not a damned Indian on this continent who is innocent. He will hang. Your work in the infirmary was ... acceptable. You have proven yourself an educated man. What I need from you now is the evidence collected, in a neat package I can send to Philadelphia to explain our actions. I have no time to both attend to the delegation and write the report that is required. I need a summary of the evidence that will be read and filed away without raising further questions. If you need to visit the murder scene I will provide an escort. We can afford no distractions in the work of the king."
"You mean you can't afford to have a killing disrupt the treaty negotiations.
Latchford's eyes flared. "With the right report we can avoid a lengthy trial. And I will refrain from pressing those uncomfortable questions about you." He lifted the envelope and pointedly tapped its corner on his desk.
"The evidence does not say Conawago is the killer."
"You misunderstand. I require the medical expertise you demonstrated to me. I know you secretly examined the body. A vivid description of the wounds. A seasoning of Latin. Wounds made by a tomahawk, a knife, a club. I will officially connect them to the prisoner in my judicial findings. You say the condemned was trained by Jesuits. Obviously a French sympathizer. No one will begrudge us for dispatching another enemy of the king. You were an eyewitness. Perhaps you are ready to reconsider what you saw. Give me the report I need and you will be back in your forsaken wilderness by nightfall."
"I will not help to hang him."
Latchford made a gesture at the sentry. "Then I will place you in a cell where you can watch the old fool twist on his rope. After which you can rot for a few weeks until I write the report describing how you impersonated a ranger. It will give me time to build you a proper gibbet. Help me hang your Indian," the major spat, "or I will hang you."
UNCAN HAD NEVER truly walked in a forest before until he had walked with Conawago. The old Nipmuc had first taught him how to listen and smell, how to see things he had never seen before, how to move without disturbing the forest floor, but only after subjecting him to long hours of cleansing rituals. The grime of the European world had to be scoured from his skin, washed from his ears and nose, Conawago had insisted. The winter before, they had spent days on a remote mountain building an elaborate sweat lodge, then alternated between the lodge and a pool of icy water as the old Indian murmured to the spirits, staying up for hours each night to watch stars and meteors. Finally Conawago had stood at the edge of a high cliff and shouted up to the sky that this Scot from across the sea was ready for the gods to take notice of him.
The magic of those hours would dwell in Duncan's heart forever, and he embraced it again as he approached the murder scene, trying to clear his mind of the fear he felt for the old Nipmuc who lay, bleeding and broken, in Latchford's jail.
The earth around the scene of the murder had been pressed down with the shoes and moccasins of so many men it was impossible to make sense of the tracks. Duncan paused repeatedly, raising his hand for Van Grut and McGregor to halt as he studied the forest before them, straining to re-create in his mind's eye the scene as he and Conawago had found it. As McGregor took up a position as sentinel, Duncan showed Van Grut where the body had leaned against the big beech tree and pointed out the patch of darkened soil where Winston Burke's lifeblood had drained. The large nail that had pinned his hand was still in the tree, stained with blood its entire length.
"Suppose you are the murderer," Duncan said to Van Grut after pacing along the front of the tree, reconstructing the crime. He paused, considering the intense worry in the Dutchman's face. He had not hesitated when Van Grut had volunteered to join him, welcoming the pair of scientifically trained eyes, but now the Dutchman seemed to
"You mean you can't afford to have a killing disrupt the treaty negotiations.
Latchford's eyes flared. "With the right report we can avoid a lengthy trial. And I will refrain from pressing those uncomfortable questions about you." He lifted the envelope and pointedly tapped its corner on his desk.
"The evidence does not say Conawago is the killer."
"You misunderstand. I require the medical expertise you demonstrated to me. I know you secretly examined the body. A vivid description of the wounds. A seasoning of Latin. Wounds made by a tomahawk, a knife, a club. I will officially connect them to the prisoner in my judicial findings. You say the condemned was trained by Jesuits. Obviously a French sympathizer. No one will begrudge us for dispatching another enemy of the king. You were an eyewitness. Perhaps you are ready to reconsider what you saw. Give me the report I need and you will be back in your forsaken wilderness by nightfall."
"I will not help to hang him."
Latchford made a gesture at the sentry. "Then I will place you in a cell where you can watch the old fool twist on his rope. After which you can rot for a few weeks until I write the report describing how you impersonated a ranger. It will give me time to build you a proper gibbet. Help me hang your Indian," the major spat, "or I will hang you."
UNCAN HAD NEVER truly walked in a forest before until he had walked with Conawago. The old Nipmuc had first taught him how to listen and smell, how to see things he had never seen before, how to move without disturbing the forest floor, but only after subjecting him to long hours of cleansing rituals. The grime of the European world had to be scoured from his skin, washed from his ears and nose, Conawago had insisted. The winter before, they had spent days on a remote mountain building an elaborate sweat lodge, then alternated between the lodge and a pool of icy water as the old Indian murmured to the spirits, staying up for hours each night to watch stars and meteors. Finally Conawago had stood at the edge of a high cliff and shouted up to the sky that this Scot from across the sea was ready for the gods to take notice of him.
The magic of those hours would dwell in Duncan's heart forever, and he embraced it again as he approached the murder scene, trying to clear his mind of the fear he felt for the old Nipmuc who lay, bleeding and broken, in Latchford's jail.
The earth around the scene of the murder had been pressed down with the shoes and moccasins of so many men it was impossible to make sense of the tracks. Duncan paused repeatedly, raising his hand for Van Grut and McGregor to halt as he studied the forest before them, straining to re-create in his mind's eye the scene as he and Conawago had found it. As McGregor took up a position as sentinel, Duncan showed Van Grut where the body had leaned against the big beech tree and pointed out the patch of darkened soil where Winston Burke's lifeblood had drained. The large nail that had pinned his hand was still in the tree, stained with blood its entire length.
"Suppose you are the murderer," Duncan said to Van Grut after pacing along the front of the tree, reconstructing the crime. He paused, considering the intense worry in the Dutchman's face. He had not hesitated when Van Grut had volunteered to join him, welcoming the pair of scientifically trained eyes, but now the Dutchman seemed to
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