Back toward his mission.
Jake paused there, listening, but all he could hear was the faint rush of the water slipping through the rocks in the nearby creek.
His anger had delayed his mission several hours, perhaps half a day — precious time that could help save many lives, and perhaps the entire war. He'd have to make up for this by riding through the night, pushing himself still further. Revenge was a luxury that he could not indulge in.
There had been many such deaths in the war; every loss was a tragedy to someone, every death senseless until the final goal of Freedom was achieved. That was the only way of revenge; individual retribution was but pyrrhic pleasure.
Sadly, but with a firm resolve, Jake turned the horse's head up the road and placed his boots against its sides. The animal caught its second wind, and seemed relieved to run in this direction once more.
Chapter Four
The knife blade slit the air in front of the portly Dutchman's chest with a suddenness that caused him to catch his breath and contemplate his future in the afterlife.
The picture was not altogether pleasing, consisting primarily of large flames and a satanic figure who looked suspiciously British. Sobered by the image, with no desire to end his career so suddenly, especially at such a small inn in a tiny hamlet in country barely tamed and shamefully less than consistently Dutch, Claus van Clynne, Esq., decided to take a pacific tack. He put up his hands and puffed his cheeks in a pose he believed both angelic and compliant. After a second he ventured a grin, fluttered his fingers and cleared his throat.
'Well, well, my friend, I never thought it would come to this,' huffed van Clynne. 'A Dutchman pulling a knife on another Dutchman. What poor manners the English have led us to, eh?'
Van Clynne frowned ever so gently at the man holding the knife, Pieter Gerk, then gave a knowing wink to Gerk's partner, William Pohl. Pohl, a timid and eminently reasonable man in van Clynne's opinion, had turned whiter than a flake of fresh snow. Most of the rest of the inn's patrons had moved toward the door, ready to make their escape. The tavern was a good twenty miles north and a trifle west of Fort George, a good distance from the lake itself; disputes here had a nasty way of proving deadly, and not just to the combatants.
'You are a liar and a cheat, Claus van Clynne,' said Gerk, punctuating his statement with a flare of the knife.
'Everyone is entitled to his opinion,' said van Clynne contritely. The squire was, after all, a gracious man who could make allowances in such cases. Gerk had lived in the woods for many years, trading furs with the Indians. Plus he had often had contact with the British, a factor which undoubtedly accounted for his behavior.
Van Clynne turned his attention to Pohl, as if the speechless man had argued for recklessness. 'No, no, I say. Everyone can speak his mind. We are in America, are we not? Now, in respect to the asking price for the furs, if you won't take wampum, then a sum of 5 °Continentals, it seems to me — '
'You will pay in crowns,' demanded Gerk. 'Not worthless congress money.'
'Careful,' said van Clynne in a stage whisper meant to be overheard, 'let us not bandy politics about.'
'I want real money, backed with gold.'
'Guilders then. I suppose I can make the adjustment. Let us see, at six guilders per skin — .'
'I want British crowns.'
The word “British” excited a reaction in van Clynne's face akin to a bee sting. His cheeks pinched hollow, his nose twisted round, both eyes became slits, and the whole package went beet red.
'Now listen to me, Pieter,' blustered van Clynne. 'I will be damned if I am going to start surrendering to these English imbeciles. First we use their money, then they will have us wearing their ridiculous pointed hats. Where will it end? I tell you, when I reach Canada I won't pay with British money, the government be damned. Guilders are a universal currency, and a man should be honored to receive them.'
'Your guilders are often cut,' said the man.
'Cut? Never. I assure you, whole Dutch currency is all I use.'
'You paid for your dinner with English money, you lying dog.'
Van Clynne sat back from the table and sighed outwardly, while smiling to himself. They had reached the point in the negotiations that he especially liked, where all the skins, as it were, were out on the table. All that remained was the downhill slide toward a handshake and rum all around. 'I suppose that if you insist on payment in a debased currency I can arrange it. When will delivery take place?'
'Not so fast,' said Gerk. 'We haven't set a price.'
'That's right, Claus. We haven't agreed on a price yet,' ventured Pohl.
'But we just agreed on the equivalent of six guilders. We started at dollars and translated that, and now I shall calculate it in pounds — I can add, say, one percent inflation if you like, but this late in the season I will have a difficult time selling the pelts myself.'
'We agreed on nothing,' said Gerk, once more brandishing his knife. 'Six guilders is robbery. You are a liar and a thief and a cur, and I am going to kill you where you sit.'
There was only so much van Clynne could take, even from a fellow countryman with a knife and an evil glint in his eye. To be called a liar and a thief and a cur in the same sentence called for immediate action.
After another sip of ale.
Van Clynne took up his tankard slowly, managed a strong if slow pull, and then splashed the remainder of its contents into Gerk's face. This distraction gave him the advantage he needed to upset the table with his prodigious waist. Gerk was taken by surprise and fell to the floor, where the sharp bounce of his head off the hard wooden plank immobilized him.
Pohl, meanwhile, jumped back out of the way. He was not so reasonable as van Clynne believed, however. In fact, as van Clynne leaned over Gerk's prostrate body to retrieve the knife, Pohl drew a pocket pistol from its hiding place at the back of his coat and aimed at van Clynne.
It was a small weapon twenty years old, in mediocre repair. The ball it held was no more than the size of a small bumblebee. Nonetheless, even a bee’s sting, properly aimed, can be fatal, and van Clynne presented a large target of opportunity. An immense target, actually. And difficult to miss. But Pohl missed nonetheless, thanks to the timely intervention of a stranger, who had been sitting nearby with his lunch. He threw Pohl’s arm upward and punched him in the side. The pistol flew into the air, where the stranger promptly snatched it.
“ Nasty little thing,” said the man, looking at the gun. “Shouldn’t go waving these in public; they often misfire.”
The stranger’s quip as well as his exploits will readily identify him to all who have already made his acquaintance — the interloper was none other than Lieutenant Colonel Jake Stewart Gibbs, having stopped here for a bit of lunch after riding all morning and most of the previous night.
The proprietor of the inn appeared in the doorway, wearing the universal look of dread innkeepers all over the world put on when they ask the question: Who will pay for this mess?
Van Clynne went to the keeper and whispered an answer so eloquent that the man promptly escorted his two assailants to the door.
“ I hate to resort to violence,” complained van Clynne to the man who saved his life. “But I will not be called a cur, even by a fellow countryman. It will cost me seventy skins, but — well, had they been any good, undoubtedly he would have sold them much earlier; the season in truth is gone. Frankly, I deal with him only because I’ve a soft spot for his wife and children. It’s a disease, compassion; it robs a businessman of good sense.”
“ No doubt.”
“ Your name, sir?”
“ Jake Gibbs. And yours?”
“ Claus van Clynne,” said the Dutchman with a flourish. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
As Jake bowed his head in answer to van Clynne’s gesture, the Dutchman fixed on Jake’s tricornered hat and
