The Indian’s head was dimly lit, visible only from the glow of the fogged-over full moon.
He had a fierce mouth, a dark, twisting scowl. Ink-black hair darker than the night framed his head.
He’d leapt from the canoe with his hatchet at the ready. Devin was immobile, petrified where he stood, his shoes captured by the muck of the loamy earth.
The Indian’s arm swung back in a slow whoosh. There was no mistaking his intention. A battle cry erupted from his gaping mouth.
Devin shook and instinctively crouched. The cold of the forest leaves shocked him. He jerked, thrashed reflexively.
His eyes felt glued shut. As he reached around manically he felt only the rough wool of a blanket and forced hi...
Please subscribe to keep reading.