Ians resting-place overlooked a game trail. The men who followed it were not hunting.
White men. Now that was odd, and more than odd. He couldnt see them, but didnt need to; the noise they made was unmistakable. Indians traveling were not silent, and many of the Highlanders he lived among could move like ghosts in the woodbut he had no doubt whatever. Metal, that was it. He was hearing the jingle of harness, the clink of buttons and bucklesand gun barrels.
A lot of them. So close, he began to smell them. He leaned forward a little, eyes closed, the better to snuff up what clue he could.
They carried pelts; now he picked up the dried-blood cold-fur smell that had probably waked Rollobut not trappers, surely; too many. Trappers moved in ones and twos.
Poor men, and dirty. Not trappers, and not hunters. Game was easy to come by at this season, but they smelled of hunger. And the sweat of bad drink.
Close by now, perhaps ten feet from the place where he stood. Rollo made a tiny snorting sound, and Ian closed his hand once more on the dogs ruff, but the men made too much noise to hear it. He counted the passing footsteps, the bumping of canteens and bullet boxes, foot-sore grunts and sighs of weariness.
Twenty-three men, he made it, and there was a muleno, two mules with them; he could hear the creak of laden panniers and that querulous heavy breathing, the way a loaded mule did, always on the verge of complaint.
The men would never have detected them, but some freak of the air bore Rollos scent to the mules. A deafening bray shattered the dark, and the forest erupted in front of him with a clishmaclaver of crashing and startled shouts. Ian was already running when pistol shots crashed behind him.
A Dhia! Something struck him in the head and he fell headlong. Was he killed?
No. Rollo was pushing a worried wet nose into his ear. His head buzzed like a hive and he saw bright flashes of light before his eyes.
Run! Ruith! he gasped, pushing at the dog. Run out! Go! The dog hesitated, whining deep in his throat. He couldnt see, but felt the big body lunge and turn, turn back, undecided.
Ruith! He got himself up onto hands and knees, urging, and the dog at last obeyed, running as he had been trained.
There was no time to run himself, even could he have gained his feet. He fell facedown, thrust
hands and feet deep into the leaf mold, and wriggled madly, burrowing in.
A foot struck between his shoulder blades, but the breath it drove out of him was muffled in wet leaves. It didnt matter, they were making so much noise. Whoever had stepped on him didnt notice; it was a glancing blow as the man ran over him in panic, doubtless thinking him a rotted log.
The shooting ceased. The shouting didnt, but he made no sense of it. He knew he was lying flat on his face, cold damp on his cheeks and the tang of dead leaves in his nosebut felt as though very drunk, the world revolving slowly round him. His head didnt hurt much, past the first burst of pain, but he didnt seem able to lift it.
He had the dim thought that if he died here, no one would know. His mother would mind, he thought, not knowing what had become of him.
The noises grew fainter, more orderly. Someone was still bellowing, but it had the sound of command. They were leaving. It occurred to him dimly that he might call out. If they knew he was white, they might help him. And they might not.
He kept quiet. Either he was dying or he wasnt. If he was, no help was possible. If he wasnt, none was needed.
Well, I asked then, didnt I? he thought, resuming his conversation with God, calm as though he lay still on the trunk of the tulip tree, looking up into the depths of heaven above. A sign, I said. I didna quite expect Ye to be so prompt about it, though.
2
DUTCH CABIN
March 1773
NO ONE HAD KNOWN the cabin was there, until Kenny Lindsay had seen the flames, on his way up the creek.
I wouldna ha seen at all, he said, for perhaps the sixth time. Save for the dark comin on. Had it been daylight, Id never ha kent it, never. He wiped a trembling hand over his face, unable to take his eyes off the line of bodies that lay at the edge of the forest. Was it savages, Mac Dubh? Theyre no scalped, but maybe
No. Jamie laid the soot-smeared handkerchief gently back over the staring blue face of a small girl. None of them is wounded. Surely ye saw as much when ye brought them out?
Lindsay shook his head, eyes closed, and shivered convulsively. It was late afternoon, and a chilly spring day, but the men were all sweating.
I didna look, he said simply.
My own hands were like ice; as numb and unfeeling as the rubbery flesh of the dead woman I was examining. They had been dead for more than a day; the rigor of death had passed off, leaving them limp and chilled, but the cold weather of the mountain spring had preserved them so far from the grosser indignities of putrefaction.
Still, I breathed shallowly; the air was bitter with the scent of burning. Wisps of steam rose now and then from the charred ruin of the tiny cabin. From the corner of my eye, I saw Roger kick at a nearby log, then bend and pick up something from the ground beneath.