The Golden Flask (6 page)

Very few people in this province would not ransack a
body before death. Keen knew full well Gibbs was one.
He felt his blood rising against the rebel's sham virtue.

But he was dead, wasn't he?

The doctor saw the death wounds of each man be
fore returning to the carriage, where his Mohawk assistant waited. The man had lived among whites for many
years, and had acted as an interpreter during Keen's recent travels.

"Clouded Face," said Keen, addressing him as he
stood by the side of the carriage, "come down a mo
ment."

"Doctor, sir?"

"Simply say 'doctor.' I am not a knight, nor do I
aspire to be. Knighthood, in fact, is out of the question.
Come down here."

There was nothing specifically venomous in Keen's
voice, yet the assistant trembled as he put down the reins. He slipped to the ground, then held his hands in
a tangled, sweating knot before him, where they would be
conveniently situated should he have to beg for mercy.

"Clouded Face, you assured me Jake Gibbs was dead, did you not?"

"Yes, sir, yes, Doctor, yes I did."

"And you did that because of the scalp?"

"I saw him go over the falls myself," said the assistant. "And heard the death wail. I kicked the body with
the others on the shore below. You have the hair."

"The ribbon is the same. The color, of course. But tell me . . ." Keen tapped the man's uncovered head
with his cane. "Tell me if a scalp could be taken with
out a man being killed. Or if the wrong scalp could be
taken and dressed with another man's ribbon?"

"Impossible."

"Let us try the first, then, and see," said Keen, pro
ducing a knife. "Your knot is convenient."

The Indian made the mistake of starting to run. Until that moment, Keen had not completely decided to
kill him — he was still largely a stranger to this country, and if Gibbs were truly alive, a guide would prove use
ful. But he could no more allow an assistant to run
from him than he could let this Gibbs continue to live.
He pointed his stick and pressed a hidden button near
the end of the shaft. The ornate gold head flew off with
a tremendous burst of velocity, striking Clouded Face
in the back of the head. The man fell forward immedi
ately, his brain pan shattered.

"I think that I have my answer," said Keen. "I don't
suppose it will be of much use to scalp you then, but I
will do so anyway, for the practice.”

Chapter Five

Wherein, more of Mr. Egans's particular history is
explored, with unsatisfactory results
.

W
hile
Jake and Alexander
Hamilton continued
south, Claus van Clynne headed in the same general
direction. But even though he took every shortcut he
knew and urged his horse forward with epic entreaties
and a few unvarnished threats, his progress was not
half as sharp. Indeed, as the sun dawned, it found him
just seven or eight miles south of the spot where Jake had left the dead Englishmen, on a dusty but sturdy road whose dips and turns ran somewhat in harmony with the nearby river.

His lack of speed was partly caused by the fact that
he had to stop every so often and search for signs of his
friends and their direction; their trail was difficult to trace. But a more substantial portion of his problem
was due to his horse's slow gait, which was in direct contrast to its advertised attributes. This was especially
annoying as van Clynne had paid dearly for the animal.
Under ordinary conditions the Dutchman would not have allowed himself to be so ill-used, nor would he
have concluded a deal without several minutes', if not hours', worth of haranguing. He did not wish this taken
as a sign of weakness, as he explained to the beast in great detail as they rode. Only the prospect of seeing
General Washington and presenting his case made him
accept the outrage as the price of doing business.

Van Clynne's tongue was no less prolific because he was traveling alone; indeed, he found it easier to give
full range to his feelings, as he was not constantly being
interrupted by a companion. After he finished com
plaining of the high price of transportation, his topic naturally moved to the injustice of Jake's flight south
ward without him. Occasional jabs at the patrons, who
unlike him had managed to keep the vast land holdings he was riding through, led to the subject of injustice in
general, whereupon the British bore the brunt of the
complaint.

He soon turned to the Esopus Wars, the great conflicts of the seventeenth century during which the
Dutch had tamed the native inhabitants near Kingston,
only to find themselves tamed in turn by the English
invaders. Without following the entire path of van Clynne's logic, let us say that it left him in a sympa
thetic, nay, charitable frame of mind when he came
upon a dusty, Indian fellow traveler sitting astride a
horse on the river road not far from Murderer's Creek.

The traveler was Egans, who had restored both his
strength and his anger during the several hours that
had passed since encountering Jake and Colonel Ham
ilton. He had also recovered sufficient composure to cloak his business in the guise of a semi-innocent wanderer.

"Good morrow to you," said van Clynne. "Which way are you going?"

"To the river," replied the man.

"Not far to go, then." Van Clynne stroked his beard a moment and attempted to puzzle out the man's ancestry. Though his skin was white, his wardrobe was
just the sort of mixture an Iroquois might consider his
Sunday best. Obviously this was a European adopted by natives at some point in his past.

Such men had an unsurpassed ability to slide be
tween the two worlds and were invaluable in business.
They were generally easy to enlist, and rarely under
stood the nuances of European exchange rates. Van
Clynne hated to miss an opportunity that might lead to future profits.
But his beard scratching brought him
back to his true priority: finding Jake and winning an
appointment with Washington.

"I wonder if you have seen a man about six foot tall
and heading south on horseback," he asked the stranger. "An early riser two towns ago thought he caught sight of him hurrying this way. He has blond
hair, a fine Continental uniform, and a habit for getting
involved in difficult situations, from which I inevitably
rescue him."

"I have seen no one," claimed Egans.

"He would have been in the company of another
man, a Colonel Hamilton. My friend's name is Gibbs — a remarkable individual. I have no doubt posterity will
learn a great deal about him, though the edges of his
story will have to be rounded for easier consumption.
Modesty prevents me from describing my role in his
adventures, but it has been considerable. The times I
have plucked him from Hades' vestibule are too many
to count."

"You look familiar," suggested the white Indian. "What is your name?"

"Claus van Clynne, at your service," said the Dutchman. "You, too, seem familiar," he said. Now that he'd
had a chance to think about it, he placed the man's
signs and jewelry definitely among the Oneida. There
were not many white men who would wear the simple
stone and symbolic tree, and fewer still who would have been accorded the honor of the eagle feather tied to his scalp lock. He searched the cubbyholes of his
brain and retrieved the name: "You are Egans, are you
not?"

Despite a secret hatred of the Dutch — van Clynne's
ancestry was easily deduced from his clothes, to say nothing of his name and accent — Egans's stoic mask
dropped for a moment. "How do you know me?"

"You are quite famous," said the Dutchman. He
slipped off his horse and approached, holding out his
hand. "You were a white child kidnapped by the Mohawk,
and then adopted by the Oneida during the troubles
thirty years ago. Your white family came from land not
far from mine, and your adopted uncle and I have
made one or two suitable arrangements regarding furs
and corn in the past, before the war. I believe you were
baptized Christof—"

"My Seneca name is
Gawasowaneh."

"Yes, yes, Big Snowsnake," said van Clynne, waving
his hand as if he knew a thousand men with the Indian
name. The Oneida were a touchy lot, and he did not
want to provoke even an adopted son. Van Clynne was temporarily weaponless, his customary tomahawks left behind in Albany and his unloaded pistol resting comfortably in his saddlebag. "You have earned it for your
role in the ceremonies."

"I have earned it for my role as a warrior," said the
Oneida. Indeed, his ceremonial names could not be uttered except at the council fire.

"Just so, sir, just so. Would you prefer I use
Gawasowaneh
in addressing you? I myself am known
by many Indian names." Van Clynne did not add that
most of these might be translated loosely as "Big Tummy and Longer Tongue."

"Call me what you will."

"Thank you, sir, thank you. I know your entire life
story; I congratulate you on your endurance. What brings you here?"

Egans did not answer his question, but van Clynne was undaunted.

"One of your native uncles and I had quite an ar
rangement three summers ago," continued the Dutchman, the memory of the profitable deal warming his
heart. "I delivered certain blankets to the great chief Corn Planter, in exchange for wood carted down the mountain path. An unusual arrangement, but favorable to both sides. With your connections to the Iroquois
Federation-—strong friends of mine, I might add. I have recently spent much time among the Mohawk, turning them from the English path into more profitable areas. Perhaps we have mutual acquaintances?"

"As it happens, I am to meet my uncle at the river,"
suggested Egans. "Ride with me."

Van Clynne wondered what a seventy-year-old Indian whose home was far to the northwest would be
doing near the river. A belated if sharp sense of danger
hastened him to postpone further talk of a business
arrangement indefinitely.

"I have urgent business further south," he noted,
bowing and then reaching to pull himself back onto his
horse. "Perhaps in a few days we can meet in some local inn."

"I think you will come with me now," said Egans,
pushing aside his coat to reveal a secreted pistol.

"I should think it cold without a shirt beneath your coat. There is a fine tailor not too far from here. Perhaps if we took that road, I might be able to shave a few pence from the price."

"I think not," said Egans. "We are almost at the river now."