Eliot Pattison - Bone Rattler

“For years I tried to find them, following the trail of every camp of Indians forced to move by the settlements. Some old Lenni Lenape said I should go to the Ohio for them. In the Ohio country they said maybe I should look along the Niagara. There they said to try the Kentucky lands. Eventually I went back to the Mohawks, lived with Hendrick, sometimes Tashgua.”

“In New York harbor,” Duncan ventured, “there was a man with a staff walking away after the attack. It was you who shot those arrows, and the staff was your bow.”

“It was a signal Adam had arranged, to let the Ramsey tutor know I was there. We were supposed to meet at a tavern the next day. I waited two days, but you never came.”

“The first arrow wasn’t a signal.”

“I had seen how the captain mistreated the old one, kicked him even when they were dragging him to the wagon. I feared he was about to do the same to you.”

“If it weren’t for that arrow,” Duncan offered, “I would be on the way to Jamaica.”

“You gave up all that sunshine for this,” Conawago said.

They exchanged small, melancholy grins.

Their silence was broken by the loud crack of Woolford’s rifle. An arrow whirled overhead, then another. Two rifles answered the ranger’s shot. Conawago leapt to Woolford’s side, his ax in his hand. The Huron war cries seemed to come from every direction. Duncan grabbed his tomahawk. Then, as suddenly as it started, it ended. His companions settled back as Woolford loaded the last round in his rifle. The forest went deathly quiet.

“I want to attend to McGregor,” Duncan announced after another long silence.

“Attend?” Woolford asked.

“A funeral of some kind. A farewell for an old Scot forced from his Highland home.”

He felt Woolford’s withering gaze through the darkness. He expected a rebuke, a curse, even a bitter laugh. “What would you say to a burial at sea?” the ranger asked instead.

Woolford joined in preparing the body as Conawago watched the moonlit forest. With small vines they tied his feet together, then bound his arms across his chest after setting several flat rocks inside his shirt. Duncan retrieved his pipes from his pack as Woolford dragged the body to the edge of the cliff, then began a slow, sad tune. When he finished, they flanked the body.

“He died on his feet, in battle,” Duncan offered.

“‘He who dies pays all debts,’” Woolford added, ever ready with Shakespeare. Then they tipped the body over the edge. Duncan lingered, gazing into the silvery water, then lifted his pipes again.

“Enough,” the ranger said. “It just makes you a better target.”

Duncan ignored the warning. He played another lament, and another, not aware of when Woolford returned to Conawago’s side. An icy hand gripped his heart as he realized it was for his own funeral, too. By dawn he would be scattered in pieces among the rocks, his scalp hanging from some Huron’s belt.

The thought caused him to falter, to break the rhythm of his song. But then he smelled fresh heather and the scent of wool long steeped in the smoke of peat. He dared not turn for fear of ending the spell, but he knew his grandfather was lingering close by. He remembered that in the old Highland regiments there were those who did not fight but only played the pipes throughout the heat of battle. They were always conspicuous targets, but they never stopped playing. If a piper received a mortal wound, he would be braced against a tree and keep piping, his last breath on earth exhaling through the reeds.

He played as he had never played before, drawing the notes out, pausing only to slip the tomahawk and knife into his belt, at the ready. After several minutes he leapt atop a tall, flat column, silhouetted against the moonlit sky. He would make it a Highland death after all, with a blade in one hand, pipes in the other, and his grandfather at his side.

The first rays of the sun woke him where he had leaned against a rock an hour before dawn. He leapt up with a groan, tomahawk in hand, shamed at not having maintained the vigil.

Conawago and Woolford were watching the forest intently, chewing on strips of dried venison from Conawago’s bag. Woolford’s weary countenance remained fixed on the shadows below as Conawago nodded to Duncan and offered him a piece of the meat.

“They never came,” Duncan said in a confused tone.

“In the forest,” the old Indian said, “there’s always a bigger predator to steal your kill.”

Duncan looked down the slope in alarm. The three bodies that had been visible were gone. The forest was silent. No birds greeted the dawn, no small animals scurried among the trees. He shuddered to think of what possibly could have frightened the fierce Huron warriors.

Duncan bent to stow his pipes in his bag, wondering whether he should ballast it and throw it over the cliff to rest with old McGregor instead of allowing the pipes to be destroyed in the final attack. He chewed the venison, gazing for a moment at the pool below, where the old Scot lay, then took a step toward Woolford and abruptly flung himself against a rock. A warrior stood at the bottom of the hill.

Duncan grabbed the third rifle, aimed, and was about to pull the trigger when Woolford pushed the barrel down. “Aiming a gun, even an empty one, is not what you want to be doing to this gentleman,” the ranger said in a strained voice.

“Haudenosaunee,” Conawago whispered. “An Onondaga,” he added, though there was no relief in his voice.

Duncan would never have guessed the man was an ally. He was dressed in a breechcloth and leggings, his body adorned with red and black paint in a speckled pattern, a war ax in one hand. In his other hand the warrior held a painted stick on which was impaled a small creature, clad in white fur. He searched his memory for what he had learned of the Iroquois tribes. The Onondaga were the center nation, the keeper of the council fires for all the tribes.

Woolford warily stepped away from his cover, his palms open and empty at his side, then uttered a syllable of greeting.

The warrior did not reply.

Conawago stood, also without his weapons, and motioned Duncan to do likewise. Duncan did not miss the hesitation in the stranger’s eyes as he saw Conawago, the brief look of human chagrin before the predator’s face returned.

As the stranger took several steps forward, Conawago called out, speaking quietly in the Iroquois tongue, asking questions. The warrior softened slightly but did not reply except to ask his own question, pointing at Duncan.

Conawago spoke again, gesturing to Woolford and himself. The Iroquois’ face darkened and he turned toward Woolford. He seemed to know Conawago and did not wish to speak with him. There was no need to translate the anger in his voice when he replied.

Conawago sighed and turned to Duncan as the Iroquois stepped to within thirty feet of them. “He wants you to go with him.”

Duncan studied his companions, not comprehending the worry on their faces. “Who is he?”

“From the ones all in the Six Nations fear. The protectors of the sacred one. The singers of death. From the bear spirit himself.”

“Tashgua.” The name escaped Duncan’s lips like a moan. “Why me?”

“Because,” Conawago said in a hesitant tone, “he says you were the one who spoke with the gods last night. His name is Ravencatcher.”

“You know him?”

“He is the son of Tashgua. When he was young, I spent several seasons in his camp. Since last year, he no longer trusts Europeans or those who have lived with them.”

“The dead thing on the stick,” Duncan said. “What does it mean?”

Woolford spoke this time, gesturing to the stick in the Iroquois’s hand.