"I don’t know, Dan’l. It just ain’t like him."
Daniel Boone smiled. Yadkin had only known the Cherokee a short time and he already thought he was an expert. But this time, he was right. "I agree. Mingo isn’t the kind of man to say one thing and then do another." The frontiersman frowned as he gazed down the long lane before their cabin. "The trouble is, where do you start lookin’?"
"Well, them Injuns, Dan’l, they’re mighty hard to track even when they want you to foller ‘em. Wasn’t he runnin’ a message for his chief?"
Dan nodded. "To the Shawnee."
Yadkin shook his head slowly from side to side. "The only thing the Shawnee in these parts like less than a White man is a Cherokee man. What was Menewa thinkin’?"
"Could just be routine; huntin’ rights and such. Still, the fact that Mingo ain’t back is a cause for concern." Dan turned and hollered loudly into the cabin. "Becky, fetch Ticklicker and come outside."
In a moment the redhead appeared, rifle in hand and a sour expression on her face. "Daniel Boone," she said as she handed the flintlock and his shot bag to him, "how am I ever going to teach your children proper manners with you bellowing like a grizzly bear and ordering your wife around like a serving girl?"
Dan looked chagrinned. He kissed her quick and then looked toward the sky and yelled again. "Bless you, Becky Boone," he cried, "and please and thank you!"
A moment later, as Becky struck him on the chest and walked past him to say hello to Yadkin, Daniel Boone’s two children appeared at the door. Israel was bright-eyed, and both he and the coonskin cap perched on his head were bushy-tailed and ready for the day. His sister was dragging her heels. Dark circles cradled her eyes. She looked pale and wan. For a moment Dan forgot about his missing friend. He crossed to his daughter and placed his hand on her forehead. "You comin’ down with somethin’, ‘Mima?"
"I’m fine, Pa," she whispered as she moved past him. "I gotta go get some water from the well."
Dan watched her as she ducked under his hand and continued on with her head down, towards the well. He frowned and glanced at her mother as she came to his side. "Becky, what?"
"I’m not sure," she answered as she sent Israel off to catch Hannibal, his pet goose. She had seen the bird in the side yard and meant to confine him before he and Yadkin had a chance to revive their feud. It was too early in the day for either of them to be honking. She turned and glanced at her daughter. "I don’t think it’s anything that a clear conscience wouldn’t cure."
Dan placed his arm about her and kissed her cheek. "Somethin’ troublin’ our girl?"
She nodded. "Mingo."
"Oh." He frowned. "Becky, I didn’t mean to cause such trouble when I accepted his offer to help. For us or for him. I wonder now if it was the right choice— "
She placed her fingers on his lips. "Hush. I think Mingo needed us as much as we needed him. Did you see how he enjoyed himself last night? And the more he is with us, the more at ease he seems."
"In the White man’s world. But Becky, he won’t ever be accepted by that world; not so long as there are men like William McColl in it."
She gazed up at her husband. "Trouble?"
He nodded. "I think so. Mingo is a mighty intelligent man, probably too intelligent for his own sake. He put Will in his proper place yesterday mornin’ at the tavern, and I don’t think he did himself any good."
"He’s very honest and straight-forward. I have noticed that. Those are qualities to be admired in a man." She smiled at her husband. "I should know. I married one of the best."
He kissed her forehead. "Mingo’s one of the truest men I have ever known, Becky. Still, even those of us who are straight-forward have had to learn when to hold our tongue, or how to coat it with somethin’ sweet, so the things we say don’t raise the hackles on someone’s back."
"Something sweet?" She traced a fine white line on his cheek with her index finger. "As all these scars on that handsome face of yours—and the fights that have gone with them—go to prove."
"But I’m not an Indian, Becky."
"Neither is Mingo, really. Only part."
He nodded. "But that’s the only part Will McColl can see."
Jemima was standing by the well with the empty bucket in her hands. So intent was she on her thoughts that she didn’t even start when a shadow fell across her. A moment later she did jump as a hand caught the edge of the bucket and tugged on it. She looked up and then smiled weakly.
"Hi, Yad."
Her father’s old friend narrowed his blue eyes. "Somethin’ wrong with the water in this here well?"
She frowned and edged forward to peer into the darkness. "Is there?"
"Well if’n there ain’t, it’s probably feelin’ a mite rejected by now. You been starin’ at it all this time and it ain’t never made the acquaintance of your bucket."
Jemima laughed at that. "You’re funny, Yad."
He smiled and cocked his head. "There now. That’s better. That long a face ain’t proper on a Boone. What’s eatin’ at you, girl?"
She glanced back towards the house. Her mother and father had gone inside. "Yad...."
"Yes, Ma’am?"
She laughed again. "How can two people believe somethin’ different, and both of them be right?"
He frowned. "Can they?"
For a moment she looked startled, then she realized he was prompting her to go on. "You want me to explain?"
"Here, you give me that there bucket, and while I fill it, you tell me what’s wigglin’ in your craw."
"You won’t tell Ma? Or Pa?"
Yadkin frowned. This was more serious than he thought. The Boone children rarely hid anything from their parents. "If’n it don’t put no one in danger, I swear," he crossed his heart with his fingers, "I won’t breathe a word."
She scrunched up her nose. "Well, I don’t think anyone could be in danger." Then she shook her head. "I just don’t understand, Yad."
"Bout what?"
"The Indians."
Yad was lowering the bucket into the well. He watched as it struck the water and disappeared, and then looked back up at her. "This ‘cause of Mingo?"
Jemima nodded. "I like him."
"Well, I like him too. He’s a mite odd, what with usin’ all them high-falutin’ words I can’t rightly understand. Not that I care too," he added gruffly, ‘plain old English is good enough for me." He stopped and thought about it a moment. "Don’t seem right callin’ it ‘English’ anymore, do it?" With a nod, he finished, "Plain old American is good enough for me."
The girl tried not to laugh. Plain old English was what the Cherokee spoke, and better than any of the rest of them. "But I shouldn’t like him. Should I?"
"Why not?" Yad drew the bucket out and rested it on the side of the well.
"He’s an Indian. You shoot Indians. You and Pa."
Yad nodded. "I have shot my fair share, but never without cause. And not without them tryin’ mighty hard to shoot me first."
"Why were they tryin’ to shoot you? Did you do somethin’ wrong?"
Yad looked uncomfortable. "Well, that depends on your point of view. >From my ‘spective, no. From theirs? I guess you might say I had."
"I don’t understand."
Yadkin shifted uncomfortably and pulled at his mustache. These were deeper waters than he cared to tread in. "The Injuns, they have a different understandin’ of what it means to ‘sell’ land. You see, we bought this land here, fair and square. That means we own it now. They don’t seem to understand that. They think when you sell land, you sell the right to ‘use’ it. So if someone ain’t usin’ it, they think they can move back in. And then when they try to move back in, those that owns it now sends ‘em packin’. Sometimes with buckshot or lead."
"Is that why Billy McColl’s Ma was killed?"
Yad shrugged. "Ain’t rightly heard. William’s about as tight as a clam when it comes to his life afore Boonesborough. Is that what this is all about?"
She nodded, feeling only a little twinge of guilt. It was. Mostly. "Yes."
"You worried your friends ain’t gonna want to be your friends if’n Mingo is around?"
"Israel’s friends are little. They don’t understand. All they see is an Indian they can talk to. They like the beads and the feathers, and the way he uses that whip. My friends...." She paused. "Well, they ain’t...aren’t happy he’s here. Will lost his Ma. Katy her Pa...."
"But Mingo didn’t kill ‘em."
She reached for the bucket. "No."
He held onto it for a moment and waited until she looked up at him. " ‘Mima?"
"Yes?"
"If’n we judged every man by those around him, wouldn’t none of us have any friends. I ain’t exactly fond of the Indians, but meetin’ Mingo’s made me realize, they ain’t all the same. White men ain’t all the same either. I know you like that Billy McColl...." He watched as the girl blushed. "But you be careful around him, you hear? His Pa ain’t exactly walkin’ the fields with a full bag of seed. If you take my meanin’?"
She opened her mouth to say something, but as she did, her father stepped out of the cabin. "Yadkin, what’s keepin’ you? You decided to court my daughter or what?" he called.
The blond straightened up. He started toward the house with the bucket in his hand. "Try to do somethin’ kind to help out a neighbor, and what kind of thanks do it get you? Accusin’ me of tryin’ to take advantage of a sweet young thing like Jemima. I never in a hundred years heard of such a thing— "
"Yad."
"Don’t you hush me up, Dan’l Boone! I ain’t never been so insulted in all my born days...."
"Yad!"
It was too late. The toe of the blond’s boot caught under an exposed root and he and the bucket went tumbling to the ground. The water sloshed out and soaked his hair and buckskin shirt thoroughly. He sat up sputtering and gazed up at his friend; an exasperated look on his face. "Now why didn’t you go and try to warn a man before somethin’ like that happened?"
Dan laughed as he bent and retrieved the bucket which had split a seam. He glanced at his daughter. "Looks like that’s one chore you won’t be doin’ for a few hours, ‘Mima."
"Aren’t you gonna mend it, Pa? Ma needs the water. You know the other one has a hole in it."
"Guess I ain’t been keepin’ up with my chores. How about I fetch some with a pan or a kettle? You get your brother and go on about your chores. Berry-pickin’, wasn’t it?"
Jemima laughed. "Wimmen’s work, as Israel puts it."
Dan smiled. "After he battles a few of those thorny bushes, he may change his mind." He glanced at the sun which was already an hour or two past noon. "I’ll fetch that water, and then, Yad, I think you and me had best go lookin’ for Mingo."
Jemima stiffened. "Mingo?" she squeaked.
Her father nodded, "He was supposed to have been here by noon. It ain’t like Mingo to not show up. I hope nothin’ has happened to him."
The girl frowned and turned just in time to see Yadkin’s blue eyes fasten on her. She shook her head. What she had told him couldn’t possibly have anything to do with Mingo going missing.
Could it?
She thought about whatever it was Billy had taken from the Cherokee’s bag and wondered. Yad had seemed to indicate Billy’s father was the kind of a man who was capable of just about anything. But would he hurt an innocent man? Just because he was Indian, or only part Indian?
Billy’s cabin wasn’t too far away from the stream that the berry bushes lined. If she could just bribe her brother to keep quiet, maybe by letting him go to a friend’s house instead of helping her pick berries, she could sneak off to the McColl’s and make Billy tell her just what he had been doing, and why he had stolen whatever it was he had stolen.
"Jemima?"
She turned and looked at her Pa. "I’ll tell Ma we’re going. I hope you find him Pa." She was silent a moment and then she added. "I like him."
He smiled at her. "So do I."
Mingo moaned and lifted his head. He blinked his brown eyes several times and then gazed about. He seemed to be alone. He frowned, trying to remember what had happened. He had supped at the Boone’s and then started the trip to his lodge. There had been a noise; like someone in distress. He had stepped off the path and something had struck him hard from behind.
That was all he remembered until now.
He glanced at the sky. It was well past noon. He had had something to do by noon. Oh, yes, meet Daniel. The frontiersman would be wondering what had happened to him. He shifted, and it was only then that he realized he was bound hand and foot.
"Will, he’s wakin’ up."
Those four words painted a picture Mingo was not overjoyed to contemplate. They meant he was a captive and, unfortunately, he was fairly certain he knew who his captor was. He looked up to find William McColl staring down at him. The sandy-haired man was smiling. It was not a pleasant sight.
"Well, savage, I guess the table’s done been turned. You don’t look so high and mighty now."
Mingo frowned. "It has never been my intention to appear ‘high and mighty’." He attempted to right himself and sit up. "I am no better than the next man— " His sentence was cut short as McColl knelt and with one swift movement, pinned him against the tree behind him and pressed a knife to his throat.
"You ain’t as good as the next man. You ain’t a man, at all. You’re a beast, like all of ‘em. An animal with no understandin’ of what it means to be a man."
Mingo drew a breath. This was nothing he had not heard before. "I beg to differ with you...."
McColl laughed. He eased up on the knife and stood. "Oh, you’ll beg all right, Indian, before I’m done with you. You called me a ‘devil’ before." He smiled. "You ain’t seen nothin’ yet."
Billy McColl watched his Pa from across the camp. He was still having a hard time getting the image out of his head of him stepping out of the trees and striking the Indian on the back of the neck with the butt of his rifle with no warning. His Pa had taught him you didn’t do that. You were always to give fair warning; even in a fight. You were to respect your opponent. But then, that was when your opponent was a man.
This was an Indian.
Billy frowned and placed his head in his hands. The voices that danced in it were many and they confused him. His Pa had told him that all Indians were animals; unthinking savages, wild as bears and uncaring as panthers. He said the only thing to do with them was to put them down like rabid animals. After his Ma had been killed those words had been easy for him to hear. When it got to hurtin’ so bad he thought he might die, he had imagined his hands around one of the savage’s throats, and it had helped. For a while. But lately, Helen had tried to talk to him. Quietly, she had begun to counter the venom his father fed him. And two days ago, she had told him her secret. Her grandpa had been a Wyandot. He had looked at her with her dark hair and wide beautiful eyes, and he had seen it for the first time. His Pa didn’t know. Neither did Mary or Abigail. She had trusted only him with the knowledge, hoping it would help him to grow.
He glanced up at his Pa and saw him kneeling in front of the Indian. His Pa had sent him to the Boone’s cabin to steal something from the savage’s bag so they could implicate him in some sort of a crime and force him to leave the area. He had gone reluctantly. Once it would have been easy for him to see the native as nothing more than a dirty Redskin, but since Helen had spoken to him, it wasn’t so easy. She wasn’t an animal. She was now his Ma. He had met his father in the woods as they had agreed, and given him the small knife in its beaded case. But then things had changed. His Pa hadn’t left. Instead he had pulled him into the leaves and they had followed the Cherokee as he left the Boone’s cabin, and waylaid him on the path to his lodge. Billy had stood staring down at him and thought about Helen’s Pa. He would have been just like him; half-White, half-Red. And he hadn’t been an animal either, but a man, and someone she loved— just as he loved her.
Billy drew a breath and held it. His Pa was on his feet again and coming towards him. He stood as he drew abreast.
"I thought I told you to get some sleep, boy."
"Pa...."
William McColl frowned. "What?"
"This ain’t right. You know it ain’t." "Billy," he placed a hand on his son’s shoulder, "that Injun is a threat to all we have,
and to all we know. I ain’t gonna hurt him; just get rid of him, like you’d toss out a bad apple to keep it from contaminatin’ the whole barrel."
"But he ain’t an apple, Pa. He’s a— "
"Don’t you say it, boy. He ain’t a man. You get that kind of thought right out of that head of yours. He’s a savage; an animal."
"But Pa, he speaks English. I heard him at the Boone’s cabin. And he was helpin’ Jemima with the dishes. They weren’t scared of him. I don’t— "
"Daniel Boone’s a fool. You can’t trust none of them. They’ll act like they’re your best friend, and then they stab you in the dark." He glanced back at Mingo who was sitting quietly in the shadow of the tree; his eyes on the flintlock rifle Isaac Clay was pointing at him. "And the educated ones are the worst. You take a bear. It ain’t smart. You can sneak up on it and kill it quick enough. Most Injuns are like that. But this one...he’s smart as a cougar." McColl’s voice fell. "It’s the smart ones that are the most dangerous."
"Pa...."
"One more word, boy, and you’ll feel the backside of my hand. And don’t you get any thoughts about tellin’ no one about this. You were the one in that cabin. You’re the one the finger will point to if they figure it out."
Billy chewed his lip. He didn’t know this man anymore. Sometimes it seemed when the Indians had killed his Ma, they had taken his Pa away too. He looked again at the man beneath the tree. Was he like the wild animals his Pa hated who had done that? Or was he like the man Helen remembered?
How could two people believe such different things, and both of them be right?
"What are you gonna do with him? You ain’t gonna kill him, are you?"
"Ain’t none of your business what I do, boy. Now, I think it’s time for you to go home."
"But Pa...."
"I don’t think you have the stomach for this. The frontier is a hard place. Hard choices have to be made. Can you make them, and stand by them?"
The boy nodded. "I don’t want to go home."
William McColl stared at his son. He saw his Ma in the boy as he did every time he looked at him. She had been dark and small, like Billy, with great big blue eyes. He closed his own eyes and passed a hand over his face. This was right. This was good. And the sooner the boy saw it, the safer he would be.
"Isaac?"
The other man stood and turned toward him. "Yeah, Will." "Give Billy your gun. He can watch the savage while I talk to you."
"You sure....?" "Yes, I’m sure." He placed his hand on his son’s shoulder. "Don’t fail me. And don’t listen to him. He’ll talk your ear off, and make you think the sky ain’t blue and the grass ain’t green if you let him. You want me to gag him?"
Billy shook his head. "No."
"If he tries to run or cry out, you’ll have to kill him."
The boy swallowed hard. "I know."
The older man nodded. "Get goin’ then. I’m trustin’ you," he called after him.
Billy met the Indian’s eyes as he took the gun from his father’s friend. He pointed it straight between them. "I know."
"He isn’t here?"
"I’m sorry, Jemima. No, neither Billy nor his father are here. They went hunting. I thought he would have told you that when he came to your cabin last night. But you can talk to Mary. As a matter of fact, I was about to send her to your place with those quilting squares. Now you can take them." She turned toward the cabin and then looked back at the girl. She seemed distracted. "Jemima?"
"Yes, Ma’am. I’m sorry. I was just wanting to talk to Billy."
"About?"
She stared at the dark-haired woman. "Nothing important. Why do you ask?"
Helen shook her head. "Billy seemed upset last night. I thought maybe you would know why."
"Before he left?"
"Yes. Jemima, what is it? Do you know something?"
"No, Ma’am. I’ll just go say ‘hello’ to Mary then, and be on my way. I have to pick up Israel at the Lewis’, and then get these berries back home."
Helen eyed the basket the girl held. There were, perhaps, two dozen berries in it. She put her hand out. "I don’t think your ‘hunting’ proved very fruitful. I have some extras. Why don’t you let me fill that for you while you and Mary are talking."
Jemima dipped slightly. "Thank you, Ma’am."
Mary McColl was just coming around the side of the cabin. When she saw Jemima her eyes lit up. She grabbed her and pulled her into the shadows and whispered conspiratorially, "Jemima, I’m so glad to see you. So what happened last night?"
Jemima frowned. "What do you mean?"
"With that Injun. Is he gone?"
"You mean Mingo?" She paled. "Why would he be gone?"
"Mingo? You call him by a name?" The girl’s expression darkened. She tossed her ebon curls. "Well, I guess even animals have to have a name."
"Mingo’s not an animal."
"He’s an Indian, isn’t he? You sound like one of those Indian-lovers. Indians killed my Ma." She pushed her bangs aside and pointed to the scar beneath them. "They did this."
Jemima stood her ground. "But Mingo didn’t."
"What’s the matter with you?" the girl snapped testily. "I thought you were my friend."
"I am. But being a friend doesn’t mean agreeing with you when you’re wrong." Jemima drew a deep breath. "Where’s Billy? What is he up to?"
Mary looked at her with disgust. "I’m not telling you anything. And here’s your Ma’s squares." She thrust the cloth out before her. "I’m not setting foot in your cabin while that ignorant savage is anywhere nearby— "
"Ignorant?" Jemima was growing hot. "I’ll tell you who is ignorant. You are. You and your Pa. You can’t hate a whole group of people just because of what one or two did."
Mary threw the squares at her feet. "I can. And I do. And I hate you. Go to your Indian friend and see if he’ll walk to school with you, or run, or go berry-picking. After this, you won’t find anyone else who will."
With tears filling her eyes, Jemima bent to pick up the squares. Even as the girl turned her back on her and walked away, a slender shadow fell across one of the brightly colored pieces of cloth. She looked up to find Helen McColl. The older woman knelt to help her gather them up.
"You heard?" Jemima asked as she sniffed.
Helen nodded. "I am sorry. I try, but they won’t listen."
Jemima wiped her nose with her sleeve and stood up. As Helen handed her the last of the squares and rose to her feet, she asked her, "How come you married Mr. McColl?"
Helen was silent for a moment. Finally, she answered. "Will has good things about him. He cares deeply for his family. He wants what is best for them. He has made a home here," she looked around at the cabin and recently completed outbuildings; at the slender stalks of corn in the fields and the animals grazing nearby, "but he is blind on this one point. I thought, perhaps, I could help to heal the wound that had left him so. I know now I was wrong."
"What happened, Ma’am? To his wife, I mean. Do you know?" The dark-haired woman took a few steps toward the fence and leaned on one of its posts and gazed toward the horizon. "Yes. It was a sad affair from what I have heard, though admittedly Will’s telling of it is, by its very nature, biased. He had a friend it seems, a Seneca named Two Skies. He was a scout for the English in the War against the French, and that was where they met. When Will married and went to homesteading, Two Skies went with him." Helen paused again. "They were close. Like brothers."
"Mr. McColl and an Indian?" Jemima was astonished.
"Love and hate are funny things, Jemima. You’ll find out as you grow just how close one is to the other. Two Skies fell ill and stayed behind when Will went trapping one winter. Will’s wife tended him." She shook her head. "I take it when he came back, Will felt that his friend and his wife had gotten to know each other a little too well."
The girl’s eyes were wide. "Had they?"
"I don’t think so. Will is a jealous man and he has a terrible temper. There was some trouble, and Two Skies was killed. The Seneca blamed Will. They sought blood-revenge. He wasn’t home, and so it was his wife who paid the price. And his children." She sighed. "They are still paying."
"Mrs. McColl?"
She turned to look at the girl, "Yes, Jemima?"
"Do you know where Billy and his Pa are?"
Helen nodded. "I think so. Will was going to meet him at your cabin, and then he said they were headed for the falls. The one near the old French fort."
Jemima nodded. She knew where that was. "I have to go."
"Jemima?"
She remembered her mother’s words to her. ‘You have to decide, and then take action.’ That was just what she was going to do. "I’ve done something awful, Ma’am. Will you send Mary to the Lewis’ and see that my brother gets home?"
Helen took a step toward her. "Jemima, you can’t go into the wilderness alone."
"I have to, Ma’am. If something happens to Mingo, it’ll be my fault."
"Mingo?" She frowned. "Who?"
"Tell my Ma and Pa I’m sorry, will you?"
"Jemima!"
But it was too late. The trees had swallowed her and she was gone.
Mingo stared at the young man who sullenly occupied a nearby boulder, watching him. His fingers were white on the borrowed rifle he held, and he was sweating. The day had grown hot for September, but he suspected that was not the reason for the boy’s discomfort. He remembered seeing him at the Boone’s cabin the night before and knew he was William McColl’s son. He was probably just waiting for a chance to insult him, or for a reason to shoot him. He knew his mother had been killed in an Indian raid. The native shifted and glanced at the boy’s father. His back was turned and he was deep in conversation with his companion. He decided to chance it. Of the three, the boy was his only hope. "You seem ill-at-ease, Billy."
The boy frowned. "Shut your trap."
"Somehow I don’t think my remaining quiet will make you any more comfortable. Am I right? Is there something you would like to ask me?"
"No." Billy gripped the rifle tight. "There ain’t nothin’ you know that I would want to hear. Besides, my Pa warned me about you."
"About me?" Mingo’s smile was wry. "He doesn’t know me. How could he warn you?"
"He knows you well enough. He said you’d try to talk to me; to confuse me."
The native sighed and leaned his head against the tree. "I see. So your father is afraid of what I might say."
"He ain’t afraid of anything."
Mingo shook his head sadly. "Unless it be himself."
"What?" Billy slid off the boulder and came to stand beside him. "What’s that supposed to mean?"
He looked at the boy. "Only a man who is uneasy in his soul can hate with such a blind passion, Billy. There is something your father cannot face, and he is using his hate as a shield, so he does not have to face it."
The boy was frowning. "How come you talk like that?"
Mingo’s dark brows arched. "Like what?"
"Like a teacher. You ain’t a teacher. You’re an Indian. You ain’t supposed to be smart."
"So says your father?" The Cherokee pursed his lips. "Well, fathers say many things, not all of which are true. My father was an Englishman. My mother, Cherokee. I lived in her world when I was your age, but was educated in his, and remained there until I became a man."
"You lived as a White man?"
"Yes." Mingo shifted again. "Ironic, is it not?" "And you chose to come back here, to be an Indian? Why?"
"At times like this," he pulled at the cords that bound his hands, "I find myself asking the same question. Billy, I have found that among white men you are judged by what you do, by what you possess, and not by who you are."
The boy was still frowning. "Indians don’t do that?"
"Some do," he admitted, "but on the whole, no. Among my people it is who we are that counts. We do not own. We do not possess. We simply are. We live, we use what we must, replace what we can, and when we die, we pass into the Creator’s hands."
Billy was silent a moment. He had just been in the Reverend Keller’s class the day before. During the lesson, the stern old man had intoned almost without emotion some of the most beautiful words he had ever heard. "Consider the lilies, how they grow," he mumbled.
"They toil not, they spin not, and yet I say unto you, that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these."
The boy’s blue eyes narrowed. "Where’d you learn that?"
Mingo laughed. "From my father. You see, Billy, we are not so different after all."
"Billy?"
The boy jumped. "Yes, Pa?"
William McColl took a step toward him. "What are you doin’?" Billy straightened up. Unconsciously, he placed himself between the Indian and his
father. "Just checkin’ his ropes, Pa."
The sandy-haired man came to his side. He glared at Mingo and then turned
toward his son. "I want you to go with Isaac. We need some meat."
"Pa?"
"Do as I say."
The boy glanced at the native. He swallowed hard and then began to walk away. "Yes, Pa."
McColl watched him join the other man and vanish into the leaves. Then he turned back to the Indian. "I heard you talkin’ to my boy. How about you and me have a little chat, Injun." In his hand he held a short whip; the kind a man would use to discipline a dog. "There’s a couple of things I’d like to know."
Rebecca Boone nearly jumped out of her skin. Someone was pounding on the cabin door frantically and calling her name. She put down the rabbit she had been about to clean and wiped her hands on her apron as she moved towards the front of the cabin. "Hold on. I’m coming."
The pounding stopped as she lifted the board from its moorings and placed it beside the door. At first she had feared it had been one of her children, but then she realized they wouldn’t have called her ‘Rebecca’. She pulled the heavy door open and was surprised to find a very upset Helen McColl standing on her porch.
"Helen?"
"Rebecca, is Jemima here?"
"No. She was going to the stream to pick berries, and then to your place." Fear struck her and made her heart pound. "What is it? What’s happened?"
Helen swayed. "May I come in?"
"Oh, forgive me. Here, come sit by the fire." It was early evening, before the sun had fully set, but after the air had begun to grow chill. Becky walked her to the bench and then sat down across from her. "Now tell me...."
"Who is Mingo?"
Becky blinked. "Mingo? A friend of Dan’s. Why?"
Helen frowned. Her fingers fidgeted with her deep green gown. "Just a friend? Why would Will have anything against a friend of your husband’s? I don’t understand."
"Will?" The redhead felt sick to her stomach. "Mingo is an Indian."
"Oh." Helen’s hand went to her mouth. "Not the one he got into the fight with at the tavern ?"
Becky nodded.
"Will was furious. He swore he was going to kill him. I tried to get him to calm down. He seemed to. Then he said he was going hunting." Her dark eyes grew wide. "Dear God."
"I’ll go get Dan." Becky was unfastening her apron. "He’s cutting timber with Yadkin. He can— " She stopped dead and turned back to look at the other woman. "Where’s Israel? And what about Jemima?"
"Israel is at the Lewis’. At least, that’s what Jemima said before she took off."
Becky’s head was spinning. It made no sense, but at least one of her children was safe. "Took off?"
Helen rose to her feet. "She said she had done something awful. She seemed to think whatever it was had put this Mingo in danger." The woman paused. "I think she meant to put it right. Becky, Will would never hurt her...."
"If he’s in his right mind. Do you think he is, Helen?"
The dark-haired woman stared at her long and hard.
"No."
Jemima’s face was scratched. Her cheek was bleeding and her dress was ragged and torn, but she had made her way through the woods and found Mr. McColl’s camp. It was quiet. A fire burned low at the center. She could just make out a figure lying on the ground. Another was keeping watch. She frowned and moved in closer, hoping to see who it was. As she did, she spotted a third. A tall lean man was bound to a tree. He was half-standing and half-hanging. There was just enough light to see the broken beads around his neck and the feathers dangling in his hair.
It was Mingo. He had been beaten.
And it was her fault.
Continued in Chapter Three