The river had left us broken. We'd lost a wagon, half our food, and most of our hope to its muddy grip. As we set up camp on the far bank, the air buzzed with frustration. Henderson was barking at his sons to haul what little we'd salvaged, while Mrs. Greene wept quietly by a splintered crate. I was trying to rally everyone, but my own doubts gnawed at me. Winter was closing in, and we weren't ready.
"Thomas, we can't keep going like this," William said, his voice low as he dragged a soaked sack of flour to the fire. His hands shook—from cold or fear, I couldn't tell.
"We don't have a choice," I replied, sharper than I meant. "We stop now, we die."
He didn't argue, just nodded and went back to work. Elizabeth Carter moved among the children, her calm voice a lifeline in the chaos. Father Michael clutched his Bible, muttering prayers. I turned away, scanning the trees. We needed a plan—food, shelter, something—but the wilderness offered no answers.
That's when they hit us.
A shout split the air, and before I could react, a dozen Ojibwe warriors burst from the forest, their horses kicking up mud. Young, fierce, with painted faces and knives glinting in the dusk, they didn't come to talk. The leader, a wiry man with a scar across his cheek, charged straight at Henderson, who was fumbling for his rifle.
"Get back!" I yelled, lunging forward, but it was too late. The warrior's horse clipped Henderson, sending him sprawling. His sons rushed in, swinging fists, and one of the natives—a boy barely older than them—slashed at their arms with a blade. Blood hit the ground, and chaos erupted.
William grabbed a shovel, swinging wildly as another warrior bore down on him. I tackled the rider from the side, dragging him off his horse. We hit the dirt hard, grappling, his knife inches from my throat. He snarled something in his tongue, eyes blazing, but I slammed my elbow into his jaw and rolled free.
"Stop!" I shouted, staggering to my feet, hands raised. "We don't want a fight!"
The leader wheeled his horse around, barking orders. His men hesitated, weapons still drawn, but they didn't advance. Henderson was up now, clutching his side, blood seeping through his shirt. His sons stood beside him, panting, one nursing a cut arm. William dropped the shovel, chest heaving.
"You cross our land," the leader spat in broken English, his voice cold. "You pay."
"We've got nothing left," I said, stepping forward, trying to keep my tone steady. "The river took half our supplies. We're just trying to survive."
He sneered, gesturing at our ragged camp. "This is ours. You give, or we take."
Henderson growled, reaching for his rifle again. "Like hell we will—"
"Enough!" I snapped, grabbing his arm. "You want us all dead?" I turned back to the warrior. "We've got tools, blankets. Take them. But let us pass."
The leader's eyes narrowed, weighing me. For a moment, I thought he'd laugh it off and charge again. Then a new voice cut through the tension—an older man, gray streaking his hair, rode up from the trees. His presence was heavy, like a storm cloud, and the young warriors stiffened.
He spoke sharply in Ojibwe, and the leader flinched, lowering his knife. The elder—tall, weathered, with a gaze that pierced right through me—dismounted and approached.
"I am Miskwa," he said, his English clear, deliberate. "These boys are rash. They see you as thieves. Are you?"
"No," I said, meeting his stare. "We're settlers, heading to the lakes. We don't want trouble."
Miskwa glanced at the caravan—our soaked clothes, the pitiful fire, the wounded. "You are not ready for this land," he said. "Winter will bury you."
"We'll take that chance," I replied, though his words sank into me like stones.
He nodded slowly. "Give what you offered. Tools, blankets. Then go. But know this: the land does not forgive."
The young warriors grumbled but obeyed as Miskwa gestured them back. We handed over a crate of hammers and a few damp blankets—meager, but it was something. They loaded it onto their horses and rode off, the leader casting one last glare my way.
Henderson spat into the mud. "Cowards. Should've fought 'em."
"And lost everything?" I shot back. "We're alive. That's what matters."
Elizabeth approached, her face pale but composed. "You did right, Thomas. Kept it from getting worse."
I shrugged, wiping blood from a scrape on my hand. "Maybe. But we're still in deep."
That night, we patched up the wounded by the fire. Father Michael read from his Bible—"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death"—and for once, I didn't mind the words. They fit. William sat with Elizabeth, talking quietly, and I caught her smile—small, but real. It stirred something in me, a flicker of warmth I hadn't felt in days.
I stood watch as the others slept, the forest pressing in around us. The wind carried distant sounds—branches snapping, leaves rustling—but nothing more. No howls, no whispers. Just silence, heavy and thick. I told myself it was over, that we'd faced the worst and come through.
But deep down, I knew the wilderness wasn't done with us. It was waiting, patient and cold, for us to make our next mistake.