Eliot Pattison - Eye of the Raven

"My name is Skanawati, son of the Onondaga, chief of the turtle clan," he called out in a clear, ringing voice that had no trace of fear. He spoke not to the crowd but to the sky. "My people are the original people. They will not be forgotten." He paused, cocking his head, then an unexpected joy rose on his face.

High overhead, a raven was circling.

Skanawati looked back at the hangman, who seemed paralyzed. The German retreated a step. With a frantic hope Duncan saw he was not going to push the lever that dropped the hatch below the noose.

Skanawati offered the man a grateful nod. "My name is Skanawati," he called out once more to the spirits, then touched the fur amulet that hung from his neck and, with a long stretching kick, slammed the lever. The door opened and his body dropped.

The terrible silence as the body twitched, then went still, was like none Duncan had ever known. Half the bystanders openly wept, the remainder did not speak, could not speak. Every tongue, whether Indian, German, English, or Scottish, was numbed. The swinging rope creaked in the gibbet. From somewhere high overhead came the deep, throaty call of the raven.

The Iroquois warriors began a death chant. Under a nearby chestnut several Moravians began a quiet hymn.

Duncan forced himself to turn from the wrenching scene. He caught McGregor's eye, nodding for him to follow, then found Magistrate Brindle staring transfixed at the body, gripped his arm, and led him away.

Three hours later Duncan stood panting at the edge of a clearing by the river trail, rubbing the chafed skin where the manacles had scraped his wrists, anxiously watching the wide river trail, resisting the temptation to call out to verify the stage had been set as he had instructed. His freedom, his very life, had hung by a thread after the hanging, for Ramsey had been in a white-hot fury, in no mood to be denied anything. Duncan shuddered as he recalled the poison in Ramsey's eyes when he and Judge Bradford had come upon Duncan and Brindle talking, minutes after Skanawati's body had been cut down.

"You bungling fool!" Ramsey snarled at the Quaker. "You have lost the treaty for us!"

"I prefer to think of it as preserving our honor," Brindle replied in a quiet voice. "I daresay it will be years before the Iroquois speak to us again about land."

"The governor shall hear of this!" Ramsey barked. "The proprietor himselfl" As he signaled for one of his men to retrieve Duncan, the patron's face flushed with rage. He would make Duncan pay for his losses, would start that very day.

"I am afraid," Brindle interjected, "that Mr. McCallum remains my prisoner."

"To hell you say!" Ramsey shot back. "He is mine. Your jurisdiction over him is finished." Ramsey gestured to his judge, as if it was Bradford's cue.

"There are still inquests into the other deaths," Brindle said, staring only at Ramsey. "He will be a key witness."

"Do not be so bold as to suggest you will keep him from me!" Ramsey put a hand on the shoulder of his judge, as if about to push him forward.

"I suggest you will not have him until I am finished with him. You will need an order from the governor, who shall hear from me of the strange dealings in the stock of the Susquehanna Company and the coincidence of calamities that forced the sales of its stock to you." The color began to drain from Judge Bradford's face. He retreated, stepping toward the coach that waited behind them. "We shall see you in Philadelphia."

Ramsey's face grew apoplectic. "You are ruined! No chief judgeship, not this year, not ever! You'll be lucky to keep your post!" Ramsey spun about and climbed into his coach.

"He means it," Duncan said as they watched the dust cloud from the team.

"Men like that will not always have the power in this land," Brindle said quietly. It had the sound of a vow.

Duncan settled now onto a fallen log, pretending to be adjusting his moccasin but instead studying the long latticework shadow at his side and behind him. The old Indian cemetery, this one with aboveground scaffolds traditional to the local tribes, was exactly where Conawago had described. The tall wooden frames had been erected many years earlier at the bend in the river. Some had crumbled to the ground long ago, but at least two dozen still lay in the shadows, feathers and tattered pieces of fur hanging from many, the fur blankets used to cover the dead still intact on several newer ones. The ground was taboo to Indian and European alike.

Duncan was still sitting on the log when the lean blond man rode up and dismounted, calling out to the two Indian companions who had been running alongside him, following the conspicuous tracks Duncan had left from Bethlehem. The two Indians faded into the shadows, flanking Duncan, trapping him.

The timing had been a close thing. It had taken nearly an hour for McGregor to find a position out of sight of the townspeople but still in view of Felton's men who drank outside the inn. McGregor had played his part perfectly. Turning his back for a moment, the sergeant had provided the opening for Duncan to feign a blow with doubled fists onto his neck, dropping McGregor to the ground so Duncan could steal the keys to his manacles. Freed, Duncan had fled up the river trail, with just enough light left in the day for his tracks to be read.

He now watched as Felton paced around the pool of fading sunlight, letting him grow impatient, watched as Felton lifted a skull from where it had dropped from a scaffold, then picked up two sticks and pressed them together into a makeshift racquet. Lifting the skull like a lacrosse ball, he juggled it in the air then lofted it, smashing it against the log Duncan sat on.

"I should have known when I saw you performing lacrosse tricks in the tavern," Duncan said.

The Quaker scout's hand rested on the tomahawk on his belt. "You slipped your master again, McCallum. Please keep it up. I shall make a rich career of catching you and collecting the bounty."

"So it was you who hit me from the back in the Walnut Street prison."

"Of course. Twenty Spanish dollars for that one. I'll demand more this time. The market for your head increases every day."

"Your career is over," came another voice. Moses stepped from behind a tree.

"Come to offer me a prayer, old woman?" Felton sneered.

"Everyone was always looking in the wrong direction," Duncan observed, keeping his eye on Felton's tomahawk. "First suspecting the French, then the Iroquois as you intended."

"I hate the Iroquois. Always have."

"You were a Huron most of your life."

"I had taken five Iroquois scalps before I was fifteen."

"Then," Duncan continued with a shudder, "we kept puzzling over different bands of Indians who might be the murderers, wondering why Burke would have been involved. Of course if I had but known Ramsey had his hand in, I would have looked for bribery and subterfuge in Philadelphia from the outset."

"An outlaw and a dried-up old Jesus Indian," Felton said. "You're wasting your breath to complain."

"It was that connection between the violence and the band of Philadelphia investors that was so well-hidden. A killer in the wilderness who knew all the surveyors seemed so unlikely, a savage who knew the pigpen code impossible. Were you also involved in those accidents that beset the investors in the land company? There was a ship burned in the harbor, a warehouse leveled near the wharfs."

"A lantern through a cargo hatch, another thrown through a window. The work of a few minutes, for so very much money."

"And you and Burke needed money, for your new enterprise."

Felton looked back toward the broad river path, where his horse stood grazing in the moonlight with his rifle on its saddle.

"I doubt Lord Ramsey understands how fastidious the Moravians are about their records. Every orphan is recorded, every returned Indian slave, every former captive has entries, because they mean to keep helping those unfortunate souls whenever they can. Of course you had no need. You left them behind. You turned your back on their charity."