It seemed he stood there listening forever, the poor child's body growing cold. Finally, the argument ended and the group cleaved in two, Indians and whites, the latter joined by a single native.
Jake, figuring he would trail the whites until they were far enough from the others to strike, began to move silently back toward his horse. The patriot quickened his pace when he heard one of the Indians heading in the same direction, calling to the lookout he had earlier relieved of his duties on a permanent basis.
But when he arrived at his horse with the dead child, the animal wanted no part of it, rearing and whining as soon as he brought the dead body near. Jake had to leave either the child or the horse; the decision was unfortunate but obvious.
He ran a few feet into the woods, back toward the stream. With his boot he rolled a log to the side, then took a long, thick stick and dug quickly into the sandy dirt. Covering the poor child's body, he pulled the log back on top, marking a grave that even in his haste he realized would provide small comfort for the baby's soul. But there was little else he could do; the Indian was now shouting for the slain lookout and running directly toward him in the woods.
Jake slid down behind a tree and surprised the man as he ran past. The branch he had just used as a burial shovel was now changed to a death lance. Jake caught the Indian just below the waist. The man's momentum carried him nearly to Jake's fist, the stick plunging deep into his abdomen. In a quick, unconscious rage, he finished him off, crushing his skull savagely with the butt end of his pistol before the man could utter even a syllable of surprise.
He left the body where it fell and ran to his horse.
It is barely believable but Jake's fury increased with every yard covered. He mounted the horse, intending to circle around and head off the whites if possible. Urging the beast through the thick bramble, over fallen trees and past the shallow creek, he had no care for the noise he made. For a long while, Jake had no care for himself, only for revenge.
But they had too good a lead on him. When he finally reached the main trail again with no trace, his horse slowed practically to a walk; its deep pants warned Jake not to push it faster.
The trail soon took him across a main road. One way was west, quite probably the way the men had gone. The other was northeastward, most likely back toward the river.
Back toward his mission.
Jake paused there, listening, but all he could hear was the faint rush of the water slipping through the rocks in the nearby creek.
His anger had delayed his mission several hours, perhaps half a day — precious time that could help save many lives, and perhaps the entire war. He'd have to make up for this by riding through the night, pushing himself still further. Revenge was a luxury that he could not indulge in.
There had been many such deaths in the war; every loss was a tragedy to someone, every death senseless until the final goal of Freedom was achieved. That was the only way of revenge; individual retribution was but pyrrhic pleasure.
Sadly, but with a firm resolve, Jake turned the horse's head up the road and placed his boots against its sides. The animal caught its second wind, and seemed relieved to run in this direction once more.
Chapter Four
The knife blade slit the air in front of the portly Dutchman's chest with a suddenness that caused him to catch his breath and contemplate his future in the afterlife.
The picture was not altogether pleasing, consisting primarily of large flames and a satanic figure who looked suspiciously British. Sobered by the image, with no desire to end his career so suddenly, especially at such a small inn in a tiny hamlet in country barely tamed and shamefully less than consistently Dutch, Claus van Clynne, Esq., decided to take a pacific tack. He put up his hands and puffed his cheeks in a pose he believed both angelic and compliant. After a second he ventured a grin, fluttered his fingers and cleared his throat.
"Well, well, my friend, I never thought it would come to this," huffed van Clynne. "A Dutchman pulling a knife on another Dutchman. What poor manners the English have led us to, eh?"
Van Clynne frowned ever so gently at the man holding the knife, Pieter Gerk, then gave a knowing wink to Gerk's partner, William Pohl. Pohl, a timid and eminently reasonable man in van Clynne's opinion, had turned whiter than a flake of fresh snow. Most of the rest of the inn's patrons had moved toward the door, ready to make their escape. The tavern was a good twenty miles north and a trifle west of Fort George, a good distance from the lake itself; disputes here had a nasty way of proving deadly, and not just to the combatants.
"You are a liar and a cheat, Claus van Clynne," said Gerk, punctuating his statement with a flare of the knife.
"Everyone is entitled to his opinion," said van Clynne contritely. The squire was, after all, a gracious man who could make allowances in such cases. Gerk had lived in the woods for many years, trading furs with the Indians. Plus he had often had contact with the British, a factor which undoubtedly accounted for his behavior.
Van Clynne turned his attention to Pohl, as if the speechless man had argued for recklessness. "No, no, I say. Everyone can speak his mind. We are in America, are we not? Now, in respect to the asking price for the furs, if you won't take wampum, then a sum of 5 °Continentals, it seems to me — "
"You will pay in crowns," demanded Gerk. "Not worthless congress money."
"Careful," said van Clynne in a stage whisper meant to be overheard, "let us not bandy politics about."
"I want real money, backed with gold."
"Guilders then. I suppose I can make the adjustment. Let us see, at six guilders per skin — ."
"I want British crowns."
The word “British” excited a reaction in van Clynne's face akin to a bee sting. His cheeks pinched hollow, his nose twisted round, both eyes became slits, and the whole package went beet red.
"Now listen to me, Pieter," blustered van Clynne. "I will be damned if I am going to start surrendering to these English imbeciles. First we use their money, then they will have us wearing their ridiculous pointed hats. Where will it end? I tell you, when I reach Canada I won't pay with British money, the government be damned. Guilders are a universal currency, and a man should be honored to receive them."
"Your guilders are often cut," said the man.
"Cut? Never. I assure you, whole Dutch currency is all I use."
"You paid for your dinner with English money, you lying dog."
Van Clynne sat back from the table and sighed outwardly, while smiling to himself. They had reached the point in the negotiations that he especially liked, where all the skins, as it were, were out on the table. All that remained was the downhill slide toward a handshake and rum all around. "I suppose that if you insist on payment in a debased currency I can arrange it. When will delivery take place?"
"Not so fast," said Gerk. "We haven't set a price."
"That's right, Claus. We haven't agreed on a price yet," ventured Pohl.
"But we just agreed on the equivalent of six guilders. We started at dollars and translated that, and now I shall calculate it in pounds — I can add, say, one percent inflation if you like, but this late in the season I will have a difficult time selling the pelts myself."
"We agreed on nothing," said Gerk, once more brandishing his knife. "Six guilders is robbery. You are a liar and a thief and a cur, and I am going to kill you where you sit."