Original Death Read Online Free Page A

letters, another a careful drawing of a coach. Two of the dead had probably been of school age, certainly no more than two, and both were older than Hickory John’s grandson. On the wall were eight drawings, each with a different name. Six children of Bethel Church, including Ishmael, were unaccounted for.
    The cow lowed again, in obvious distress. As he left the schoolhouse he glimpsed the two dogs, once more tugging over the red object he had seen from a distance. They did not notice his approach until he was nearly upon them, then they looked up with startled expressions and fled, dropping their prize.
    The bloody piece of fur was so mutilated that he held it in his hand for a long moment before he recognized it. It was a badger-hair sporran, the pouch in which Highlanders kept their valuables. But this one was ripped into shreds and half covered with blood. The large numeral 42 was stamped onto its black leather cover. He touched the dirk he had takenfrom the dead man in the lake. The 42 nd Regiment of Foot, the Black Watch, wore black and green tartan. The soldier in the lake had worn a different plaid.
    He kept a tight grip on the sporran as he searched the other buildings, finding all of them empty. The cow bleated again, and he turned toward the barn. It was a large structure, built to accommodate at least two wagons in its long center aisle. The floor of the first stall was covered in straw bedding, with a milking stool in the corner. The walls of the next stall were lined with careful rows of woodworking tools hanging on pegs, with the body of a small wagon under construction resting on trestles. The third chamber was dark, its window shuttered. He opened the shutter and gazed outside a moment at the mare pacing skittishly along the side of the pasture. As he turned away he tripped on something, falling to a knee, then gasped. The face of a dead man stared back at him.
    The soldier had fought, taking several bruises and slices on the back of his hands and cheek before receiving the wound in his chest that had killed him. His right hand still held his broadsword. He had been in his thirties and, judging from the scars across his jaw and hands, was the veteran of more than one battle. The tartan of his kilt was black and green, that of the Black Watch, renowned as the toughest, most seasoned troops in America. The sight of another dead Scot seemed to sap Duncan’s strength. The deaths suddenly bore down on him with a crushing weight. Despite all their efforts, he and Conawago had stumbled into the war. He had to pull Conawago away, had to flee into the mountains. But instead he found himself kneeling in front of the dead Highlander. Something inside Duncan seemed to find familiar features in the dead man. He did not know the man, but he knew the long craggy features, the aquiline nose and unkempt blond hair with a red ribbon twisted into its braid. The man was the image of so many who had visited his family’s croft and danced at their gatherings. His gaze paused on the man’s dirk, whose hilt bore the embossed image of a bull between two flags, and his heart grew yet colder. The man was a MacLeod, the largest clan of the islands and coasts where Duncan had been raised.
    He was so weary of death, so weary of it always taking the ones the world needed the most. His eyes misted and his hands rose in a strange pantomime, reaching out to touch the man’s wounds as if he might yet save the Scot. He did not know how long he knelt, desolate and numbed, probing the wounds without conscious thought. Suddenly a whistle broke the stillness of the dead town.
    â€œ Allons !” someone shouted from the road. The French command triggered a cold fury inside him. He grabbed his rifle and was rising when he heard the hammer being pulled back on a gun and spun about.
    â€œ Mon Dieu ! T’is a fine gory mess ye made of the place.” The man who spoke was in the shadows, but the barrel of his pistol was