Chapter three

Rebecca Boone lifted her head and winced. She raised a hand and massaged her neck and then rose from the chair beside the stranger's bed. Crossing quietly to the window, she reached for the curtains only to have a soft voice with a French accent stop her.

"Please, leave them be."

Becky turned back to look at the woman. Jeanne was sitting up now, leaning against the pillows, her beautiful face turned into the shadows. "Whatever you want," she said. "I was just going to see if it was still snowing."

"It is. I can feel it."

Becky frowned as she returned to the woman's side. "Feel it?"

"I do not like winter. I do not the cold. And I do not like this primitive wilderness into which I have been dragged." Jeanne looked at her. "I cannot imagine what could possibly compel any sane creature to leave behind the civilization of New York or even Philadelphia for this frozen wasteland peopled with wolves and bears!"

After a moment, Becky said softly, "Well, freedom for one."

One painted eyebrow peaked. "Freedom?"

"Your own land. Your own life." Becky sat down again. "Your own choice of what to do with both."

"Even when that life can be snuffed out in a moment by that!" she gestured toward the window.

The withering wind had driven snow through the chinks around it. A white coating iced the wall beneath the window and formed a frozen puddle on the floor. Becky knew from experience that if she went to the table close by and touched the linen towel, it would be stiff as a wash-board. She had kept the fire going in the corner hearth, but it was small and only heated a space a few feet out from the stones.

Becky nodded. "Even then." Then she added softly, "It snows in New York and Philadelphia too, you know?"

Jeanne's smile was mischievous. "Oui. But there are many inns, taverns and theatres which are filled with warm bodies. And many men to wrap one in wool and walk one between them. Non?"

Becky laughed. "Oui." She rose and turned toward the door. "You must be famished. Let me go see what Cincinnatus has prepared."

"Non!" When Becky pivoted sharply to look at her, the Frenchwoman slid down in the bed and drew the coverlet up to her chin. "I am fatigué. I could not eat. Not…yet. Perhaps tonight." Her blue eyes flicked to the snow-encrusted window and the white world beyond. "When it is dark."

Frowning, Becky nodded. "Is there anything else you need? Before that?"

Jeanne shook her head.

"Well then, I should get back to the cabin. My children are alone and with this snow…. Well, I hate to be away long."

"I am fine. It is nothing that a long rest in the dark will not put right."

"I'll tell Cincinnatus just to let you be. If you need anything – "

"I won't."

"Well…." Becky put her hand to the latch. "Sleep tight then."

As the light from the corridor fell across Becky's face, Jeanne shifted and raised up on one elbow. "Madame…."

She turned back. "Yes?"

"Ce qui est…." Jeanne scowled. "What is your name?"

"Oh. I guess I forgot to tell you that. Rebecca. Rebecca Boone."

The stranger frowned, and then a new light entered her eyes. One of interest. "Boone? As in 'Daniel' Boone?"

"He's my husband. Do you know Dan?" Becky asked, even though she found it highly unlikely.

"Non," Jeanne answered, easing her mind for a moment. Then the Frenchwoman set the alarm bells off afresh by asking. "He has a friend, non? A Cherokee?"

"Well, yes…. Mingo."

"Mingo?" Jeanne pouted as if that was not right. "I see." Then she flipped over onto her side and turned her face to the wall. "Good night, Madame Boone," she said, dismissing her.

Becky stood with her hand on the latch for several heartbeats and then passed into the corridor and closed the door. Leaning back against it, she considered their curious visitor for a moment, and then went to the stair and descended to the common room below.

Dan couldn't get back too soon.

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Nicholas stood just within the saving shelter of the cave. There he hesitated, regaining strength, while he cast his senses forward searching for the man he had once known as Kerr. He could hear the Cherokee's heart beating, laboriously pounding out the rhythm of a life slowly turning to ice. But beyond that there was something else. Something more. Something he was not certain came from the Cherokee.

A whisper of longing. A yearning. Pain.

Hunger.

Daniel Boone believed the spirits of this cave exorcised. But if the frontiersman was right – then what was it he sensed?

Nicholas frowned as he surveyed the cave's darkened interior with its shifting shadows that seemed almost alive. He entered and passed the remnants of a fire long dead, pausing to examine a spear thrust head-down into the rock. Then he stopped and stared with longing at the remains of several human beings gone to bone. These must be some of the victims of the British massacre Daniel Boone had spoken of. The frontiersman had said little, but from those few terse words Nicholas had deduced that a terrible miscarriage of justice had happened here, that the spirits of those killed had haunted this place, and that something Daniel – and Mingo – had done had avenged them.

Whether it had freed them or not remained yet to be seen.

He passed the skeletons and bent low, entering a portion of the cave that extended back into the hillside. As he did, his nose wrinkled. The air carried the scent of a fire recently kindled but allowed to die. That, and something more.

Nicholas stopped and cast his supernatural senses forward again. This particular passage was circular, though there were others in the cave that extended back into the hillside. A few feet more and it would bend back and carry him to the front. Within it – yes, it was still there – was the faint pulse of a human heart. But there was also death and the odor of decaying flesh. Days. More likely, weeks old. The frigid cold would have acted as a preservative, so it was hard to tell. A mortal would not have nosed it. Steeling himself, Nicholas continued forward, concentrating on the feeble voice of the soul stranded on the shore of the River Styx rather than the one who had already passed over.

Turning the corner, he stopped.

And found them both.

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Mingo opened his eyes to a world of pain. Fire licked at his senses; it ran rampant in his fingers and his toes. It coursed along his arms and legs and gathered in his chest, burning, searing away consciousness. He groaned as his heart pounded hard speeding toward oblivion, and curled into a ball seeking to crawl back into the blessed darkness. Strong hands caught hold of his arms and held him tight. A voice – steady, unwavering – called him back.

"Listen to me. Listen to my voice. You can withstand the pain."

"No. No! It is too much…."

"No. Listen to me. Hear my voice." The man spoke slowly, hypnotically. "There is no pain. Only a gentle warmth that crawls toward life. Feel it, rising from your fingers, from your feet. Welcome it!" A hand was pressed flat against his chest – just above his heart which was beating wildly. "Peace, Cara-Mingo. Peace."

Mingo gasped, and then grew calm as the peace the man spoke of infused him. He shuddered and looked up at his savior. The stranger's face was a blur of white skin and pale yellow hair. "Who…who are you?" he asked.

There was a smile in the answer. "A friend."

A second shudder took him and he began to shiver. "What…what happened?"

"You were nearly frozen, my friend. I have covered you over with warm blankets and lit a fire. You must remain quiet. It would be best if you sleep. You will need all your strength to survive. The path from here to Boonesborough is a walk in white."

"Where…are…we?"

"A place of shelter. That is all you need to know for now." The man leaned forward and drew the blanket up about his shoulders. Then he placed his hand on his forehead. "Now, sleep. Heal."

"No. I need to know – "

Again the voice – steady, unwavering.

"You will sleep. Now."

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When Mingo woke again he was alone – or so he thought. He turned his head gingerly and looked around. He was in a large cavernous room decorated with tumbles of rock and the refuse of its former inhabitants. Nearby a spear stuck out of the floor. Shifting, he looked toward the cave's mouth and saw a man. He was standing, silhouetted in the opening. Beyond the opening the sky was a pale purple, indicating it was either dawn or candle lighting time. As he stirred, the man turned and came to stand over him. He was attired as a colonial in a pale blue suit, though he had removed his coat and was dressed now only in a linen shirt, waistcoat and breeches.

"So you are awake at last," the man said. "How do you feel?"

"More like one of my winter kills stored in the ice house than I would care to admit," Mingo answered, a chagrinned smile twisting his lips. He grimaced as he moved and one of the dry dusty blankets covering him fell away. It was only then he realized he was all but naked. His deep brown eyes went to his rescuer.

"Common sense. Your clothes were frozen. When you began to…thaw, they became soaked through." There was a twinkle in the man's bright blue eyes. "I could have made a pretty penny back at Oxford if I had offered the ladies a peek at such a show."

"Oxford?" Mingo sat up, and then regretted it.

The man dropped to his knees beside him and offered him an arm for support. "Pray pardon me. I should know better than to jest with an injured man."

Mingo blinked. His vision was blurred. His head was pounding and his mouth dry as bone – two more reminders of the shameful way he had behaved at Cincinnatus' establishment. "If I am injured it is only just punishment for such rank stupidity – "

"There could be far less poetic ends. 'Gone to sleep in the bosom of Kentucky bourbon' does have a certain ring as an epitaph."

Mingo frowned and turned to look at the man supporting him. "Who are you?"

The stranger rocked back on his heels. He released him and opened his arms wide. "Knightsford nicks 'em, and Murray carries them away. When the two are on the town, nothing gets in their way!" he proclaimed with a smile.

The frown deepened. But only for a second. "Knightsford? Nicholas Knightsford! Is it you?"

Nicholas laid a hand on his shoulder. "Yes, my friend. Arrived in time to save you from yourself, it seems. What drove you to drink – and out into the cold?"

Mingo frowned. It seemed absurd now. Why he had let the letter the courier brought him get under his skin the way he had, he would never know. It only served as confirmation of the lengths – and depths – to which he already knew his father would go. Shifting again, he glanced around the cave, recognizing it for what it was – the Place of 1000 Spirits.

"What drove me out into the cold?" he repeated. "A spirit. A spirit of things past."

Nicholas suddenly sobered. "A spirit? Such as walked this place?"

Mingo sighed. "No. Not a dead one. This one is very much alive, and of a mean disposition."

Nicholas rose to his feet. "You talk in riddles, old friend."

"Riddles to which there are no answers…except the grave." Mingo rolled to the side and extended a hand. "Help me up," he said. Nicholas did so, bracing his arm as he rose to his feet, the blanket still clutched tightly about his shivering frame. "Now, where are my clothes?"

His former school mate shrugged.

"Nicholas…."

"Charming – and primitive – as they were, I am afraid there wasn't much left. Your most interesting trousers were damaged beyond repair. The frock is there," he nodded toward the shadows masking one side of the chamber, "along with the beaded necklace. You had no coat."

"I must have lost it somewhere. I do not remember much." Mingo frowned. The images of his journey were as blurred as his senses had been. "I believe I crossed the river."

"It is frozen."

"Yes." He shivered again and pulled the blanket tighter. "How long has it been? Since I left the fort?"

Nicholas shrugged. "A day, nearing two."

"How did you find me?"

Nicholas had turned away. He crossed into the shadows and came back with a leather satchel in his hand, which he placed on a flat-topped rock. "There are clothes in here. They look to be close to your size."

Mingo looked inside. There was a man's linen shirt and a pair of buff colored breeches, as well as clocked stockings and a few other personal effects.

"There is this as well."

He reached for the item and then stopped. In Nicholas' hand was a scarlet coat. A single silver epaulet on the left shoulder marked it as a British lieutenant's.

"What is this?" he asked.

"Something someone left behind." Nicholas indicated the passage behind him that led back into the hillside with a nod. "Someone who no longer has need of it."

Mingo turned slowly, remembering clearly the howling of the lost souls pouring out of that dark recess. He and Daniel and Rebecca, along with the children, had been trapped here by the Shawnee – pawns in a great game of chess played between ten mighty warriors and one pitiful British soldier driven mad by what duty had compelled him to do. Two hundred souls had perished on this spot. Two hundred innocents who had cried out for vengeance, until the man they haunted could no longer hear anything but his own voice singing an old English tune – driving out their cries and any sanity that remained. Catching the blanket in his hand so he would not trip over its length, Mingo moved deliberately into the passageway. Nicholas followed close behind, a torch in his hand. As the flickering light brushed fallen boulders and sharp-toothed stalactites, it struck something shiny hanging a few feet off the cavern floor. When Mingo drew close he saw it was a pair of silver spurs, adorning a pair of leather boots.

With the feet still in them.

Mingo gasped and fell back as he realized a man hung suspended from the ceiling of the cave, his long lanky form dangling from a rope that had somehow been fastened to one of the rock formations above. The corpse hung motionless, its pale fingers curled up in rigor; its jaw slack, its vacant eyes staring into oblivion.

"Dear God…" he breathed, all strength taken from him.

"Do you know him?" Nicholas asked as he lifted the torch to illuminate the corpse's ghoulish face.

"I did," Mingo said. "It is Henry Pitcairn."

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Most of the day had fled. Becky left Jemima at the cabin to finish the evening work and put Israel to bed while she accompanied Jericho Jones back to the tavern. He had stayed with them throughout the day doing what he could. She knew the boy's reasoning was two-fold. One, working chores kept him close to Jemima and two, helping out would earn him a free supper. Becky shook her head. Jericho could be a sweet boy, but he was bold as brass and apt to open his mouth so far both feet would fit in with room left over. Life would teach him as it did everyone. She just hoped it wasn't at her daughter's expense.

The snowstorm was taking a breather. Or so it seemed. There had been a great wild whirl of snow midday and then the wind had fallen off to a whisper. White flakes were still falling, but it was nothing more than a dusting on a white floor already two to three feet thick. In places it drifted higher than a man.

Cincinnatus' shed had completely vanished from sight.

The lull in the snowstorm had drawn men like moths out of their white-walled cocoons to the tavern. When Jericho pushed open the door, the sound of music and merry voices greeted them as well as a very welcome blast of warmth and light. As Becky shook snow off her cloak and turned to hang it on a peg, she jumped and let out a little yelp. Jericho Jones had laced two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Becky put her hand to her chest and pivoted as he stomped across the wooden floor, leaving a trail of snowy footprints that led to –

The stranger named Jeanne.

"Madame Boone!" Jeanne cried in welcome, extending a hand toward her.

Jeanne was holding court, or so it seemed, on Cincinnatus' counter. The dark-haired beauty was seated on its much-abused surface. Ranged around her were a half dozen men – Yadkin and Cincinnatus among them. Jeanne was wearing a different gown – a deep sapphire one with silver edging – that must have appeared out of nowhere, and had obviously primped before leaving her room. Her skin was pale as before, but glowed now with vitality. Her cheeks were rosy and her lips, an even darker red. Her rich black-brown hair had been undone and done again, piled high in dark ascending wave that was topped with a glittering comb set with blue stones. On her cheek and exposed chest were matching beauty marks, used by women of some…experience to call attention to their best attributes.

"Madame Boone, come and join us!" Jeanne called merrily, waving.

Becky cleared her throat as she wiggled her fingers in return. "I came to see how you were. I can see you're…just fine."

"Are you the one responsible for bringin' this here little lady among us, Ree-becca?" Yadkin asked, his pickled tongue slurring all the l's. "Why, ain't no finer female ever set foot within Boonesborough's walls!" Yad hesitated as if thinking hard. Then he grinned stupidly. "Present company expected…er…excepted."

"Messier Yadkin has been so kind as to tell me all about your lovely settlement." Jeanne reached out and wound one of Yadkin's golden curls around her finger. "He is such a dear."

"Shucks," Yad said, melting. "You can call me 'Carolina'."

"Is there anything else you need, Miss Charme?" Cincinnatus asked. His fingers worked his soiled white apron nervously. "Another drink? There's more bottles in that case you brung with you."

Jeanne smiled sweetly at him and then looked at Becky. "Yadkin was so kind as to brave the snow to find my belongings. The coach which carried me here abandoned me when the snow became too high." She pouted perfectly and then wet her lips. "He found it and my cases, but could find no sign of the men."

"You want I should fetch you another bottle?" Cincinnatus asked, panting like a puppy.

"She don't want you to do nothin'!" Yad shouted. "I brung her things here and I can get her what she needs."

"Now you listen here, Carolina Yadkin! This is my establishment and I take care of my customers – "

"Since when, you old goat? Ain't a man here will test-ee-fy to that with his hand on a Bible!"

Jeanne's lips pursed as though she had tasted something foul. "Can we leave the Bible out of this?"

"That's a'cause you and he ain't smart enough to read it!" Cincinnatus bellowed back.

"You callin' me stupid?" Yadkin asked, stepping close.

"I ain't 'callin' you nothing, I'm tellin' you!" the older man replied, pushing his finger into Yad's shirt. "You're stupid!"

"If that don't sour my milk!" Yad shouted back. Unexpectedly he drew his knife and brandished it before the older man's face. "I'll wade with this into yer liver!"

"Gentlemen. Gentlemen!" Jeanne smiled sweetly as she held her hand out to Jericho and, much to Yad and Cincinnatus' chagrin, allowed him to help her from the counter. She straightened her deep blue skirts and then pushed between the two men. "Carolina, if you would be so good as to fetch me another bottle." As Yadkin smirked, she added, "And Messier Cincinnatus, a clean cup?"

Both men scattered, leaving her alone with Jericho. He was standing there, hanging on her every word, waiting for his orders. Jeanne looked him up and down and sighed. "How old are you?"

Jericho took his hat off, held it at his waist, and executed a deep – if clumsy – bow. "Nineteen, Ma'am."

"Ma'am." Jeanne shuddered. "Run out in the snow and find me a green leaf."

"Yes, Ma'am!"

Becky shifted out of the way just in time. Jericho almost ran her over in his enthusiasm to obey Jeanne's command. As the door slammed behind him, the Frenchwoman caught her eye and shrugged.

"Boys will be boys. Will they not?"

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Mingo shivered as he looked at the regulation army boots in Nicholas' hands. "I cannot," he said quietly.

"Can't what? Walk a mile in a dead man's shoes?"

"Nicholas, this is not humorous…."

Nicholas Knightsford stepped back and looked at his friend. Cara-Mingo, as he was known now, had become – almost – Kerr Murray. His old friend was dressed as a white man in Pitcairn's extra shirt and breeches, but his hair was still loose and shoulder-length, and his stockinged feet, without boots.

"You cannot travel in the snow in your stockings. Be practical."

Mingo swallowed hard as he stared at the black leather boots. They had come from Pitcairn's corpse. And somehow, that made things different to the Cherokee. "I am. Henry Pitcairn died a violent death. An untimely death. His spirit is here. You said so yourself."

Nicholas had mentioned his unease. "I said 'something' was here. Still, it makes no difference – "

"It makes all the difference!" Mingo touched the boots with caution – as if they were alive and might bite him. "Pitcairn's spirit is not at rest. He will not take kindly to me walking out of here in these."

"Perhaps he will think you make him live again."

"Perhaps I will make him live again."

"Now you are talking nonsense."

"Am I?" Mingo crossed to the place where they had laid Henry Pitcairn's remains and covered him over with rocks. "Among my people, and the other native peoples of this land, there are many legends." He glanced at his old friend. "You remember."

Nicholas nodded. "I remember."

"Henry Pitcairn could blame me for his death. Daniel and I were instrumental in bringing about his end. Or he might see me as just another Indian, as he did when first we met."

"You said you sought to save him from the Shawnee."

Mingo nodded. "But lost him to madness in the end. And now his spirit walks this earth, seeking answers it cannot find."

"Let us leave this place then. What you and I seek is in concert. We both have need of knowledge that only the elders of your tribe possess."

Nicholas had explained to his old friend that he had come here, to Kentucky, to research the ancient legends that had fascinated them both as youths. That, within them, he hoped to find a cure for the disease that afflicted him. In so many words he spoke the truth. His old friend Kerr Murray knew he suffered from an affliction that rendered him as vulnerable to the sun as most men were to fire. An affliction that could kill him. He told his friend, now known as Mingo, that it was his belief that the healers of his tribe held the key to his salvation. What Nicholas did not tell him was that the search for a cure to his affliction was only a part of what he sought, and that his true interest and intent lay in finding a Raven Mocker. A shape-shifter who could become a raven or wolf…

Or perhaps a bat.

"I should return to Boonesborough," Mingo said softly as he sat and began to reluctantly draw on the boots. "My friends will be worried."

"We will go there together," Nicholas said, placing a hand on his shoulder, "when we both are whole."

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An hour later the two friends departed – Nicholas Knightsford in his storm-gray cloak and hat, Mingo wearing the scarlet coat and boots of a dead man. They vanished into the white world beyond the cave. In the absence of their presence – of warmth and life – a wind arose within the cold stone walls, stirring the dust and debris of the nightmare that had ended there long ago…

And the one born that very day.

Footsteps rang. A shadow passed by the stone cairn the two men had erected over the British lieutenant's remains. There were words. Hushed. Barely discernible, but growing in strength as the one who sang them moved toward the white world outside.

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'Musha rig um du rum da, whack fol the daddy-o.

Whack fol the daddy-o…

There's whiskey in the jar.'