Chapter 13 - Return to the River
#13 of A Distant Shore
The following is a work of fiction, copyright Radical Gopher. It may not be duplicated in whole or in part without the author's express permission. This story contains adult situations and or violence and cannot be read by anyone under the age of 18. No character depicted in this story is under the age of 18.
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A DISTANT SHORE - RETURN TO THE RIVER
Sergeant McMullen reached down and picked up the pistol.. "Hold out your right hand."
The Marshall slowly complied.
"Damn it!" Yelled Temple, "Don't screw around with him. Just kill the bastard."
"Oh, I will kill him," the bear growled, cocking back the hammer on the pistol. "One piece at a time." Aiming, he squeezed the trigger.
There was a loud roar, followed immediately by a howl of agony from Gabe as he dropped to one knee and grabbed his hand. The bullet had torn a hole clean through the wolf's paw the size of a dime, shattering bone and ripping muscle. Blood ran across his fingers in rivulets.
The sergeant smiled wickedly holding up his own damaged hand. "Looks like we're even now Marshall. Wish I could say that ends it, but I know you're just too stubborn to let things lie and I still have some business to conduct."
Roark Temple watched as the bear cocked the pistol a second time, this time aiming for Marshall White Clouds knee. He scowled in frustration even as he missed seeing the vixen at his feet open her eyes. It took Snowbird only a moment to understand what was happening. Carefully, she shifted her hand until she was touching the damp wood along the underside of the water trough she laid next to. She quietly whispered a word of command.
Instantly the water in the trough flashed to a thick fog, enveloping everything within fifty feet. Roark yelled in surprise and looked down, but couldn't even see his belt buckle, let alone the white-furred shaman. She found him quickly enough though, kicking his feet out from under him. He came down hard, his head striking the trough.
The soldiers next to him also yelped in surprise as the natives they'd been threatening suddenly turned the tables, knocking them down and disarming them in short order
Sergeant McMullen cursed and rapidly backed up. Half-a-dozen steps put him outside the thick fogbank. Looking around he could no longer see Roark or his men, but he could hear what sounded like curses and yelps coming from their general direction. He fired a shot into the fog, hoping to at least wound the Marshall.
"Show yourself you half-breed bastard," he yelled. He fired once more and was suddenly tackled by something that came out of the fog on his left. He hit the ground hard, loosing his grip on the pistol as he rolled and threw the wolf off him as he reached for something on his belt. Regaining his feet, the bear crouched, facing the Marshall, a wicked looking bowie knife in his good hand. Seeing this, Gabe also crouched, slowly drawing his native long knife from the sheath on the back of his belt.
"Give it up, McMullen," he growled. "You can't win. Swift Arrow and his warriors are on their way."
The bear laughed. "Sounds like you've got me cornered, Marshall. You know what they say about backing one of my kind into a corner."
"You sure that's the way you want it to go down?"
"That's how it has to go down." He lunged, his quickness belying his bulk. White Cloud easily dodged to one side then struck out with his own knife. The two blades danced across each other, sliding until edge met guard.
The wolf leapt back as McMullen advanced, swinging his knife. When the bear had fully extended himself, White Cloud lunged again, blocking the sergeant's knife arm with the forearm of his damaged hand and thrusting for his belly.
The bear spun quickly so the Marshall's knife only grazed fur and ripped through his uniform shirt. Again, the wolf stepped back. Tendrils of the supernatural fog flowing around his legs as it rapidly dissipated.
McMullen lunged again and the two figures danced back and forth, knives clashing together several times as each maneuvered for an advantage. The wolf was quicker, but the bear much stronger. His blows, even though blocked by the long knife, were slowly numbing the Marshall's fingers.
Off to one side, Snowbird had quickly bound the unconscious Roark's hands even as the other girls finished pummeling and subduing Cutter and Phibbs. She'd heard two gunshots, followed by the clash of metal against metal coming from where she'd last seen White Cloud, but the thick fog prevented her from seeing anything. She knew that once created, the mist would have to disburse naturally. Confirming that the other vixens had everything under control, she drew her own long knife and moved cautiously toward the sounds of the fight.
Gabe lunged again at McMullen. So far he had wounded the bear four or five times, but on someone as big as the sergeant, they were no better than paper cuts; Painful, but not serious. McMullen blocked the blow and kicked out, catching the Marshall along the left side.
The wolf felt something tear, followed by searing pain along his left side as his previous wound ripped itself wide open. He dropped to one knee, clutching instinctively at his left side with his shattered hand, his knife arm suddenly weak.
The bear smiled wickedly. "Looks... looks like you're just... just about done in, Marshall," he panted, watching the blood-stain rapidly spread across the wolf's tunic.. Glancing down he spotted the pistol he had previously dropped as the fog dissipated around it. Grunting, McMullen sheathed his knife and scoop-up the weapon. "I guess this is going to be just one more example of how a civilized fur wins out over savages every time.
He pointed the pistol at Gabriel White Cloud and aimed carefully between the wolf's eyes, then screamed in agony as something ripped along his shoulder and back. Spinning, he hurled his attacker off his back and turned, coming face to face with the white-furred vixen.
She was crouched about five feet away ready to spring at him again. Her bronze, native blade was edged with his blood.
"Bitch!" he roared. He brought the pistol up and fired. The bullet struck her in the face, knocking her back several feet. Dust and mud stained the whiteness of her fur as she collapsed into a heap.
The sergeant heard a feral howl and turned as Marshall White Cloud slammed into him, clamping his jaws around McMullen's throat. The bear beat at him, striking blows that would have knocked another fur senseless, but Gabe would not let go. Dropping, they rolled together on the ground for a moment or two before the wolf closed his jaws and jerked his head back, ripping out the bear's throat. Blood spurted across both of them. The Marshall staggered back a few steps, spat out the flesh from between his teeth and watched as the sergeant writhed for a moment or two longer and then lay still.
Staggering, Gabriel White Cloud went over to the unconscious vixen and dropped to his knees, lifting and cradling her in his lap. The bullet had left a deep crease in her bronze half-mask, but had not penetrated her skull. Carefully, the wolf lifted it from her face and set it aside. A deep purple bruise was showing through along the side of her cheek, but there was no cut and no blood. Her breathing was strong, as was her heartbeat. He ignored the pain of his shattered hand as he gently stroked her forehead.
In the distance he could hear the drumbeat of unshod horses' hooves and the triumphant howls of the native vixens. The world around him dimmed slowly. He felt tired, more so than any other time in his life. Gently, he closed his eyes to rest; his last thoughts were of the beautiful, white-furred Snowbird.
Swift Arrow arrived leading his warriors. The soldiers from across the river peacefully surrendered to him rather than face the obvious, and inevitable prospect of annihilation. Riding up to the stockade, he found the wolf and vixen surrounded by a silent circle of warriors. Snowbird was unconscious, her breath and skin warm. The gray-furred wolf still held her gently in his lap, one ruined hand resting atop her womb. His body was as cold as ice. Seeing his friend-son the chief wept openly.
EPILOGUE
The surviving soldiers, save for Cutter and Phibbs, were quietly rounded up, disarmed, stripped naked and sent back across the river on the first steamboat that could be hailed. The two privates were also allowed to return to civilization, after first being gelded by the native women they had helped rape.
Lieutenant Evans was nursed back to health by the vixens he had tried to save and then was formally adopted by the Chimney Rock tribe. He became their surrogate husband and lived happily enough, siring more than a dozen children. He was as good a husband as they could have desired and never argued or fought with his wives; which was unusual even among native folk, but that was possibly because they always carried their gelding knives with them wherever they went.
Sergeant McMullen's body was skinned and the fur set on display on a small, rocky islet halfway between the two banks of the river for all to see. Somehow, perhaps thanks to native magic, it never rotted away and served for many decades as a warning to those who would trespass on the Western shore of the river.
Both Roark Temple and April Collier were returned to the Eastern shore and tried on charges ranging from murder, conspiracy, and robbery to violating the territorial sovereignty of the Western Tribes. Roark was quickly found guilty and hung while Miss April was sentenced to five years in prison. The punishment was delayed until after the birth of her son, Temple Collier.
Senator, aka Colonel Collier was never seen again following his abandonment of his troop. Whether he ever made it to New Babylon or not was a topic of many stories on both sides of the river for years; but that was only because no one ever bothered to ask the Green Willow tribe.
On the second night of the next full moon, Marshall Gabriel White Cloud, his body preserved by spells Snowbird had cast, was taken down to the banks of the Great River. The Chimney Rocks tribe had but recently moved their encampment next to the Great River for just this purpose.
As the white-furred vixen watched from shore, Father Rain, Swift Arrow, and an honor guard of native warriors paddled out onto the great water in two, large tribal canoes. Between them floated a smaller canoe containing the wolf's body. It was dressed in a combination of both native and civilized clothes decorated with numerous symbols and accoutrements. Most prominent of these were the Marshall's badge he had worn in life and the long knife blessed by Father Rain.
The river was exceptionally calm as the natives filled the smaller craft with rocks, eventually sinking it in mid-current. Father Rain looked back towards the shore as one by one the natives passed gently extinguished their torches in the river in silent homage to the Marshall. A small wyvern sat perched in a nearby tree watching Snowbird as she kept her silent vigil. Looking at his adopted daughter, the old shaman couldn't help but think that she had not once cried for a man to whom she had given herself, or who had, in return, given her a child.
The natives returned to their wickiups that night, save for Snowbird who knelt on the bank of the river until dawn. She returned there each night for several weeks, watching the Great River as it flowed past and her child grew within her.
On the second night of the next full moon, as the rest of the tribe partook of the Spirit Dance, a wind rose from the east, fanning the waters until they lapped up against the kneeling Snowbird. She stood and looked expectantly out upon the water watching as a figure suddenly came into sight. It bobbed up and down for a moment then struck out towards the western shore, towards Snowbird.
The white-furred vixen ran along the shore, reaching a calm inlet where the figure broke free of the river current and paddled tiredly toward the rocky beach. When the water was only waist deep, Marshall Gabriel White Cloud stood, coughing and more than a little perplexed. The symbols on his long knife glowed with a luminance to rival the moon's own silvery sheen.
Snowbird ignored the coldness of the water and waded out to him, wrapping her arms tightly around the wolf. "Land sakes, girl," he sputtered. "You're going to catch yourself one hell of a cold, getting wet like this, and you expecting a cub."
Instead of answering him, the vixen pulled his head down and kissed him passionately, tears of pent up sorrow, fearful expectation and joy flowing across her cheeks. They held onto each other for several minutes before the wolf picked her up and carried her ashore, still locked together with him in a kiss. When their lips parted and he could speak once more, Gabriel White Cloud looked at Snowbird "Alright," he said softly. "Could you please tell me now what's going on and why I woke up in the middle of the Spirit's blessed river?"
THE END