Calico - The Shawnee Huntress

This is part of Chapter One of my new book. It's book one of a series called Children of the Shawnee. My publisher is Page Turners out of Evansville, Indiana. My website is www.allisonbruning.com. You can buy a copy of the book there or you can message me on facebook at emeraldkell@yahoo.com

Eight-year-old Calico ran quickly through the hilly, wooded countryside. Her long brown dress kept her from going as fast as she wanted. She hated her French dress; its large layered skirt hindered her. She felt freer in her Shawnee leather leggings and linen shirt.

A pair of strong arms grabbed her at the waist. She screamed loudly, kicked hard with her black shoes, and struggled to get away. She couldn’t let this man harm her. The mysterious warrior picked her up and carried her deeper into the woods, his thick hand covered her mouth. In a deep tone, he commanded, “Nooleewi-a!”

Calico calmed her body. She was scared for her life and didn’t trust the young man’s voice. He let go of her mouth slowly, still holding her tightly against his firm body, and listened. “Little Owl, Ni-me'soom'tha Chief Big Deer! Sawanwa killa,” Calico said.

“I don’t care. Kieh-ki-lin-nie Big Deer and Yellow Oak may call you Granddaughter. I call you Matchele ne tha-tha,” he snarled the threat in her left ear. Calico gulped. She looked up at the nineteen-year-old Shawnee warrior’s chestnut eyes. He meant what he said.

“Little Owl!” twenty-six-year-old Pierre Lutree whispered down the steep hill. Little Owl turned around and nodded towards Pierre. Pierre slid down the hillside, stopped before him, and informed, in perfect Shawnee with a hint of a French accent, “Sham-ma-kan-na!”

Little Owl let go of his grip on Calico and grabbed his long Kentucky rifle from behind his back. Calico stared at Pierre. “Soldiers?”

Pierre took Calico’s hand and looked into her blue eyes, “Tais-toi! Oui, Calico, there are soldats britanniques. They can’t find us. Stay quiet, ma cherie! ”

“Yes, oncle.”

“Bien, let’s go.” Pierre led Calico up the steep hill. Calico looked over her right shoulder at Little Owl, in hopes the British would find and kill him. She stuck her tongue out at him. He growled at her and shot her a fierce look. Her heart jumped, and she turned her head away. Calico gulped in fear and moved closer to her uncle for safety. The three of them crouched down behind an ancient rotten log.

Calico whispered to Pierre, “I’m scared. What if Little Owl decides to kill us?”

Pierre nodded, pulled her closer, and said, “Soit courageuse, Calico. He won’t hurt you.”

“But Little Owl hates white people.”

“His papa is le chef de guerre, and we’re members of the tribu. He’d be an idiot to harm us.”

The sound of hooves echoed in the air. Pierre peered over the log. He pushed Calico closer to the ground. Pierre studied the group of fifteen soldiers riding down the path on his right side. The unit stopped as another group of five soldiers on horseback met them from the opposite direction. Pierre and Little Owl prepared for an attack. They listened in on their conversation.

“Sir, we found the Shawnee trading party about a mile to the west of the path, right over that hill, and then the next. We did as you ordered. We never touched the bodies or anything else in the camp.”

“Did you recognize any of them?”

“Yes sir. Chief Big Deer’s son, Brave Deer, and Chief Kicking Horses’ eldest son, Strong Eagle, were among the bodies.”

“Good, you found Chief Big Deer’s group of Shawnee. Did you recognize any of the other bodies?”

“I didn’t, but Private Robert Cowley claims he saw a Frenchman covered with a short robe.”

Calico sobbed, “Oncle Pierre.”

“Hush, ma cherie,” Pierre replied. Calico recalled the stories of Pierre’s military leadership. He had led the French troops in the French and Indian War alongside her father. She had to listen to him. Pierre pulled his niece close in protection and comfort. Little Owl shook his head towards his companions. The soldiers heard movement, looked towards the hill, saw nothing, and returned to their conversation.

“Private Cowley, which one of those ignorant, rebellious Frenchmen did you see? François or Pierre Lutree?”

“Ah cooldnae teel, sir. Th’ animals got his body afair we did.”

“What color hair?”

“Blond.”

“You found François. You’re certain he died with that Shawnee trading party?”

“Aye, sir. They’re deid, alrecht. Strange, thoucht.”

“Private Cowley?”

“Th’ other Shawnee groops headed towards their village. Th’ path ay thes crew leid us awa’ frae th’ Ohio River. Wa woods ye travel aw th’ way tae Fort Pitt tae trade only tae donner haem in th’ opposite direction ay yer village,” Private Cowley answered with a Scottish accent.

“You’re probably correct, Private Cowley. Don’t concern yourself with the location. We did our jobs. We verified the death of another Shawnee for Baron Jeffrey Amherst. Thanks to the troops at Fort Pitt, François Lutree no longer presents a problem. Pierre should become contaminated once he touches his brother’s body. With his death, the Shawnee loyal to France will have to trade with the British. It looks like we’ve had a glorious day, gentlemen. Everyone except for Cowley return to the station.”

Calico looked over the log towards the medium-framed Scottish soldier.

“Sir,” Cowley answered.

“Private Cowley, Doctor Alexander Turner needs to head to another station to tend to wounded soldiers. I would appreciate it if you would accompany him. Until confirmation of Pierre Lutree’s death, I fear for the doctor’s safety.”

“Aye, sir. Th’ doctor’s location?”

“He returned to Turner Station. He said something about needing more medical supplies, then heading towards his trade house for some other items. I want you to follow me to the station, then you can escort our good doctor. If you find Pierre Lutree, kill him and bring the croaker to me. I relish the thought of serving his head to Lord Amherst.”