Original Death by Eliot Pattison Page B

boy came back,” the Mohawk declared, now in a hushed, hurried voice. “I saw him in the dusk. He climbed into the window at the back of the schoolhouse, then came out a few heartbeats later and darted into that house where Conawago was taken. He reappeared with a sack and rolled blanket before heading south.” Sagatchie looked into the shadows for a long moment then slowly nodded. “I will leave your rifle and pack in the shadows behind the barn,” he declared. “Be far from here by dawn.”
    â€œNot the barn,” Duncan said. “The schoolhouse. At that window where you saw the boy. And I’ll need your lantern there.”
    Sagatchie did not argue, only leaned behind Duncan for a moment, then rose, grabbed the lantern, and faded into the shadows. As he disappeared Duncan discovered his hands were free and his own knife was lying on his lap.
    Minutes later Duncan inched around the corner of the schoolhouse. His pack and rifle leaned against the woodshed built along the back wall, the dim lantern on the ground beside them. He stooped to check the contents of his pack then quickly climbed into the window. He entered not the classroom but a small sparse chamber that served as quarters for the schoolmaster. A narrow cot with a straw pallet hugged the back wall. From a row of pegs hung a threadbare shirt, a bundle of turkey feathers, and a tattered green waistcoat. The boy could have just run after the wagon he had seen heading south but instead he had come back to the schoolhouse. He had been in the room for only a few heartbeats. He had known what he wanted, and where to find it.
    A table was tucked into the corner at the far end of the chamber, on which lay books, slates, writing leads, two candles in pewter holders, and a wooden candle box. The sliding lid of the candle box was open, and it held not candles but letters, several of which were on the table beside it. Duncan slid up the baffle on the lantern and leaned over the table. They were all addressed to Henry Bedford, all in the same cramped hand, with the return address simply Eldridge, Forsey’s, Albany .
    Duncan stuffed one of the letters into his shirt. He hesitated as he turned toward the window, cautiously pushing the latch of the door into the classroom. With an aching heart he walked along the crude desks. Two of the older students had died from a hammer to their heads, and Ishmael had escaped, but the others had been taken. The raiders, who existed to disrupt the British war effort, had killed Christian Indians, taken a wagon, and kidnapped five children and their teacher.
    He paused at the papers pinned to the wall, drawings of animals, trees, and people in different hands, each with a verse and with a student’s name at the bottom. Lizzie Oaks was there, and Barnabas Wolf, the teenagers who had been buried behind the church. With a sudden impulse he pulled away a paper from each of the other students and pushed them inside his shirt beside the letter.
    As he began to climb out a hand clenched his extended leg. His heart lurched, then he recognized the Mohawk ranger.
    â€œYou will need a writing stick,” Sagatchie whispered.
    Duncan did not question the Mohawk, just darted to the table and retrieved one of the sticks of lead before climbing out.
    â€œI need you to help remember them.”
    Duncan still did not understand, but he knew he owed much to the quiet Mohawk and so followed him behind the church.
    He glanced at the stars as they reached the burial yard. It was one or two hours past midnight. For any hope of evading Hawley’s rangers, he needed a several-hour head start. He should be away, running in the woods. But then he saw Sagatchie standing with the lantern at the first cross.
    â€œ Akenhakeh ,” Sagatchie declared. Summer . Duncan looked up in surprise, returning the Mohawk’s solemn gaze for a moment before kneeling in front of the cross to write under the English name of Rebecca