Duncan shouted a warning but his words were lost in the wind. He ran headlong down the slope, cursing himself for leaving behind his rifle. With rising horror he realized he would never make it in time. He was still fifty feet away when the intruder rose, arm outstretched. Duncan shouted again, to no avail. Then a bundle of fury launched itself onto the stranger’s back.
Analie hooked one arm around the man’s neck, throwing him off-balance, then grabbed his wrist and bit it as he tried to swing his ax at her. With a roar of anger he broke free of her grip only to have the ax wrenched from his hand by Tanaqua. The Mohawk slammed the side of the weapon into the man’s head, catching Analie as he crumpled to the ground. Duncan, reaching them, grabbed the stranger’s legs and twisted them so he lay on his back. It was Bricklin’s Irish bully, Teague.
Duncan and Tanaqua bound the Irishman to a tree as Rush dumped out the pack Teague had dropped at the side of the camp. There was only a drinking gourd, a bundle of jerked meat, and a bulging flour sack. Rush looked into the sack, and instantly dropped it, staggering backward before turning to retch up his breakfast. Duncan tried to reach the sack before his Mohawk friend but Tanaqua was faster. Duncan realized he shared Duncan’s own suspicion about its contents, for he stepped to a flat rock and gently emptied the contents onto it.
Analie gasped and hid behind Duncan. Rush looked up and then retched again.
There were ten matted bundles of hair. Ten human scalps. Three were of the short scalplock hair favored by Mohawk warriors, the rest were of long strands, some with red and blue beads woven into their braids. They were likely from native women, or even children.
The muscles of Tanaqua’s neck flexed as he glanced back and forth from the scalps to Teague. His powerful fingers opened and squeezed shut as if imagining themselves around Teague’s neck. There was death in the air, and death on the face of Tanaqua. Duncan stepped between him and the Irishman, knowing that if Tanaqua could not rein in his rage there would be no way to keep Teague alive.
The Mohawk’s gaze lingered for a moment on Duncan, then he looked back down at the pouch on the log. It was not totally empty. He shook it, and one last macabre bundle fell out. It was a Mohawk scalplock, the front hairs longer and decorated with ochre. It was wrapped in a wampum belt, one of the wide ribbons of beads used by the Iroquois for messages.
Tanaqua seemed to sag. He lowered himself unsteadily onto the log, then reverently laid the scalp beside him and spread the belt between his hands, staring at it with a stricken expression.
The silence was shattering.
It was Duncan who finally moved. Clenching his jaw, he carefully lifted the other scalps one by one and returned them to the sack before breaking the silence. “You knew him.”
“I told you there were only four of us left,” Tanaqua said in a hollow voice. “The four guardians of the masks. Now there are only three.” He glanced down at the belt, and quickly folded it, putting it into one of his waistcoat pockets. It was, Duncan knew, one of the treasures of the False Face societies. His quick glance had shown it to be adorned with the sun at one end, the moon at the other, a huge bear in the center, and several angular spirit dancers on either side. It would have been handed down from guardian to guardian for generations.
“The cave where Kaskay kept vigil is on a high ledge on the Kittatinny mountain with a high open ledge at its mouth. What you would call a sentinel place, where the gods kept watch over the southern border of the Iroquois peoples. When he left, Kaskay said they had to know we still cared. He would show them by going up there and fasting for ten days, taking nothing but water, singing the old chants all the time. Kaskay would not have taken weapons to the shrine.” He fixed Duncan with an anguished gaze. “The murder of a guardian would have infuriated Blooddancer. It could be why he left us.” He studied the unconscious Teague with a cold eye, his hand on his war ax.
“Leave the Irishman with me, my friend,” Duncan said. “There is no honor in killing him like this.”
After a long moment Tanaqua gave a reluctant nod, then murmured a low prayer as he raised the scalp of his fellow shadowkeeper to the sky. When he had returned it to the sack he rose and nodded at Duncan. “You must go to the Virginia lands. I must follow my lost god. He has shown us how angry he is by his trail of blood. I will have to go to the cave and try to explain. The Trickster might still listen, if he can sense that I speak from the lair of the spirit bear.”
The Mohawk extended his forearm. His eyes were distant and forlorn. Duncan had the sense that something had broken inside the warrior, and he knew not how to heal it. Tanaqua made a gesture toward the high ridge that overlooked the river. “First I will take these memories of my brothers and sisters to a high place over the river that takes the Iroquois home, and say the words that must be said.”
Duncan reluctantly clamped his own arm to Tanaqua’s and nodded his farewell.
Once more the Mohawk gazed with loathing at Teague, then raised his pack and began singing one of the ritual laments of his people as he set out for the ridge.
Duncan waited until Tanaqua disappeared, then turned to see Analie at the side of the unconscious Teague.
“Analie!” he cried, and leapt to pull the girl away. Her knife was out, and dripped blood. She had been working on Teague the way Iroquois women sometimes worked on enemy warrior captives, slicing a row of bloody little X marks across his cheeks from ear to ear.
Teague’s eyes fluttered open. He tasted the blood dripping across his mouth and saw the bloody knife. “Bitch!” he shouted, then spat out blood. “When I lift your hair, girl, I’ll boil it in a pot of walnut juice to dye it black. No one will know the difference. You’re just a little white heathen bitch anyway. Worth five pounds from the governor.”
Duncan struggled mightily to restrain his own temper, and lost. The Irishman had meant to kill Tanaqua, and no doubt would make good on his threat to Analie if he had the chance. Teague had been carrying scalps as they had journeyed down the river. He kicked Teague so hard in the belly he lost consciousness again, then Duncan opened Rush’s pack to remove the leather roll of instruments. He extracted the largest scalpel and with shaking hands stepped to the Irishman.
“McCallum! You can’t!” Rush protested from the tree where he had retreated, but he saw the fire in Duncan’s eyes and had the sense not to approach.
Duncan seized a handful of Teague’s greasy black hair. The scalpel was razor-sharp and the incision, running several inches along his hairline, took but an instant.
When Rush darted forward, Duncan swung around at him, extending the bloody scalpel. The young doctor held out his hands as if in surrender.
The blood that now steadily flowed down Teague’s face revived him. When he looked up at Duncan and saw the scalpel his eyes went wide with fear.
“I should take your topknot and feed it to the crows,” Duncan growled. “I started the job. Whether I finish it depends on what you next say.”
“Boy!” Teague yelled in desperation at Rush. “He’s gone mad! White men don’t do this to white men!”
Rush looked down at the ground. Analie took a step closer, raising her little skinning knife again.
“Surely Duncan,” Rush tried in a trembling voice, “we can’t have him thinking we would-”
“Most of them scalps I just bought, like a merchant,” Teague explained. “Buy one for a few shillings and sell it for five pounds to that agent in Lancaster. There’s a dry goods sutler there with a commission from the governor.”
Rush advanced a step.
“Get back Rush!” Duncan shouted. His fury burned white hot. He could not remember ever feeling such hatred. For Teague, the scalps were just coins in his purse. The victims had probably been taken in ambush. “Were you at Edentown?” he demanded.