Duncan watched from the shadows of the stable as a tall, poised Quaker, flanked by a lean blond man of Duncan's own age and a square-shouldered figure of perhaps forty, spoke to the provost sentries at the guardhouse. Duncan, fighting a near-paralyzing fear over the fate of Conawago, watched from the shadows as the tall Quaker pointed toward the barred door, shook a finger at a sentry who seemed to argue with him, then dispatched his companions toward the Virginians' camp before disappearing into the headquarters building.
Sitting with his back against the stable wall, Duncan had succumbed to his fatigue when he was suddenly seized by the shoulder and pulled to his feet.
"The major commands your presence," barked one of the soldiers Duncan had seen on duty at the headquarters. He proceeded to shove Duncan, groggy from sleep, across the yard.
Inside, the smoke had barely cleared from what had obviously been an explosive argument. The Quaker leader sat ramrod straight in the chair opposite Latchford's desk, fixing the major with a sober stare. Latchford was eyeing his dueling pistol again.
"I was explaining to Magistrate Brindle that all is in hand," he declared to Duncan with a meaningful stare. His hand rested on the brown envelope, now closed with a seal. The letter to Philadelphia that would condemn Duncan. "Your report must be nearly complete."
Duncan gazed from one man to the other. The Quaker looked straight ahead, regarding the major with an expression of sober piety on his narrow face. His hand was on a small black book perched on his knee. In the shadows past Brindle was the tall blond man Duncan had seen outside, watching Latchford warily.
"Captain Burke was killed with forethought," Duncan ventured. "As a result of blows with an ax or heavy tomahawk, then his own dagger, which caused fatal hemorrhaging within minutes of the attack."
Latchford offered a short, uncertain nod.
"There seemed to be a ritual involved with the killings," Duncan added.
"A ritual?" Brindle asked.
"There was a clockwork gear driven into his heart."
The color drained from the magistrate's face.
"It's what the savages do, uncle," put in the blond man in the shadows. "A dead man can be used to send a message."
"A message, Samuel?" In afterthought, Brindle gestured to the tall man. "My nephew Samuel Felton."
Felton stepped closer to the magistrate. "To the other side," he continued.
"A gear in the heart seems more a message for this world," the magistrate observed in a haunted tone.
"A savage who would do such a thing has such hatred for Europeans he wanted to express it for this world and the next," suggested Felton.
Latchford frowned. "What the old Indian intended is of no concern. He will hang all the same."
As Brindle turned toward him, Duncan had the sense of being under the eye of one of the stern priests of his childhood. "Did this Virginian succumb in the territory of Pennsylvania?"
"He died along the Forbes Road, sir. I am given to believe that the Pennsylvania province has agreed to take it over from the army." Duncan glanced at the book again. It was not a Bible. It was a book of laws.
Brindle's smile was thin and lightless. "And did this Indian in the guardhouse kill Captain Burke, Mr.-?"
Duncan looked at the floor. "McCallum. If I am to be a witness, I should not be answering to the judges prior to their proceeding."
"Judges?" Latchford's eyes flared.
Brindle spoke politely but firmly. "As Mr. McCallum reminds us, Pennsylvania has equal jurisdiction in this matter."
The major seemed about to launch himself at Duncan when suddenly the lieutenant appeared, rushing to hand Latchford a note. Duncan inched around the corner of the table, straining to see the paper. It seemed to be a list of names. Latchford settled back with a victorious grin and nodded toward the sentry at his door. "Then by all means let us not delay our justice. Your services, McCallum," he added, "shall not be required."
Moments after Duncan was roughly escorted outside, officers began streaming out of the building, barking orders for soldiers to gather benches from the barracks, which were arranged in two rows before a large table under one of the largest oaks. The trial was to take place outside, with not one but two chairs at the presiding table.
Duncan found himself moving toward the guardhouse, his heart in his throat, his gut churning with fear and anger. For a desperate moment as he watched the heavy door open he found himself studying the horse pistol in the belt of the provost officer, envisioning in his mind how he might rush the man, seize the pistol, and free his friend.
Then suddenly a hand was on his arm, squeezing so tightly it hurt. Sergeant McGregor pulled him away, back into the shadows, as the procession emerged. Conawago paused, blinking, in the sunlight, then stumbled in his chains, falling to the ground but shrugging off the help of the soldiers as he struggled to his feet.
In a daze, Duncan allowed himself to be led to a bench at the rear of the makeshift courtroom. His friend was pushed into a chair flanked by two provost guards with bayonets fixed to their muskets. For the first time Duncan spotted the noose strung from a heavy limb of the big oak.
"He's innocent!" Duncan exclaimed. A sob escaped him.
"It's the wilderness, lad," McGregor said, as if it explained much. He tightened his grip on his charge's arm.
But Duncan no longer was in the wilderness. He was back in Scotland, and English brutes were killing his brother and sisters in the name of the king. He would stop it! He had to stop it! He wrenched his arm free and leapt up, but the burly Scottish sergeant grabbed him again, more forcefully, and pinned him against a tree with an arm across his chest. At that moment Latchford pounded the table with the butt of his pistol, commencing the proceedings.
The two judges moved with sober efficiency, quickly working through the first bench, packed with witnesses from the Virginia militia company. Latchford led the questioning.
"'Twas as cruel a heartbreak as a man could bear," declared Duncan's enemy, the bearded sergeant, the first to sit on the witness stool, "our poor captain's lifeblood spilling out as the damned heathen waited with his knife over him, ready for one more cut at his tormented body."
"A lie!" Duncan shouted out as McGregor tried to clamp a hand over his mouth. "What kind of justice is this, that-" but his words were lost as the shaft of a halberd slammed into his gut. He doubled over in pain, gasping for air.
When he recovered, he was propped against the tree, McGregor squatting at his side. "That was a foul blow," Duncan groused, rubbing his belly.
"'Tweren't me, 'twas the provost who came up behind. That Philadelphia man chided him for striking you, declaring you too would be given your fair time in the witness chair."
Duncan leaned forward and saw another witness now on the stool. Half the witness bench had been cleared. Brindle was taking notes, sometimes pausing to confer with his nephew Felton and his shorter, stockier companion.
"Five witnesses so far," McGregor explained as he recognized the query in Duncan's eyes, "All with the same tale, though some vow that they saw your friend fixing to scalp their officer." Latchford's resistance to Brindle had faded when he saw the list of names ready to condemn his prisoner.
Conawago himself appeared not to be listening to the proceedings. He was studying a red and black bird perched on a limb above him, a tanager, which seemed to be intently watching the men below. McGregor reached into his belt and extracted a scrap of paper. "Passed to the guard for you," he whispered as Duncan recognized the elegant handwriting of his friend.