Free Judith E French by Moonfeather Page A

man craned his head to see. Matiassu’s muscles tensed, and his scarred fingers tightened around his knife hilt.
    “Leah, lass!” Alex called out heartily. He hobbled toward them on his crutch, his tall sons flanking him on either side. “Welcoom home. We were worried aboot ye when ye didna coom back last night.” Alex slapped Matiassu on the shoulder. “Fresh meat. Be certain ye take some for yer lady. She’s been fussin’ aboot the lack o’ it in yer pot.”
    Amookas squeezed her ample body between Matiassu and Brandon. “Moonfeather, child,” she cried in Algonquian. “I’ve been worried out of my mind. What were you thinking to spend the night in the forest with a barbarian?”
    With a final sullen glare, Matiassu stalked away.
    Alex motioned with his head. “Ye’ve nay seen the last o’ him, lass,” he warned. “Take care.” He turned his attention to Brandon. “And well for ye, ye didna harm m’ lassie,” he said. “She trusts where she shouldna. There be ways and ways for a mon t’ reach the gates o’ hell. Do ye bring hurt t’ Leah, I’d find a way t’ make certain ye—”
    “Brandon will nay hurt me, Alex,” Leah assured him. “He is my husband. And English or not, he is a good man. He had plenty of chances to run in the forest, and he didna. He helped me drive off a bear and fight off an Iroquois.”
    “Iroquois?” Amookas frowned. “What is this of Iroquois?” Her two sons crowded close. “Tahmee!” Amookas called to a tall, thin woman scraping a deerhide. “Come quick, sister, and hear what’s happened.”
    “Someone shot at us in the forest,” Leah explained. “We saw Seneca arrows last night and again this morning. And we heard an Iroquois war cry, not an hour’s march from here, at the place of Thee-po-a-thee . I think it was one man, rather than a war party, but our warriors must be alerted.”
    “Aiyee!” Amookas raised her hands in shock. “To come so close.” She glanced anxiously at her sister. “Iroquois,” she repeated for Tahmee’s benefit. “Moonfeather and the Englishmanake were attacked by Iroquois.”
    “Oooo.” Tahmee’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Those butchers! They dare to come again to our hunting grounds!”
    “Let us sit,” Alex said. “Coom to the house and let us hear this tale from beginning to end. Aye, wife?”
    Amookas nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes. Come to my fire and eat. I will divide the venison, and we can all hear of these evil happenings.”
    Niipan, Alex’s son, went to fetch the council members who were present in the village. In minutes, nearly everyone in the camp had gathered around the entrance to Amookas’s wigwam to listen to Leah’s recounting of their encounter with the bear and the unseen Seneca.
    Matiassu volunteered to lead a scouting party of young braves to search for sign of the intruder, and Tuk-o-see-yah, the sachem, ordered a heavy guard set around the village.
    “No women or children are to leave the camp or cornfield areas,” Tuk-o-see-yah ordered in Algonquian. “This Seneca may be a lone warrior seeking to win honor by taking captives or scalps, or he may be an advance scout for a major attack. We will risk none of our people.”
    Leah respectfully repeated her suspicion that the unseen attacker might not be an Iroquois at all, but someone using Seneca arrows. The sachem refilled his pipe with tobacco, lit it, and puffed slowly while he considered her idea.
    Brandon took a hard look at the old man. Even though he’d understood almost nothing of what had been said, it was obvious to him that Tuk-o-see-yah was some sort of chief or man of great importance. The sachem was short and bony, his sagging face a mass of leathery wrinkles. His hair was white as milk and hung in two braids to his shrunken thighs. The aging leader wore a mantle of silver-tipped fox fur despite the heat of the August day. His leggings were of scarlet trade cloth, adorned with silver bells; his leather moccasins were