Page 33 of The Lady of Red River Valley (Ladies of the Wilderness #2)

“Bois-Br?lés,” said an older gentleman who finally stopped long enough to speak to Semple. He breathed heavily and carried several random items from his home. “Hideously disguised as Indians. Their faces are painted and they’re armed with bows and arrows, knives, guns, and spears.”

“Is Cuthbert Grant among them?” Arran asked, his horse sidestepping beneath him.

“I dinna ken.” The man looked back toward Colony Gardens. “I canna stop. I must get to the fort.”

“It’s as we first suspected,” Arran said to Semple. “This is not a band of Indians, but Bois-Br?lés sent by the North West Company. But why are they headed north, and not toward the fort? You would think they’d be following the settlers.”

Semple sat for a moment, his eyes squinting as he stared toward the north.

“These men have a plan and we must be ready for them.” He turned his horse to the first man in his eyesight.

“Mr. Burke, return to the fort and bring back all the men you can muster. Bring along with you a fieldpiece, as well. We will wait for you here.”

The horses pranced restlessly as the group of men waited and watched.

Burke nodded and then started to gallop full speed back to the fort.

“We should all return to the fort,” Arran said to the governor. “We will have a better chance to defend the fort with the cannons there. Out here, we are sitting targets.”

“They have not noticed us yet,” Semple said. “We will have the benefit of surprise when we approach them.”

“Surely this is their plan.” Arran needed the governor to see reason. “They have drawn a significant number out from the fort, weakening what little defense we have left. Now that we know who they are, we need to return and keep watch.”

Semple let out a long, low breath, his gaze on the distant group heading north and to the east, toward the Red River. “I would prefer to speak to them. Perhaps we can avoid a conflict altogether.”

“We have heard for months what these men are planning,” Arran said, barely containing his frustration. “They have come to destroy the settlement and fort. They will not be willing to speak.”

“You do not know for certain.” Semple’s own irritation was mounting, and it was evident in the red riding high up his neck. “I could not live with myself if I didn’t at least try to avoid a war.” He motioned to the group. “Let us continue. Mr. Burke and the others can catch up to us later.”

The governor’s orders did not settle well in Arran’s gut. He exchanged a look with James, who nodded once that he understood Arran’s frustration—but what could they do? Semple was their governor, for better or worse.

They were soon upon Colony Gardens. There were twenty-six settlers’ houses standing on plots of land edging the river, long and narrow. Up ahead, the Bois-Br?lés had come to a stop. They must have noticed the fort men, because they had turned and started to gallop toward them.

Sweat trickled down Arran’s temples and dust filled his nose. There was no going back this time. They did not have the fort for protection, but only the muskets they had carried along.

“Spread out onto the plains,” Semple yelled and motioned toward the west.

Arran repeated his orders, and the men did as they were told. They were outnumbered by the Bois-Br?lés at least two to one, but there was nothing they could do about that now.

They were about to face the most ruthless men in Rupert’s Land. Arran’s mind should have been on the confrontation, but all he could think about was Eleanor and Miriam back at the defenseless fort.

Semple and his men had gone only as far as the place known as Seven Oaks, in the middle of Colony Gardens, when the oncoming riders were close enough for Arran to see that they were, in fact, half-blood men and employees of the North West Company.

Though they were disguised as Indians, several were recognizable and known to Arran, having worked with them years ago.

Cuthbert Grant was also there, though he rode his horse toward the back of the group.

The Bois-Br?lés broke into two groups, fanning out to surround Arran and the others in a half-circle. The Frenchman named Francois Boucher, a clerk who had worked at Fort Gibraltar with Duncan Cameron, rode out from among them.

His face was painted and contorted into a fierce snarl. “What do you want?” he asked Semple in broken English.

Governor Semple frowned and shook his head, clearly confused. “What do you want?”

Boucher looked around the group of fort men, his eyes narrowed. “What do you want?” he asked again.

Semple met Arran’s gaze, uncertainty in his eyes, and then he looked back at Boucher. “What do you want?”

Annoyed, Boucher turned his horse back toward the group of Bois-Br?lés and motioned for them to head toward the north again. Clumps of dirt flew into the air behind their retreating horses.

Arran frowned and looked among the fort men. The Bois-Br?lés were not behaving as he had thought they would. It didn’t appear that they had come to fight, though they were clearly on a mission of one kind or another.

“Do they not want to fight?” one of the fort men asked, lifting his musket into the air. “Because I am ready to fight!”

Several other men shouted in agreement, mocking the Bois-Br?lés.

Semple turned to Arran, a look of perplexity on his face. “What do you think they are doing here?”

Arran had no idea. He shook his head. “I dinna ken.”

“Should we follow them?” West asked Semple, moving his horse closer to Arran’s.

It took a few moments of indecision before Semple nodded. “Let’s keep going. It’s clear they have no intention to fight us. We need to speak to them and find out what they want.”

“Mayhap we should return to the fort,” Arran said. “Watch and wait to see what they have in mind. We will be better protected there and able to defend ourselves. I dinna like how they are behaving. There is something wrong.”

Semple seemed to weigh his options, but then he nodded toward the north. “Let’s continue. I’d like to see this thing done.”

Arran had no choice but to obey his commanding officer yet again, though everything within him demanded a different course.

They started, but no sooner had they returned to a gallop than the Bois-Br?lés turned back once again. This time, they were spread out even more, their group separating into two parties and forming a half-circle around Semple and his men for the second time.

Dread filled Arran as his mind tried to understand what the Bois-Br?lés were doing. Something was wrong—he just didn’t know what it might be or how to stop it from happening.

“What do you want?” Boucher left the ranks of the Bois-Br?lés and circled around Semple and his horse, asking again in broken English, “What do you want?”

Semple ground his teeth together and lowered his chin. “What do you want?”

“We want our fort,” Boucher finally said.

“Go to your fort.” Semple motioned toward the south and the location where Fort Gibraltar used to stand.

“Why did you destroy our fort, you rascal?” Boucher held his musket against his shoulder. He pranced his horse close to Semple and swung his gun out to point in the governor’s direction.

Semple grabbed the barrel of the gun.

Alarm pounded in Arran’s head and his instincts immediately kicked in. All the men, in both groups, sprang to readiness. Backs were tight, muscles clenched, and weapons poised for attack. Arran kept his gaze locked on their enemies, watching for the slightest twitch or movement.

Boucher jumped from his horse and at the same moment, a shot rang out. Arran did not know from whom it sounded, but Lieutenant Holt, a clerk in the colony’s service, fell from his horse and struggled upon the ground.

Arran and the other fort men stared at Lieutenant Holt in shock. In seconds, his writhing body went still and his eyes stared sightlessly toward the blue sky.

“He’s dead,” Angus Ferguson said at Arran’s left. “They’ve killed him.”

Boucher ripped his musket from Semple’s hand and ran toward the Bois-Br?lés while another shot rang out from their company.

It hit Semple in the thigh. Semple stared in disbelief as the wound began to bleed, soaking his tan trousers in crimson red. His horse’s eyes rolled back and he started to buck.

Arran pushed Tiberius to Semple’s side, his jaw tight with panic and anger. He grabbed the reins of Semple’s horse to keep him from bolting.

Semple grasped his leg and yelled at his men, “Do what you can to take care of yourselves!”

On instinct, the fort men drew close to Semple and Holt, some coming off their horses to attend to their fallen comrade.

In quick succession, the Bois-Br?lés brought the two ends of their column together and surrounded the fort men. They lifted their guns and began to fire.

Bullets zinged past Arran as he let go of the governor’s horse and aimed his musket, expecting to be shot at any moment.

He did not even think. Everything was done by instinct.

He pulled the trigger on his musket, even as a volley rang out from the enemy, accompanied by yells and shouts of warfare.

Smoke filled the air as a dozen or more fort men fell, almost at once.

Arran grabbed Semple and pulled him from his horse, hoping to use the beast as a shield, but the Bois-Br?lés had circled them and there was nowhere to hide.

“Leave me,” Semple said to Arran. “And fight these devils.”

Arran pressed his hand against the wound in Semple’s leg while the Bois-Br?lés continued to fire upon the fort men.

Profanity filled the air, mingled with the cries of those injured and dying.

Musket balls zinged to Arran’s right and left, dimpling the ground, kicking up chunks of earth.

Arran’s heart pounded and his pulse surged.