Chapter Three
Mackenzie stood on the palisade walkway, her hand on one hip, her sketching pencil poised. Major Albertson sat perfectly still on a camp stool, his face turned so that the light struck his red-bearded face at just the right angle.
Mackenzie paused, drew a line, and glanced at her subject again. It was important to her that these portraits be good. She needed to prove to her father that she could make money as an artist. She had to prove it to herself.
"Another sitting and I should be done with my sketching," she told the major. "Then I can begin painting." Her grandfather had taught her to paint and had advised that making polite discourse helped the subject to relax. It was easy enough to talk to Harry. She'd known him since she was a little girl and he was a green lieutenant like Burrow.
"I hope you're sketching me to be the good-looking hound that I am." He reached up to pinch his own ruddy cheek. "Not too fleshy."
"I sketch and paint what I see." She eyed him carefully, trying to judge the angle of his jawbone. "And what I see is a handsome, caring bear of a man."
He chuckled. "You could make a man very happy, Mackenzie. If I were a few years younger, I'd marry you myself."
She laughed at the ridiculous thought. "I don't make most men happy. My father's cross with me again. He doesn't think I should be standing up here, even though he knows that I need the direct sunlight. He's positive a sniper is going to murder me." She rolled her eyes. "Joshua is barely speaking to me because, two days ago, I refused to let him carry my slop bucket. Now, apparently, your Shawnee delegate is angry with me because he failed to show up for his sitting this morning. That's two in a row he's missed."
Major Albertson frowned, ruining the line of his mouth. "That Fire Dancer, he's a hard one to figure out. I'll speak to him, but I can't make any guarantees."
She nodded and reached out to lift his chin slightly. "Good. Right there." She sketched another line on her canvas. "You said he's a hard one to figure out. What do you mean?"
"He's an Indian. They don't make sense. I mean, I think he's honest enough. I believe he's really looking for peace, but how can you trust a man when you don't know what he's thinking? He just stares at you with those heathen black eyes of his. You can't read them like you can a white man's. DuBois doesn't trust him, and hell, they're supposed to be on the same side."
"I thought Fire Dancer wasn't on either side."
Albertson turned his head, ruining his pose. "Who told you that?"
Mackenzie thought before she spoke. She kept her gaze fixed on her canvas. "Fire Dancer and I were making conversation after supper that night in your quarters. I asked him why he was here. Could you please turn back? I need you to sit still."
He turned his head. "You shouldn't be having private conversations with savages. Especially not him, prince or not. And you shouldn't be alone with him, either. He's dangerous."
Fire Dancer's words echoed in her head. He himself had suggested that he was dangerous. Mackenzie wrinkled her nose. "Dangerous, how? He's a peace negotiator, the same as you. Besides, just what do you think he's going to do to me? Kidnap me?" She laughed. "He's surrounded by the King's armed soldiers, for sweet heaven's sake. You said yourself—no one can get in or out of this fort without your men knowing it."
"He's an Indian."
"Oh." She plucked a bit of lint from his red wool uniform coat. "And that automatically makes him a dangerous man, no matter how honest he may be, or how honorable?"
His reply was firm. "Yes."
She turned back to the portrait sketch. "Now you sound like my father." She licked her finger and rubbed the canvas where she'd made an error. "I swear, you men, you're all alike. You draw these lines in the sand and they're thick black lines. Don't you ever see the gray area? Don't you ever think that our side might be just a little wrong?"
The major rose. "You're saying we should let the Frenchmen take our land?"
"Our land?"
"Our people began colonizing in the name of England first. It's our land."
"And who was here before these colonists arrived, before the French arrived?"
He rolled his eyes. "This is why women shouldn't discuss politics. You don't understand the complexities." He threw up his hand impatiently. "I have to go. Duties to attend to."
Mackenzie smiled as he retreated. She seemed to have a knack for annoying people. She wasn't worried, though. She and Harry had shared many disputes over the years, and they always forgave each other later. "See," she called after him. "I told you I'd make a lousy wife!"
Late in the afternoon, Mackenzie sat on her camp cot, toying with a piece of writing charcoal and a bit of paper. She intended to sketch the fort walls, as she saw them, from the inside, but instead, she found herself sketching Fire Dancer's horse in the paddock below. The horse had returned sometime this afternoon, with its owner, she presumed. Perhaps Fire Dancer could meet with her tomorrow to let her begin her sketching. She thought she'd give Harry a day to cool off before she called for him again.
Bored, Mackenzie rose from the bed. It was hot inside the tiny chamber. No breeze blew, and the air was stifling. She went to her water bucket for a drink but found it empty. Grabbing her straw bonnet off a nail, she took the bucket and left the room.
In the yard, Mackenzie passed the water barrels that stood on pallets in the center of the yard. She knew from experience that the water in the barrels would be lukewarm and flat tasting by now. What she wanted was some cold water from the stream. Dropping her bonnet onto her head, she approached the fort gates. This time of day, they were often left open so that the men could hunt in the forest or exercise their mounts.
A soldier stopped her at the gate. "Can I help you?"
"The stream is straight ahead, isn't it?"
"Well, yes, yes it is, but—"
"But what?"
"But it's not safe for you to go there. If you want water, you can get it there." He pointed toward the center of the yard. The sow and her piglets were sleeping under the shade of the barrels.
"I want fresh water, and I want to walk. Is it or isn't it straight ahead?"
He lowered his musket to block her passing. "I'll have to get permission from the major before I can let you pass. His orders are strict about visitors."
"But I just saw Joshua Watkins pass through the gates not an hour ago."
"He was with a hunting party, and he is," the guard cleared his throat, "a man."
She gripped the bucket, controlling her irritation. "I just want to walk down to the stream and back."
"I'll still have to check with the major."
"I see." She smiled sweetly, changing tacks. "Well, go ahead."
"Now?"
"Of course. You go. I'll wait here." She fanned herself with her hand. "In the shade of the wall."
He stared at her in obvious indecision. "Well . . . all right. It won't take but a minute." He glanced at a soldier on the palisade above. "Clyde, can you come down and guard the gate? I gotta see Major Albertson."
"Be down directly."
Mackenzie smiled at the gate guard again and waved like a simpleton as he passed her. She waited until he was halfway across the yard and then walked out the gate, swinging her bucket on her arm.
Mackenzie entered the forest and immediately felt cooler. It was so damned hot inside the walls of the fort because no air could circulate. Only on the palisade wall could she catch her breath, but she was only permitted to walk there during the daylight hours. She'd spent four nights in the fort and on two of those nights, renegade Indian snipers fired muskets and flaming arrows over the walls. Apparently, on both nights, it was Fire Dancer's men who chased them off.
Her father and the major had paid her little mind when Mackenzie tried to question them as to why the Indians were shooting at them when they were in the midst of peace negotiations. Harry kept telling her that she didn't understand the Indians. Her father said nothing, except that she was to keep off the palisade walls after dusk, and away from any savages inside the walls. Even though they were Major Albertson's guests, he said they couldn't be trusted.
Mackenzie listened to the chatter of a towhee as she followed the path down toward the stream. She could already hear water bubbling over the rocks and she could imagine how cold and wet it would taste. Around a bend, she spotted the stream. It was narrow, perhaps only as wide as she was tall, but it appeared to be several feet deep in the center and the water was clear and fast moving.
She knelt on the bank and tossed down her bucket. With her hands she scooped up water and drank, sighing with pleasure. When she'd had her fill, she sat back on the bank, debating whether or not she should take off her boots and yarn stockings and wade in.
For a moment she watched a school of tadpoles zip in and out of a hollow in the bank. When she touched her finger to the surface, to her delight, they came up to nibble on it.
Mackenzie scooped up a handful of water and brushed the back of her neck, letting the rivulets trickle down her neck.
Suddenly, she had an uncanny feeling that someone was watching her. She glanced over her shoulder, but saw only a squirrel shimmying up a tree trunk. She faced the stream, suspiciously checking left and right. Something didn't feel right.
"Guess I should get back," she said aloud to calm herself. She stood up and leaned over to fill her bucket with fresh water. An Indian with the long black hair stared back at her from a reflection on the surface of the stream. "Fire Dancer?" She turned, feeling a little ripple of excitement.
Her blood ran cold. It was an Indian, but not him . This one's face was painted in red and black stripes. He held some kind of hatchet with dangling feathers in the air. His black eyes were filled with hatred for her.
Mackenzie stood frozen, too frightened to move or cry out for help. Sweet God, he's going to murder me in cold blood , she thought wildly.
He lunged toward her.
"Papa!" she screamed in terror. She swung the only weapon she had, the wooden bucket filled with water.
The Indian yelped and lurched left as she struck his head, splashing them both with water. When he swung the hatchet at her, she screamed again. "Help!" She dropped to the ground and rolled out of the way of the shiny blade. The bucket flew from her hands. Covering her head to protect herself, she rolled onto her feet, ready to spring.
She cringed at the whoosh of an arrow slicing through the air, then glanced up at the Indian.
An arrow protruded from his chest. His eyes widened in shock as he fell straight back into the leaves, dead before he hit the ground.
Mackenzie scrambled to her feet, intent on reaching the fort's walls. A hand descended on her shoulder, holding her down.
"No!" she screamed, wrenching from the strong grip.
"Mahtah , Mack-en-zie."
She whipped around and raised her fist, ready to pummel her attacker. But he said her name . . .
"Fire Dancer?" she looked into the familiar bronze face. "Oh, sweet heaven, it's you," she panted, pressing her hand to her chest. Her heart raced so fast that she thought it would burst from her chest. "That Indian he . . . you . . ." She wiped at the hot tears that ran down her cheeks.
"You are all right?" he asked calmly, as if he killed a man every day of the week.
"Yes, I . . . I think so." She still couldn't catch her breath. She was shaking all over. "He . . . he didn't hurt me. Just sc . . . scared me half out of my wits."
"Get your water. You must go back to the fort." He studied the forest uneasily. "Hurry, Mack-en-zie."
She watched as he pressed his moccasin to the dead Indian's chest, and pulled out the arrow. It made a horrible crunching sound as the barbed tip tore through his flesh.
She pushed herself up out of the leaves. She stared at the dead man, unable to believe what had happened. "He . . . he was going to kill me! Why would one of your men—"
"My men?" Fire Dancer gave a derisive snort. He wiped the blood from the arrowhead on his bare thigh and thrust the arrow back into the deerhide quiver he wore on his back. "That is not my man! That is Huron." He spat the word as if it was foul.
"Huron?" She picked up her bucket with shaking hands. There was blood on the bottom rim. The dead Indian's blood.
"Huron. Iroquois . Dogs. All the same. Get your water. Hurry."
She squatted on the bank to refill her bucket. She didn't really want the water now, but it was easier to fetch it than to argue. "So . . . so he's not one of your kind?"
"He is not one of The People , Lenape or Shawnee. Come." He signaled urgently. "You must go back. Now!"
With her bucket full of water, she ran down the path. Water sloshed against her legs. "So let me see if I understand. You're Shawnee, he's Iroquois, and Iroquois are bad?"
"This man is Shawnee of the Turtle Clan. The true People . He is Huron dog, an Iroquois dog."
"I understand," she said softly, catching sight of the fort through the trees. No one must have heard her scream. There was no unusual activity. "The Shawnee are good. The Huron are bad."
"Not all Shawnee are good. Not all Huron bad. Most are. But not all."
At the gates, Fire Dancer called in his native tongue to several Indians standing near some ponies. The men immediately drew weapons and slipped into the forest.
"Close the gates," Fire Dancer ordered as he strode into the fort with Mackenzie right behind him. He stopped just inside the walls. "You go inside." He turned away from her. "Close the gates!" he shouted again.
"We can't close them gates on your say-so." It was the same guard Mackenzie had outsmarted. "Hey, there you are. I wondered where you went. The major said you're not to go outside these gates. No way. No how."
"Close gates, now," Fire Dancer repeated.
"Yes," Mackenzie insisted, still so scared that her voice sounded strange to her. "You have to. Someone attacked me. A . . . a Huron."
The young man blinked. "Indians?" He raced for the gates. "Close the gates! Close the gates! Positions! Intruders!"
The fort yard exploded with activity. Men shouted and raced back and forth, passing off muskets, and rolling in kegs of powder. Dogs barked and howled. A musket went off accidentally. A string of curses followed.
Major Albertson burst through his door and out onto the plank walk. "What the hell's going on out here? Can't a man eat in peace?"
Fire Dancer laid his hand on her shoulder. "Go inside where you will be safe. Do not go to the stream without guards or a weapon. If you want water, or to bathe, this man will take you."
She nodded silently. His gaze held hers for a moment and there seemed something illicit about the way he looked at her . . . maybe even the way she looked at him. Did he actually think she would bathe in the stream with him there? For some reason, the idea didn't seem as shocking as it should have.
"Thank you for saving my life," she whispered.
He nodded and turned away to cross the yard, the muscles of his thighs and calves flexing as he strode, the flap of his loinskin fluttering just below his buttocks.
"Mackenzie!" Franklin burst through another door, and raced toward her.
Mackenzie let go of the bucket and ran for her father. She had been brave long enough. Now all she wanted was to feel his arms around her and know she was safe. "Oh, Papa," she cried as he wrapped her in his arms that smelled comfortingly of oxen and wagon wheel grease. "You're not going to believe what happened!"
Mackenzie stepped off the plank walk into the mud the instant she spotted Mary emerge from the rear kitchen door. "Good morning, Mary." She smiled, trying to appear friendly, but not intimidating. Her father said she intimidated women with her manly ways—that was why she had no female friends.
Mary glanced up and nodded. She had a woven basket of wet laundry tucked under her arm. The young woman was barefoot and wearing an English-style red calico dress with the sleeves cut off at her shoulders.
"Need some help?"
Mary shook her head, avoiding eye contact.
"Oh, come on, hanging clothes is no fun alone." Mackenzie walked toward her. "And what are you going to do with the basket whilst you pin the clothes on the line? Drop it in the mud?" She grasped one side of the basket and tugged. Mary gave in after a little resistance.
The young Indian woman began to hang Major Albertson's shirts and stockings.
"I've been meaning to introduce myself for days," Mackenzie apologized. "I'm Mackenzie Daniels. I've come to paint Major Albertson, Fire Dancer, and the French major, when he returns."
Mary glanced up shyly. "You paint men?"
Mackenzie chuckled. "I paint likenesses of them on canvas. Portraits."
For the first time Mary's gaze met Mackenzie's. "Likeness? This girl does not know the English, li-ke-ness."
"A likeness. A picture."
Mary shook her head, still not understanding.
Mackenzie thought for a moment, then pushed the laundry basket into Mary's hands. She picked up a charred stick that had been tossed into the yard.
"A por-trait," Mackenzie repeated as she picked up a board. It was the length and breadth of her hand. She looked up at Mary twice, sketching rapidly on the board with the charred wood. After a minute she raised it to show the Indian woman her efforts.
Mary's mouth opened, her eyes widened. "Mahtah! Mahtah!" She shook her head violently as if frightened and reached out to smear the sketch of her face until there was nothing left but a pair of braids and a black smudge.
Mackenzie frowned in confusion. "I don't understand. It's just a picture."
Mary walked away. "Likeness bad. No likeness, Mary."
Unsure of what she'd done wrong, Mackenzie dropped the wood and ran back under the clothesline. "I'm sorry. I don't understand, but I'm sorry. I . . . I didn't mean to frighten you."
"Mahtah , likeness," Mary repeated again. "Bad."
Mackenzie sighed. Once again she'd stepped over some line of propriety, only this time, it seemed to be a cultural line. "Mary, I really am sorry. I was just trying to show you what I meant. What I do."
Balancing the basket on her hip, Mary flung a shirt over the clothes line. "It is all right." She glanced up. "You only want be nice this woman. No?"
"Yes." Mackenzie smiled. "I was just trying to be nice. I . . . I was hoping you and I could be friends."
Mary met her gaze with eyes nearly as black as Fire Dancer's. She had a pretty face. She was young, perhaps even younger than Mackenzie had first guessed. "Nee-tees . Fre-end. Good. Other white women, not be friend to Mary. Spit on her."
"I'm sorry you've had bad experiences with other English women, but I want to be your friend. Nee-tees," Mackenzie repeated. "A friend would be good for me, too. I don't have any friends here and I'm lonely," She hoped the girl understood at least part of what she was trying to say.
"This woman no have friend."
"You don't have a friend either."
Mary smiled, concentrating on her pronunciation. "Bad English. I do not have friend, eith-er. "
"Very good!" Mackenzie laughed, touching the young woman on her shoulder. "You learn quickly."
Mary smiled and then stared intently at Mackenzie's ears.
Mackenzie touched one of the tiny silver pendant earrings she wore. "You like these?"
Mary's eyes shone. "Pretty." She touched her own lobes where there were holes, but no earrings.
"Here." Mackenzie pulled one from her ear and then the other. "Take them." She exchanged the earrings for the empty basket. "As a gift. I have others."
Mary stared at the earrings in her palm. "Gift? For this girl?" She looked at Mackenzie with tears in her eyes.
"Yes. A gift of friendship."
Mary slipped on one earring and then the other. She had the expression of a woman who had just been given the coffers of England. "A gift for this woman," she repeated in awe.
"So now it's definite. You and I are friends, yes?"
Mary smiled at Mackenzie as she reached for the basket. "Friends, yes." Then she looked away, shy again. "Must go. Get bread from oven. Major like bread not burned."
"I understand. I don't want to keep you from—"
"Nibeeshu Hongiis!" A harsh male voice startled them both.
Mackenzie looked up to see a fierce Indian warrior standing near the door to the kitchen. He was an ugly man with pox scars, distended earlobes, and a glistening silver ring in one nostril.
"Okonsa . . ." Mary lowered her head and hurried toward him.
Mackenzie remained under the clothesline, obscured by Harry's shirts, and watched the exchange. She didn't know who the Indian was, but she didn't like the way he spoke to Mary as he put one possessive arm on her shoulder and motioned for her to return to the kitchen outbuilding.
When Mackenzie pulled back one of the wet shirts to get a better look at the Indian, her movement caught his eye. He turned his head to stare at her, his gaze disturbing. There was something empty about the way he looked at her, empty and yet possessing at the same time.
He lowered his hand to cup his groin in some kind of strange masculine stance.
Insulted, Mackenzie turned away. When she dared to glance back at the door, he was gone.