War Path (21 page)

It felt good to be back home, away from Fort Edward with all its travails and temptations and soldiering. The hell with Rogers's Rangers, with Major Ransom and the royal regiment, and the fool lot who marched to the drum of Big John Stark.

Let the cursed militia take the war to the French. A man need only defend his place. Cowslip was fine, just fine. The valley was world enough for him. And any man who came prowling around, looking for trouble, be he red or white, would get more than he bargained for.

Come springtime Cassius intended to bring some of his cousins over and break ground for a decent garden. He paused a moment and ruefully considered his mistakes, how he should never have abandoned the homestead for soldiering. It had been brother Ford's influence and poor fodder of an idea to be sure. It had done nothing for either of them but make the homestead fall into disrepair. And adventuring had cost Ford his topknot. What a waste.

This valley was home. His kin were here. And the folks in the settlement knew well enough to give Cassius a wide berth when he needed it. What man could ask for more? And once he had rechinked the cabin walls and put some game in the smokehouse and brought over the cows and oxen Uncle Jesse had tended for him, Cassius might just see about fetching himself a wife, maybe from over the mountains.

Cassius stepped back from the carcass, once again dabbed his blunt features with the sleeve of his shirt, tossed the skinning knife aside and sauntered over to the rain barrel and splashed his face with water. He knelt for a second and rummaged behind the rain barrel and produced a brown ceramic jug. He uncorked the hard cider and tilted the spout to his lips. The spirits burned all the way down, but it was a welcome warmth that reinvigorated the man. He felt energy returning to his stocky frame and muscled limbs. Butchery was hard work by any standard. But he took a moment to catch his breath, studying the remains of the deer hanging from the tree limb, then his eyes focused beyond, to the site where the well had caved in on his father and ended his tyranny.

He grinned. “I showed Miss Molly Page a thing or two.” He scowled at the earth. “I would have had her, save for that damn mongrel dog. I took her measure though, taught her there was a price to pay for the way the harlot lorded around like she was royalty, just cause she opened her legs to Stark.”

He clenched his fist, hearing his father and brother mock him from the grave. “I'm not afraid of John Stark. The hell I am. Let the bastard come, says I. He won't cast such a long shadow in this valley. The Fargos will teach him humility!”

Cassius stood over the mounded earth. His father had been leather tough. And that was how he raised his sons. “You hear me, Pa? I will fear neither man nor beast. As for John Stark, just let him come. Why I might even welcome it. I'll give him what his whore got and more. You'll see.” He kicked at the mound and started back toward the carcass.

Fargo retrieved the skinning knife, hesitated, a man torn by some internal monolgue, harangued by the spirits of the dead, and stared at the bloodied flesh. His father and brother were amused. Damn them, amused.…

Cassius growled and plunged the knife into the flayed flesh before him.

“You heard me! I'll show you. I'll show you both. Just let him come!!”

It was at that moment he heard the familiar sound of a hunting horn reverberate among the distant trees, drift ominously from the forest's edge like a thinly-veiled threat across the barren fields, that single dreadful note announced in its own way, a reckoning was at hand.

And Cassius Fargo … in that single awful moment of recognition … heard his father's ghostly admonition.
“Be careful what you wish for.…”

27

M
aybe I shouldn't have announced myself
, Stark thought, second-guessing his bravado as he glanced down at the hunting horn that dangled at his side. Still, he suspected that Fargo, brought to bay on his own land, might find the gumption to meet his enemy head on. The Ranger waited in the emerald shadows, studied the homestead out beyond the field, took his time, wanting to give Cassius every opportunity to face him like a man.

It was midafternoon and most farms would have been alive with activity, more especially since this midwinter's day had dawned milder than the ones before. There were stumps to be cleared, oxen to care for, repairs to be made. But the only sign of the owner's presence hereabouts was the deer carcass that swayed from the spreading branch of the oak tree alongside the log house, near a wheel-rutted path that led past the homestead to the two-story barn.

“Appears Cassius has made one kill today,” Stark muttered beneath his breath. “I'd best be careful he doesn't make another.”

The Ranger checked his Pennsylvania long rifle. It was primed and the hammer had been fitted with a fresh flint, the same for the double-barreled pistol tucked in the broad leather belt circling his waist. Stark shrugged and stretched, then glanced over his shoulder at his back trail. The flesh between his shoulder blades tingled, the way it always did when he sensed he was being watched, by the forest folk, the wild creatures of the piney woods, or perhaps Atoan was concealed somewhere among the ancient secrets of the trees. But the Grand Sachem was a reckoning for another day. Right now Stark needed to concern himself with only one thing … survive the afternoon.

The Ranger removed the dark green Scottish bonnet he favored, brushed back his leonine mane from his chiseled features, set the bonnet in place, thumbed a silver-flecked strand of hair beneath his brim. His brow furrowed. Frowning, he spied a squat, powerfully-built figure appear in the doorway of the farmhouse. Cassius Fargo, rifle in hand, strode out into the yard and held his long gun up above his head and called out in a coarse voice.

“I have been waiting for you, John Stark. But you have come a long way for nothing. This is my land, and you cast no shadow here.”

Words words words …

His challenge hung upon the north wind, drifted through the tempering sunlight, fell upon deaf ears. Stark had not left his lover's side, refused the order of his superiors, braved a solitary passage over the mountain and run his prey to ground for the purpose of prattle!

And yet it was a sobering thought. Never before had John Stark set out for a killing. War was one thing, to strive and conquer and take a life in the heat of battle; a man could put that behind him. But this … was a dark and bloody business. And for a moment he even considered leaving well enough alone. But Fargo had a poison in him, and as long as he lived, neither Stark nor any of his loved ones would be safe.

Molly …

Cassius Fargo had tried to kill her. And that must not stand.

Stark tightened his grip on Old Abraham, its walnut stock and iron barrel were a reassuring weight in his hands. Then he started forward, abandoning the edge of the forest to set out across the killing field, his long-legged gait gobbling the distance. Aware he presented an inviting target, Stark increased his pace.

Fargo raised his rifle. Smoke blossomed from the barrel. Stark waited until the last second, darted, swerved, heard the whine and felt the rush of heated air as a .50-caliber lead slug traveling at eighteen hundred feet per second missed him by a whisker.

The man by the farmhouse began to hurriedly reload, ramming powder and shot down the barrel as Stark raced across the fallow meadow, leaped a stump, took a deadfall in stride, then almost lost his footing on a patch of moist earth where the melted snow had pooled and regained his stride. A rabbit scurried out of harm's way, darted across the field toward its lair. Stark increased his efforts, closed fast now, an oncoming storm of retribution and death.

Fargo sighted along his rifle but before he squeezed the trigger Stark snapped Old Abraham to his shoulder and fired. Cassius flinched despite himself; “Damn,” he cursed, as he inadvertently fired his flintlock on reflex. Duck and cover spoiled his aim. An alarmed expression replaced the look of resolve he had worn like a mask. Fargo fumbled with his rifle. He had to reload.
Best hurry, brother Cassius! Time for a reckoning. He sent me under, don't you let him do you the same way!
Fargo shook his head as if to clear his brother's admonishment from his mind. And how close was Stark? It was said the big bastard could bloody well outrun a horse. But that had to be more brag then fact.

The farmer from Cowslip chanced a quick glance in the direction of the field. Cassius paled as he saw Stark far closer than he expected, reload on the run, a skill many of the Rangers had mastered and one that often meant the difference between life and death. Fargo's hand trembled as he jammed the ramrod down the barrel, tamping the gunpowder in place. He dug in his shot pouch for a rifle ball, fumbled once again for a patch. He would still need to prime the weapon.

“Not enough time, Cassius,”
he heard his brother caution from the recesses of his own bedeviled imagination. But his brother's ghost skewered the problem. Fargo didn't have enough time. Not nearly enough. Stark would be on him before he could bring his gun to bear. So the man chose a different tack.

Cassius spun on his heels and sprinted for the safety of his house, vanished through the open doorway, slammed the heavy oaken door in his wake, and slid the bolt home with Stark fast on his heels. The big man loosed a war whoop as he rushed the entrance and hurtled his powerful shoulder against the door. The sound of that impact cracked across the clearing but the stout construction held.

Stark staggered back, ignored the pain that shot through his shoulder. He glanced to either side, took care not to bring himself in line with either of the shuttered windows and their firing ports. He retreated just enough for what he had in mind, drew his pistol and fired point blank, blasting apart the top leather hinge and then the lower one. He returned the pistol to his belt, lowered his shoulder and lunged forward yet again. With the leather hinges shot away, the door gave just enough to shatter the bolt. With a crash and a clatter it fell onto the floor. Stark darted across the wooden planks, his great frame bowed forward. Crouching, he held his rifle poised to meet any threat.

The Ranger eased into the front room. The shuttered interior was gloomy and thick with menace. He carefully picked each footstep, made his way past hand-hewn furniture that was plebeian but serviceable, although a rocker near the hearth showed real craftsmanship. One member of this sorry lot had talent; although it was a mystery to Stark which of the brothers had turned his hand to the plane and the lathe. Not that it mattered now. He wasn't here for a lesson in woodworking. This was a day of reckoning.

He checked each bedroom. They were much the same with their log-framed bedsteads, square, solid-looking wash stands and chipped basins, foot chests for clothes, one of the rooms boasted a small writing table by a shuttered window. He proceeded into a dining room with a massive table that could have seated half a dozen grown men. The marred pine surface had been thoughtlessly whittled on. One wall was obscured by a cabinet that sported a haphazard collection of pewter ware, mugs and cups and plates, a pair of wooden trenchers, various knives and forks. Stark noticed a trail of bloody footsteps on the wooden floor, just a smear here and there, but a telltale sign of someone passing. Was Cassius wounded?

Stark knelt and dabbed his fingers into the stain. Cool to the touch, and sticky, not a fresh wound. He remembered the carcass outside. No doubt Fargo had stepped in a puddle of entrails and tracked the mess into the house. Stark eased down a shortened hall and entered a large kitchen that dominated the rear of the house save for a pantry at one corner.

The tabletop was littered with stale chunks of brown bread, a few strips of jerked venison on a wooden platter, a stoneware plate held a half wheel of good Christian cheese partly concealed beneath a flap of sailcloth, and close at hand, a carving knife, a stoneware jug of hard cider and an overturned tankard with naught but a spreading smear radiating out from the lip.

The backdoor was agape.

“Damn …” Stark muttered beneath his breath. He leaned his rifle against the edge of the table and took a moment to attend his pistol. Then once more,
loaded for bear
, he tucked the pistol in his belt and edged toward the doorway. Carefully he eased past the doorsill, checked to the right and left, paused to study the open field behind the house.

He could discover no visible tracks. The soil was rocky at best and given to weed. But even the dry yellow stalks looked undisturbed. And he knew firsthand after almost losing his footing in the field, the ground was not as hard as it looked. What with the milder temperature and steady sunlight, the snows had melted, leaving patches of moisture to soften the topsoil. If Cassius had escaped into the backwoods he would have left a mark upon the meadow.

No, Fargo was still hereabouts, somewhere, biding his time, waiting for a single sweet shot, the one that couldn't possibly miss. Stark made his way along the rear of the farmhouse, peered around the corner, studied the trampled earth, and glimpsed a pair of boot prints that appeared freshly formed. They pointed in the direction of the barn. The loft door was open. He ducked back and centered his thoughts, recalled an image of the farmstead when he first arrived, in his mind's eye, the tableau formed, the farmhouse, the empty yard, the wheel-rutted path and freshly-gutted deer carcass, and beyond, the barn, its roof needing repair, the double doors left ajar but the loft door shuttered.

Yes, he was certain of it.

Now there was only one thing to do. He leaped past the corner, hit the ground running flat out. A cloud drifted before the sun. A murder of ravens exploded from a hole in the barn roof, disturbed by what? Or whom? Cassius mucking about for a better shot? Stark fired from the hip. Old Abraham bellowed thunder, spat flame and sent a rifle ball flying through the loft window forcing whatever marksman might be lurking in the shadows to leap out of harm's way.