"It don’t look good, Dan’l."
Daniel Boone was squatting, examining the ground just off the path. "No, it don’t. Someone was waylaid here. They took a hard fall and then were dragged off." He stood and held his hand out before the other man. In it were several bright beads.
"Mingo’s?" Yad asked.
Dan nodded. "One of the strands broke when he fell." His fingers closed on the colorful glass. "You notice they didn’t take much care to conceal which way they went?"
The blond was pulling his moustache. "I figured you noticed that. What do you think it means?"
"I think it means we’d best recruit a few others to go with us. Will may have a bigger party planned then we’d care to attend alone." He frowned. "Besides, we’re gonna have to split up to track both Mingo and Jemima."
Yad looked at his friend. He could see the concern written across his face. They had returned from cutting timber to find Daniel’s wife, Rebecca, and their distant neighbor, Helen McColl, in a state. The two women met them at the door and let loose with such a barrage of words and worry that it had taken him and Daniel half the night to sort out what had happened. After that, none of them had gotten much sleep. At the break of day they had left the cabin and set off in search of signs. Yad shifted his hat and scratched his head. "Dan’l...."
At first the tall man appeared not to hear him. Then he glanced up. "What is it, Yad?"
"Well, pardon me for bein’ the one to break this to you, but ain’t too many of the folk in Boonesborough gonna be too upset to hear that Mingo’s gone. Any party Will might be organizin’ is bound to be bigger than the one we can rustle up."
Dan was silent a moment. "No. I can’t believe that. They’re good people."
"Good people or no, they’re as like to think Mingo done stole Jemima as to believe someone else took the two of them." Yad drew a deep breath and then finished. "I oughta know. Weren’t too long ago, I’d a been one of ‘em."
"But you aren’t anymore, Yad. That’s what I was hopin’ for." Dan stood and laid his hand on his shoulder. "If Boonesborough is to survive, we will have to learn how to live with the Indians." He grinned wearily. "After all, there’s more of them than us."
"Right now there is, but mark my word, Dan’l, in the end it’ll be them or us. We just don’t think the same. What we want ain’t what they want, even though what they have is what we need."
The big man lifted his hand. "Are you sayin’ I should just give up on Mingo?"
"Consarn, it, Dan’l Boone, what’ya take me for? A friend is a friend. I don’t care if his skin is red as a berry or blue as that moonshine Cincinnatus calls ‘Thunder’. I ain’t sayin’ give up." Yadkin secured his tricorn cap on his blond head. "I’m just sayin’ I wouldn’t expect any help. If’n you do, you’re bound to be disappointed."
Disappointed?
Daniel Boone drew a slow, long breath and counted to ten. He wasn’t disappointed; he was disgusted. Even as a vein popped on his forehead and he opened his mouth to address one of the men facing him, he caught Yadkin’s eye and acknowledged he had been right.
The blond nodded his head in reply and then shifted through the crowd. He took up a position behind the wooden counter and thoughtfully fingered his empty mug. Then he called out, "Cincinnatus," drawing the tavern-keeper’s attention.
"Yad?" The older man was distracted. He had just returned from dealing with a trapper who had claimed he had been shorted a bag of flour. He was busy checking his inventory sheet. "Eh?"
"If’n I was you, I’d be movin’ my breakables and puttin’ ‘em under this here
counter about now." "What?" Cincinnatus frowned and glanced at the crowd that had gathered in the tavern’s main room while he had been outside. There were about a dozen men standing in a semi-circle around Daniel Boone. He eyed the tall frontiersman. "Somethin’ botherin’ Dan’l?"
The blond narrowed his eyes and leaned in close. "I’ll tell ya a secret, old man, if’n you’ll fill this here pint for free."
The tavern-keeper’s hands went to his hips. "And just why would I do that?"
"Fillin’ my tankard will cost you a sight less than what it will take to replace all these here bottles and mugs." He indicated the shelves that lined the wall behind the counter.
"And just what is going to happen to all my tankards and bottles?"
Yad eyed the crowd. His blue eyes flicked to Daniel Boone and then back to the older man. "You got about two minutes to decide, ‘Natus."
"Tarnation!" Cincinnatus sputtered as he slapped the inventory list on the counter. "Oh, all right, I can’t stand a mystery." He grabbed a pitcher and grudgingly filled the blond’s pewter mug to within an inch of the top. "Now, what is this blasted secret? And it better be worth the cost of a tankard of ale."
Yad eyed the golden liquid. Then he nodded towards his friend. "You see that vein poppin’ out on Dan’l’s forehead?"
"Vein? What vein? Yadkin, what are you talkin’ about?"
"Look." Yad rolled his eyes toward the tall man. "Well, take a look, old man. You see it?"
Cincinnatus scowled, but he looked. "I see it. What about it?"
The blond took a long swig of his ale. He wiped his mustache. "That’s what’s known as a three minute alarm, only you took so long to fill this," he tipped the mug back and drained it, "that you only got about a minute left."
"A minute before what?"
Yad wiped his lips with the soiled sleeve of his buckskin jacket. He opened his mouth to speak, and then ducked beneath the counter. As he did, a body went flying over him to strike the wall, knocking down one shelf and half a dozen pewter mugs. He rose up and shook his head in disbelief. "An’ here I always thought Daniel Boone was a predictable man. He’s half a minute early."
"Now all of you, you listen to me! I’m ashamed of you." Dan straightened the front of his buckskin shirt and pulled his sleeves down. He glanced at the counter. Yad was helping the semi-conscious settler out the door. "A man is missin’. Somebody waylaid him. And I am fairly certain that somebody was William McColl."
"So you say, Daniel," one of the settlers challenged him, "but where’s your proof? We all know what Injuns are like. Most like he’s just got drunk and gone somewhere to sleep it off."
"Yeah," another agreed, "or maybe he just changed his mind. They ain’t trustworthy. Everyone knows you can’t count on ‘em for nothin’."
"I don’t believe you’re sayin’ these things. How many times have the Indians helped us? You wouldn’t even be here if it hadn’t been for Mingo. He showed us this place."
"And how do we know that wasn’t a trick?" Yet another man called from the back. "Maybe he was settin’ us up. Maybe he wants us to think we’re safe and sound, so’s he can give them Injuns—or the English—all our secrets. It ain’t like you, Dan’l, to be so blind."
"Blind?" Dan’s jaw was set and his fingers balled into fists. "Blind! It’s you, John, and you, Patrick, who are blind. And the rest of you, if you can’t see the quality of a man for the color of his skin."
"It ain’t the color of his skin, Dan’l, that worries me the most," Patrick Malone countered. "This here Mingo you brung back with you is blood to them Cherokee, and to the English. My brother, Edward, died at Concord; killed by them Redcoats. My brother, Thomas, died on the way here at the hands of a different kind of savage." He drew a breath. "What I want to know is, what is it about this half-English, half-Cherokee that makes you trust him? Either way you look at it, he ain’t one of us, Daniel."
"And what exactly does it mean to be ‘one of us’?" Dan pushed up his sleeve to where the pale white skin showed above his deep tan. "Is it this? Does bein’ white-skinned make me ‘one of us?’ We ain’t all from the same place. My folks were English. Your family came from Ireland, Patrick, and John’s from Germany. Anders," he pointed to another man in the back who had remained silent so far, "your people came from Sweden. We speak different languages and have different customs. So, who are we? What makes each of us, ‘one’?" He shifted and raised his foot to balance it on a chair. "Is it the color of our skin or where we were born? Or who our fathers were? No. It’s what’s in our hearts. What we hope to accomplish here. Why we have banded together. We’re all different," he opened his arms to encompass every man in the room, "and we’re all the same. Now, the
Indians— "
"Don’t want what we want, Daniel." Patrick had stepped forward. "Listen to yourself, you’re fightin’ our fight for us. They don’t want to plow, or plant, or homestead. You know that. They’re like animals. All they want to do is hunt and make war on innocent people who are just trying to pull their fair share from the land."
"You sayin’ they don’t want a home, Patrick; a safe place to raise their young’uns, and in peace?"
"What I’m sayin’, Daniel, is that they want ours."
Daniel Boone closed his eyes. When he opened them, they sought his friend, Yadkin. The blond man was leaning on the counter, shaking his head. Dan agreed. Talking to these men was like talking to a stone. "Cincinnatus," he said as his gaze shifted to the tavern-keeper, "fix a kit for me and Yad. We’re headin’ out. Now."
The older man nodded. "Sure thing, Dan’l. Have it ready in a minute."
"You need help huntin’ your daughter, Boone?"
He turned back. Anders Linstrom had moved to the front of the crowd. Dan looked at the man, and then at all of those around him. "No thank you," he said, "I’m sure you all think when I find Mingo, I’ll find ‘Mima. I just hope that if you’re right, I don’t find one or both of ‘em dead."
Jemima held her breath and moved several feet closer to the tree where her Pa’s friend was tied. She tried not to make a sound as she moved through the dark night. She glanced at the man on guard. He was skinny and had a hooked nose. She thought it was Isaac Clay. She had seen him in the fort before with Billy’s Pa, and knew he was a friend of the McColls. He was holding a rifle and walking back and forth a dozen or so yards away, whistling quietly to himself. She didn’t think he’d hear her if she whispered something to the tall Indian. She let the breath out and quickly sprinted across an open space between two trees. One short run and she would be there. She narrowed her brown eyes and peered around the trunk of the tree. Mingo wasn’t moving. His chin was on his chest, and his body was hanging at an odd angle.
He looked dead. Still, she could tell by the rise and fall of his chest that he was probably just unconscious.
Jemima shifted again and positioned herself so the moonlight that broke through the foliage over her head could illuminate his face. Then she winced. One of his eyes was swollen. It looked like his lip was split, and a dark stain, probably blood, soaked the front of the leather vest he wore. His beads had been broken, and the feathers that had once stood tall on his head, were dangling at its side. She leaned back and closed her eyes, remembering how he had looked that first day when she had turned her back and walked away from him. She hadn’t struck him with a fist or made him bleed or anything, but she had hurt him just the same. Shame flooded through her, but it quickly turned to rage, and that rage steeled her resolve. She glanced at Isaac Clay and saw he had stopped and was sitting on a boulder with his head thrown back, staring at the stars. Most likely he didn’t expect anybody to come looking for the tall Cherokee. Especially her.
Quickly slipping through the shadows she made her way to the tree her Pa’s friend was tied to. Once there she halted just behind it and crouched in the underbrush. "Mingo?" she whispered. "Mingo, are you awake? Can you hear me?"
The native didn’t shift or give any other indication that he was aware of his surroundings, but his voice answered her without hesitation. "Jemima? Is that you?"
She realized he must have been pretending to be unconscious in the hopes he could somehow escape. Still, his wounds were all too real. She could see blood on his hands that were bound to either side of the tree. Jemima paused and then reached out to touch his fingers with her own. "Yes. It’s me."
"You must go." His whisper was fierce. "These men are dangerous."
She shook her head. "Not without you."
There was a pause, during which she figured he must have glanced at Mr. Clay. "Go back. Bring your father."
"You know I can’t do that." Her tone was firm. "They’re gonna.... They mean to kill you, don’t they?"
Mingo paused as though choosing his words. "I believe it is their intention to profit from me rather than dispose of me."
The girl frowned. Then she gasped. "You mean, sell you? Like you were property?"
He shifted slightly and suppressed a moan. "To them, I am property."
"This is all my fault," she whispered. "And I’ve gotta set it right. I’ll be back. I’m going to find something to cut these ropes."
"Jemima, no. Jemima!" Mingo felt her fingers squeeze his and then pull away. He straightened to see if he could tell where she had gone, and as he did a groan involuntarily escaped his lips. At the sound, the shadowy figure on the ground stirred and sat up to look at him.
Billy McColl rose to his feet and walked across the clearing to stand before him. Mingo gritted his teeth against the pain and met his eyes. "Billy."
"What’d you do?" the boy asked.
"What do you mean?" the native asked.
"For him to hit you. To do that." Billy indicated his face.
Mingo lifted an eyebrow. "I was born." As he continued to speak, his dark eyes sought Daniel Boone’s young daughter. He had no idea where she had gone or what she was thinking of doing. He was frightened for her. "So far as I am aware, that is my only offense."
"He don’t treat the dog like that." The boy’s voice was quiet. His head had been
down. When he looked up, there were tears in his eyes. "I wish I could help you, Mister, but I can’t. My Pa— "
"Billy."
The boy jumped. He turned to find Jemima staring at him from out of the leaves. She had returned to the tree. "‘Mima?"
"I need your help. I’m getting Mingo out of here."
Billy glanced at the man his father had left on guard. Isaac Clay was on the move again. He turned back and shook his head. "You can’t."
Her face was pale in the wash of moonlight. "I’m not leaving without him. Now, where’s Mingo’s rifle and bag? I couldn’t find them."
The boy looked chagrinned. "Pa took ‘em."
Mingo’s dark eyes evaluated Isaac Clay’s movements. "Both of you. Clay is returning."
"Billy?" Jemima reached out and touched the boy’s hand. "Please. You can’t let them sell him like he’s an animal, or kill him. Billy," she glanced at the tall Cherokee, "he’s my friend. Please?"
"I don’t know. I’m not.... Get down, Jemima," he said suddenly. "Hide!"
"Billy?"
The boy pivoted. He looked at the skinny man stepping out of the trees and then glanced back at the Indian. He had overheard his Pa and Isaac talking before he fell asleep. His Pa was meeting with the Shawnee right now. He was gonna offer to turn the Indian over to them, and then pull a double-cross, killing both them and Daniel Boone’s friend. That way the Cherokee and the Shawnee would blame each other and, most likely, there would be a war. His Pa had laughed as he explained to the other man that he was gonna ‘set one rabid dog to kill the other.’
"Isaac. I heard him strugglin’ to get free," Billy said as he swallowed hard. "You better come check the ropes. If he got away," he turned and faced Jemima in the bushes, "Pa’d have your skin and mine."
"Infernal Redskins, can’t even trust ‘em to stay trussed up like they oughta," Clay said as he came to stand by the boy. He leaned his rifle against the tree and then stepped around it to check the cords that bound Mingo’s wrists. He took hold of the Cherokee’s hands and pulled up and out on them.
Mingo sucked in air and bit back a cry.
"You got some problem, Redskin?"
"He don’t. But you do."
Isaac Clay stiffened. He pivoted sharply to find Jemima Boone standing behind him with his rifle in her hands. She had cocked the hammer and her slender finger was on the trigger.
"And don’t think I don’t know how to shoot this, Mr. Clay. I do. My Pa taught me how." Jemima’s grin was grim. "And even if I didn’t, I don’t think I could miss at this range. Do you?"
The skinny man looked at his friend’s son. "Billy, what is this?"
"I’m sorry, Isaac. I can’t let you do it." Billy shook his head. I can’t let you kill him, let alone let you or Pa start a war. People will die."
"People won’t die, boy. Just Injuns."
Billy stared at him, thinking how close he had come to growing up to be the same kind of man. A second later he held out his hand. "Give my your knife, Isaac. I’m cuttin’ him free. Now."
"Can you walk all right, Mingo?" Jemima stared at the tall Cherokee. It seemed like he was having some trouble breathing.
Mingo nodded as he placed Isaac Clay’s knife behind his belt. He rose unsteadily to his feet and stared down at the skinny man whom he had bound hand and foot and rolled into the tall grass. "I will manage. Billy," he turned to the boy, "have you come to a decision?"
The boy ran a hand through his dark-blond hair. "I’m comin’ with you." He glanced around. "There ain’t nothin’ for me here. My Pa died a long time ago," he said quietly, "when we lost my Ma."
Mingo placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. "I think it is for the best. You understand there will be repercussions from this act?"
"Huh?"
The tall Cherokee paused. Too often he forgot his grasp of the King’s English was not the same as the common man’s. He rephrased it. "Your father will not forgive you for releasing me."
Billy was silent a moment. "But I couldn’t have forgiven myself, if I hadn’t let you go."
Mingo nodded as Jemima handed him Isaac Clay’s rifle. He gripped it, feeling its weight, and then lifted it slowly and looked down the sight. As he did, he winced. The girl watched him closely; her eyes focused on his bloodied vest. A moment later her hand darted forward, almost with a will of its own, to pull the buckskin away.
"Jemima!" She saw the bruising on his flesh. "He kicked you, didn’t he? Mingo, have you got a broken rib?"
The Cherokee smiled wanly. "Let us hope not. It is nothing. I have traveled far with worse injuries before."
"You want me to carry the rifle?"
Mingo turned and looked at Billy McColl. The boy was pale and frightened, but determined. He nodded and handed the weapon to the boy. "I think, for the moment, that would fine. Now, we need to go."
Jemima nodded and turned in the direction of Boonesborough.
"Jemima. No. Not that way."
She turned back puzzled. "Why not? Pa will be coming. I know he will. Don’t you want to meet him?"
"It is the possibility of someone else coming after us that compels me to choose another path." Mingo’s dark eyes went to Billy. "We will circle around and head for my village. Not only will that have us traveling in the opposite direction from what Mr. McColl should expect, but it will allow me to make contact with my Uncle before the Shawnee are able to. Even if they fail to secure me, they might try to trick Menewa somehow using my things. And, if I understand correctly what you have told me, Billy, that might mean war."
The trio had not been gone long when William McColl returned to the seemingly abandoned camp with two broad-shouldered and well-armed Shawnee. At first he was at a loss to explain what had happened, but then he found Isaac Clay, and soon he understood everything. He nodded to the Shawnee as they set out to track their escaped prize. He had told them the Cherokee had been beaten and couldn’t be moving too fast; not without food and rest. They assured him they would have the Injun in hand before the next dawn.
He watched them go, no longer compelled to mask his disgust, and contemplated his next move. It was obvious Billy had been forced to go with the Injun in spite of what Isaac had said. He glanced at the other man where he stood beside him, sullenly staring at the ground. Isaac’s lower lip was swollen from where he had struck him for that lie. His son would never have freed the Injun. Never. Billy knew. Billy understood. Just like Mary and Alice, and all of his other children, he knew. Just like Helen. Never trust an Injun. Never give one an inch.
If you did they would take everything you had and leave you with nothing but empty arms.
William McColl drew himself back from the edge of the nightmare and called, "Isaac."
The skinny man’s eyes darted to his face. "What is it?"
"I want you to head back to the settlement. Tell ‘em what’s happened; how Boone’s Injun done took off with his girl and my son. Tell ‘em how he hit you when you tried to stop him, and how you tried to fight back, but lost. And watch out for Boone himself. Avoid him if you see him on the way."
"Sure, Will. I’ll do that," Clay nodded hesitantly. He started to go, but then turned back. "Wait. Ain’t you comin’ with me? The Injun’s bound to be headin’ for Boone himself."
Will McColl’s light eyes narrowed. "No, he ain’t. Them Injuns, they’re sneaky. He’ll know that’s what we’d expect him to do." He fingered the short whip on his hip. "If I guess right, he’s headin’ for his own. He’ll rouse them Cherokee and send ‘em against the settlement for what we done. You be sure to tell ‘em that. You tell them, it’s them...
"Or us."
"What is it, Dan’l?" Yadkin was leaning over the damped fire, checking the embers to see if he could tell how long it had been out. He stood and walked to his friend’s side. Daniel Boone was standing beside a tree, fingering its bark. "Dan’l?"
Dan frowned. The early morning sun struck the tree’s hide and illuminated the places where some of it was missing. It was obvious someone had been tied there and the rope had stripped away the bark. He also noted several places where it looked like a knife-point had been driven into the tree’s soft flesh, just about where a tall man’s head would have been. His frown deepened as he scraped a rust-colored substance from the exposed surface with his nail. He tasted it and spit it out.
"Blood?" Yad asked as he shifted his hat to the back of his head.
"Yep." Dan pointed to the ground. "What do you make of those?"
The blond man squatted over the prints. "Two... No, three people. One pair of moccasins and two other prints, kinda small." He whistled. "Them looks like a woman’s slippers. You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?"
"Has to be ‘Mima." Dan scratched his head. "I don’t understand what’s got into that girl. What could she be thinkin’, comin’ out here on her own? And why was she trackin’ Mingo?"
"Er, Dan’l...."
Dan’s green eyes narrowed as they sought his friend’s face. "Yad. You know somethin’? Somethin’ you shoulda told me afore this?"
"Well, now, I don’t know nothin’ for certain. Just have a suspicion, is all. You remember when I was talkin’ to ‘Mima at the well?"
Her father nodded. "I do."
"Well, I didn’t rightly know what she was talking about. She kept makin’ all kinds of noises about the Injuns, askin’ how come we shot ‘em, and whether they or us was right or wrong. Then she said she knew somethin’. But she was close-mouthed as a clam about what it was."
"Did this have to do with Mingo?"
Yad nodded. He looked almost sick. "And Will McColl. I asked her if what she knew would put anyone in the way of danger. She told me ‘no’."
Daniel Boone shook his head and placed his hand on Yad’s shoulder. With a wry smile, he asked, "How long since you been around that sister of yours?"
"Virginia?" Yad shook his head. "Not long enough."
The tall man laughed. "Well, take it from a man who lives with two women everyday of the week; if a woman says ‘no’...."
"She most likely means ‘yes.’" Yadkin drew a breath. "So what now?"
"Those tracks we saw earlier...."
Yad nodded. There had been two sets. One leading towards Boonesborough, and the other away from it. "Yep?"
"I figure Mingo’s headin’ for home."
"To the Cherokee village? Why?"
"Mingo’s smart. He’d know McColl would think he would come lookin’ for me."
"But Dan’l. There were three sets of moccasins going Northwest."
"And two sets of boots, one headin’ northeast, and the other just plain north. You figure you know why?"
Yadkin shook his head.
"I figure Will was making some kind of deal, maybe with the Shawnee. This is part of the territory they’re claimin’. He’s sent Isaac back to the settlement and the Shawnee after Mingo, and he’s headed toward that group of outlayin’ cabins to rouse men against them both."
"Cabins?"
"You remember. That group of stubborn homesteaders who came through and insisted on settlin’ right next to the Cherokee land. Patrick Mallone’s one of them...."
The blond indicated he did. "Just goes to show what kind of a man Menewa is, toleratin’ ‘em there."
"Toleratin’ is the word. Mingo’s headed off trouble with them a half a dozen times."
"You think McColl...."
"I think Will McColl is a man who knows how to fan a fire, and like Nero, he’s like as not to pull out a fiddle and watch while Boonesborough and the Cherokee village, and maybe all those people’s homes burn."
"I’d like to take the strings on that fiddle and wrap ‘em around his scrawny neck."
"Yad," Dan said as he hefted his rifle and pointed it in the direction Mingo and the children, as well as the unnamed men in moccasins had gone, indicating they should follow. "Now, that ain’t a very charitable thing to say."
"Well, I ain’t in a very charitable mood."
"I don’t know," the frontiersman slapped him on the back, "seems to me a little music might be called for in this situation."
"Dan’l? What are you talking about."
He smiled grimly. "I mean to find William McColl, and make him dance to my tune."
"Mingo?" The Cherokee was holding his side and breathing hard. They had traveled through the night and now, as the sun began to rise, had paused to catch their breath and share a meager meal of berries and nuts. He had not wanted to risk firing the rifle for fear it would draw their pursuers, and he was too unsteady to track and kill something on foot with the knife. Billy McColl had refused food and fallen asleep immediately in the shade of a giant oak tree, while he and Daniel’s daughter had temporarily taken shelter within the embrace of a cluster of green bushes going brown.
He straightened up and looked at her sideways. "Yes, Jemima?" She stared straight at him. The right side of his face was bruised and bloodied. It made her wince. "I’m sorry."
Mingo shook his head. "I believe that is the fourth or fifth time you have said that to me."
"I can’t say it enough. I was so stupid."
"Stupid?"
The girl had finished her food and was twisting her tattered skirt between her fingers.
"I thought.... Well, I was scared. I mean," she glanced at him, "you seemed so different from me at first, but you’re not. Not really."
"No?" He hid his smile as he turned toward her. "But I have copper-skin and black
hair, and almost black eyes. I wear feathers and beads." He nodded towards his feet. "And moccasins. I don’t plow the fields, or till, or work in a mill, or— "
"That’s not what matters." Her fingers paused and she looked up at him. "I tried,
but I couldn’t do it."
"Couldn’t do what?"
"What the others wanted. Think of you as something other than a man." Tears entered her eyes. "Mingo, I am so— "
He stopped her. "Jemima, do you remember the story of the woman taken in adultery in the Bible?"
She blinked. "Yes...."
"Do you recall what the woman answered when Jesus of Nazareth asked her where her accusers were, and if anyone had condemned her?"
Jemima nodded. "She said, ‘No man, Lord."
The Cherokee smiled. "And what did Jesus say after that?"
One of the tears fell. "He said, ‘Then neither do I condemn thee; go and sin no more."
He placed his hand over hers. "Jemima, I forgive you. Now, you must forgive yourself. And that is the hardest part."
She was silent a moment, and then she asked, "So, do you still want to be friends?"
He nodded. "Yes. Very much."
After wiping it on her skirt, she held out her hand. "Friends?"
Mingo took it and squeezed her fingers. "Friends."
"Mingo. ‘Mima." Billy McColl scooted into the leaves beside them. "Someone’s comin’."
The pair turned toward him. Mingo shifted sideways and reached for his rifle. As his fingers closed on it, a foot clad in soft doeskin came down on the barrel and pinned it to the ground. The Cherokee looked up just as the Shawnee warrior raised his other foot. He raised his arm to shield his wounded side even as the man used it to thrust him back and pin him to the ground.
The Shawnee nodded to his companion who reached out and hauled Jemima to her feet. Billy rose on his own and found himself looking down the barrel of a flintlock. At the sight of the two bare-chested, painted warriors he went pale and began to shake.
"You are Mingo?" the warrior demanded.
He didn’t see much sense in denying what they obviously already knew. "Yes."
"You were to meet with the Shawnee at dawn with an answer. Will the Cherokee leave the land we claim as ours? You did not come, but a white man did." The Shawnee warrior cocked his head and asked, "You are the son of Menewa’s sister, Talota? The son of the Englishman? Is this not true?"
Mingo shook his head and refused to answer.
The warrior raised his hand as if to strike him. He did not, but gestured instead to his companion. Jemima squealed as a knife was placed against her scalp.
"Yes. Menewa is my uncle. And my father is English," he said quickly. "Do not harm the girl."
The Shawnee’s smile broadened. "Good. Now, we will see how much your life is worth."
Rebecca Boone stood in the doorway of her home, staring toward the horizon. Another day had passed and still there was no sign of her husband or her daughter. She glanced toward the curtained alcove where she had left Helen McColl the night before and wondered if she was sleeping. The small dark-haired woman had been overwrought and half out of her mind. Helen had wanted to go after her husband, but she had talked her out of it, reminding her that Yad and Dan were already on his trail, and she could only get in the way.
"Ma?"
Becky turned to find her son entering the cabin. He had risen early and done both his and his sister’s chores, as if somehow, that might help bring her home. "Is Jemima back?" he asked as he came to stand beside her.
"No," she combed his white hair with her fingers, even as he ducked, "not yet."
"Do you think Mr. McColl will hurt her?"
"I don’t think so, Israel. He has children of his own."
"What about Mingo?"
She kissed the top of his head and then led him by the hand over to the table where his breakfast was waiting. As he sat down, she gazed out the door again.
"You didn’t answer me," he said as he took a bite of a cornmeal cake.
"That’s because I don’t have an answer, Israel. I don’t know." She shoved her hair out of her eyes. "But I do know your father will do everything he can to bring them both home."
The boy turned and looked at the curtain behind him. "Is Mrs. McColl gonna eat with us?"
Becky nodded. "Yes. I was just going to let her sleep as long as she could. Poor thing. She was so exhausted— "
"Sleep?"
His mother frowned at him. "Yes, sleep. I hadn’t called her yet."
"She ain’t in there, Ma. She’s up and gone."
"What?" The redhead crossed the room quickly and pulled the curtain aside. The bed had been slept in; in fact, it looked as if a battle had been fought there, but it was empty now. She turned and stared open-mouthed at her son.
Israel rose to his feet and came to her side. "I saw her outside when I went to fetch the water. She was walkin’ by the trees with her head down. And when I looked back, she was gone."
Continued in Chapter Four