Original Death Read Online Free Page B

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    â€œIf this is how you wage your war,” Duncan snapped, “then the sooner Montreal falls the better.” He began shifting his weight back and forth, readying to throw his gun and leap, praying he could make the man shoot wild.
    â€œIf we was French, lad,” the man said, “we wouldn’t be having this entertaining conversation. Ye’d be dead already. We shout a little Frenchie just to flush out bastards like ye.”
    Duncan tensed for his jump then froze. The blade at his neck seemed to come from nowhere, pressing against his skin. He instinctively pulled away, only to be jerked back by someone gripping his shirt. As he turned a gasp escaped his throat.
    The first time Duncan had encountered a native warrior adorned for battle, he had felt like a child cringing before some mythic monster come to life. Even now as the Indian came into view, a shiver of fear ran down his spine. The man was taller than Duncan’s six feet, his flinty countenance decorated with a horizontal band of black paint that ran over his eyes and back to his ears, with parallel red stripes below it on each cheek. The front of his scalp was shaven, the remaining hair tied in braids into which bits of fur had been woven. The bare skin of his scalp had been adorned with red paint, with streams running down the side of his head to resemble dripping blood. His naked chest was covered only by atattered sleeveless waistcoat. The warrior fixed him with a cold, hungry stare. As the man reached for his rifle, Duncan thought he recognized the wolf tattooed on his shoulder.
    â€œI am a friend of the Mohawk,” he said as he yielded his gun.
    â€œNo,” the man with the pistol declared as he stepped into the light. “Ye killed a friend of the Mohawk. Which makes ye an enemy of the Mohawk, an enemy of blessed King George, and especially an enemy of my friend Sagatchie,” he said with a nod to the warrior. The Englishman had a square, brutish face, scarred from battle. He was dressed in a green wool jerkin with leather leggings over his britches.
    â€œPerhaps one of us committed murder,” Duncan shot back. “But it was not me.”
    The Indian lowered his blade to lift a piece of rope from a peg on the wall, then roughly pulled Duncan’s hands behind him, tying them tightly together. The man in green bent over the dead soldier and cursed. As he straightened, his fist slashed out, slamming across Duncan’s jaw so hard it knocked him back to his knees.
    His assailant whistled and another figure emerged from the aisle of the barn to confer with him. As his head cleared, Duncan saw that the sinewy newcomer was dressed in the same green jerkin as his companion.
    â€œIf you are truly rangers you have a chance of catching these killers,” Duncan interrupted. “My name is McCallum. I just arrived in search of someone who lived here. This happened only two or three hours ago. The raiders probably fled up the slope into the mountains.”
    The man with the scarred face turned with a sour expression. “I am not inclined to take advice from a murderer.” The cow bleated again, and the man kicked a pail to the second man. “Get someone to milk the damned beast, Corporal,” he spat, “then search every house and find me a witness.”
    â€œSergeant Hawley,” the soldier acknowledged with a knuckle to his temple and disappeared.
    â€œDon’t waste your time,” Duncan said. “Everyone’s dead. The children must have—”
    â€œSagatchie,” the sergeant muttered impatiently.
    Duncan only saw a quick motion out of the corner of his eye before something hard slammed into his skull. He collapsed unconscious to the floor.
    HE AWOKE CHOKING on dirt. A cruel laugh rose nearby, and more dirt landed on his face. Despite the throbbing pain at the back of his skull, Duncan shook the dirt off his head and struggled to rise. He was being buried. His legs