." the Indian announced as he stood and, with surprising gentleness, pulled Thomas to his feet.
* * *
New Moon stood before the open doorway of her summer lodge and peered into the dark interior. Behind her she could hear the excitement in the village; it crawled over her skin like a thousand ants. She breathed deeply of the scent of wood-smoke and roasting meat, but not even the comforting aromas that spoke of the safety of her home could quiet the uneasiness in her spirit.
His hair was the deep rich color of the great river's clay. Every nerve, every sense, told her he was the one. She could feel him now, drawing closer.
As if in response to her thoughts, the village quieted. Even the dogs that had moments before been yelping suddenly stilled. She did not have to turn around to know they were watching him. He would at this moment be coming through the gate of the tall wooden wall surrounding their community.
