Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [155]
I saw Jamie’s shoulders relax their rigid line, and felt slightly reassured.
“Bonsoir, messieurs,” he said. “Parlez-vous français?”
The Indians giggled again, glancing at each other shyly. The older man took a tentative step forward and ducked his head at us, setting the beads in his hair swinging.
“No … Fransh,” he said.
“English?” I said hopefully. He glanced at me with interest, but shook his head. He said something over one shoulder to one of his sons, who replied in the same unintelligible tongue. The older man turned back to Jamie and asked something, raising his brows in question.
Jamie shook his head in incomprehension, and one of the young men stepped into the firelight. Bending his knees and letting his shoulders slump, he thrust his head forward and swayed from side to side, peering nearsightedly in such perfect imitation of a bear that Jamie laughed out loud. The other Indians grinned.
The young man straightened up and pointed at the blood-soaked sleeve of Jamie’s shirt, with an interrogatory noise.
“Oh, aye, it’s over there,” Jamie said, gesturing toward the darkness under the trees.
Without further ado, all three men disappeared into the dark, from which excited exclamations and murmurings soon emerged.
“It’s all right, Sassenach,” Jamie said. “They willna harm us. They’re only hunters.” He closed his eyes briefly, and I saw the faint sheen of sweat on his face. “And a good thing, too, because I think I’m maybe going to swoon.”
“Don’t even think about it. Don’t you dare faint and leave me alone with them!” No matter what the savages’ possible intentions, the thought of facing them alone over Jamie’s unconscious body was enough to reknot my intestines with panic. I put my hand on the back of his neck and forced his head down between his knees.
“Breathe,” I said, squeezing cold water from my handkerchief down the back of his neck. “You can faint later.”
“Can I puke?” he asked, his voice muffled in his kilt. I recognized the note of wry jest in it, and let my own breath out with relief.
“No,” I said. “Sit up; they’re coming back.”
They were, dragging the bear’s carcass with them. Jamie sat up and mopped his face with the wet handkerchief. Warm as the night was, he was shivering slightly from shock, but he sat steadily enough.
The older man came over to us, and pointed with raised brows; first to the knife that lay at Jamie’s feet, then to the dead bear. Jamie nodded modestly.
“It wasna easy, mind,” he said.
The Indian’s brows rose higher. Then he ducked his head, hands spread in a gesture of respect. He beckoned to one of the younger men, who came over, untying a pouch from his belt.
Shoving me unceremoniously to one side, the younger man ripped open the throat of Jamie’s shirt, pulled it off his shoulder, and squinted at the injury. He poured a handful of a lumpy, half-powdery substance into his hand, spat copiously into it, stirred it into a foul-smelling paste, and smeared it liberally over the wounds.
“Now I really am going to puke,” Jamie murmured, wincing under the ungentle ministrations. “What is that stuff?”
“At a guess, it’s dried trillium mixed with very rancid bear grease,” I said, trying not to inhale the pungent fumes. “I don’t suppose it will kill you; at least I hope not.”
“That’s two of us, then,” he said under his breath. “No, I’ll do now, thank ye kindly.” He waved away further ministrations, smiling politely at his would-be doctor.
Joking or not, his lips were white, even in the dimness of the firelight. I put a hand on his good shoulder, and felt the muscles clenched tight with strain.
“Get the whisky, Sassenach. I need it badly.”
One of the Indians made a grab at the bottle as I pulled it from the bag, but I pushed him rudely away. He grunted with surprise, but didn’t follow me. Instead, he picked up the bag and began rooting through it like a hog hunting truffles. I didn’t try to stop him, but hurried back to Jamie with the whisky.
He took a small sip, then a larger one, shuddered once, and opened his