Mother of God, she thought, two savages in one day. By the look of utter terror on the face of the Indian woman who gripped alock of her hair, she knew this new savage was unfriendly to both of them. The Indian released her. Genevieve whirled around, but she saw no other savage behind her. Instead, she saw a familiar buckskin-clad man crouched in the litter, one glittering, tawny eye narrowed into a slit over the gaping barrel of his pistol. "By the love of Saint Joseph!" Tiny emerged from the darkness and knocked Andre's pistol up. "Don't shoot! It's a squaw." Genevieve whirled just in time to see the long sweep Of the Indian woman's glossy black hair as she shot toward the woods. Genevieve cried out after her, but she knew it was useless, for the squaw didn't understand French any more than Genevieve understood the Indian woman's tongue. "Go after her, Tiny," Andre barked, "before she brings back her husband, her brothers, and every other Iroquois warrior in the area." Tiny splashed through the stream, chasing the flashes of fringed deerskin through the shadowed woods.
