The Wolf and the Stag

The leaves beneath him were damp and cold, and the early morning air, wet with dew, held a chill that set him shivering. Andrew watched the trees take shape about him as dawn began to lighten the forest. His stomach growled, a deep rumbling sound that he was sure could be heard for miles and he held his breath. He had not eaten since two evenings before, and he didn’t know when he would eat again, for he had no weapon and little knowledge even of how to forage for food.

After leaping from the cliff, he had felt his way toward the sound of running water and after several yards, came across a wide creek. By the moon’s feeble light he could make out the opposite bank and he waded across, angling west upstream away from the village. He spent a miserable night, sleeping fitfully and then only because of sheer exhaustion.

Andrew got slowly to his feet, stretched cramped muscles. The forest was in full light now. To the east a reddish orange glow showed through the trees. He looked around, peering up at the cliff above the tops of the trees. Suddenly he realized that this place looked familiar. He studied the landscape in earnest. Yes. That big oak, with the gnarled washed out roots. Why up over that ridge was the farmstead that—He sucked in his breath, moved slowly, quietly up the incline, past the gnarled oak, making his way through the undergrowth. In a moment he caught a glimpse of a clearing and a building. He could see the angle of its roof through the leaves.

Andrew knelt at the edge of the trees surveying the clearing. He avoided looking at the corncrib. All appearances told him no one had passed here to disturb the place since he and McClave and the others had stopped here in January. There was a smell in the air, a thick musky scent that he knew came from the corncrib. He looked back at the cliff. This was the reason he would wager that the Ottawa took them up over the rocky crest, a much longer route. They didn’t want to come this way. This was the place of the dead. The smell was in the air. He knew now where the Ottawa were headed. He guessed they would strike the trail he and McClave had traveled, no more then a quarter mile from here. And it would take them longer coming down off the mountain ridge. They probably wouldn’t reach the path until midmorning. The knowledge suddenly frightened him. Knowing that he could ambush them! But he had no weapons and there were five of them. He stared at the cabin. There must be something there, missed by the others, that he could use.

Slowly he pushed open the cabin door. It swung inward with a rasp of rusty hinges. A foul moldy smell met his nostrils. He looked around the room. The place lay as they had left it. He took a step into the room. There was an eerie chill in the air and a strange sensation came over him as though eyes watched him. Leaning against the stones of the fire place, next to the woodbin, he saw a long-handled ax. He crossed the floor and snatched it up. The blade was covered with rust, but still sharp. In a drawer in a tall scared corner cupboard, he found several butcher knifes. He took one with a thick sturdy blade nearly a foot long and slipped it in his belt. With a last quick glance about the room, he left, pulling the door closed, glad to be out in the cool fresh morning air.

As he hurried along the path, Andrew couldn’t shake his uneasiness. What if the Ottawa had started out early, guided by the light of the moon? They could be well past the point on the path that he expected them to be. He shrugged, what was he going to do anyway when he actually confronted them. He tried to remember. Only one of the Indians carried a rifle, the others were armed with bow and arrow. Be what may, he breathed; he damn sure wouldn’t let them take him alive again.

His palms were wet with sweat as he gripped the ax handle. Through a tiny opening in the underbrush Andrew watched the lead Indian approach on the path. He moved with long quick strides, his eyes sweeping the path and the woods ahead. Andrew held his breath. He lay only a few feet off the path in the thick brush. He had burrowed into the thick leaves still wet with spring thaw, covering himself till only his eyes showed. How long he had lain there, not moving, trying to ignore the insects that wormed their way into his hair and the ugly wood spiders that crawled over his hands, he didn’t know. Such a time had passed without any evidence of their approach that he was certain they had gone another way, or had passed ahead of him. On several occasions he had almost abandoned the whole thing. But then, all of a sudden, the Indian had appeared, sending Andrew’s heart racing in his chest. The Indian moved silently, like a mirage. Andrew stared. He carried no rifle and his bow was slung over his shoulder. In his right hand, however, he carried a long curved war club.

The Indian passed only feet away. Andrew now could hear his soft padded steps and his low grunting breath. It was several heartbeats before Andrew caught sight of the others. The second Indian, his long hair held in place by a leather strap about his head, held a tether strap in one hand, the other end was fastened around the throat of the girl Katsi had called ‘My-sister’. She walked with head bowed, hands bound in front of her. Immediately behind was a third Ottawa. He too clasped one end of a leather rope which was tied about Katsi’s neck. She also walked with head down her shoulders slumped, subdued. Next to come into view was the warrior with the rifle, followed by the last Indian several paces behind. Andrew steeled himself, holding his breath as the warriors leading Katsi and the other girl passed. The Indian with the rifle was abreast of him now. One step past, two. It had to be now. Andrew leaped to his feet and at the same moment he let out a loud piercing scream. Had Andrew been on the path and had such an apparition suddenly sprang screaming out of the ground, face caked with dried blood, dead leaves clinging to his clothes and in his hair, like rotten flesh, he would have doubtlessly reacted as did the terrified Ottawa. That they thought him a devil spirit was without question. The Ottawa with the rifle staggered backward a step, too overawed with fear to even bring the firearm to his shoulder. Andrew buried the ax in the center of his forehead and he fell in a heap the only sound was the crack of his skull as the ax blade split it open. Hardly missing a stride, Andrew whirled upon the Indian following behind. Two strides and the ax smashed into the side of his head and he went spinning off into the brush. Still screaming, Andrew turned upon the others—the two holding the tether straps—rushing at them with the ax raised over his head. Without hesitation, both Indians dropped the tether straps at the same moment and whirled, one slipping on the path in his haste and falling to his knee. He bound upward and leaped down the embankment toward the creek, crashing through the brush without a backward glance. The other sprinted down the path on the heels of the warrior who had been in the lead. Andrew raced after them a short distance before he halted, panting. He could hear the sound of their terrified cries as they crashed through the underbrush disappearing from sight.

Andrew turned to find both Katsi and Kariwadeh huddled on their knees in the center of the path. Katsi stared at him with wide terror-filled eyes. Kariwadeh knelt, hands covering her face, refusing to look at him, her whole body trembling.

“M’sieur A—André?” Katsi whispered, finally, voice quivering with disbelief.

Andrew knelt before her, and pulling the knife from his belt, quickly cut away the bindings about her wrists.