Follow the River Read Online Free PDF Page B

eyes and put her hand over Georgie’s face to shield his eyes.
    Even at this distance, she heard it, the
swish
of the great blade, then the murmur of the Indians’ voices.
    When the chieftain came grinning back to the pack train, he held the bloody sword in one hand. From his other hand hung a cloth bag, stained red, something heavy and round in it. Mary tried not to look at it as the party proceeded down sinking Creek toward the Lybrook house. The warriors were in a cheerful mood now, laughing and chatting, as if the beheading of Philip Barger had fulfilled some last requirement of their bloody mission. Revenge, perhaps, for what another old white man had done to two of their brothers with that same big Scottish sword.
    Colonel Patton’s nephew, Captain Bill Preston, was at that moment leaving the Lybrook cabin with Philip Lybrook. They had shouldered the tools they would need to help with the harvest up at Draper’s Meadows, said good-bye to Mrs. Lybrook and her small son John and started up Sinking Creek.
    “Now I’d reckon,” said Mr Lybrook, “we’d save us a half hour if we jus’ cut across th’ mountain here. They’s a good path ’crost t’ the Drapers’. If’n y’ don’t mind a wee climb.”
    “Lead on, Mr. Lybrook.”
    They left the creek bottom and turned into the forest and began a diagonal ascent up the steep mountainside along a well-worn deer path. Sunlight penetrated the oak and maple foliage and dappled the fern-covered slope, the mossy stone outcroppings. The climb quickened their breathing and they talked little.
    “And how fares your uncle?” Philip Lybrook said after a while as they labored toward the crest of the ridge.
    “As always,” said Preston. “In the best of health and still working like a yoke of oxen.”
    “Good. And pray what says ’ee to th’ Indian War?”
    “That we hearabouts sh’ll likely never get even a whiff of it … Whoa, now!” They had reached the stony spine of the ridge. Preston pointed toward Draper’s Meadows. “Look ’ee yonder. They’s somethin’ big a-burnin’ there.”
    “Aye!” Philip Lybrook began trotting heavily down themountain path. “Folly me lively. Might be we can help ’em put it out yet!”
    Mrs. Lybrook stepped to her cabin door at the sound of hooves grating on the creekbed gravel. Her son Johnny came running up through the garden looking back fearfully. He grabbed her wrist and dodged behind her skirts to peer out at the Indians and horses that had just halted in the creek.
    “God help us,” murmured Mrs. Lybrook. She had caught a glimpse of blue and gray cloth and white faces among the Indian party, and she squinted hard. “They’ve got Bettie and Mary. Oh, God help us!”
    Three of the Indians had detached themselves from the group and were coming toward the house. They were smiling and talking cheerfully and seemed not to be armed; but for the sight of their captives, Mrs. Lybrook might have presumed they were friendly.
    The tall, lithe warrior leading the trio raised his hand in greeting as he came. His smile was handsome and pleasant despite the parallel streaks of ochre paint across his nose and cheekbones; his teeth were white in his russet face. Mrs. Lybrook stood frozen with fear and doubt, afraid that she would provoke them if she ducked inside for Philip’s gun. And Philip, she thought, dread building inside her: What have they done to my Philip? He and Captain Preston surely would’ve met these savages up along Sinking Creek, aye, but minutes ago.
    The chieftain emerged from the garden now and stopped a pace in front of Mrs. Lybrook. He raised a cloth bag darkened with blood and held it up to her. Johnny was quaking so hard he was shaking her.
    “Man here you know,” said the Indian, glancing at the laden bag and then back at her eyes. He thrust it closer to her. He wanted her to take it.
    Mrs. Lybrook was growing dizzy. All her blood seemed to be draining to her feet; she felt certain at once that