"He is invoking vengeful gods," Rideaux explained, as Red Hand laughed at Moses, then touched his bleeding lip. His eyes flashed with defiance as he drew lines on his cheek with his own blood.
"It is a sacred thing to invoke those spirits," Moses said in a simmering voice. "Not for one who would kill his own mother for his next jug."
"What will you do, Chris-tian?" the Shawnee taunted Moses, drawing out the last syllables. "Your master forbids you striking another man. Run now, and beg forgiveness. Your white god makes you a woman!" he mocked.
As he spoke Rideaux appeared from inside the lean-to, carrying a rifle. "This is too rich a gun for the likes of these," he said. "It was hidden under the boughs along the wall."
Red Hand's face clouded as Rideaux handed the gun to Duncan. It was a finely worked piece, with an elaborate carving of the owner's initials on the stock. WB. He thrust the stock into Red Hand's face. "Did you kill him? Did you kill Winston Burke?"
Red Hand silently drained his pot of ale. Duncan studied the gun as Moses took it and leaned it against the wall. It meant one or both of the renegades had come from the Forbes Road, had probably been following them, and had no doubt warned Waller. It meant that Samuel Felton had lied to Duncan.
Duncan kept a wary eye on the man on the bench as he sorted the possessions of Ohio George. A pair of tattered moccasins. A lacrosse ball, its hair stuffing hanging out a deep gash in one side. A broken bullet mold. A small oval-shaped piece of wood with several threads attached to it. A glass ball, perhaps an inch in diameter. A bundle of leather straps. Six more of the long nails with the crosshatched heads. A twist of tobacco. He lifted the tobacco and smelled it. It was neither the leaf cultivated by the tribes nor the cheap plug tobacco traded in sutlers' stores, but an expensive leaf, the kind Winston Burke might have brought from his home in Virginia.
As Duncan contemplated the meager possessions of the dead man, Moses probed them, then peered into the empty pouch. He saw the query on Duncan's face. "Our missionaries have never been killed during their service with the tribes. But one has been missing, one of our only female missionaries, a longtime friend of the Macklin family who left Bethlehem two years ago for the Ohio country and was never seen again. We watch for any sign of her. The Reverend is leaving for a meeting with the church elders soon to discuss resuming the search for her." As he spoke he shook the pouch again. A second, very small bag fell out onto the ground.
When Duncan opened it and tilted it over his hand four silver buttons fell onto his palm. Two were worked with the same fish as those he had found at the Monongahela, two were embossed with crossed swords.
"The dead Virginian," he explained to his companions. "Had silver buttons cut off his waistcoat." He reached into his own belt pouch and produced the button he had taken from Burke's corpse. It was identical to the two with swords from Ohio George's pouch.
Duncan then began pulling papers from the separate, smaller case he had found hidden in the lean-to. Tattered letters from a lawyer in Philadelphia to Francis Townsend, hectoring for a debt. A small worn New Testament bearing Townsend's name on the inside plate, which he handed to Moses. A broadside advertising a public display of Dr. Franklin's experiments with natural fire, on the back of which was the beginning of a letter. Dear Catherine, it said in a careful hand. Fair weather makes for a quick journey. I look forward to my return with resources enough to hire carpenters.
"This man Townsend has been to Shamokin more than once," Moses said. "The last time as a surveyor, heading down the Warriors Path. He went west and never came back. A magistrate sent inquiries, but there was no trace of him."
Red Hand began to laugh.
"Did you kill him too?" Duncan demanded. "Did Ohio George kill him?"
"Not us," the Shawnee crooned. "He said it was his job, to carry out punishment."
"Who? Who killed him?"
Red Hand leaned forward, swaying back and forth as if he were going to be sick. "I was there. I saw him kill Townsend. Saw him stab Townsend." The Shawnee made a screwing motion over his chest. "I put my mark on a paper that says so."
"Who?" Duncan shouted.
"Skanawati."
The name shattered the air like a cannon shot.
"Surely you must be-" Duncan began, but had no time to finish his sentence.
The Indian leapt into action, slamming his makeshift crutch across Moses' knees, kicking Rideaux's thigh as he jumped up, no longer as drunk as he appeared. Both men dropped to the ground in obvious pain. Duncan made a futile leap for the prisoner, landing in the dirt as the Shawnee disappeared around the corner of the storehouse.
The moon was high over the broad river when Duncan ventured out of the Moravians' house, leaving the pallet he had been given by the hearth after Hadley and Van Grut had offered to stay with Mokie at Rideaux's. He could not sleep, could not penetrate the mysteries that gnawed at him, could not even focus on them for the worry over his friend. Conawago had retreated back inside himself, leaving the cabin with murmured thanks for the evening meal shared by the Moravians but without another word to Duncan.
He found the old Indian on the ledge that jutted out over the moonlit water and sat with him in silence for several minutes.
"You must listen to me carefully, Duncan," Conawago said at last. "I beg you to heed my words."
"No one's words are more important to me," Duncan replied, suddenly frightened by the frailness in his friend's voice.
"You must leave. Go back to Edentown. Hide somewhere from those who would throw you in prison. But leave this place, go anywhere but Philadelphia, where Ramsey will kill you. Leave the mysteries of the tribes to the tribes."
Duncan must leave him, Conawago was saying. "You know I am trying to help, to stop the killing, to stop the hanging."
"You only help to increase the pain." It was, from his comrade and mentor, a stinging rebuke.
Duncan could find no reply.
"What that Frenchman says, about the hearts of the Indian and the hearts of the Europeans being different, it is right. It is not for you and me to pretend otherwise." There was a wrenching tone of surrender in Conawago's voice.
"I have seen European and Indian marry, build families together," Duncan offered, his voice tight. "The Moravians bring comfort to the hearts of some in the tribes." Even as he spoke them Duncan's words felt hollow. For that which Conawago invoked there were no words.
"You will bring more death, Duncan. The spirits have their own ways of dealing with evil. I worry that you interfere with them."
"There is too much death," Duncan said, a hoarseness rising in his throat. "My people became like the leaves on the autumn tree. I do not want the clans of the woods to die too."
"I think what you and I want matters little to the fate of the tribes."
For a moment, Duncan wanted to weep. He could not bear to think this was the end of the life he had started only months before, the end of his time with the remarkable old man.
They sat for a long time, gazing into the stars reflected on the river.
"Will you tell me one thing, Conawago? What happened in the water today?"
His friend gave a trembling moan. He was silent so long Duncan assumed he would not answer.
"I had never been deep in the water like that," Conawago finally said. "Not like the land world. So cold. Dark and yet not dark. I found a gateway to the other side."
The hairs stood up on Duncan's neck. "Gateway?"
"My mother was there, Duncan. I saw her plain, looking as she had the day I was taken from her as a boy. She was smiling, gesturing for me to come to her. She held a basket, like she was waiting for me to go gather summer berries."
The realization of Conawago's meaning stabbed Duncan like an icy blade. "You are not going to die, my friend. More years lie ahead. The tribes need you more than ever. I need you."
"My mother needs me. I think there is trouble on the other side. Maybe that is where the fate of the tribes is being determined, maybe that is where
I can best help." Conawago turned to Duncan. "That day at Ligonier," he added, "it was my fate to die. I was ready to cross over. That baby boy had been born to take my place. Skanawati should not have stepped in. He thought he should help me, protect me because of what you and I were doing. But he is more important to the tribes than some dried-up old Nipmuc. I cheated death, don't you see, and by my doing so bring the death of a chief who is like a saint to these people, the only chieftain with a chance of leading our people back to the old ways. At Ligonier death was cheated by a lie. Today it was cheated by the happenstance that you were near. It is wrong to trick the spirits."
Even had Duncan been able to think of a reply, the words would not have gotten past the great swelling in his throat.
"We will meet again, Duncan. I will visit you from the other side." The Indian rose and descended the rock. Ghosts, Conawago had once told him, revealed themselves only to closest family members.
A tear ran down Duncan's cheek. As if it were dispatched from the spirit world a large canoe appeared and nudged the pebble beach below. He watched as though in a dream as Conawago slipped into the vessel and four shadow warriors paddled him onto the silvery water.
CHAPTER TEN
"Impossible!" Rideaux spat. "They will roast you alive!"
"Then I will shout out my questions from the stake," Duncan shot back. "One way or the other I will see the family of Skanawati." He had been waiting at the Frenchman's gate at dawn, seeking a guide. "The west branch, thirty miles upriver." A weary Rideaux, looking haggard, had gestured him inside for a cup of birch tea.
"What use could they possibly be to you?"
"I must know what Skanawati has been doing these past weeks. I must know why his adopted sister and her new husband were sent to the western boundary tree. I must know why Skanawati sent men out to investigate old markings on the Warriors Path. I must know what he thought he would learn from the ghosts there."
Duncan dared not reveal the most important reason of all. He had sat for another hour by the river the night before, watching the shadows where Conawago had disappeared, considering how the Indians in the silent canoe had all been from Skanawati's village, then considering again each piece of the puzzle. Finally he had understood that the Iroquois had been thrust into the violence because Skanawati's mother had a dream.
"I will paddle myself," Duncan vowed, "if I cannot find help."
"Not by yourself," came a voice from the shadows. Van Grut sat up from his pallet.
"Fools!" Rideaux snapped. "Any man who consents to guide you will earn the enmity of Skanawati's clan. You understand nothing about them, nothing about the trials they have endured. No one could guarantee your safety."
"Yesterday you asked what you could do to help."
Rideaux buried his head in his hands for a moment. "Word about bounties spreads like wildfire, McCallum," he said when he looked up. "Thirty pounds is a princely sum. The word came in last night with a trader from Lancaster. Stay anywhere near Shamokin and if the killers don't finish you the bounty hunters will take you for certain. Thirty pounds would solve most of the problems of Skanawati's village," he warned.
"You asked what you could do," Duncan repeated.
"Your stubbornness will get you killed," Rideaux sighed. "I will give you supplies, and a canoe. I already have men looking for Red Hand. He went south."
"On the river?"
"On the trail toward the settlements. Tulpehocken. Reading. He stole a horse. He was going fast."
"What is past Reading?"
"The road to Philadelphia," Rideaux said with foreboding.
Van Grut began stuffing his belongings back into his pack.
"It is too dangerous," Duncan said to the Dutchman.
"If you don't tell them I'm a surveyor," Van Grut said with a tentative grin, "I won't tell them there's a bounty on your head."
Duncan offered a grim smile and gestured to the other sleeping forms, flanked by the dog and orphaned bear, which was snuggled against the girl. "Tell Hadley and Mokie to wait for us here," he told the Frenchman.
As they carried their canoe into the water a tall figure emerged from a path through the alders. "If you go," Moses warned, "what you see will visit your nightmares for years."
Van Grut hesitated, growing pale as he gazed at the Moravian Indian. There was something wilder, less civilized about Moses. The day before he had been another mission Indian, but today he seemed more the warrior crusader.
"I will not allow Skanawati to be hanged," Duncan said as he followed the Dutchman into the canoe. "There are secrets only his family knows, secrets that might save him yet."
"That village," Moses sighed as he stepped toward their vessel, is worn out. Soon it will be no more."
It was, Duncan realized, all the explanation the Indian would give. Without another word Moses shoved the canoe from the bank and climbed in behind them.
As the sun rose toward the zenith they pulled hard against the current of the narrowing river, paddled fiercely, into the rugged lands the tribes called the endless mountains. It was early afternoon when Moses began to turn the canoe toward the north bank. Duncan could see no sign of habitation but with relief spied a cluster of beached vessels that included the large one Conawago had left in the night before.
They had progressed only fifty paces up the worn trail that rose along a shallow creek when Moses halted. He seemed to sense something that his companions could not. His face sagged. "It is what I feared most. This is not the day to be here. We need to leave, make camp until tomorrow."
"Is his family here or not?" Duncan demanded. In the distance he now heard the sound that had stopped the Moravian Indian, the soft, steady throbbing of a drum.
Moses gave a melancholy nod. "There are too many dead here today."
Van Grut's face darkened, and he retreated several feet down the trail before seeing Duncan's determined expression. He grimaced, checked the priming of his gun, and pushed past Moses to follow Duncan up the trail.
They emerged at the edge of a large field that lay below a cluster of five longhouses surrounded by a decrepit stockade fence. The village appeared to be empty except for a ragged dog that barked once and fled. Duncan walked slowly toward the buildings, searching in vain for any other sign of life. Van Grut nervously lifted his gun as they passed through a gate of rotting logs. A smoldering fire sent up a wisp of smoke from the front of one of the longhouses. The only living creature to be seen now was a solitary raven on a log watchtower.
Duncan paused at the entrance to each of the longhouses. Two, with gaping holes in their elm bark roofs, appeared to have been abandoned. The others held the meager belongings of an impoverished people, arranged along the hearths reserved for each family. Tattered clothing hung from pegs on roof posts. Rattles of dried, folded bark lay beside a rotting water drum. Dried apples hung in strings from rafters beside haunches of venison. Birch buckets with bark lids were caked with the drippings of the maple syrup the Iroquois prized. In the dirt lay a tattered doll made of cornhusks that had been cleverly bound and knotted. In the largest structure of the ghost village most of the belongings appeared to have been wrapped in blankets and tied with leather straps as though for travel. In the distance, beyond the second gate, the low drum sounded like a heartbeat.
A shadow on the wall caused Duncan to spin around, his gun raised. Moses lifted a hand as if to restrain him. "The village has had great pain this past year, lost many children and old ones. The fields are no longer fertile. They begin moving soon to a new village, but first they must say their farewells."
Still not comprehending, Duncan stepped slowly to the far gate, pausing to look up at the silent raven, which seemed to be intently studying him. In a flat below the village he at last saw its inhabitants, no more than fifty men, women, and children. They seemed to be engaged in some sort of rhythmic motion, bending, lifting, digging as one of the few young men beat on an immense hollow log.
"It is the ancient way," Moses explaine
d. "Many of the Iroquois have stopped the practice, but Skanawati was adamant that they do it this year. It is easier when platforms are used, but that is not the way of these clans. They have been waiting for his return, but they know they can wait no longer if crops are to be planted at the new site.
Van Grut shaded his eyes with his hand, trying to see the villagers better. "Christ in heaven!" he moaned as he finally understood what they looked at. The Indians were digging up their dead.
"There is a solemn feast," Moses continued. "The names of the dead are revived. The bones will be cleaned and lovingly wrapped for a new group grave. Gifts will be offered to the dead. Final leavetaking must be made, for the dead will no longer be near the calls of the women and the laughter of the children. Skanawati helped dig the new grave before he left, helped trap furs all winter to line it."
"How do you know these things?" Duncan whispered.
"My brother married a woman of this village."
"He is here?"
"He was killed fighting with the British at Fort Niagara."
No words of greeting met Duncan as he advanced, his gun and pack left at the gate. As he approached he realized he knew the drummer. Johantty, covered with soot, frowned as he saw Duncan. The oldest of the women, clearly in charge, shot up from where she sat and began shouting at him, the words unintelligible but her gestures unmistakable. Every villager straightened, eyes on Duncan. One man lifted his iron shovel like a weapon, another raised the sharpened stick he was using to pry at the earth. Then an energetic voice called out, and Duncan's would-be assailants hesitated as Johantty left his drum and ran to the woman's side, pointing at Duncan, speaking in low, hurried tones. The woman scowled then uttered a few low syllables that sent the villagers back to their sober task.
"Stone Blossom," Moses explained at his shoulder. "She has been the undisputed head of this village for decades."
Duncan watched uneasily as Moses stepped forward and spoke in quiet, earnest appeal with the sturdy, aged woman. She frowned again but did not object when the Moravian began to help arrange the old bones in fur bundles. Though somber, the atmosphere was not altogether mournful, more like that of a reunion of friends who had suffered much since last meeting. The only ones looking disturbed at all were the women who worked with knives to clean lingering flesh from bones of the freshest graves. Duncan clenched his jaw and approached them, hand on the hilt of his own knife.
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