The Blooding

by James McGee

  Three more breech-clouted figures appeared above them. There was another sharp report and Stryker’s horse toppled on to its side, legs kicking. Making a grab for the bridle of Fitch’s by now terrified mount, the corporal threw his musket aside and drew a pistol from his belt. Using the horse as a shield he aimed the pistol towards the top of the bank and fired. A body toppled into the gulley.

  “Behind me, Reverend!” he shouted.

  Trooper Lyle yelled a warning as his friend’s killer ran towards him. Ramming his musket one-handed into the Indian’s chest, he squeezed the trigger. The Indian threw up his arms as he was catapulted backwards by the force of the shot. But even as Lyle’s victim fell, another warrior rose from concealment. Teeth bared, he drew his arm back and with a wild shriek hurled his tomahawk at the trooper, who was frantically trying to reload his weapon.

  De Witt heard Lyle grunt and go down. Spinning, he stared in horror as, in a move almost too fast to follow, the Indian sprinted forward, grabbed a knot of hair, scored the knife blade around Trooper Lyle’s skull, placed his knee in the dead man’s back and ripped away the bleeding scalp. Only then did he wrench the tomahawk from the dead man’s chest and turn towards Trooper York’s body.

  Stryker, meanwhile, having discharged both his weapons, was attempting to control Fitch’s horse. “Ride, Reverend! It’s our only chance!”

  As Stryker vaulted into the saddle, another musket cracked. Stryker’s mount reared and the corporal’s body pitched to the ground. Freed from restraint, the horse took off, mane flying. It did not get far. There came yet another sharp report and the animal faltered. A second shot sent it crashing to the ground, eyes rolling white in its head, dark blood frothing from its nose.

  Fear lent De Witt impetus, but as he hauled himself on to the mare’s back two more half-naked figures launched themselves over the lip from the opposite side of the gulley. Terrified, the pastor failed to see the new threat rising towards him.

  It was only in the final second that he saw the dull gleam of steel as the sword curved towards the mare’s neck. Before he could react, he felt the shock as the blade sank into flesh. Following through with the blow, the attacker darted aside as the mare staggered under the assault. With her strength gone and the artery in her neck severed, she managed only a few faltering strides before her legs gave way and she collapsed to the ground, trapping the pastor beneath her.

  A chorus of excited barks greeted the tumble.

  De Witt shook his head dazedly. He had lost his hat and he was covered in blood, but not his own, for the mare’s heart was still pumping. He tried to move his legs but he could only feel his right one. His left was numb, pinned by the mare’s weight. As she convulsed and let go her final breath, the pastor looked for Stryker and saw the corporal’s bloodstained and motionless body in the dirt. Four wiry, semi-clad figures were crouched over him.

  De Witt watched, helpless and in horror, as a knife rose and fell. The action was followed by a crow of triumph as a remnant of bloody scalp was brandished aloft. The pastor felt his stomach contract and his bowels turned to water when he saw their faces turn towards him.

  Desperately, De Witt clawed for the opening to his saddle bag. Thrusting his hand inside, he searched for the pistol. Felt the stock beneath his fingers. His hand, though, was slick with the mare’s blood. The weapon slid from his grip. He made another frantic lunge. Curling his hand more firmly around the pistol butt, he pulled the weapon out and drew back the hammer.

  Blood was trickling into the corner of his eye. Half-blinded, he tried to blink it away. Through a crimson mist, he saw that the Indians were making their way towards him. They were walking slowly. Taking their time, he realized; knowing full well that he wasn’t going anywhere.

  One of them was holding a short sword. The blade dripped blood. De Witt knew this had to be the one who’d slit the mare’s throat. The sword-holder grinned. His mouth formed a malevolent gash in his sun-darkened face. Another brave extended a finger and mimed the pulling of a trigger; taunting him, playing on his terror. A third drew a long knife from a sheath across his chest.

  Raising the pistol, De Witt thought of his wife and daughter.

  “Forgive me, Esther,” he whispered tearfully.

  Before placing the muzzle of the pistol in his mouth and pulling the trigger.

  At the sound of the first shot, Wyatt raised his head. He didn’t have to ask the others if they’d heard it. He knew they had, even though it was very faint; just as they all heard the succession of reports that followed it.

  “Don’t sound like a hunting party,” Donaldson said, frowning as the firing faded away. “How far do you reckon?”

  “Hard to say,” Wyatt said. “Could be a mile, could be three.”

  “Not the column then,” Billy Drew said.

  Wyatt shook his head. “Too close. Besides, if they were under attack, there’d be more shooting.”

  “Scouts in trouble?” Jem Beddowes suggested.

  “Could be,” Wyatt said. “Only one way to find out.”

  They set off running.

  It was the stench of blood that drew them to the place of ambush and the faint whiff of powder that had failed to dissipate, having been trapped by the gulley’s walls. They had gauged the distance and then fanned out to cover the ground in a search pattern. Somewhat inevitably it was Tewanias – whose sense of smell had led them to the place – who discovered the first body.

  The dead horse lay on its side. The blood from the wounds in its head and chest had congealed upon its hide and pooled on to the ground beneath it. The flies were already clustered thickly around the animal’s eyes, nostrils, mouth and hindquarters.

  The next corpse was human and was sprawled a yard or so away, a wide slit in its throat and the front part of its scalp removed. The flies were busy there as well.

  “Anyone know him?” Wyatt asked, looking down at the ruined features.

  The others shook their heads, their expressions grim.

  They moved to the next body. The pungent odour of animal grease rose from the corpse and mingled uneasily with the smell of blood. Squatting down, Tewanias drew a finger along the single white feather attached to the corpse’s scalp lock and viewed the breech-clouted remains with disgust.

  “Oneniote’á:ka!” He stood and spat out the word. “Oneida! Bear clan.”

  “I know this one,” Beddowes said, a resigned look on his face as he indicated the chevrons on the dead man’s sleeves. “Name’s Stryker. A good soldier, I heard.”

  Tewanias had walked on. He stopped and called softly, “Wy-att.”

  Wyatt turned.

  Tewanias was standing over a blood-soaked corpse which lay trapped beneath one of the horses. There was a lot of injury to the dead man’s skull, Wyatt saw, as he approached, which he might have put down to a killing blow from a war club had it not been for the pistol that was held loosely in the corpse’s right hand. It wasn’t hard to gauge the sequence of events. Then he saw who it was lying there and realized why Tewanias had summoned him over and his throat went dry.

  “I got three more,” Donaldson said, breaking into his thoughts. “Two white, one Indian. More dead horses, too.”

  Billy Drew, who’d been examining the perimeter called across, “Got one over here; an Indian. Been gut shot.”

  “Looks like they put up quite a fight,” Donaldson said.

  Maybe not all of them, Wyatt thought as he stared down at the pastor’s corpse. He tried to imagine what he might have done, had he been in the pastor’s shoes; unable to free himself and with only one loaded pistol to repel what had quite evidently been a superior number of attackers. Only a fool would have viewed the pastor’s decision to take his own life as an act of cowardice. By using his own pistol, De Witt had saved himself the pain of an excruciating death, though his actions had not prevented his scalp from being taken after his demise.

  At least Wyatt hoped the man had been dead when the deed had been committed. Scalping was usuall
y carried out after death, though he’d heard of cases where someone came to, having lost consciousness during an attack, and discovered they had been mutilated in this manner.

  Sickened, the Ranger turned away.

  A body count revealed a total of eight dead, excluding the horses; five white men and three Indians.

  What the hell were they doing here? Wyatt asked himself.

  Had Reverend De Witt’s body not been among the dead, he might have assumed, as Jem Beddowes had first supposed, that Stryker and his men were a scouting party. But scouts would have been on foot, as Wyatt and his men were, not on horseback. In the dense forests, horses were at best a hindrance and at worst a liability, requiring food and maintenance. A man on foot could travel fast and light and in a straighter line, using the terrain to his advantage.

  Wyatt turned, in search of Tewanias. The Mohawk was squatting over one of the Indian dead and examining a musket he had found nearby.

  “Well?” Wyatt asked.

  Tewanias stood and held out the gun. “Scouts in the pay of the Yan-kees.”

  “They were looking for the column,” Wyatt said.

  Tewanias nodded.

  “And their run in with Stryker and his men will have told them they’re close.”

  The Mohawk nodded again and then frowned.

  “What is it?” Wyatt asked.

  “Five riders dead. But tracks say six horses.”

  “Six?” Wyatt said, confused. “Someone got away?”

  Tewanias shook his head. “One rode through before. These men came later.”

  There was a pause.

  “Tracking the first one, you think?”

  The Mohawk shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  “Or he was riding point and was way in front when these five were brought down,” Donaldson suggested.

  Maybe, Wyatt thought, though that didn’t explain what the pastor was doing there. He looked at Tewanias. “Attackers?”

  Tewanias shrugged. “More than six.”

  “They’ve lost three,” Wyatt indicated the half-naked corpses. “Question is, how many are left and which way did they go?”

  He watched as Tewanias dropped the gun to re-examine the ground around the perimeter of the ambush. “Well?” he asked when the Mohawk returned.

  “Four go north,” Tewanias said, indicating with his chin.

  Wyatt followed the Mohawk’s gaze.

  “And one goes south.”

  Damn it, Wyatt thought. He turned back. “You’re sure?”

  “Ea. Yes.”

  “What’s that mean?” Billy Drew asked.

  Wyatt sighed. “They’ve sent a runner to tell the main force coming behind that they’ve picked up the trail.”

  The Mohawk stayed silent.

  “That’s why they killed the horses. They didn’t want them returning to the column. The colonel sees riderless horses, he knows the enemy’s discovered them.”

  “God damned bastards,” Billy Drew said.

  Wyatt offered no dissent. “They made a mistake though. If they hadn’t killed Stryker’s party, we might not have found out they were here. Now we’re going to be on their trail, and that gives us the upper hand.”

  All save Tewanias looked at him.

  “Why’d they do this?” Billy Drew asked, staring round at the carnage. “They could’ve let them ride by, carried on trailing the column. Then no one would be any the wiser.”

  “Like you said, they’re bastards,” Wyatt muttered. “Or maybe Stryker picked up their trail and was closing in on them. Maybe they saw a way to turn the tables.”

  Which still didn’t explain the pastor’s role.

  Wyatt turned to Tewanias. “The Runner. Can you catch him?”

  Tewanias rewarded him with a look, saying nothing.

  Stupid question, Wyatt thought. “All right. You catch him and you kill him before he can report back.”

  A gleam shone briefly in the Mohawk’s eyes.

  “We’ll go after the rest,” Wyatt told the others. “They know the column is somewhere ahead. They’ll be cautious till they have it in sight. That’ll give us a chance to make up the ground.”

  “What about the bodies?” Billy Drew asked. “We going to leave them like this?”

  “Have to, Billy,” Beddowes said heavily. “Don’t have time to do any burying.”

  “Jem’s right,” agreed Wyatt. “We’ve no choice. No telling how close the opposition is, given they’ve sent their Oneida scouts in here. They find five graves and they’re going to figure out that we know they’re here. I’d rather we kept the advantage. It might just give us an edge, providing they don’t pick up our tracks.”

  “Don’t seem right, just leaving them,” Donaldson said. He looked at Wyatt. “I’d like to say a few words, Lieutenant, if’n we’ve got time. I’d feel better about it.”

  Wyatt read each of their faces in turn and the message in their eyes. They were good men. They knew it could just as easily have been one of them lying there and they were thinking, if that had been the case, they’d have appreciated a prayer to mark their passing. He gave the go ahead.

  As Donaldson reached into his pocket for his bible, Wyatt turned to Tewanias. “We’ll see you back at the column.”

  Wordlessly, Tewanias handed Wyatt his musket. By the time Donaldson had his hat off and the bible open in his hand, the Mohawk had already slipped away into the woods.

  Weariness was setting in.

  It had been hard to judge exactly how much time had elapsed since he’d shown Tam the amulet and asked the dog to follow its nose. He knew only that the late afternoon sun was now well beyond the trees and before long it would be sunset. Soon it would be too dark for him to find his way and he would have to find somewhere to bed down for the night. The last time he’d camped out had been the previous summer and he’d had Will Archer for company. This time he had Tam and Jonah. Neither of them could talk, but it was better than being alone.

  And at least it was warm, so there would be no need to build a shelter; he could make do with the blanket beneath Jonah’s saddle. He knew how to build a fire; along with the tobacco tin he had a tinderbox, another legacy of the times he and Archer had spent together. Uncle Will had told him that if he was ever in the woods he should always carry the tools to make a flame. Fire provided warmth and a defence against predators. More importantly, when you were lost and alone, it raised the spirits. It meant you’d won your first battle against the wilderness.

  So, if he could get a fire lit, it would be a start.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of gunfire. Had he been alone, he would have struggled to tell which direction the sounds had come from, but Tam had turned his head half a second before the first shot even sounded, as if he’d anticipated the event. During the series of reports that followed, his focus did not waver.

  “You hear that, lad? It’s the column! It must be!” Suddenly, he didn’t feel so afraid.

  Picking up on the excitement in the boy’s voice, the dog wagged its tail.

  The shots had come from a long way off, but gunfire signified people, which told him, if he discounted his horse and his dog, that he was no longer alone in the woods. That was enough to send a wave of relief coursing through him.

  It was most likely a hunting party, he reasoned, sent out by the colonel to secure meat for the evening halt. He looked about him. Despite the density of the forest canopy there was still light beneath the trees. If he let Tam take the lead, there was every chance he’d be able to find his way back to the line, or at least cover most of the distance before it got too dark. With luck, it wouldn’t be long before he’d be close enough to see the cooking fires and they would guide him the last few yards.

  Encouraged by that possibility, he cast aside all thoughts of finding a place to sleep and instead, with Tam running ahead of him, nose to the trail, he set off towards the source of the gunshots.

  Tewanias had settled into a comfortable loping gait, unencumbered by the weig
ht of his musket; his war club was strapped firmly across his back. He was breathing easily and, save for the soft pad of his moccasin-shod feet on the forest floor and the swish of his ammunition pouch against his hip, he produced no extraneous sounds as he ran.

  Tracking a man through dense woodland was notoriously difficult. Fortunately, the Oneida scout was making no attempt to conceal his spoor. Neither, to judge from the length of his stride, was he moving at full stretch. His pace was that of a man hurrying while trying to conserve energy, a rate of progress that suggested he had some distance to cover. Whatever his motive, it made him easy to follow, despite the fact that he was not forging his own path through the brush but retracing the steps he and his scouting party had taken in their outward journey.

  Tewanias had gauged the measure of the Oneida’s stride at the start. In so doing he was able to calculate where each succeeding footfall would land. He could keep up the chase without pausing constantly to take stock.

  Whether the prey was human or animal, unless it was something big and heavy it was rare for a pristine imprint to be left behind, even in the softest soil. If the hunter was chasing a man, there might be the hint of a depression to indicate where his quarry had pushed off to take his next step or, if not that, then perhaps a small patch of flattened earth where the texture of the surface had been altered by a weight pressing down upon it. But it was seldom that convenient. Other peripheral signs therefore took precedence: a crushed flower, or a stone that had been dislodged on the path, or a branch bent back by a careless body moving past. Meaningless to those without the skill to understand what they were seeing, but as prominent as milestones to someone with the required knowledge.

  Streams and rivers presented the biggest challenge. Tracking in water was well nigh impossible, so one had to scan the banks for signs: a broken cat-tail, a bent reed or, in the case of the Oneida scout, a muddy palm print that showed where the runner had forded the stream, slipped, and used a hand to steady himself as he emerged from the current and regained his footing.

  At the sight of the print, Tewanias halted. The mud was still damp, which told him that he had almost closed the gap. He wondered if the man he was chasing was a stranger to the woods or familiar with them. Though the Oneida lands lay far to the west, beyond Te-non-at-che, the river that flowed through the mountains, it was likely that in the times before the Six Nations had been divided by the war – when the Oneida and the Tuscarora had chosen to side with the Americans – the runner had hunted in these mountains and therefore knew the hidden as well as the main trails.