“I will not serve the king,” Duncan insisted.
“The ocean is wide, the king is far away.”
“The king is as close as Lord Ramsey.”
Woolford winced, then stared into the face of the dead man, as if consulting him. He glanced back at the cabin, reached to his belt, and produced his knife, extending it to Duncan hilt first. “Like you announced once, you are a wondrous doctor to the dead,” the ranger said as he lifted one side of the blanket, obscuring the view from the direction of Conawago and the woman.
“I don’t follow.”
“The wounds. I want to know what caused them. Do it,” he insisted as he saw the hesitation in Duncan’s eyes. “Then we’ll wrap him tight in the blanket and dig a hole. He would have wanted a Christian burial. We’ll have to make a marker.”
Duncan slowly closed his fingers around the hilt, then knelt at the stream, slapping the cool water over his face before beginning the grisly work. In ten minutes’ time he had produced two round
musket balls. The other wounds had been stabs from short blades. Duncan washed the bullets off and handed them to Woolford, who gazed at them grimly before stashing them in his pocket.
They buried the man on a knoll under a tall sycamore. Duncan had begun a second grave when Woolford stopped him with a hand on his arm, gesturing toward the tree where the man with the arrow had died. The body was gone.
Duncan trotted to the tree in alarm. He could understand enough of the signs on the ground to see that the body had been dragged to the river by someone in moccasins coming from the homestead. Conawago. Conawago had dumped the body in the river while Duncan and Woolford had been digging the grave.
He asked no questions when they gathered at the grave. When no one offered words, Conawago spoke, first in a native tongue that Woolford did not seem to understand, then switching to English, solemnly reciting a Psalm. Duncan gazed at him in surprise, then remembered that the old Indian had long ago been educated by Jesuits. Alex stood beside the grief-stricken woman, holding her hand, showing no emotion as Duncan and Woolford began closing the grave, standing there with the Indian woman until they had finished. When she finally turned from the grave, she walked deliberately toward the ruined cabin. They followed and helped her pry up a charred floorboard, from under which she retrieved a long object wrapped in leather. She unrolled the wrapping to reveal a well-used hunting rifle, with a powder horn carved with deer. She spoke to Conawago, who shook his head, then she pressed, her insistent tone unmistakable, though Duncan knew not the words that were spoken.
When Conawago at last accepted the rifle, Woolford turned to Duncan. “She says the world is upside down. She says she could not bear for Conawago to be buried this season as well.”
Alex helped the woman gather her few surviving possessions into a blanket, which he slung onto his shoulder, and then the two began walking across the field. When Duncan grabbed his own pack, Conawago put a restraining hand on his arm.
“They have a different path to take,” he said.
Duncan looked in confusion from the old Indian to the boy. “But Alex . . . all those years a prisoner. Surely we can’t just let him think he’s a slave again. We must . . . .”
“God’s breath!” Woolford snapped. “After all this, you cannot see? His nightmares aren’t caused by all those years with the Indians. To his mind, he only became a prisoner when he was taken by Europeans.”
Duncan looked from the ranger to Conawago, both of whom gazed at him; perplexed, he looked down at the earth, at his feet, with unexpected shame. He was a fool to think he was progressing toward the truth. All he ever found was more confusion.
“Do you think he suffers from anything you and I do not?” Woolford asked in a forgiving tone.
“What are you saying?”
“His days spent with Arnold and Ramsey at the mission. You asked once when the Company was started. That’s when.”
“At the mission? But that was where Alex explained the Iroquois to them, tried to explain their trade routes, their concept of religion, how the shamans were the lifeblood of their people, how . . . .”
“Exactly,” Woolford interrupted, as if Duncan need say no more. The ranger turned, retrieved his pack and rifle, and began jogging back up the trail.
They moved in silence, Duncan’s companions so wary now that he retrieved a heavy piece of wood from the forest floor to defend himself. As they climbed the final mountain before their destination, Conawago and Woolford stopped running. They acted as though they were stalking game now, crouching, moving in perfect silence, keeping Duncan between them. Once, in the distance, there was a cracking sound. It could have been a tree snapping in a gust. It could have been a rifle shot.
Woolford signaled for a halt and sat on a rock under a hemlock,
as if waiting. Conawago, seeming to sense something as well, crouched beside a boulder twenty feet away. After several minutes, a man in a fringed linen hunter’s frock and green leggings materialized from behind a tree a hundred feet away, running toward the north until Woolford gave a soft warbling whistle.
The leathery-faced man offered a broad smile to Conawago, eyed Duncan suspiciously, then hastily reported to his captain. Woolford’s face tightened as he read a slip of paper handed him by the ranger. He handed it to Duncan. “Never have I met a man who made friends so quickly,” he said.
The note was in French. It offered a princely sum for the scalp of Duncan McCallum.
“The corporal says some of the Ramseys mixed it up with that party of Hurons,” Woolford reported after a moment. “He came across two of them running through the woods, the Hurons tracking them, not far behind. One with a beard that’s red and gray, with another half his age.” He turned to Duncan with question in his eyes. The ranger was asking if the men were worth saving.
“The old one’s named McGregor. They’re all just trying to work off their indentures.”
“Working off indentures at Chimney Rock?” Woolford rejoined with a bitter frown, then turned and conferred with the corporal again. The soldier nodded several times, drank from a small wooden canteen that hung from his shoulder, then dashed away in the direction of the camp they had left that morning.
Five minutes later, as they climbed a steep ridge, another cracking sound echoed through the forest, this one unmistakably a gunshot, and much closer than the first. Woolford pointed to the top of the ridge and ran. The ranger led them into a formation of rocks that was like a small fortress, squared at the top but with natural openings like the crenulations of a castle wall, a flat-topped tower of rock above the wall. As Duncan collapsed behind the rocks, Woolford and Conawago took up positions, guns at the ready. Moments later Woolford raised his rifle and fired. There was a muffled cry of
surprise, then a flurry of footsteps. As Duncan ventured a look down the ridge, McGregor burst into view, stumbling, running, pausing to offer a call of encouragement to a companion in the shadows behind—a call that ended in an abject cry as the second man fell and was instantly covered by an Indian kneeling on his back. McGregor paused only a moment, for another Huron appeared from behind a tree thirty feet away, a tomahawk raised in one hand, a rifle balanced in the other, quickly closing on the old Scot.
Woolford, having quickly reloaded, leapt past Duncan down the slope several feet, dropped to a knee, and fired. The Indian staggered backward, slumped onto his knees, and fell face-first onto the ground. McGregor summoned a final burst of energy, reaching Woolford, who grabbed his arm and shoved him toward Duncan.
“McCallum! Never thought I’d find . . . ,” the old Scot panted. “God’s life!” he groaned, stricken with fear again as Conawago leapt toward them, battle ax raised for throwing. “Another!” McGregor bent, grabbing a rock as if to defend himself. But the ax, tumbling end over end, landed in the upper arm of an Indian aiming a bow at McGregor only twenty feet away. The arrow discharged as he spun about, the bow knocked from his grasp. With one fleet glance, the Indian took in Conawago and Woolford, then vaulted over the rocks down the slope, the war ax dropping from his broken arm, dripping with blood.
McGregor straightened, looking first in confusion at Conawago, then at Duncan with an air of guilt. “Arnold said Ramsey was to be given the paper, down the river, said to watch for you, for the bounty,” the old Scot said, apology in his tone. “But we wanted no more of it, McCallum. We thought if we could get back to that mission, we could go take that road east and . . . .” With a hiss of air, McGregor’s words choked away. It wasn’t pain on his face when he looked down, but surprise. Three feathered shafts had materialized in his chest. By the time the Scot turned his numbed gaze to Duncan, blood was oozing from the side of his mouth. With a trembling finger, McGregor touched the pocket of his tattered waistcoat.
“Redeat,”
he said in a rattling voice, then dropped to his knees. As
he collapsed onto the ground, Woolford fired shots, then Conawago. Whistles and animal calls rose in the forest, sounds Duncan had not heard before.
“Retreating,” Woolford declared, then leapt over the rocks toward the Indian who had died when charging at McGregor. Duncan bent to the old Scot, clasping his wrist, touching his neck, calling his name.
“He is dead, Duncan,” Conawago said over his shoulder. As Duncan kept futilely searching for a pulse, the Indian extracted the arrows, working the heads back and forth, seeming to take great care not to damage them.
Duncan stroked the old man’s hair, emotion welling within. He felt as though he had somehow failed the old man. He straightened McGregor’s long, graying hair, began brushing the soil from his clothes.
“No time for niceties, McCallum,” Woolford interjected. As Duncan looked up, the ranger leaned a long rifle on a rock beside him, dropped a leather cartridge bag and powder horn beside it. “This is yours. Do you know which end to aim?”
Duncan touched the gun, then withdrew his hand.
“Take it or die,” Woolford said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Without a decent weapon, you haven’t a prayer of reaching what you seek.” The ranger lifted the gun, gauging its balance, gazing approvingly at the finely worked walnut stock. “A good piece, near as good as my own. A Pennsylvania gun, likely taken in the raids in the Wyoming Valley south of here.”
Duncan gazed with revulsion at the weapon. “You mean the man who owned this was killed by that Indian lying out there?”
“Most likely.” Woolford stepped away, conferring with Conawago.
Duncan could not bring himself to touch the gun. To do so not only seemed to show contempt for its dead owner, but more, it seemed to mean he was joining the ranks of the king he hated so much. He left the gun where it lay as Woolford and Conawago
began moving their belongings to the top level of the rock formation, a flat ledge enclosed by more rock formations.
“Leave him,” Woolford said as he saw the way Duncan looked at McGregor’s corpse. “He’ll do us no good up there.”
But Duncan somehow could not leave the old Scot. He heaved McGregor’s body over his shoulder before climbing to the little protected table of land. They looked down steep rocky slopes on three sides. The fourth was a cliff that dropped away to a fast-flowing river fifty feet below.
As his companions watched the forest below, Duncan laid the body flat on the rock ledge, cleaned McGregor as best he could, then reached into the pocket the old man had touched, extracting a piece of paper. Arnold had said Ramsey had to have it. It took him a moment to understand, then he stared at it numbly. On one side was a plan for constructing a gallows, complete with detailed measurements, on the other an outline for conduct of Lister’s murder trial.
“There’s a grave to be dug,” Duncan said.
“Not on this rock,” Woolford rejoined without taking his gaze from the forest.
“Below then, where he died.”
“No.”
“We can’t just—”
“Go down there with McGregor and there will be two sets of bones for the wolves to pick tonight.”
For the first time Duncan saw real worry on the ranger’s face.
“Usually they would move on,” Conawago explained, “especially with a ranger sharpshooter against them. But they caught the scent of a real treasure now. And they know there’s three of us, with perhaps twenty of them left.” The Indian lifted his gun, watching a shadowy patch of forest.
“Treasure?” Duncan asked.
“You heard the old Scot. He called out to you by name. Your scalp is worth more than any of them would earn in an entire trapping season. And the hair of a ranger officer always carries a premium.”
“Woolford!” Duncan exclaimed. He suddenly realized the ranger had slipped below them and was working feverishly along the base of their little fortress, gathering dried brush and tree limbs into piles spaced twenty feet apart, prying up a large boulder that could be used for cover and letting it roll into the forest.
With a single fluid motion, Conawago raised his rifle to his cheek and pulled the trigger. The top of a rotting log two hundred feet away burst into fragments. Woolford kept at his task without a pause.
Five minutes later, as Woolford dove over their covering rocks, the Huron rushed them again. Duncan loaded rifles for the ranger as he kept up a hellish fire, alternating between his own gun and the salvaged Pennsylvania rifle. The Huron reached within a hundred feet before withdrawing under the answering fire, carrying three of their companions with them.
Woolford and Conawago exchanged a troubled glance. “Your ax,” the ranger said, and tossed Duncan a sharpening stone from his pack. “Make it ready for work.” He rummaged deeper into his pack and produced a knife, much bigger than the one Duncan had been given at Edentown. “This was Fitch’s. Use it half as well as he did and you might live.”
“But your rifles—”
“There’s powder enough but only ten balls. The work will be hot, and close, by dawn.”