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Sick with a consuming rage, Byron saw only a defiant Indian who had cost him th
e lives of a dearly loved sister and brother, and then stolen his fragile cousin's heart. The brave had devastated his once perfect family, and Byron wanted him to pay. "I'm going to kill you," he snarled.
Hunter had survived similar threats, and wasn't intimidated. He and Byron were of nearly equal weight and stature, but he was certain he had greater stamina. All he need do was wait until Byron wore himself out with threats, and wild punches that damaged only the air. Then perhaps he could reason with him.
As Byron saw it, he was defending the honor of his entire family; confident he was in the right, he strove to prevail. Each time Hunter backed away, he came at him again. Relentless in his determination to succeed in humiliating the Indian brave in front of everyone, he fought like a demon. He landed only one punch in three, but that was sufficient to fuel his anger.
Eager to see a less one-sided fight, the crowd coalesced into a solid ring and blocked Hunter's further retreat. Forced to stand his ground, Hunter could bear only a few minutes of Byron's furious assault, before he was forced to defend himself more vigorously. With a methodical rhythm, he came back at Byron with the controlled fury that had made him a champion in New York. He knew how to hurt a man in a variety of brutal ways, but chose to incapacitate Byron with a series of rib-cracking blows that, while painful, would not cause permanent harm either to his body or his looks.
At first elated by the change in Hunter's strategy, Byron soon realized that the Indian was as tough as he appeared. His anger kept him battling Hunter long past the point another man would have fallen, but he felt only rage rather than pain, until Hunter landed a blow in his solar plexus. The wind forced out of him, he staggered backwards; and when he tried to take a deep breath, the agony that filled his chest made him cry out in pain. Bewildered, he looked at Hunter, knowing he was beaten and expecting no mercy, but rather than knocking him unconscious, Hunter came forward, slipped his arm around his waist, and began to lead him away.
Satisfied they had seen a fight worth watching, the spectators parted to allow Hunter to pass through their ranks. He helped Byron reach the creek where they had camped for the night. The Indian eased the battered Virginian to the ground, then unbuttoned and removed his shirt. He splashed water on Byron's face and chest, and rinsed his own blood from his opponent's hands.
"Never fight a man when you're angry," Hunter advised. "You need a clear head to win, and you can't think when you're mad."
Having expected to take a far worse beating, Byron was merely embarrassed rather than grateful for Hunter's attentions. Attempting to find a comfortable position, he laid back on the grass that flourished at the edge of the creek. He could breathe, but only in shallow gasps. "I hate you," he whispered.
"Hate the French," Hunter replied, "and their Indian friends, who were responsible for Elliott's death. They are your only true enemies. I've done nothing to harm you." When Byron responded with a disgusted grunt, he continued to defend himself.
"Your parents have turned their backs not only on me, but on Alanna, whose only crime is loving me. She expects better of you. She believes you'll take our side and defend us. What are you going to say to her when you get home? Are you going to be as mean-spirited as your parents, or will you be able to put your sorrow aside and see the truth?"
Revolted by the way Hunter twisted damning facts to protest his innocence, Byron looked away. "If for no other reason, I hate you for keeping me out of the fight. You had no right to do that."
Hunter shrugged. "Perhaps not, but I did it for your parents. You are all they have left, and I couldn't watch you throw your life away."
Puzzled, Byron turned back toward him. "My parents hate you, but you wanted to spare them additional grief? I would have thought watching me die would have been the perfect revenge for you."
Hunter pulled off his shirt and, again filling his hands from the creek, washed away the blood and dust that covered him. While not as sore as Byron, he had been hurt. One of Byron's wild kicks had struck his left thigh, and he feared it might have torn the still healing muscle.
"The Iroquois used to fight amongst themselves. One tribe would raid another, and then that tribe would have to retaliate. We would have been destroyed as much by our lust for revenge against each other as by war with the Algonquin, had Deganawidah not had a vision of the union of the five tribes, and Hiawatha not convinced each tribe of the union's worth. The League has lasted nearly two hundred years, and the Iroquois are far more powerful than our enemies. If you would put aside your need for revenge, the Barclays would be far stronger for it."
"What is left of the Barclays!"
Hunter sighed unhappily. "You have fought me and lost. That should put an end to your need for revenge."
"It doesn't." Sick to his stomach, Byron closed his eyes, effectively putting an end to their conversation, but Hunter did not leave him.
The weary Indian leaned back against a nearby oak, reviewing their conversation and attempted to find another way to make peace with Byron. There was no way to bring Melissa and Elliott back to life, and any harm Byron succeeded in doing him would only hurt Alanna. No clever arguments occurred to him, but as he pondered Byron's senseless need to avenge what Hunter considered imagined wrongs, he gradually developed the uneasy feeling that he might be equally guilty of the same blind stupidity.
Appalled, he remembered the pain reflected in Alanna's beautiful eyes, when he had repeatedly refused to raise Melissa's son. Why hadn't he realized that his contempt for Melissa had prompted him to extract revenge from the innocent child he should have welcomed with love? Hadn't Alanna been able to see what he was doing either? Shaken by his own obstinate refusal to see a truth that would have spared all three of them unspeakable anguish, he rested his elbows on his knees and tried to separate his feelings for Christian from those for Melissa.
Did he have any right to expect forgiveness from Byron, if he could not forgive Melissa? he wondered. His head ached as much from the pain of his thoughts as from the lingering affects of the fight, and he sat quietly contemplating not only the past, but the future, until his stomach began to make rumbling complaints of emptiness. He got up, went to find what he could for supper, and brought back half for Byron.
"You have to eat," he insisted. "I want us to be among the first to reach home."
"Us?" Byron scoffed. "I can't stand the sight of you."
"That's a shame, but perhaps you'll grow used to my company on the way."
Byron rose up to spit in the grass; amused by his stubbornness, Hunter moved away to eat his supper. He was too lost in his own thoughts to worry about Byron for the moment, but he did glance his way to make certain he was eating. Satisfied that he was, Hunter decided they would spend the night right where they were.
* * *
Hunter awakened in the first eerie light of dawn, when a thick mist still clung to the banks of the creek. Byron was sound asleep nearby. Suddenly fully alert, Hunter sat up and glanced around the small glade where they had taken refuge. Not ten feet away, a wolf was drinking from the stream. It was not just any thirsty wolf either, it was a young male with a thick, glossy coat and bright, curious eyes. Hunter did not doubt for an instant that it was his wolf. The gentle lapping sounds it made while slurping up water had been what had awakened him.
The wolf stared at Hunter with what the Indian swore was a glimmer of recognition. As if in a friendly salute, the handsome animal cocked his head to the side. He sat perfectly still for a long moment, then turned away, and vanished into the mist.
"Wait, come back!" Hunter called. He lurched to his feet and took a step toward the stream, but the wolf was gone and did not return. He had been there though, and there had been nothing menacing about his fleeting presence. Hunter had longed for a sign, a promise of something good, and he was positive the wolf had just provided it. In accepting Christian for the dear child he was, as Alanna had, he was confident he had already changed their future for the better, but sighting the wolf convinced him that he was on the right path. He turned to find Byron watching him with an incredulous gaze.
