From CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: THE BLAZE

Will’s prediction about the severity of the storm proved true. He no sooner finished speaking when rain fell in sheets and sent the woodsmen scrambling for their makeshift shelter. Immediately after, the wind howled from the dark trees to rock the hut and rip the branches from its fragile sides. When the canvas roof lifted and blew away, Cutler and his pals skedaddled for the nearest hemlock thicket. Hailstones sped them on their mad flight, smacking their skin and fueling their curses.

Morning found the friends huddled around a smoky fire. They sat shivering in wet blankets, rubbing their cramped muscles and staring dull-eyed at the dripping woods. Finally, their trembling became so violent that they shouldered their rifles and stomped off down the steep trail to quell the chills that racked them.

The hikers slopped along in a cold drizzle until the valley widened at the confluence of a larger stream that flowed in from the west. Here, Lightnin’ Jack Hawkins said, “If I remember right, some folks built a fort not far from here. Inside them walls, four families share a nice cabin.”

“Sure hope they got a fire roarin’ up their chimney,” muttered Bob through chattering teeth.

“And a fine breakfast of oatmeal cooking over it,” added Cutler.

“Next, ye’ll be wishin’ for a saucy maid to serve it to ye,” grunted Alexander Macdonald. “I wish I’d never left me bonnie wife to come on such a journey?”

Thoughts of a warm cabin quickened the woodsmen’s pace, and they strode with renewed purpose through the drenched countryside. They hadn’t tramped more than a mile farther downstream when they saw smoke rising beyond an orchard just ahead.

“Waugh! Is that a sight fer sore eyes!” exclaimed Winslow. “Won’t be long afore the steam will be risin’ from these buckskins, an’ I’ll be drinkin’ hot rum as fast as they kin fetch it.”

“Don’t that look like a powerful lot o’ smoke to be pourin’ out a chimney?” asked Lightnin’.

“Ye be right,” groaned Mac. “The whole place is on fire.”

The hunters primed their long rifles with dry powder and then tore off toward the burning stockade. Before they reached it, they saw fresh moccasin tracks that caused them to scramble for cover in the orchard. They had just ducked behind trees when a band of Delaware led by King Beaver emerged from the billowing smoke dragging a woman captive and her two small children. The braves had black masks painted on their faces and howled with such frenzy that Hawkins swore they were drunk or mad.

Peeking out from behind an apple trunk, Jack saw the warriors tie the writhing woman to the fort gate. The Indians were still out of rifle range, so Hawkins listened helplessly as the screaming mother wailed, “No. No. Please no!”

It was then that King Beaver grabbed one of her little boys by the legs and dashed out his brains on the stockade wall. A second warrior threw down her other son and severed his neck with one hack of his razor-sharp hatchet. The death of her children pushed the woman’s shrieks to ear-piercing decibels until King Beaver sunk his ax in her skull to silence her.

As more captives were driven from the flaming cabin, Jack glanced at Will and saw that his face had gone white. Even Mac, who’d witnessed such atrocities at the Battle of Culloden, sat gaping in wide-eyed horror. Bearbite Bob, however, seethed with anger. Cocking the hammer of his long rifle, he leaped suddenly to his feet and bolted toward the carnage. His friends had no choice, then, but to follow him, and they swooped like avenging angels down on the unsuspecting Delaware.

The Indians were so intent on ripping the scalps from the dead woman and her children that they didn’t notice the woodsmen until Jack’s patched ball struck one of the murderers through the temple. King Beaver immediately sprang to his feet to emit a blood-curdling whoop. Spying the charging Winslow through the smoke, the chief flung his hatchet with all his might. The weapon sang off the old trapper’s gunstock, nicking his bicep. Bob yelped in pain and then fired from the hip at the nearest Delaware. The painted fiend was blown sideways as hot lead ripped through him.

King Beaver whooped again, and the burning stockade fairly vomited Indians. Will and Mac fired into the throng, knocking two more braves from their feet. Jack and Bearbite, meanwhile, bashed away with their rifle butts at a swarm of looters whose arms were full of stolen food and muskets. This show of sudden force and ferocity caused the Delaware to flee into the forest, dragging several young girls behind them.

With his face flushed with rage and battle lust, Bearbite reloaded his gun and charged after the retreating war party. He had only run a few yards into the brush when the whine of bullets sent him flying on his face. Peering over a log, he saw a line of braves strung out to cover King Beaver’s retreat. For five full minutes they laid down an unrelenting fire until, yipping like wolves, they cut and ran before Bob could get off a shot.

“It’s a good thing surprise be in our favor, or our scalps would be hangin’ off some brave’s belt,” choked Mac when Winslow returned to the flaming stockade.

“I-I-I don’t think they knew how many of us there were,” stammered the sweating Cutler.

“Too bad we didn’t git here sooner,” bemoaned Winslow. “We wasn’t able to save any lives, an’ them devils took the youngins.”

Nodding solemnly at Bearbite’s words, Jack turned to watch the remains of the fort collapse in heaps of cinders and scorched timber. Sifting through the smoldering ruins, they soon discovered the charred bodies of two men and a woman. Another male corpse, untouched by fire, lay on its back with two tomahawks stuck in its skull. . .