He was staring at Sam’s back, and it took Isaac, as full of Emmy as he was, four full strokes to notice that Sam had stopped paddling. Getting his bearings, he figured. They had covered about forty-five miles, still far south of Bellingham now but passing several reef net setups. So there were Lummi nearby. Strange that their nets weren’t being tended, which meant either the fishing was bad, odd for this time of year, or they’d gone ashore for some other reason.
His eyes weren’t any way as good as Sam’s, or of any of the other natives he knew, so he had to cup his hand to his forehead, squinting to see the source of the smoke on the beach. It wasn’t the trees alone; the remains of cabins—white-washed settler cabins—were on fire at the base of the small forest fire.
They drifted without paddling and watched for a few minutes until Sam grunted and pointed to a spot on the beach about a half mile north of the cabins. Isaac started to protest then saw what Sam was watching.
It was a long boat. Northerners.
It rested high on the beach not far from the cabins. Medium size, high gunnels, large enough to hold fifteen or sixteen. Isaac couldn’t make out the markings from here, but a raiding party, almost certainly. The boat was unattended, so that meant the cabin folk had likely fled into the forest and the raiders were hunting them.
Isaac felt for his musket but kept his eyes on the long boat. Wished he’d brought more powder than what he thought he would need for hunting and bear. Wished Pickett and the federals would finally get their steamer gunboat stationed up here to help put a stop to this type of butchery. If the Brits had gunboats, why couldn’t the Oregon territory get one for its citizens?
They had to make their decision quickly. If they turned to run against the incoming tide or put up their sail to tack against the wind . . . they couldn’t outrun a long boat. They had to reach shelter.
Without waiting for Isaac to react, Sam set the pace, fast and smooth and Isaac knew what he was thinking. No time for talking it over. If they moved swiftly, they might make it to the shore undiscovered then wait for the raiding party to leave. No time for anything but hiding, as had the settlers, hopefully.
Isaac chided himself as he rowed. Should have known who the cabins belonged to, being the appointed tax collector and circuit judge for the region. But settlers were showing up all the time nowadays, drifting up from the gold fields in California or coming overland from Missouri and the Midwest; too many to get to know anymore.
The folks in those cabins had found themselves a smooth-stoned beach and built a place close to the salmon and clams. “When the tide goes out, the table is set,” they’d likely heard. They had settled onto the beach and gotten lazy, typical for whites. They didn’t know northern raiders had never really stopped their slaving runs. You just didn’t hear about them as much because so many natives had died of measles and smallpox north of the Vancouver Islands.
But the raiders hadn’t changed their ways, and new settlers brought a lot of useful things with them that drew thieves out from their protected coves—Kwakiutl, Tlingit, or Haida, likely. Sam would know. His Salish tribe had to fight them all the time. Headhunters all, he’d said.
Isaac and Sam pulled up on a short spit that jutted out just far enough that a casual look up the beach wouldn’t reveal them.
Sam was out of the boat and up to the crest before they landed. As cautious as Sam was about everything, Isaac had never seen him scared this much, and his quiet, crouched movements told Isaac that Sam was close to panic.
Faster now, Isaac secured the boat and joined Sam. They could see the long boat and part of the closest cabin, still smoldering.
“Haida…Raven markings. Maybe ol’ Black Wind, hisself,” Sam whispered.
That sent chills down Isaac’s spine. He had heard about Black Wind for years. Everyone had. But no one knew if the infamous Northerner predator was real or a myth. Isaac decided he didn’t want to find out. He tried to push himself into the sand to lower his profile.
It was getting dark. Isaac looked behind him and saw the little beach wouldn’t give them much protection if they had to fight, and the flat between the cabins and where they hid, covered by brambles right up to the tree line, would make it difficult for him to detect anyone trying to flank their position.
Sam would have seen that too. Even if they had reached the spit unobserved, if the Northerners headed out moving with the tide, they would pass right by the spit. It all depended on what they brought out of the burning forest.
If their boat was full, they wouldn’t stop. They would stay away from Bellingham where he was headed and likely keep their heading west of Whidbey where he and Emmy lived. They’d just slip back up north quietly through the small islands and up past Vancouver—if their boat was full. Otherwise they would continue looking for plunder — and captives.
Still three hours until complete darkness. Isaac wondered if he would be tested before the night was over. The Bellingham trial for which he was to be the judge would have to wait. Isaac knew God would be presiding over this one.
Chapter Three
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Emmy
Emmy unhitched her mare from the buckboard and as she led her old horse to the front yard, she looked out again at the cold gray water of the sea below the bluff. A low-lying fog hovered over the strait, obscuring the lights of the small settlement surrounding
