The Great Alone by Janet Dailey Page A

the water and make slaves of them.
    Of their own volition it seemed, her feet carried her down the earthen mound to Strong Man’s body. The strangers made no attempt to stop her. She knelt beside him, staring into his lifeless eyes. Crying softly, she reached out and gently pressed his eyelids down to shut them.
    Her shoulders bowed under the weight of the guilt she felt. She had wanted the strangers off the island. She had wanted the men of the village to fight and expel these intruders. They had tried, and now they were all dead—including Strong Man, her invincible husband. She traced his broad cheek with her fingers, his skin still warm yet lifeless to her touch.
     
    Surveying the scene, Luka counted fifteen dead—the entire adult male population of the village. He looked at his fellow promyshleniki, noting lingering wild-eyed looks on their faces. Their casualties were light, a few cuts and Khmetevski’s broken arm. Turning, he inhaled deeply to settle his jangled nerves and smelled the stench of blood, powder smoke, and the sweat of battle on his clothes. He felt neither satisfaction nor regret over the extermination of the natives. The killing was simply over; a potential threat had been eliminated. He went to report to Belyaev.
    “They are all dead,” he confirmed. “What do you want done with the bodies?”
    “Let the women take care of them in their own fashion. It will keep them occupied.” He smiled coldly.
    Luka nodded a response, then happened to glance at the woman kneeling beside the body of the powerful man he’d killed. He saw her close the man’s eyes. The wetness of tears that highlighted her cheekbones made him feel vaguely uncomfortable. The sensation didn’t last as Shekhurdin came striding into his field of vision, his shirtfront splattered with blood. He appeared sickened by what he saw and trembled with rage when he confronted Belyaev.
    “You are no hunter, Belyaev. You are a bloodthirsty murderer who enjoys killing for the sake of killing!”
    “You look pale, Cossack.”
    “You massacred these people for a worthless piece of iron.” His teeth were clenched so tightly together he had to force the words through them. “Where is it now, Belyaev? Where is this chunk of metal that you ordered all these men murdered for?”
    Belyaev reached inside his shirt and pulled out the iron bolt. “I have it.”
    “And I wager you had it all the time,” Shekhurdin accused thickly. “You wanted an excuse to kill them. That was what you wanted, was it not?”
    “Yes. Now I have boats that cost us nothing, a winter shelter already built—and women to cook, sew, and warm our beds.”
    “It was the women. All this was so you could have a woman. That is why you did not have them killed.” His lip curled in disgust.
    “Come, Shekhurdin, are you saying you don’t want the company of one of these women?” Belyaev taunted. “Or maybe you are not man enough?”
    “You have no brain. You think with your cock! Do you not realize what you have done here? The hostage Chuprov holds is useless to us now.”
    “Chuprov can get himself another.” He shrugged his unconcern.
    “You fool! Why should the natives trust us after this?”
    “What do I care whether they trust me? Let them fear me,” Belyaev declared.
    “You will answer for this unprovoked massacre, Belyaev,” Shekhurdin threatened. “I intend to make a full report of your actions.”
    “Go ahead.” A taunting smile continued to lurk in his expression. “Who will care about the death of fifteen savages? God is high in His heaven and the Tsaritsa is far far away. Tell Chuprov. It will change nothing.”
    “I will tell him. And if he does not have you flogged, I will tell the government agent in Bolsheretsk.”
    “You make me tremble with your threats, Cossack,” Belyaev said, then threw his head back and laughed heartily. “Go. Go and report my crimes to Chuprov. ”
    “I will. Then I will watch the whip take the skin from your