Woods Runner Read Online Free Page B

creature was in a hurry and if so, why, and how fast it was going and what, if anything, was chasing it and how close the pursuer might be.
    And the more he was of the woods, of the wild, of the green, the less he was of the people. He sometimes enjoyed being with others, and of course he loved his parents. But his skills and his woods knowledge set him apart, made him different. His neighbors in the settlement saw this and they sought him out when they had a question about the forest or about game. They marveled at him, thought of him as a kind of seer, one who could know more than others, divine things in a spiritual way. Samuel knew this was not the case. He had just learned to see what others could not.
    Now he brought to the fore all his knowledge to read sign as he met the day.
    He was on his feet before the first light broke through the trees. He woke desperately thirsty and went to the creek that trickled past the rear of the cabin, and he drank long and hard. The water was so cold it hurt his teeth and so sweet it took some of the taste-stink from the evening before out of his mouth. He was hungry, but he could findno food that the marauders had overlooked. He would have to shoot something along the way.
    For now, there was nothing to do but read sign and try to figure out what had happened, how it had happened and exactly when.
    He started by circling the cabin, forcing himself to take time to be calm, carefully studying the ground, looking closely at the soft dirt away from the grass.
    First he found small tracks from moccasins he had made for his mother. Then he saw his father’s prints, also from moccasins, the right foot toed in slightly from a time when, showing off as a small boy, he’d broken his ankle jumping from a shed roof.
    Both sets of prints were in the soft dirt in front of the door of the cabin, in the normal patterns they would make going in and out.
    Then, in the dirt at the side of the cabin, more moccasin prints. Larger, flatter feet, digging deeper, running, as the attackers came. And still more prints, too many to tell them apart. On top of those, which meant they had come later, hard shoes with leather soles and heels. At least three men with regular shoes—two of normal weight and one heavier. On top of all the marks, Samuel saw horse prints. Two, maybe three horses, all unshod and being led, because there was no extra weight on them.
    No men in the settlement wore shoes, or could afford horses to ride. Only one man had a single workhorse. Others who could afford animals had oxen, because whenthey became too old or broken to work, they could be eaten.
    The attack had been fast. They had come up along the creek—Samuel backtracked and found their prints in the soft soil there—and exploded out in the clearing by the cabin. His parents were probably outside and must have been overrun with no time to react. His father wouldn’t have had his musket close anyway. It was like him to leave it inside when working near the house.
    Samuel’s father had seen bad things happen to other people, but was too good inside, too generous, to believe that they could happen to him.
    He must believe now, Samuel thought.
    The attack widened rapidly. He saw where Overton and others had fallen, saw the blood, now covered with flies, where they had been hacked to the ground with tomahawks. It was a mystery to Samuel, though, why his parents had not been killed. He was grateful, but it didn’t make any sense.
    He lost their tracks as he followed the spreading attack. Larger moccasin prints and the shoe prints of the three men were everywhere. He could imagine the terror of the people in the settlement—the war cries of the attackers mixed with the screams of the victims and the smell of blood and fear and death.
    He saw where at least two of the men in shoes had mounted their horses. Here and there he found single or double tracks of his mother and father as they were jerkedor pulled—the tracks scuffed and