Scotch Rising Read Online Free Page A

he wants to see if you’re friendly. I am fairly certain he does not bite, his name is Tasunke.”
    The boy rubbed the horse’s forehead, while trying the foreign name out loud, “Tasunke.” It slipped from his brogue and elongated into a double-o sound. He tried again with moderate success. “Where is that name from?”
    “I purchased him from members of the Sioux tribe who passed near Boston while I remained stationed there. The name Tasunke means horse in their language.” I stroked Tasunke’s thick fur. His coat was mostly white with large brown patches. No purebred fancy, a cross between a workhorse and a wild animal, I loved him the moment I saw him. My wife, Onatah, and her brother, Hania, chided me for paying such a large sum for an unbroken horse. They said the Sioux tribe were full of back dealers, and the horse would probably die in the first winter. He proved them wrong, however, and with a bit of work and patience he became a good companion.
    Wiping the memory from my mind before it led to unpleasant reminders, I turned to the boy. “I am trusting you with Tasunke while I step inside and speak with the innkeeper.” The lad’s face lit up and he stood a bit taller. “Make sure nothing happens to him out here.” I smiled, Tasunke could be relied upon to watch the boy and himself.
    Stepping through the portal into the crowded tap, I encountered the usual sights of a drinking house. A long bar, made of polished wood, tables set near the walls and longer benches across the room. A crowd of a couple dozen men lingered inside nursing drinks of different descriptions. He was mainly silent except for a few whispers among neighbours, every eye trained upon one man at the far end of the room. Dressed in a red pleated kilt, one side draped over his heart, pinned with a silver brooch. The man held the audience’s attention with ease, his intense eyes and flourishing hands punctuating his speech, drawing power to him and reflecting it back into the crowd in such a way as to make each man believe he spoke only to them. The old General in Boston remained the only other man I could recall ever having the power to match this one, who must have been the same age as myself. Yet his demeanour rivalled the wisest of old men with the spirit of youth, such passion could be frightening in its power. Its potential for misuse a destructive force.
    The counter stayed relatively empty, I signalled the barman and ordered ale. He gave me a curious look before turning to the barrels behind the bench. Strangers arriving in Markinch after dark were probably not a common occurrence. Especially in the Highlands, the roads were dangerous at night, potholes, and animals, even people making mischief given the right opportunity. I tried to listen to the thickly accented words of the mesmerizing man standing in front of the fire. However, my arrival had caught the attention of another man, who peered over his small glass of Scotch, thought for a moment and rose, lumbering more than walking over to my side.
    The other man arched a brow, he stood a full head taller than myself, black raven hair fell to his broad shoulders. He wore the usual highland garment, a pleated kilt with one end draped over his shoulder. His bright blue eyes held mine, sizing up my courage. He spoke in a deep voice with a hint of soft brogue. His words much easier to make out than the boy’s, “And who might ye be, sir? It’s fairly late fur a traveller tae stop looking tae sup an ale.”
    The large man did not appear unfriendly, his voice, however, held a note of strength used by men in positions of authority when giving orders. My army experience gave me invaluable lessons in sizing up men. This one could be a potential deadly enemy, not tonight though. “My name is Esmond Clyde-Dalton and, as you surmised. I am a new arrival in Markinch.”
    “Captain Clyde-Dalton?” The other man spoke the question and tapped the sporran hanging from his belt. “I am in