off—the sound of it was overwhelmed by the chorus of war cries and the confusion of the moment. Then he saw the Red Stick’s left leg flung aside and a spray of blood erupt from his thigh. The warrior’s strike missed him by a good foot, and the warrior himself staggered for two paces before collapsing.
But to John’s dismay he rose again, almost instantly, screaming another war cry. The .62-caliber bullet would have shattered the bone, had it struck the leg squarely. But it had only inflicted a flesh wound. A bad one, to be sure—the man would eventually bleed to death if he didn’t tie up his leg—but not bad enough to stop him.
John stepped back, wondering what to do. Even against a half-crippled opponent, his pistol with its twelve-inch barrel was a poor match against a real war club, especially when the club was being wielded by a religious fanatic. What was worse, he certainly didn’t have time to reload.
The Red Stick lurched toward him, still screaming. The smartest thing for John to do was simply to run away, of course. Fanatic or not, the Creek would have no chance of catching him, not with that bad a leg wound. Or by the time he did, at any rate, John would have been able to reload.
But John couldn’t stomach the thought of being seen as a coward. So, he braced himself, took a firm grip on the pistol butt, and decided he’d try to deflect the coming blow—
Then another Cherokee came around the same tree, as silent as a ghost, and shattered the Red Stick’s skull with a single blow. From the amount of blood and hair and gore that was already covering his ball-headed war club, this wasn’t the first brain he’d spilled that day. The warrior paused to stare at John.
“Stupid,” the Cherokee growled in English. “Why didn’t you just run away?”
The newcomer was no older than John himself. He glanced around quickly to make sure there were no other enemies in the immediate vicinity, and then grinned at him. “Stupid will make you dead,” he continued, but he said it quite cheerfully now. “I’m James Rogers. You?”
“John Ross.”
He’d never met Rogers, but he’d heard of him. He was one of the sons of Captain John Rogers, the Scottish sometime-adventurer and sometime-adviser for John Jolly’s chiefdom. The sons were said to be close friends, in fact, of the American ensign Houston whom The Ridge had found so interesting.
Rogers grin widened still further. “You’re John Ross?” He switched to Cherokee, in which he proved to be quite a bit more fluent than John himself. “From the way you look and the uniform you’re wearing, I thought you were an American.
The
John Ross, from Ross Landing? The same one who made a fortune swapping stuff with the Americans down on the river by Chatanuga?”
In keeping with the language, Rogers used the Cherokee name for Lookout Mountain.
John nodded.
“In that case,” Rogers jibed, switching back to English, “you’ve got
no
excuse. I’m only half Scot. You’re supposed to be much smarter than me.”
Ross grinned back. “That’s only if you believe what the Scots say.”
Rogers pointed at John’s pistol with his gruesome club. “Better reload that thing now. This fight is turning into a mess.”
Trying to keep his hands from shaking, John did as Rogers suggested. “I’m looking for The Ridge,” he told Rogers. “I’ve got to warn him that Coffee has all his men lined up on the river, ready to shoot anyone who tries to cross back over. That means Creeks, not us, of course, but…”
Rogers barked a laugh. John grimaced.
“Exactly. So I need to find—”
“It doesn’t matter. The Ridge has no intention of retreating, believe me. We’ll stay here until it’s done.” Rogers waved his club in a little half circle. “As for where he is, who knows? Best advice I can give you is just to follow the screaming. Wherever it’s loudest, you’ll probably find The Ridge. He does love that sword the Americans gave
But to John’s dismay he rose again, almost instantly, screaming another war cry. The .62-caliber bullet would have shattered the bone, had it struck the leg squarely. But it had only inflicted a flesh wound. A bad one, to be sure—the man would eventually bleed to death if he didn’t tie up his leg—but not bad enough to stop him.
John stepped back, wondering what to do. Even against a half-crippled opponent, his pistol with its twelve-inch barrel was a poor match against a real war club, especially when the club was being wielded by a religious fanatic. What was worse, he certainly didn’t have time to reload.
The Red Stick lurched toward him, still screaming. The smartest thing for John to do was simply to run away, of course. Fanatic or not, the Creek would have no chance of catching him, not with that bad a leg wound. Or by the time he did, at any rate, John would have been able to reload.
But John couldn’t stomach the thought of being seen as a coward. So, he braced himself, took a firm grip on the pistol butt, and decided he’d try to deflect the coming blow—
Then another Cherokee came around the same tree, as silent as a ghost, and shattered the Red Stick’s skull with a single blow. From the amount of blood and hair and gore that was already covering his ball-headed war club, this wasn’t the first brain he’d spilled that day. The warrior paused to stare at John.
“Stupid,” the Cherokee growled in English. “Why didn’t you just run away?”
The newcomer was no older than John himself. He glanced around quickly to make sure there were no other enemies in the immediate vicinity, and then grinned at him. “Stupid will make you dead,” he continued, but he said it quite cheerfully now. “I’m James Rogers. You?”
“John Ross.”
He’d never met Rogers, but he’d heard of him. He was one of the sons of Captain John Rogers, the Scottish sometime-adventurer and sometime-adviser for John Jolly’s chiefdom. The sons were said to be close friends, in fact, of the American ensign Houston whom The Ridge had found so interesting.
Rogers grin widened still further. “You’re John Ross?” He switched to Cherokee, in which he proved to be quite a bit more fluent than John himself. “From the way you look and the uniform you’re wearing, I thought you were an American.
The
John Ross, from Ross Landing? The same one who made a fortune swapping stuff with the Americans down on the river by Chatanuga?”
In keeping with the language, Rogers used the Cherokee name for Lookout Mountain.
John nodded.
“In that case,” Rogers jibed, switching back to English, “you’ve got
no
excuse. I’m only half Scot. You’re supposed to be much smarter than me.”
Ross grinned back. “That’s only if you believe what the Scots say.”
Rogers pointed at John’s pistol with his gruesome club. “Better reload that thing now. This fight is turning into a mess.”
Trying to keep his hands from shaking, John did as Rogers suggested. “I’m looking for The Ridge,” he told Rogers. “I’ve got to warn him that Coffee has all his men lined up on the river, ready to shoot anyone who tries to cross back over. That means Creeks, not us, of course, but…”
Rogers barked a laugh. John grimaced.
“Exactly. So I need to find—”
“It doesn’t matter. The Ridge has no intention of retreating, believe me. We’ll stay here until it’s done.” Rogers waved his club in a little half circle. “As for where he is, who knows? Best advice I can give you is just to follow the screaming. Wherever it’s loudest, you’ll probably find The Ridge. He does love that sword the Americans gave
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