Eliot Pattison - Original Death

By the time they reached a vantage point at the top of the ridge, their pursuers milled along the riverbank, searching for their trail. Duncan and Conawago exchanged worried glances, knowing that as soon as they began to run across the open-faced ridge, they would be spotted.

Sagatchie helped the last of their party climb over the ledge marking the top of the slope then joined them to gaze down on the open field below. Duncan did not at first understand the sigh of satisfaction that came from the big Mohawk, then he followed his gaze to the solitary figure that stood on a boulder, staring up at them. His metal helmet was unmistakable.

“Wolverines,” Duncan heard himself say. A chill ran down his spine. The blood feud between the Iroquois and the Wolverine clan was like a festering wound, and Duncan had rubbed salt into it by shaming the Hurons at the gauntlet. The half-king had sent those he knew would be most likely to bring back all the scalps of those who had deceived him.

“Run!” Kass shouted at the children and the elders, urging them desperately across the top of the ridge toward the safety of the rangers. Bedford scooped up one of the children, and Kass threw another onto her back as she ran.

Sagatchie eyed the ledge rock that jutted upward a few feet away, making something of a parapet overlooking the pasture below. A great calm seemed to settle over him. He laid his rifle on the ledge, along with his powder horn and cartridge box.

Duncan now saw Conawago staring at the Mohawk. A melancholy pride burned in the Nipmuc’s eyes as he lowered his own rifle onto the rock parapet and helped Sagatchie remove his pack then extracted the little wooden container that warriors always carefully guarded on their travels. Tushcona, carrying their only other rifle, rushed to their side as Kass, Bedford, and the children ran headlong across the open ridge. Without a word she began checking the priming in the pans of the guns.

A serene smile lit Sagatchie’s face. “This is what the spirits always intended,” he declared in a level voice. “I know now they have not forgotten me.”

Duncan followed his gaze toward the Wolverine Hurons, and his heart wrenched. He had trouble making his tongue work. “No. .” he protested. “God no, Sagatchie. Please don’t. I beg you. .”

Sagatchie seemed not to hear him. He turned one cheek, then another as Conawago dipped a finger into the little wooden cylinder and painted the red stripes of war on his face. When the warrior looked up to the sky, he had his war ax in one hand and his knife in the other. “Hear my call! My name is Sagatchie, of the Wolf clan of the Mohawks!” he shouted toward the clouds, pressing his protector amulet tightly against his heart. “The strength of the wolf is in my arm! The speed of the wolf is in my legs!”

When he finished he turned to Duncan, who found no words as the Mohawk lay his forearm along Duncan’s own in the warrior’s grip. He nodded at Duncan, still smiling, then launched himself down the slope with a joyful whoop.

They had four rifles, and Tushcona stood by to reload as Conawago and Duncan fired. When they dropped the first two Hurons who had begun to run across the pasture, the others at the edge of the field answered with screams of war. Their enemy had shown themselves, and the battle was joined. The Hurons fired their own rifles, the bullets ricocheting off the rocks around Conawago and Duncan, then tossed them aside and drew out their war axes.

Two more Hurons fell to their rifles, but Duncan’s shot at the helmeted chieftain missed. The advancing warriors stopped abruptly as Sagatchie appeared out of the thicket, shouting at them, waving his war ax in challenge. Suddenly a second figure, grey and bent, scrambled out of the undergrowth to join him, swinging his own ax.

Duncan spun about to see Adanahoe, tears streaming down her face. She was holding Custaloga’s pack and shirt. The eighty-year-old chief, survivor of the razing of Ononadagoa Castle by the Wolverines decades earlier, was a warrior once more and was finally facing his enemy.

Duncan and Conawago fired again, and there were only a dozen Huron left, facing the two Iroquois across thirty yards of grass. It was the old sachem who moved first, shouting out his war cry and charging directly at the Huron chief, Sagatchie a step behind.

An anguished cry broke the eerie stillness as Duncan and Conawago lowered their rifles. Kass was running at them, flinging off her pack and jacket, lifting her bow. She broke away when Duncan grabbed her arm, then leapt past them into the undergrowth of the slope.

They watched helplessly as the two chiefs danced with their axes, slashing and backing, chopping with vicious strokes. It was Custaloga who landed the killing stroke, but as Paxto fell, the aged Iroquois was covered with Huron assailants. Sagatchie leveled two of the attackers and was pulling his ax from the leg of a third when four more leapt on top of him. A mournful moan escaped Duncan’s lips as his Mohawk friend fell. Kass appeared in time to put an arrow in the Huron who raised a knife to scalp the fallen Mohawk.

Suddenly a warrior at the edge of the field shouted frantically, and the war party froze, following his raised arm toward the river. With cries of alarm they backed away, carrying the body of the pot helm chief with them.

A call from behind broke the brittle silence. Duncan turned to see Woolford and several rangers running from the far side of the point. He did not wait for them but started down the slope with Conawago at his side.

Bodies lay strewn about the field, six downed by rifle shots, seven by blade and ax. Singing a low, melancholy chant, Kass dragged away the Huron dead heaped by Sagatchie’s body, then stood over the dead Mohawk. He had been sliced in a dozen places, but the blow that had taken him had been from the ax in the back of his skull. Kass said nothing as Duncan bent to remove the weapon, but as the blade came free, dripping Sagatchie’s lifeblood, she seemed to lose all strength. She sagged, collapsing into Duncan’s arms, then slowly, leaning on Duncan, lowered herself to her knees by the body.

Duncan turned and walked toward the rangers that emerged onto the field.

“We came as soon as we heard the shots!” Woolford gasped.

“A few minutes more and we could have made it to you,” Duncan said in a hollow voice.

“The Hurons paid the butcher’s bill,” Woolford muttered as he surveyed the dead. “Where’s. .” his question died away. The mournful death song started by Kass was all he needed to know.

“Dear Jesus, no!” he moaned and rushed past Duncan to where Kass knelt. He dropped to the ground and buried his head in his hands.

More death songs rose as the elders arrived. Duncan and Conawago laid out the body of Custaloga beside that of Sagatchie.

“The bastards fled,” Woolford said in a tight voice. “Why?”

Duncan looked about the field, realizing he had no answer. The two men quickly made their way to the river and mounted a high, flat boulder.

“That is why!” Duncan said, pointing to a long line of objects floating downstream. Woolford extracted his telescope. “Canoes and long boats,” he reported in an uncertain tone.

Duncan took the glass and quickly saw the reason for the ranger’s confusion. There were at least fifty canoes on the river, and they were all empty, adrift in the fast current. Ahead of them were long boats strung in a line, being towed by a lead boat in which half a dozen men feverishly worked the oars.

It was early evening before they began to climb over the ridge that jutted into the river. The Iroquois rangers quickly disposed of the enemy dead, but they would not move the bodies of Sagatchie and Custaloga, would not leave them alone, until long songs had been sung and long chants spoken to console their spirits.