A few days later, Roxton sat propped against a tree, his head tilted forward to shade his eyes from the mid-morning sun. He had put off his foray to hunt for small game so he could mark his pupil's progress. He had encouraged Marguerite to practice alone the last while, mastering the art of visualizing an opponent's attack and reacting. He had promised to look at her performance and offer some advice. The hunter stretched his long legs out in front of him, hands behind his head and watched. His pupil feinted and sliced at her imaginary foe. She was as graceful as a dancer, he realized.
"I don't have any power this way." Marguerite sounded very cross as she made a back-handed slash through the air. "When I keep moving, I can't put any strength behind my swing."
A quiet drawl issued from the reclined hunter. "Your strength isn't strength, Marguerite. You're never going to overpower a larger adversary." Through lidded eyes, he saw her settle back into her rhythm. She was a study in subtlety and deception, rarely showing her opponent an opening. He hoped a little of this technique would carry over to her approach to fisticuffs. In hand-to-hand combat she always seemed to launch her whole body at an attacker. In a couple of skirmishes he had seen her roundhouse swings connect with an unsuspecting jaw. The victim had usually gone down for the count, but the sight of her grimacing and shaking her hand afterwards had him fearful she'd broken her small fist on her victim's hard skull.
A little smile twitched the corner of his lip as he recalled her reaction when Hippolyta had knocked the sword from her hand. Without a pause she had staggered the Amazon with a right hook. What a spitfire! Stop thinking about her, he scolded himself, you know she's trouble. He had sat here fascinated, watching her practice and now it was likely too late for him to find any game. With that, he rose from the ground, pushed his hat back on his head and announced that he was going. Marguerite leaned on her makeshift sword as she watched him enter the elevator. What was wrong with him?
As Marguerite looked after his retreating figure, Veronica brushed by her carrying a basket of vegetables from the garden.
"Still at it, are you? You do know it's your week for maintenance in the treehouse? And that Ned and Roxton brought up poles to replace the railings that are rotting. They've been sitting there with people tripping over them for a couple of days now."
"I was planning to do that later today." Marguerite protested. She received a long sceptical look from the blonde beauty who continued on her way to the treehouse. "We were practicing now because Roxton's going - out hunting – later." She subsided as the leather-clad figure strode out of earshot.
She sure doesn't like me much, Marguerite mused. She sometimes thought that, if Veronica wasn't always so suspicious of her, they could get along rather well. Marguerite admired the way the jungle-born woman could handle herself in the dangers of this plateau. There was a single-minded sureness about her that Marguerite quite envied. It had been a long while, if ever, since she herself had seen the world so dramatically divided into right and wrong. Her own world was very complicated – so many shades of gray that even she had trouble discerning the light from the dark. It was a tremendous revelation to be here where all of her companions seemed so sure of themselves in their dealing with other denizens of the plateau, so convinced that they were carrying the banner of righteousness. She could almost believe such a world existed.
The little clearing was about a mile from the treehouse, far enough to afford Marguerite a little privacy but close enough to find refuge fairly quickly if pursued by a hungry dinosaur. Marguerite had come upon it some time ago when exploring with Roxton. It was a lovely setting, a place where the stream widened into a series of rocky pools. The meadow around it had been covered with a rambling flowering plant, the magenta blossoms attracting bees. The whole scene had been tranquil, even a little romantic if one were inclined toward that kind of fanciful notion. She had come back a few times, occasionally to gather berries, more often just to be alone. This last week she had come here twice to practise her swordsmanship. After Veronica had challenged her the previous day, Marguerite had made sure that today she would work on her fencing skills away from the jungle native's critical eye.
Veronica followed Marguerite's faint trail. The heiress might not be purposely covering her tracks but she was a natural at it. Only the heel on her boot left a distinctive mark, probably a loose nail. Marguerite had been shirking her domestic duties of late and Veronica was tired of picking up the slack. As far as she was concerned, even this sudden interest in learning to use a sword was merely a tactic to avoid work. And as usual the scheming brunette had won over Roxton. The man couldn't see through her ploys. Veronica would have to deal with Marguerite on her own. Before she went to gather fruit she would talk to her and point out that chores were still waiting to be done at the treehouse. Ahead the trees opened up into a little clearing. The dark-haired woman was once more skirmishing with an imaginary foe. Veronica could hardly wait to have a few words with her.
Marguerite had responded to Veronica's disapproving tone with icy silence. She had pivoted on her heel and marched off toward the fallen log at the edge of the clearing where she had left her pack. She seethed at the idea that the blunt-spoken jungle woman could dictate to her what she should do and when. She stopped for a moment to take a long drink from her canteen and calm down. It wasn't wise to be upset. It made a person oblivious to the dangers of the jungle. She'd learned that lesson long ago. Marguerite watched Veronica leave the clearing. She shouldered her pack and started on the return trip home. Suddenly she heard raised voices. Veronica!
She hurried across the clearing then slowed to a stealthy walk as she neared the sound. Eventually she crept to a spot where she could see the blonde woman, held at the elbows by two unsavoury looking fellows while a man dressed in tanned leather evaluated his prize.
"When my scouts said there was a lone woman seen here at this clearing, I hadn't expected to come across you - the child of the plateau. Selling you will bring me a nice profit."
"You slimy bastard, let me go. I'll never be anyone's slave. I'm warning you - I'll be back to make you pay for this."
"Don't worry, sweetheart, I'll make sure your buyer lives a long way from here. You'll be too busy trying to stay alive to think about revenge. In time, you'll forget who I am. If you're lucky you'll forget who you are." His mouth widened in a vulgar smile.
Veronica didn't bother to answer, just tried to twist out of the grip of her captors. They were ready for her manoeuvre. The leader backhanded Veronica across the mouth, snapping her head backwards with the blow.
"Quit your squirming. I think I'm going to tame you a little before I sell you, sweetie, but here's not the place." He glanced at one of the other slavers. "Tie her hands; we'll lose our trail in the river and head north toward the mountains. Then I'm going to have a few quiet moments with Miss High 'n Mighty here. If I feel like it, you might get to have her afterwards." He turned to the other. "Take a look around here. See if there's anything interesting left behind. Then head back to the main camp. Make sure no one can track you. We'll meet you there."
With a painful tug on her hair, the leader pulled a resistant Veronica stumbling after him. The other guard grabbed her upper arm and yanked forward as well. Marguerite lost sight of her as she was dragged away into the jungle.
Anxiously she held her position hunkered in the underbrush as the remaining slaver walked back toward her. Passing by the concealed heiress he took a circuit around the clearing then crouched down as he examined the footprints and flattened grass. He turned his head back to where he had come from and where Marguerite huddled in the brush. Marguerite shrugged off her pack then quietly lifted the flap of her holster open. She eased her pistol out, apprehensive that the sharp eyes of the slaver might see the minute movement. The slaver pulled a hefty club from his belt. Marguerite was startled to see such a heavy weapon wielded by the slight man. Cautiously he moved directly toward Marguerite's hiding place. It was obvious he had picked up her tracks. Marguerite was leery about firing her pistol with the other slavers near enough to hear it. Hopefully the threat of the gun would be enough.
As he neared she rose silently from the ferns, her pistol levelled at his heart. He froze for an instant, then ran toward her, the club raised menacingly above his shoulder. Great, she thought, a slaver that didn't know about firearms! As the club descended she sidestepped the first blow then she moved toward him and pressed the gun into his belly. Muffling the sound with her own body she discharged the weapon. The man stumbled back a step. His club skidded off her shoulder as she ducked. In the same motion the thick chunk of wood continued its downward momentum and knocked the revolver out of her hand. Her pistol clattered to the rocky ground between them. What was keeping the man upright, she wondered? She'd shot him at point blank range! Before Marguerite could retrieve her fallen weapon, her opponent slammed his club down on it in a heavy blow. Pieces of metal flew off as the pistol cartwheeled away. The club split with the impact. He turned toward the unarmed woman, the splintered cudgel in his hand.
Marguerite scrambled away, alarmed that the gut-shot slaver was still on his feet. A mad dash to her pack and she came up with the wooden sword she been practicing with. The man raggedly pursued her, the small black-rimmed hole in his abdomen oozing a little blood. Grey-faced he wobbled a little as he advanced. Poised wide-legged to maintain his failing balance, he raised his club to launch a blow at her head. She hacked at his wrist with her mock-sword, knocking the club off-line. As he lurched forward, he fell to his knees and collapsed, his face on Marguerite's boot.
"About time!" she muttered in vexation. Looking at the exit wound the little pistol bullet had made, she knew this slaver would not be bothering her any longer. Marguerite scrambled to retrieve the gun.
The pistol had been badly damaged. The hammer was broken off and the trigger guard bent. The ivory grip had been shattered into shards. It would have to be repaired before it could be fired again. She was left with a play sword as her only weapon.
Marguerite was torn. As she picked up the pieces of her ruined pistol, she weighed her options. Without a weapon her wisest course was to run back to the treehouse to get help. Roxton would be able to track the slavers and their firepower could easily turn the tables. But the heiress had seen the leader's leer and heard his words. She would bet her last pound that the hoodlum would assault his captive before the day was much older. Any delay on her part would lead to a violation that Veronica would find hard to bear.
But how could she make any difference with a broken pistol and a phoney sword? Her one advantage would be the element of surprise. The slavers must not have heard the muffled gunshot or they would have been back by now. With a little luck it might be possible to overwhelm the unsuspecting kidnappers in a sneak attack. If she followed them now, she would at least be able to spot them when they left the stream. If instead she went back to the treehouse it would take Roxton a while to pick up the trail. It was a faint hope but it seemed to her that it was Veronica's best chance. Her mind made up, she hurried after the kidnappers and their captive.
Veronica stumbled, prodded forward once more by the slaver's rough shove. The jungle-wise woman made sure that she scuffed the ground, broke off branches and, in general, made as obvious a trail as she could. At first the slavers had punished her for her clumsiness, now it seemed as if they were more intent on speed. She was confident Roxton would be able to read it clearly. When she had been captured, Veronica had caught a glimpse of Marguerite walking toward them then ducking under cover. She now could only hope that she made good time getting back to the treehouse.
Suddenly the leader hauled her to a stop. A swift punch to her unprotected jaw and the blonde's legs turned to jelly. Before she collapsed, the leader put his shoulder under her hips and lifted her off the ground. He turned to his lieutenant, "Cover our trail and set up camp here by the stream. I'll call you when I'm done."
The man nodded and watched his boss slip through the brush, his progress not slowed at all by the woman's unconscious body on his shoulder. There was a chance his leader would let him have a go at the captive later. Better not to get his hopes too high; the son of a bitch had a habit of changing his mind when it came to sharing. He cut a branch and swept the leaves across the trail.
The heiress thanked her keen eyesight and the little wood lore she had picked up from Roxton and Veronica. She had caught a glimpse of her quarry when they left the stream but then she fell back and followed them out of eyeshot. There had been all sorts of small traces of her prey and she had no fear of losing their trail. She froze in mid-step as she heard voices close in front of her. She crept closer so she could listen to their voices and huddled under the cover of a large bush to hear the leader give directions to cover the trail.
Great, she thought, to get to Veronica, I'm going to have to go through this one first. And dispatch him quietly. After a couple of minutes of fidgety waiting, she eased through the jungle toward the slaver.
She glimpsed the henchman pulling supplies out of his pack. He moved to the edge of the clearing and began cutting saplings, likely for a fire or a lean-to. Marguerite followed surreptitiously, keeping trees between her and her quarry. As she tiptoed closer, she took her pistol out of her holster and reversed it to use as a blackjack. She spied a fallen branch and, sticking her pistol back in her belt, hefted the improvised weapon. Happy with its feel, she closed the distance between her and her prey.
Marguerite brought the tree limb savagely down on the head and shoulder of the unsuspecting slaver. He staggered but managed to right himself and turn toward his attacker. He pulled out his sword and prepared to chop down the slim figure behind him, but faltered, his eyesight blurred with the force of the blow he'd taken. As it cleared he saw his antagonist was a woman. He grunted with anger and lunged, but his hesitation had allowed Marguerite to ready her club in self-defence. His bull-rush took him right past her as she twisted and stepped back, her footwork a tribute to Roxton's training. Her opponent stumbled to a stop, his exposed back a vulnerable target. She aimed a blow at the back of his head, then another as he crashed to the ground. These oafs had skulls of stone! Thank heavens this one hadn't made a lot of noise that would have alerted the other slaver. She picked up the man's sword and swung it experimentally. Not too heavy. She might be able to manage it.
The semi-conscious man let out a low moan. The heiress went over to the man's pack and brought back a rope. In minutes, she had tied and gagged the unresisting prisoner and set out to find the trail of the slave leader and his captive.