The Indian made the mistake of starting to run. Until that moment, Keen had not completely decided to kill him — he was still largely a stranger to this country, and if Gibbs were truly alive, a guide would prove useful. But he could no more allow an assistant to run from him than he could let this Gibbs continue to live. He pointed his stick and pressed a hidden button near the end of the shaft. The ornate gold head flew off with a tremendous burst of velocity, striking Clouded Face in the back of the head. The man fell forward immediately, his brain pan shattered.
'I think that I have my answer,' said Keen. 'I don't suppose it will be of much use to scalp you then, but I will do so anyway, for the practice.”
Chapter Five
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While Jake and Alexander Hamilton continued south, Claus van Clynne headed in the same general direction. But even though he took every shortcut he knew and urged his horse forward with epic entreaties and a few unvarnished threats, his progress was not half as sharp. Indeed, as the sun dawned, it found him just seven or eight miles south of the spot where Jake had left the dead Englishmen, on a dusty but sturdy road whose dips and turns ran somewhat in harmony with the nearby river.
His lack of speed was partly caused by the fact that he had to stop every so often and search for signs of his friends and their direction; their trail was difficult to trace. But a more substantial portion of his problem was due to his horse's slow gait, which was in direct contrast to its advertised attributes. This was especially annoying as van Clynne had paid dearly for the animal. Under ordinary conditions the Dutchman would not have allowed himself to be so ill-used, nor would he have concluded a deal without several minutes', if not hours', worth of haranguing. He did not wish this taken as a sign of weakness, as he explained to the beast in great detail as they rode. Only the prospect of seeing General Washington and presenting his case made him accept the outrage as the price of doing business.
Van Clynne's tongue was no less prolific because he was traveling alone; indeed, he found it easier to give full range to his feelings, as he was not constantly being interrupted by a companion. After he finished complaining of the high price of transportation, his topic naturally moved to the injustice of Jake's flight southward without him. Occasional jabs at the patrons, who unlike him had managed to keep the vast land holdings he was riding through, led to the subject of injustice in general, whereupon the British bore the brunt of the complaint.
He soon turned to the Esopus Wars, the great conflicts of the seventeenth century during which the Dutch had tamed the native inhabitants near Kingston, only to find themselves tamed in turn by the English invaders. Without following the entire path of van Clynne's logic, let us say that it left him in a sympathetic, nay, charitable frame of mind when he came upon a dusty, Indian fellow traveler sitting astride a horse on the river road not far from Murderer's Creek.
The traveler was Egans, who had restored both his strength and his anger during the several hours that had passed since encountering Jake and Colonel Hamilton. He had also recovered sufficient composure to cloak his business in the guise of a semi-innocent wanderer.
'Good morrow to you,' said van Clynne. 'Which way are you going?'
'To the river,' replied the man.
'Not far to go, then.' Van Clynne stroked his beard a moment and attempted to puzzle out the man's ancestry. Though his skin was white, his wardrobe was just the sort of mixture an Iroquois might consider his Sunday best. Obviously this was a European adopted by natives at some point in his past.
Such men had an unsurpassed ability to slide between the two worlds and were invaluable in business. They were generally easy to enlist, and rarely understood the nuances of European exchange rates. Van Clynne hated to miss an opportunity that might lead to future profits. But his beard scratching brought him back to his true priority: finding Jake and winning an appointment with Washington.
'I wonder if you have seen a man about six foot tall and heading south on horseback,' he asked the stranger. 'An early riser two towns ago thought he caught sight of him hurrying this way. He has blond hair, a fine Continental uniform, and a habit for getting involved in difficult situations, from which I inevitably rescue him.'
'I have seen no one,' claimed Egans.
'He would have been in the company of another man, a Colonel Hamilton. My friend's name is Gibbs — a remarkable individual. I have no doubt posterity will learn a great deal about him, though the edges of his story will have to be rounded for easier consumption. Modesty prevents me from describing my role in his adventures, but it has been considerable. The times I have plucked him from Hades' vestibule are too many to count.'
'You look familiar,' suggested the white Indian. 'What is your name?'
'Claus van Clynne, at your service,' said the Dutchman. 'You, too, seem familiar,' he said. Now that he'd had a chance to think about it, he placed the man's signs and jewelry definitely among the Oneida. There were not many white men who would wear the simple stone and symbolic tree, and fewer still who would have been accorded the honor of the eagle feather tied to his scalp lock. He searched the cubbyholes of his brain and retrieved the name: 'You are Egans, are you not?'
Despite a secret hatred of the Dutch — van Clynne's ancestry was easily deduced from his clothes, to say nothing of his name and accent — Egans's stoic mask dropped for a moment. 'How do you know me?'
'You are quite famous,' said the Dutchman. He slipped off his horse and approached, holding out his hand. 'You were a white child kidnapped by the Mohawk, and then adopted by the Oneida during the troubles thirty years ago. Your white family came from land not far from mine, and your adopted uncle and I have made one or two suitable arrangements regarding furs and corn in the past, before the war. I believe you were baptized Christof-'
'My Seneca name is
'Yes, yes, Big Snowsnake,' said van Clynne, waving his hand as if he knew a thousand men with the Indian name. The Oneida were a touchy lot, and he did not want to provoke even an adopted son. Van Clynne was temporarily weaponless, his customary tomahawks left behind in Albany and his unloaded pistol resting comfortably in his saddlebag. 'You have earned it for your role in the ceremonies.'
'I have earned it for my role as a warrior,' said the Oneida. Indeed, his ceremonial names could not be uttered except at the council fire.
'Just so, sir, just so. Would you prefer I use
in addressing you? I myself am known by many Indian names.' Van Clynne did not add that most of these might be translated loosely as 'Big Tummy and Longer Tongue.'
'Call me what you will.'
'Thank you, sir, thank you. I know your entire life story; I congratulate you on your endurance. What brings you here?'
Egans did not answer his question, but van Clynne was undaunted.
'One of your native uncles and I had quite an arrangement three summers ago,' continued the Dutchman, the memory of the profitable deal warming his heart. 'I delivered certain blankets to the great chief Corn Planter, in exchange for wood carted down the mountain path. An unusual arrangement, but favorable to both sides. With your connections to the Iroquois Federation-strong friends of mine, I might add. I have recently spent much time among the Mohawk, turning them from the English path into more profitable areas. Perhaps we have mutual acquaintances?'
'As it happens, I am to meet my uncle at the river,' suggested Egans. 'Ride with me.'
Van Clynne wondered what a seventy-year-old Indian whose home was far to the northwest would be doing near the river. A belated if sharp sense of danger hastened him to postpone further talk of a business arrangement indefinitely.
