Love and Cherish Read online

  They traveled all afternoon without stopping, following no trail that Cherish could see. They had veered away from the creek and now walked steadily up and along a ridge through underbrush and scrub growth, down a ravine and up a hillside, twisting and turning through briar patches and thickets. Cherish lost all sense of direction, and time. She concentrated only on staying on her feet and keeping pace with Sloan.

  Cherish was not aware when Brown had moved on ahead and taken the lead. She was deep in thought as they made their way through a stand of walnut trees. The thick trunks were almost hidden by dense undergrowth. Her destination was uppermost in her mind. To keep her mind off her exhaustion, she tried to imagine what Sloan’s cabin would be like and how she would be perceived by his friends.

  Suddenly an arrow came silently from the right of them, lodged in the top of Brown’s head and dropped him instantly. Before Cherish could react, in sound or movement, Sloan pushed her backward toward a thicket. Her ankle turned and she almost fell, but she caught herself and kept going until she was surrounded by dense forest. Breathing hard, she slipped behind a huge tree and peered back in the direction from which they had come.

  Sloan was not in sight.

  Cherish was terrified. She could hardly breathe for the fear that choked her. Her hands shook as she took the gun from the sling and waited. She could see no one and hear no sound but the pounding of her heart. Passionately, she longed to be near Sloan. She screamed inside for Sloan but remained stone-still and absolutely quiet. She began to remember all the things she had ever heard about Indians—about their meanness, their cruelty and their treachery, their cunning and . . . their bravery.

  When she could stand it no longer, she cautiously moved out from behind the tree and glided swiftly to another farther on, eyes staring, ears straining for the slightest sound. She paused, then moved to another towering oak. Seconds—or was it hours—passed before she slipped quietly on, strangely calm now, determined to find Sloan and to help him.

  Cherish was peeking around the tree, planning her next cautious advance, when she saw the apparition that leaped from behind a tree ahead of her toward an unsuspecting Sloan. The Indian had a powerfully built body and his muscular arm brandished a tomahawk.

  She was so stunned she couldn’t cry out. Sloan turned to meet the charge but had no time to raise his gun and fire. In swift reflex, he stepped back and swung around the butt end, smashing the warrior in the face. Bones crunched. With a shrill scream, the brave fell back and lay still, his hand spread across his face as if to hold back the blood that spurted between his fingers.

  With a blood-curdling screech another warrior sprang at Sloan. His war-painted face was like a hideous devil mask. With no time to turn his gun and fire, Sloan fell backward to the ground to avoid the vicious swing of the brave’s tomahawk. Then with a trick taught him by his friend John Spotted Elk, Sloan thrust both feet upward. The sudden blow caught the Indian in the stomach and sent him reeling. Agile as a cat, Sloan leaped to his feet, slammed a shoulder into the Indian’s chest and grabbed the arm that wielded the weapon.

  The impact threw the two men to the ground, the Indian on top. Buckskin-clad legs wound around the wiry brown torso and bucked and heaved. The cords in Sloan’s neck stood out as he pushed desperately against the body pinning him. The tomahawk flashed up but was blocked by a blow that shoved the arm to the side. Sloan’s fingers dug into the Indian’s throat, forcing his head back, causing him to gag and suck wind.

  Leaping to his feet, Sloan yanked out his tomahawk, and without hesitation, without mercy, his powerful arm swung down and the sharp blade split the Indian’s skull. Without a moan, without a quiver, the Indian sank limply to the ground.

  Cherish had scarcely drawn a breath when she saw the brave with the bloody face rise to his knees, then to his feet and leap toward where Sloan was crouched. The wounded Indian, half-blinded by blood squirting into his eyes, lifted his arm for the killing blow.

  Cherish screamed inside, in her shocked terror unable to make a sound. Then she remembered that she was holding the pistol. As if in a dream, she felt her fingers pull and tighten as she swung the gun into position. She heard the shot, smelled the smoke, and stared at the blossom of blood growing on the Indian’s chest. He moved crazily about, like a puppet dancing on a string, then fell down, still twitching.

  Cherish stood, dazed, clutching the pistol. Sloan glanced at her and at the Indian she had killed. He never uttered a word. He pulled a knife from his belt and, placing his foot on the dead man’s cheek, seized his hair and yanked the skin up from the head. Cherish watched in sick horror as he cut it swiftly all around with the sharp tip of the knife. A powerful tug ripped the scalp from the head, which rolled to the side and lay in a widening pool of blood.

  The pistol dropped from Cherish’s hand and her stomach convulsed. She bent from the waist and vomited.

  Rage consumed Sloan; his breath rasped harshly in and out as he quickly took the scalp of the second Indian. Blood smeared his hands, stained his sleeves and moccasins. His own blood trickled down the side of his face from a cut on his forehead. He turned to Cherish, the bloody scalps dangling from his hand.

  “Goddamn bloody Huron!” He spat the name out, as if he had something filthy in his mouth.

  Cherish recoiled from him, shock and disgust plain on her face.

  “How could you do . . . that?” she whispered hoarsely. “You’re no better than . . . they are!”

  The anger of battle was still in him. He glared at her silently for a long while.

  She shivered at the killing rage she saw in his face.

  “Wasn’t killing them enough?” she asked. “Did you have to mutilate them too?”

  Still he said nothing.

  “Sloan?”

  “An hour with them and you’d have prayed to die.”

  “Yes, but . . . you didn’t have to do . . . that—” Her voice trailed helplessly.

  “They would have done it to me.”

  “But they’re . . . savages! For you to be so brutal—”

  “It’s a brutal land.” The anger left him, leaving his face stern. “It’s a brutal land, Cherish,” he said again. “A man does what he has to do to stay alive. As for the scalps, that is to let them know that when they tangle with Light Eyes they can expect no quarter. I’ve survived this long because the Indians and scum like Mote and Seth fear and respect me.”

  Cherish looked at him numbly.

  Moving swiftly, Sloan picked up the pistol, slipped the powderhorn from the straps of his pack, reloaded the gun and thrust it into her hands. He made a quick survey of their surroundings, slipped his knife and tomahawk in his belt, picked up his flintlock and moved back to the trail. With her eyes averted from the bloody dead bodies, she followed him and found him squatting beside Brown.

  In the horror of the past few moments Cherish had forgotten the dog. Now, with a little cry, she ran to him.

  Sloan looked up at her. With something like wonder in his voice he said, “He isn’t dead!”

  The arrow had penetrated the skin on the top of Brown’s head; the tip had slid along the skull, knocking the dog out. The arrow, embedded in the loose skin, gave the appearance of horns, with an equal amount of the shaft protruding on each side of the head. Brown’s eyes were open, but he was dazed.

  The smile on Sloan’s face reflected his joy at finding Brown alive.

  “The bastards,” he murmured. “They spent their one sure shot on you, old boy, because they knew that together we would be too much for them.”

  Sloan cut a notch in the shaft of the arrow and broke off the end. Holding his knee against Brown’s neck, he yanked the spear from the loose skin. Brown, becoming more alert, thrashed and struggled, but Sloan held him firmly to the ground, talking softly to him.

  “Stay still for just a minute more, old boy. You’re going to be all right. Take more than a couple of Hurons to get us. Of course, we had a little help from Cherish. We might not have made su
ch a bad bargain there after all,” he continued, speaking as if Cherish weren’t there to hear. “She’ll do to winter with once she gets the hang of things. Come on, get to your feet, boy. Let’s see if you can travel.”

  Brown got shakily to his feet and stood swaying. He shook his big head and moved around, coming back to stand close beside his master.

  “Sloan, why didn’t they shoot you with an arrow?” Cherish spoke as the thought came to her.

  “They wanted to take me back to camp with my hands bound and a thong around my neck. There will be much praise for the man who captures Light Eyes.”

  “More than if they killed you?”

  “If they had killed me they would have had to carry my body a couple hundred miles. He had the blunt end of the tomahawk turned. He was going to give me a tap on the head to knock me out.”

  “Would they have taken me with you?”

  “They would have raped you and then killed you,” he said bluntly.

  “Oh.” Cherish drew her breath in sharply. “Then . . . killing him was what I needed to do.”

  Sloan smiled. “You’re about the spunkiest woman I ever met . . . outside my grandma,” he said slowly.

  The surprise statement and the glimmer of admiration in his eyes caught Cherish unawares. Momentarily she forgot the dead Indians in the clearing and the two bloody scalps lying now at Sloan’s feet. Before she could respond, however, Sloan’s mood had changed.

  “We’ve been here too long already,” he said briskly. “That shot was heard for miles.” He stooped and picked up the scalps. “I’ll get rid of these. Whoever crosses this trail will know that Brown and I were here. They must believe that I took these with me. Wait here.”

  Cherish drew the pistol and waited nervously as Sloan disappeared into the woods. This time she didn’t have long to wait before he returned, materializing noiselessly out of the forest.

  “I found a hole in a hollow tree and dropped them in,” he told her.

  He had been to the creek, too, for his dark hair was wet and his face and hands free of bloodstains. The cut on his head had been washed and the cold water had stopped the bleeding. He picked up his pack and the blanket roll.

  “We’ll need to move fast and move all night.”

  Cherish replaced the gun in the sling and, with unsteady hands, smoothed the tangled hair from her face.

  “But can Brown travel?” she asked, looking at the dog doubtfully.

  “He’ll have to,” Sloan said gently and moved out. Brown, on slightly unsteady legs, took his customary position beside his master.

  CHAPTER

  * 11 *

  When they resumed the march, Sloan set a rapid pace. Cherish trudged resolutely behind him as usual, but there was a difference. Each time a bird called out, each time a shrub rustled, a squirrel scolded, she started nervously, certain an Indian was about to leap from the bush. Hours passed. Cherish became bone-achingly weary, but hardly aware of it, her fear overshadowing everything else.

  The sun disappeared. The scarlet fingers of dusk faded and the moon rose swiftly to cast a mellow light over the wilderness. With night came a creeping cold. The moon slowly climbed the cloudless sky, but Sloan showed no sign of stopping. He stayed as close as possible to the outer line of trees, keeping in the shadows. He walked more slowly than during the day, but just as steadily.

  Cherish was miserably tired and hungry, but she would not ask him to stop. She took shorter, quicker steps, hoping the exercise would keep the chill from her body. She worked her hands constantly to keep them from getting numb. Occasionally she cupped her hands over her face and breathed into them to warm her nose. She moved, kept moving, through the damp and now frosty grass and grew colder with each step.

  Just as Cherish was beginning to think that she could not take another step, Sloan stopped and dropped his pack. He knelt down beside Brown, examined him closely, then turned to Cherish.

  “Are you all right?”

  She nodded her head tiredly.

  Watching her, eyes narrowed, Sloan said, “It’s best if we go on, if you can.”

  He took the pistol from her and shoved it into his belt, untied the shawl and draped it over her head and around her shoulders. She snuggled her hands gratefully into its soft folds and hugged it to her. Sloan rummaged in his pack and brought out the cup and some meat scraps. The meat he placed on the ground for Brown.

  “Rest a spell,” he told Cherish. “I’ll get some water.”

  Too weary to care, she stood and waited, hardly aware he had gone. When he appeared before her, the cup brimming with the water, she looked at him dully and accepted the cup with both hands. While she drank greedily, Sloan took a small sack from his pack. When she returned the cup, he gave her a handful of dried berries and picked up his pack.

  “Brown’s enduring the trip,” he volunteered. “It’s good that it’s a cold night. Keeps his head clear.”

  Cherish concentrated on her scanty meal. She chewed slowly to make it last as long as possible, and she automatically fell in line behind Sloan when he moved out again.

  The moon disappeared, leaving the forest dark with predawn blackness. The shawl wrapped around Cherish’s head and shoulders and the split skirt wrapped around her legs protected her somewhat, but still she was damp and cold. Her tired feet bothered her more than anything else. They were bruised from rough spots she had been unable to avoid.

  It was after sunup and they were climbing a steep cliff. Cherish’s hands were torn from grabbing at trees, bushes, rocks—whatever she could grasp to help herself up. She prayed her strength would hold out. When at last she pulled herself up to the last ledge, she saw that they were in a grassy clearing above the creek and that Sloan was laying down his load. A great longing swept over her then to lie down, snuggle in a soft blanket and sleep. She felt as if she could sleep forever. Her legs trembled, and her head ached with long dull throbs of pain.

  Watching her, Sloan unrolled her blanket and spread it on the grass. He motioned her to him.

  “You sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

  She drew the shawl from her head and sank down wearily on the blanket, her eyes searching his face, not daring to lie down . . . not yet. Her eyes burned, and she had to open them wide to keep them open.

  “You’re tired too.”

  “You sleep. Then you can take a turn watching.” Gently he pushed her down and folded the blanket around her. “You’ve done well,” he said. “You kept up with me and made not one word of complaint.”

  She heard no more.

  The next thing she knew, Sloan was shaking her awake. She stared groggily up at him for a moment, then consciousness returned and she realized that the sun was low in the west.

  “Why didn’t you wake me sooner?” she demanded, sitting up quickly and wrapping her shawl around her shoulders.

  “Because you were tuckered out,” he said simply. “Besides, I had a chore to do.” He grinned and motioned toward his pack. With an elaborate bow, he announced formally, “Your dinner is served, madam.”

  A variety of nuts and dried berries lay on the pack alongside the cup filled with water.

  Cherish’s mouth formed a startled O.

  “A feast!” She smiled her thanks, smoothing her hair back with the palms of her hands.

  “We have a little cornmeal left. We’ll save it for mush when we can have a fire. Break the nuts with the stones”—he nudged two flat stones with his foot—“and try not to smash your fingers.”

  “Did you eat?”

  “Yes, and I squirreled away some of the nuts for later.”

  Sloan sank down on the blanket and stretched out, his flintlock by his side, and pillowed his head on his arms.

  “Wake me when dark begins to fall.” He closed his eyes for a second, then opened them to peer at her. “And wake me if you see or hear anything.” He closed his eyes again and was instantly asleep.

  Brown came and lay down beside Cherish. She ate the food and drank the water Sloan
had set out for her. The rest and the food had cured her headache but not her sore and tired muscles. While Sloan slept, she tidied herself as best she could, combing her hair and rebraiding it. She removed her moccasins and massaged her feet, then stood and flexed her arms and shoulders to drive the stiffness from her joints.

  She felt good keeping watch over Sloan, letting him rest. And—she could look her fill of him as he slept. This was the man who had saved her from the trappers and cared for her during the storm. He had fought Indians as much for her as for himself. It didn’t seem possible that this was also the man who, burning with rage, had scalped the Indians. She was still horrified by that action, though she understood why he had done it. He had survived life in the wilderness by his ability to turn as savage as his surroundings when the need arose. That ruthlessness would keep her safe.

  As darkness began to settle over the clearing she went to him and knelt down. She spoke his name softly only once and he came instantly awake. He looked up and met her smiling eyes. His face relaxed and he stretched his long frame.

  “It’s almost dark,” she said.

  “I see it is, sweet spunky woman.”

  Suddenly his long arms snaked up and encircled her, pulling her down beside him. Wrapping his arms about her, he wrestled her over on her back and leaned above her, grinning like a small boy pleased with himself. Her arms involuntarily went around him and she snuggled against his chest, savoring his warmth, his male scent, his strength. Her spirits soared on wild wings as he nuzzled his face against the side of her neck.

  “It’s time to leave,” he said against her throat. “I wish we didn’t have to go. I wish I could lie here all night with you in my arms.”

  “Sloan . . . I wish it too.”

  “Do you, sweet girl?”

  His lips traveled across her face, and when they reached her lips he gave her a quick kiss and sprang to his feet. Reaching for her hand, he pulled her up, looking at her for a long minute before he turned to assemble his pack.