Matt was cold. He had never been so cold in his life. It felt as though a frigid winter wind was blasting through the cave, stripping all the warmth from his body. But there was no wind.
Am I dying? He shuddered, which sent pain as searing as red-hot iron sizzling through his chest. He moaned, then bit his lip to keep silent.
A crackle came from outside that sounded like dead leaves being crushed under someone’s foot—crunch, crunch, crackle—a terrifying Rice Krispies medley just behind the shelter of rocks. Pebbles cascaded down the cliff and struck the dome above him.
Oh no, they’re coming. Matt could picture war-painted warriors skulking between the trees and gradually approaching with their tomahawks raised. He squeezed his eyes shut and did his best to keep his breathing shallow.
This was why Chogan had drawn Sarah out of the cave. He knew Matt would be discovered. Chogan was actually saving Sarah, and Matt had known it, too. Either he would die of his wound or Mohawk warriors would find him. He didn’t know which was worse, but Sarah’s best chance for survival rested with Chogan. That’s why he’d pushed her to go. He’d never been very noble, not even very kind, but Sarah did something to him. It was as if her better qualities were rubbing off on him.
Another clatter of cascading rocks resounded outside the cave entrance. Matt felt around for some kind of weapon. His hand closed on a rock with a sharp edge. He clutched it tightly. The light dimmed as though a shade had been drawn over the tunnel entrance. They could only come one at a time. Maybe he’d be able to take some out before they got him. Maybe it would end more quickly if he offered some resistance.
A painted face appeared in front of him, black and white bands like a hideous mime. The man’s hair was shaved off on both sides of his head, leaving one stripe down the middle. In his right hand he held a tomahawk, ready to shatter skulls. He crept closer and smiled, perhaps anticipating the ease of his victory over a single boy. Matt’s grip tightened on the rock.
As the Mohawk warrior raised his hand to strike, an idea hit Matt like a smack in the face. Five Nations, alliances. Maybe Sarah was wrong.
“Are you going to kill an Englishman?” he asked.
The Mohawk paused and tilted his head. “English?”
Matt couldn’t believe it. The man actually knew his language. “What do I look like, a Frenchman?” he growled.
The man sat back on his haunches, keeping the tomahawk ready to launch. “What Englishman doing with bear dung?”
“Excuse me?” asked Matt.
“Algonquin,” he snarled. “Bear dung.”
Matt, despite his precarious position, tried not to laugh. “I’m not with them,” he said, doing his best to affect an arrogant tone. “My father is a great warrior. He was scouting the land when we got separated in the woods.”
The warrior’s gaze travelled from Matt’s face to his rumpled shirt and grimy jeans. “You dress strangely,” he said. “And you rode canoe with bear dung.”
Matt took a deep breath, which made the arrow dig deeper into his shoulder. He caught his lip between his teeth and buried the scream within his brain. One tear squeezed out of his eye and trickled down his cheek.
“I was trying to find his camp so I could tell my father. I pretended to be French to gain his trust. You know, enemy, backstab, that sort of thing.”
The Mohawk frowned, but he lowered his weapon. “You English . . .” He paused as if searching for the right word. He crouched down and made as if to creep behind Matt.
“Sly?” said Matt.
He pursed his lips and nodded. “Sly. Very bad. I like it.”
“Good,” said Matt. “Glad you like it.” If he’d had a tissue he would have wiped the sweat off his brow. Finally all his practice at conniving and lying had paid off. He’d always relished acting the scoundrel. Now he really needed to be one.
The warrior pointed to himself. “Segoleh.” He rumbled in his chest, which sounded something like a chuckle, and Matt wondered why. Maybe it had to do with his name.
“Pleased to meet you,” he responded. “Matt Barnes.”
Segoleh nodded towards the front of the cave. “We go.”
Matt shook his head and pointed to the arrow wedged in his shoulder. “Injured,” he said. “The move would kill me.”
Segoleh gritted his teeth and growled something in Mohawk. He scrambled closer to Matt and reached under his arms. Matt closed his eyes as the movement of his injured shoulder felt like needles threading through him. Segoleh crawled backward, dragging Matt with him, until he emerged from the opening. Ten other warriors surrounded the small cave with their arrows raised.
“English,” said Segoleh. This stirred grumbles among the men as they lowered their weapons. Segoleh left Matt lying beside the river while he climbed higher up the bank. He gave instructions to the men, then crept quietly into the woods.
Matt lay still, feeling the warriors’ glares scour him from head to toe. What now? Would they tie him to a stake, throw him into the river, or leave him for the wolves to munch on?
Segoleh appeared from the ridge above the river and slid down the slope with an armload of branches and strips of bark to make a rope. He motioned to the others to help him, and most of them set to work, tying the bundle together and fashioning a crude travois to transport the injured boy. A few warriors still looked on with arms crossed. They muttered to Segoleh, who stood and faced them with a fierce scowl.
He spoke in Mohawk. Suddenly all the warriors stepped back and marveled at Matt. They nodded at him as if out of profound respect.
Matt had to ask. “What did you tell them?”
“The truth,” said Segoleh. “That your spirit is great warrior. You fool the bear dung. That not so easy. You survive the waterfall, even with arrow in chest. We not leave you to die. You come with us.”
Matt wasn’t too keen on going with them, but he knew it was far better than the other option. He had no intention of changing their opinion of him by telling them there was no way he could have survived the rapids without his friends.
When Segoleh had finished the travois, two warriors hoisted Matt onto it. He held onto the sides as they pulled him up the steep embankment and set off into the woods. The leaves above his head waved a somber farewell as he was jostled about. Matt closed his eyes. Each step was taking him farther and farther from his friends. Who knew what was in store for him with this new First Nations tribe? He’d just escaped torture and certain death, but he couldn’t help the flutter in his chest; he couldn’t stop the shivering and the clattering of his teeth. He worried about Sarah, alone now except for Chogan. What would happen to her in this frightening New World? He wished his father hadn’t always been so far out of reach. Then things would have turned out differently. For the first time in his life, he even missed Nadine.