War Path (14 page)

“Molly's across the way,” Moses whispered, grinning at the big man, reading his thoughts. The old Indian fighter would never reveal that Molly had charged him with watching over the long hunter. If Stark ever found out, Moses figured he'd be hung out to dry by the big lout. So he feigned innocence and prepared himself for battle, placing a brace of pistols on the ground underfoot. “I saw her plop down by Cassius Fargo.”

Stark shook his head. What was she up to? He touched his bandaged left ear. The wound had already coagulated. “Fargo …” he muttered beneath his breath. “Now there's a bad seed.”

“You'll have to settle with him one of these days younker. Better sooner than later,” Shoemaker added in a low voice.

Stark nodded and eased around the edge of the out-cropping and was rewarded with a rare sight, a column of Atoan's men, carrying the spoils of a recent raid, slaughtered hens and hogs, bolts of cloth, silver trinkets and blankets. Nary a one of the braves suspected the trap that Stark was about to spring just …

about …

now!

Big John Stark set his worries aside, rose up so that all his men could see him along with the column of Abenaki warriors fresh from their depredations. The buckskindeath. The Ranclad braves appeared stunned at the sight of the towering figure who seemed to have materialized out of the emerald shadows. Tabid, distinguished from the rest of the Abenaki by the red woolen soldier's coat he favored, reacted on instinct and raised his musket.

“Let 'em have it!” Stark roared. He fired “Old Abraham” from the hip while at the same instant he raised his hunting horn to his lips. Flame blossomed from the muzzle as the charge sent a .50-caliber lead ball spinning through the air to shatter Tabid's breastbone and tear through his vitals. Duchess sprang from concealment. The mastiff charged through the rippling gunfire and dragged another of the warriors to the ground.

Tabid, flung backwards on impact, fired his musket skyward, half twisted in midair, then collapsed, mortally wounded. He slammed his shoulders against the hard ground, heard the thunder of battle erupt, heard the war horn's blare, watched through a darkening red haze as his companions fell before a volley of rifle fire that erupted from all sides. Dying, he recognized his killer.

And somehow … it helped.

Lobal crouched well back from the clearing, rooted in place as surely as the white pines that concealed him. He was ashamed, knowing that his friend Kasak would have flung himself into battle, despite the fact that it was already lost. But Kasak's father, the Grand Sachem, Atoan would not have blundered into the white-eyes' trap to begin with. Lobal, who was young and often courageous to a fault when he was surrounded by his peers, suddenly went weak at the knees in the face of his own demise. If he had not left the war party to gather some blackberries there would be one more Abenaki among the dead and dying on the hillside.

Tabid was the first to fall but several more quickly joined him in death. The Rangers charged from the trees, firing their weapons and howling like demons and the worst was
Kiwaskwek
, the beast of the Green Mountains, John Stark. The towering figure was unmistakable as he fell upon his enemies and cut them down with rifle and tomahawk. The struggle lasted but a few minutes. Then the gunfire faded into echoes and Lobal was alone.

He placed his back against the tree trunk, sick of heart, conscience-stricken he had survived, yet guilt was not so strong as to encourage him to throw his life away. After all, Atoan must be told what had befallen the war party. The Grand Sachem would not expect Lobal to suicidally join the fray. But this knowledge did not make it any easier when Lobal chose to give the killing ground a wide berth and skulked off through the woods, hounded by the memory of the moans and death cries that had reverberated down the long hills.

•  •  •

Beneath a lingering black haze of powder smoke, Fargo knelt by one of the dead warriors. He did not know this was Tabid; the man was just another grisly trophy for Fargo's war bag. Tabid's war against the white eyes had come to an end.

Fargo was a bitter man. He had missed another opportunity at Stark, but a clearing littered with dead redskins soothed his disappointment. The moment the firing stopped the swarthy killer charged out through the tendrils of black smoke, brushed past Molly Page and hurried across the clearing to kneel by Tabid's corpse. Fargo grinned and hauled out his scalping knife.
This was going to be a pretty one.

He placed the steel edge to the warrior's forehead, ignoring the distaste of his companions. Suddenly a shadow fell across him. And the heated muzzle of a long rifle shoved the blade aside.

“None of that, Cassius Fargo,” said John Stark.

“You ain't never complained about my scalp bag before.”

“They weren't taken in my company.”

Fargo glared up at the figure towering over him. “I'll have this scalp and any others I choose.”

“Not while you wear those buckskins and march with this company. We are Rangers. I'll carry the war to the Abenaki and French and give as good as I get or better but on my word I draw the line at butcher's work.”

“They killed my brother and two other men.”

“We've all lost friends and family. Look at Sam Oday, no one's suffered a more grievous harm, but you don't see him dishonoring the dead.”

“Back away from me, Stark. Or you'll be the one answering for my brother as well you ought.” Fargo wrenched the dead man's head to one side and started to carve away his scalp. Stark reached down and hauled the man to his feet and shoved him back. Fargo stumbled, hit the ground rolling, scrambled to his feet and lunged for Stark.

“Johnny!” Molly called out, seeing the sunlight glint off the blade. Stark saw it too and turned aside, caught Fargo by the wrist, pulled the man forward and stuck out a leg. Cassius went flying head over heels. The knife skittered across the ground. He jumped to his feet and darted in toward Stark who caught the smaller man on the tip of the chin with a left hook, then kicked the man's leg out from under him. Fargo yelped and fell to one knee. Johnny clubbed him with his right forearm across the side of the man's neck. He groaned and dropped forward, caught himself on his hands and stayed that way for several moments while the earth whirled.

Duchess started forward growling, hackles raised and full of menace. Johnny called her off. The mastiff grudgingly retreated. Fargo straightened and sat back on his haunches. His opponent waited, fists clenched. Cassius shook his head indicating he was finished.

For now.

“There will be another day, John Stark,” he said.

“Yes and a bad one for you, on my oath,” Johnny replied. “Now take up your rifle and leave us for I will not march with a man I cannot trust.”

Fargo scowled and crawled to his feet and gathered his weapons and cap. The rest of the company watched him in silence. But searching their faces he found no sympathy in the likes of Strode or Oday or Barlow. As for Moses Shoemaker, the irascible old bastard was even grinning!

Cassius' own eyes hardened. He noticed Molly watching him from behind the others and in that moment Fargo began to formulate a plan. There was a way to make Stark answer for humiliating him. Cassius Fargo had only to bide his time, to watch and wait. And as for the others.…

“You follow this man and he will bury you all, every mother's son of you. Mark my words.”

The Rangers seemed unmoved. Their features were etched with powder smoke, the fire of battle still burned in their eyes. But there was no cruelty here, only a willingness to risk their lives for kin and country. A war had been thrust upon them and they were determined to carry the fight to the enemy. But it was clear they had no use for Cassius Fargo's brand of cruelty.

“You are fools. Bloody fools.”

“Best you run along now, Cassius,” said Moses Shoemaker leaning on his long rifle. “Go on back to your farm. We'll do what needs to be done.”

“Fools,” Fargo repeated beneath his breath, taking in the entire column of men with a sweeping glance. He shouldered his rifle and stalked off through the woods.

“Prime your rifles, lads, and gather up the war bags these heathens are carrying. Perhaps we can return them to their owners or their families.” Stark gestured toward the dead Abenaki. He could feel Molly staring at him and turned as she approached. “What?”

She pursed her lips. “I was wishing it had ended here.”

“Fargo?”

“Yes.”

“He cannot hurt me.”

“Don't be to certain.” Molly looked toward the trees, the trembling shadows that suddenly seemed malevolent. “Men like him can find a way.”

17

“
B
ring me the head of John Stark!” Colonel Lucien Barbarat exclaimed, his shrill voice ringing out across the glassy surface of the lake, to the opposite shore less than a quarter of a mile across the sluggish current. “Who will rid me of this meddlesome colonial?!” His words reverberated throughout the blackened cove, where he stood amid the cold-charred ruins of the bateaux and supplies that had been bound for Fort Carillon.

Lucien Barbarat could already envision General Montcalm recanting his words of praise and removing the rank he had so recently bestowed upon the officer who had orchestrated the downfall of Fort William Henry and the defeat of the British reinforcements sent to its aid. But those achievements were in the past.

And Lucien was confronted with the fact that he had not been able to fulfill General Montcalm's orders and move against Fort Edward. Instead, his marines had been dispatched all along the length and breadth of Lake George and the tail of Lake Champlain, in an effort to curb the frequent raids that had begun to undermine French control of the territory. His gaze swept over Benoit Turcotte and the half a dozen other boatmen, all of whom longed to be elsewhere then cringing in their shackles on the shore where Stark's Rangers had lured them to disaster. The rivermen had a benefactor in the person of Father Jean Isaac, a rail thin Jesuit priest who had been traveling to Fort Carillon in the company of Barbarat.

“Mon Colonel
, these men fell victim to their vices. But no man is beyond forgiveness.”

“Please, sir, we made a terrible mistake, a weakness of spirit that will not happen again. They tricked us,” Turcotte exclaimed.

Barbarat nodded. “There was a woman I am told.”

“A lovely woman, with a well-turned ankle, a slender neck, and the face of a goddess.” The other boatmen nodded, they mightily concurred. Turcotte held up his calloused hands in prayer and supplication. “She bewitched us,
Père Jean
, as sure as I am standing here.”

The black robe placed himself between the officer and Turcotte. Despite his slight frame and small stature, Father Jean Isaac was endowed with the commitment of his calling. His deep blue eyes blazed with the strength befitting a man of profound faith. His scarred hands bore mute testimony to the torture he had endured bringing the “Christian” God to the tribes of the northeast.

“A witch? I have heard of such things,” Barbarat mused. He turned his back on the priest and the prisoners where they stood flanked by a company of marines in white and blue tunics. Barbarat continued down to the water's edge where Atoan and his son had just returned from the opposite shore. The two were similarly garbed in buckskin breeches and fringed hunting shirts. Lobal was with them, so young, like Kasak but far more nervous.

The Grand Sachem wore a grim expression beneath his mask of ocher war paint. A passing breeze fluttered the raven feathers that adorned his topknot. His dark eyes were pools of wisdom and foxlike cunning. Beneath that implacable demeanor beat the heart of a man whose very soul was etched by war and survival.

This savage is far more clever than he lets on
, Barbarat thought,
the Grand Sachem could be trouble sometime in the future
. Now Kasak was another story. Atoan's son was a bold and headstrong youth. Lucien Barbarat knew how to exploit such qualities to his own advantage.

Kasak entered the circle of ruins, black dust rising from each footfall as he strode across the blackened earth. Atoan skirted the debris, reluctant to leave his tracks upon the shore. He cradled a Pennsylvania long rifle in the crook of his arm and moved with sure and silent steps.

All that announced his arrival was the faint rattle of the shell and bear-claw necklace that dangled from around his throat and rested against his powerful chest. The Grand Sachem gestured the way they had come. “The canoes were drawn up on the shore and covered over with the long grass and branches.”

“My father and I have found the tracks,” Kasak proudly interrupted, puffing out his chest as if credit for the discovery was his alone. “The
Anglais
used eight canoes.”

“Perhaps thirty men,” Barbarat muttered, assessing the enemy. “Or less. But where are they now?”

“The
Anglais
left their boats, made their way over the hills opposite Fort Carillon, past
La Chute
and down to Lake George,” Atoan replied. “Some left by bateaux, others followed another path.

Lucien nodded.
“Mon ami
, I am confused. Then how did they escape? You sent raiding parties on both sides of the lake to watch for
Anglais
raiders.”

“Lobal has brought word that Tabid's war party was ambushed. The Rangers fell on them from both sides of the trail and killed many of our warriors. Only Lobal escaped.”

“Was it Stark?” Barbarat glanced past the war chief's shoulder and glared at Lobal who remained a few paces back, his head lowered, the look of a man not wishing to call attention to himself.

“It was the beast,” said Atoan. But he did not speak of the warning he had received from
Mahom
, the spirit who took the form of a Great Horned Owl.
Beware Kiwaskwek, the monster. He will find you
. The French officer would not have understood. Few of the white men could hear beyond hearing, few walked with the spirits of the wild places. But some did, perhaps this John Stark, maybe, and that troubled the Grand Sachem. He would have to find out for himself. Soon.…