Though there was menace in the white man’s voice, Henry wasn’t afraid of him. He was afraid for Maria because he didn’t know what Wellington and Lima might do to her because of this sin. He kept his position blocking the opening to her tent.
Lima appeared, hiking up his trousers as he came. “There you are, Henry. Where’s the fire, damn it? And hell, boy, where’s the coffee?”
“Henry’s been busy with other things, Carlos. I just caught him sneaking from your daughter’s tent.”
Lima, as he walked, had been concentrating on the buttons of his pants. When he heard Wellington’s words, he stopped. His eyes rolled up and he took in Henry and the tent where his only daughter slept. Rage flared on his face.
“You savage son of a bitch,” he spat. “I will kill you.”
He ran at Henry. Lima wasn’t a big man, but he was powerfully built, especially in his upper body. He raised his arms and lowered his head. He reminded Henry of a charging moose.
Henry dropped low, caught Lima in the gut with his shoulder, and used the man’s momentum to lift him off his feet. Lima tumbled over Henry and landed flat on his back. He tried to rise, but clearly the wind had been knocked out of him.
Wellington started toward Henry, but not with commitment.
At the government school in Flandreau, Henry had learned to box. Now he braced himself, brought his fists to the ready, and dropped into an easy fighter’s crouch. It was enough to make Wellington pause.
“Henry?” The canvas flap rustled at his back. Maria touched his shoulder. “Oh, no.” She rushed past him and knelt at her father’s side. “Papa?” She looked at Henry. “Did you hit him?”
Before Henry could reply, Wellington said, “Your father was just trying to defend your honor. Henry nearly killed him.”
“Maria?” Lima’s breath had returned. He reached out and took his daughter’s hand. “Tell me it’s not the way it looks.”
“Papa, I love Henry.”
“Love?” He snatched back his hand. He rolled to his side and pushed onto his knees. “Love?” he bellowed. He brought himself up fully and leaned threateningly toward his daughter. “This is not love. This is rutting. This is what wild animals do. I did not raise you to rut like an animal.”
“I’m not an animal. And Henry’s not an animal.”
“He’s not a man.” Lima turned to Henry. “A man would not take advantage of a girl this way.”
Maria grasped her father’s arm. “I’m not a girl.”
He pulled away. “Clearly not anymore.”
“I’m a woman, Papa.”
“Maybe.” He glared at her. “But you will never be a lady. Not after him. What man would want you now? I gave you the best of everything, and this is how you thank me? You are no better than a street whore.”
He slapped her hard and she spun away. He raised his hand to hit her again. Henry lunged and grabbed Lima’s arm. The man turned angrily. Henry hit him full in the face and felt the shatter of bone. The man went down. His head hit one of the rocks that ringed the fire, and he lay still, blood leaking from the left side of his head.
“Jesus,” Wellington said. “You’ve killed him.”
“Papa!” Maria sprang up and ran to her father’s side. She knelt and put her hand to his cheek. “Papa?” She bent near his lips. “He’s breathing. Henry, get me some water.”
Henry grabbed a tin cup and sprinted to the lake. He dipped the cup full and brought it to Maria. She tore a strip from the bottom of the undershirt she wore, soaked it in the water, and dabbed at her father’s blood.
“Papa?” she tried again.
Lima didn’t respond.
Wellington threw a menacing look at Henry. “Let’s get him into his tent.”
They carried him in and laid him on his sleeping bag. Maria sat beside him.
“I’m sorry,” Henry told her.
“He’ll be all right.” She gave him a brief smile, but Henry heard the lie in her voice.
Outside the tent, Wellington stormed about the campsite. “Damn you, Meloux. If he dies, I’ll see you rot in prison. God as my witness, I’ll see you hang.”
Henry made a fire and coffee and biscuits because it was something to do while they waited. He poured a cup of coffee for Maria and put two biscuits on a plate with a puddle of honey. Wellington barred his way into the tent. Henry handed the food to the white man, who took it inside. Wellington and Maria spoke in voices too soft for Henry to hear the words. Wellington emerged, drilled Henry with a killing glare, and headed toward the lake. He waded to the floatplane anchored just offshore, disappeared inside, and came out with a small satchel that he took into the tent.
Henry, in his life, had seen a good deal of death. Usually it came at the end of a long, hopeless vigil. This was different. In truth, he cared little about Carlos Lima, and he thought if the man recovered and ever struck Maria again, he would kill him for sure the next time. But if Lima died, could Maria ever forgive the murder? Or would her love for Henry die as surely as her father had? That was a possibility Henry couldn’t bear. He stood at the edge of the lake and he prayed- to Kitchimanidoo, to God, to all the spirits of the woods-to keep Lima alive.
Near noon, Wellington threw aside the flap on Lima’s tent and stepped into the sunlight. He walked to where Henry stood on the lakeshore.
“He’s not getting better. He needs a doctor. Maria and I are going to fly him out of here. Give me a hand getting the plane ready.”
They laid bedding in the small cargo area, then returned for Lima. Inside the tent, Maria sat beside her father. She looked so tired and worn that Henry wanted to hold her and weep. He took his place on one side of Lima, with Wellington on the other. They lifted the unconscious man, carried him to the lake, waded to the airplane, and eased him inside. Maria had gathered a few of her things in a knapsack, and after her father was inside, she got into the plane. Henry saw the edge of her journal jutting out from under the flap of the knapsack. Even in desperate circumstances, she couldn’t bear to leave it behind.
Wellington said to Henry, “Help me get some things from camp.”
“Maria-” Henry tried to step up to the door, but Wellington grabbed his arm.
“Now!” Wellington ordered.
“Hurry, Henry,” Maria called to him.
When they neared the tents, Wellington stopped and turned on Henry. “You’re staying here, you redskin son of a bitch. You make sure this equipment is safe until I come back. And you better hope to God that Carlos doesn’t die. Because if he does, I’m coming back with police, and you can kiss your red ass good-bye.”
Henry glanced toward the plane. “Maria.”
“I hear her name from your lips one more time and I’ll kill you where you stand.”
Henry wasn’t afraid of the threat. He’d been threatened by white men all his life. Mostly, they were nothing but words. But he’d made enough trouble already.
He said, “I’ll wait here.”
“Damn right you will. Give me a hand with the propeller.”
Wellington spun on his heel and hurried back to the plane. He pulled up the anchor, scrambled inside, and shut the door. Henry stood on the pontoon, and when Wellington gave him the signal, he threw the propeller. The engine coughed; the propeller made a couple of lethargic turns on its own, then caught. Henry stepped back onto the shoreline, and the plane maneuvered slowly toward the middle of the lake. Henry saw Maria’s face at the window. Her lips moved, but he couldn’t hear the words. He watched the wings square for a run across the water.
“Maria!” The word flew desperately from his lips.
He ran toward the plane and splashed into the water. The lake ate his body, swallowed him to the waist.
The floatplane began its run, leaving a silver crack in the water behind it.
“Maria!” Henry threw himself forward, swimming wildly toward the floatplane as it picked up speed and lifted into the air. “Maria!” he screamed.