WIND OF THE SPIRIT by J M Hochstetler

Author:J M Hochstetler
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Sheaf House Publishers
Published: 2013-03-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

Instinct was to fight her captor, but it was quickly apparent she had not the strength to break his grip. Twisting to look over her shoulder, she sucked in a sharp breath.

It was the shaman, Wolfslayer, whose bony fingers dug mercilessly into her arms. In the struggle to hold her captive, he wrenched her around until she could no longer see White Eagle.

With horror she noted that from the surrounding trees had emerged many more warriors than had been at the fire. Their wild appearance, heightened by the black paint that bedaubed them, was so fearful she could not hold back a whimper. As though in response, an undulating war cry resounded through the forest, its wild echo raising the hairs on the nape of her neck.

“Jonathan!” she screamed.

In unreasoning terror, she fought to break free, but her efforts were futile. Pulled loose from its braid in the struggle, her long hair fell into her face, blinding her. Sobbing convulsively, she shook her head in a frantic effort to clear her sight.

Through the tangled strands she made out the glint of moonlight on Andrews’s hair as Red Fox and Spotted Pony shoved him forward between the trees a short distance away. His hair and clothing were also in disarray, and a desperate glance assured her that his weapons had been taken from him.

As their eyes met, his face contorted with astonishment, quickly succeeded by appalled dismay. “Beth—no!” he cried hoarsely, then, “Jon, help us!”

He fought to reach her, but the warriors surrounding him quickly wrestled him to the ground. As he twisted toward White Eagle in supplication, she saw to her horror that Andrews was bleeding from a gash on his forehead. It had no more than registered in her consciousness that no response came from White Eagle’s direction when another commotion drew her attention.

From the forest’s inky blackness emerged yet more warriors, dragging with them Stowe, who loudly protested their manhandling. Shoved onto the path, he evidently caught sight of White Eagle through the press of warriors, for she saw that he suddenly gave up all attempts at resistance and fixed his gaze on his master with a broad smile of recognition and expectancy.

Elizabeth wished she could feel the same happy confidence in their salvation. But as her captor swung her forcibly around, she again caught a glimpse of White Eagle. Head thrown arrogantly back, he surveyed with perfect calm his jubilant warriors, who held them now in their barbarous sway.

The horror of that moment made it possible for her to fully believe the evil account the dying woman at Fort Pitt had given of the Shawnee war chief. And her heart sank like a stone cast into a rushing river.

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