Welcome back to Tuesday Tales, the blog spot where books are born. This week our writing prompt used to add to our work in progress is FUNNY. I’m continuing with my historical romance, The Price of Courage. Lucien and company seem to have met some unsavory men–just how unsavory is yet to be seen!
Okwaho nodded and disappeared into the brush. Even though Lucien knew he was mere feet away, the brave was invisible.
Hefting his pack onto his shoulders, Lucien attached his arquebus to its side, and using the sinews woven into a rope, tethered the sled at his waist. Yves geared up beside him.
Instead of turning south toward the village, the men followed Bouchard’s trail. The toboggan skimmed over the snow with ease requiring little effort to tow, unlike the traîneau the others dragged, its wooden runners sinking into the soft snow.
“I have a bad feeling about this,” he said, as they trudged along. “Those men aren’t who they say they are. They’re running from someone or something, and I don’t think it has anything to do with people dying of fevers.”
Yves nodded and crossed himself, his musket at the ready.
“Marion looked scared to death, as if he’d seen or done something too horrible to forget. Catiche would say it was a Wendigo, but they aren’t real. I’ve tried to tell her that, but you know how superstitious she can be. My brother was telling stories around the campfire last summer and told one about the loup garou.” He laughed. “From that day on, you should’ve seen how funny our home looked with wild garlic strung in every window and at the top of each doorway to protect against them. She even added some to the camphor packets she sewed onto the children’s nightclothes.”
Lucien frowned. “I doubt cannibalistic spirits or werewolves had anything to do with whatever scared him. Let’s step up the pace. The sooner we discover the truth the better.”
With Yves by his side, he ran-walked along the flat surface following the trail. When they reached the base of a small hill, they stopped.
“Maudit bâtard lied,” Yves growled. “They came from the north, not the south. Look at this.” The snow was heavily disturbed. He reached for a couple of small muskrat pelts the men had overlooked. “They must’ve fallen and rolled down the hill. These skins may not be the most valuable, but they would bring a fair price. Why leave them behind?”
“Good question. With the sun at their backs, they must’ve seen us first and brushed off as much of the snow as they could.”
The acid in Lucien’s gut boiled. Who the hell were these men?
That’s it. Don’t forget to check out all the other posts on Tuesday Tales.