be having second thoughts. "You stupefy Burke with a blow of your hand ax to the head then drive the nail through his left hand to pin him to the tree before slashing the leg."
The Dutchman knelt and studied the spike. "Why a nail?"
It was a question Duncan had asked himself during the ride from the fort. Nails were precious commodities on the frontier, where structures were typically joined with wooden pegs, not iron. "I don't know," he admitted. "A sharpened peg would have worked, even a heavy locust thorn. Indians don't use nails."
"They steal from our forge all the time," McGregor corrected him, "use 'em to tip their battle axes, or for trade. Good as money back in their towns, I hear."
Duncan acknowledged the truth of the words with a grimace, then eased the nail out with the edge of his tomahawk, reminding himself that there were many across the sea who would use the metal as a talisman to ward off evil. But here the nail had done the work of the devil. Or had Burke been the devil to be fended off?
The head had an unusual crosshatch design. "Does your forge make this design on its nails?"
McGregor studied it and shook his head.
Other pieces of metal had figured in the death, Duncan reminded himself as he dropped the nail into his belt pouch beside the lump of copper from Burke's mouth. The nail. The gear. The copper. None had been required for the killing. The murderer had been acting on some broader stage. But to what purpose? he asked himself. The objects would have had meaning for someone. Which meant they were intended to convey a message from the killer.
Burke had been scouting, his cousin had insisted. Duncan found the explanation hard to believe, but certainly Burke had been alone and had left his camp before dawn. He reconstructed the scene in his mind's eye once more. Burke's britches and stockings had not shown the heavy dew damp of hard travel through the undergrowth, meaning he had arrived from the Forbes Road, no more than thirty minutes ahead of his men. There had been no fresh tracks on the trail or Conawago and Duncan would have noticed them. Burke had turned off the road up the Warriors Path and gone to the massive beech tree that marked the trail, as if seeking it out.
He looked back at the Dutchman. Van Grut's face was clouding with worry.
Duncan had not forgotten the words first spoken by Latchford. Why this particular Virginian, why this particular day? The major had left out another important question. "Why this particular tree?" Duncan asked.
"It is a grand specimen, huge." The Dutchman eyed the road as if suddenly thinking of bolting. McGregor stepped closer to him.
"I've seen larger," Duncan replied as he studied the forest, slowly stepping around the tree, examining now the worn earth and the long shadow that snaked off into the forest. The Warriors Path had been used for centuries by tribesmen traveling to the south and west. He recalled how in their own journey Conawago had led Duncan off it to follow the Forbes Road, which ran near at several points. But none of those other intersections had such a tree. He looked up at the back of it, the north side, and froze.
Over Duncan's head were rows of carved symbols, starting with a line of stick figures and shapes such as Duncan had seen on message belts used by the Iroquois. But here the figures had been carved into the silver bark instead of woven with purple and white beads. The figures of Indians carrying tomahawks were a warning sign. The trail wasn't called the Warriors Path for nothing. Below the signs was another sign, carved not so long before, and not by Indian hands. It was an I and a V, a Roman numeral four. Around the side, to the east, were more signs, five recently carved geometric shapes, squares and right angles, some with small pieces of bark taken out of their centers like dots, not always in the same location on the shape. The first seemed to be a U, squared at the bottom, the next a right angle, tilted so it aimed
The Dutchman knelt and studied the spike. "Why a nail?"
It was a question Duncan had asked himself during the ride from the fort. Nails were precious commodities on the frontier, where structures were typically joined with wooden pegs, not iron. "I don't know," he admitted. "A sharpened peg would have worked, even a heavy locust thorn. Indians don't use nails."
"They steal from our forge all the time," McGregor corrected him, "use 'em to tip their battle axes, or for trade. Good as money back in their towns, I hear."
Duncan acknowledged the truth of the words with a grimace, then eased the nail out with the edge of his tomahawk, reminding himself that there were many across the sea who would use the metal as a talisman to ward off evil. But here the nail had done the work of the devil. Or had Burke been the devil to be fended off?
The head had an unusual crosshatch design. "Does your forge make this design on its nails?"
McGregor studied it and shook his head.
Other pieces of metal had figured in the death, Duncan reminded himself as he dropped the nail into his belt pouch beside the lump of copper from Burke's mouth. The nail. The gear. The copper. None had been required for the killing. The murderer had been acting on some broader stage. But to what purpose? he asked himself. The objects would have had meaning for someone. Which meant they were intended to convey a message from the killer.
Burke had been scouting, his cousin had insisted. Duncan found the explanation hard to believe, but certainly Burke had been alone and had left his camp before dawn. He reconstructed the scene in his mind's eye once more. Burke's britches and stockings had not shown the heavy dew damp of hard travel through the undergrowth, meaning he had arrived from the Forbes Road, no more than thirty minutes ahead of his men. There had been no fresh tracks on the trail or Conawago and Duncan would have noticed them. Burke had turned off the road up the Warriors Path and gone to the massive beech tree that marked the trail, as if seeking it out.
He looked back at the Dutchman. Van Grut's face was clouding with worry.
Duncan had not forgotten the words first spoken by Latchford. Why this particular Virginian, why this particular day? The major had left out another important question. "Why this particular tree?" Duncan asked.
"It is a grand specimen, huge." The Dutchman eyed the road as if suddenly thinking of bolting. McGregor stepped closer to him.
"I've seen larger," Duncan replied as he studied the forest, slowly stepping around the tree, examining now the worn earth and the long shadow that snaked off into the forest. The Warriors Path had been used for centuries by tribesmen traveling to the south and west. He recalled how in their own journey Conawago had led Duncan off it to follow the Forbes Road, which ran near at several points. But none of those other intersections had such a tree. He looked up at the back of it, the north side, and froze.
Over Duncan's head were rows of carved symbols, starting with a line of stick figures and shapes such as Duncan had seen on message belts used by the Iroquois. But here the figures had been carved into the silver bark instead of woven with purple and white beads. The figures of Indians carrying tomahawks were a warning sign. The trail wasn't called the Warriors Path for nothing. Below the signs was another sign, carved not so long before, and not by Indian hands. It was an I and a V, a Roman numeral four. Around the side, to the east, were more signs, five recently carved geometric shapes, squares and right angles, some with small pieces of bark taken out of their centers like dots, not always in the same location on the shape. The first seemed to be a U, squared at the bottom, the next a right angle, tilted so it aimed
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