Free Stamping Ground by Loren D. Estleman Page A

had done most of the work, gathering the stuff and throwing it into the middle of the sitting room floor while Jac supervised. All of this was done with a minimum of noise and with one ear cocked toward the door, where the squeaking and groaning of the porch boards beneath our guard’s feet told us whether he was listening at the keyhole or just pacing back and forth. When the pile was four feet high Jac signaled us to stop, picked up the coal-oil lamp from the table where we had eaten, extinguished it, and saturated the linens and woolens on the floor with its contents. Then he struck a match on the edge of the table.
    â€œYou sure this will work?” whispered the marshal. “I always wanted a funeral with an open coffin.”
    â€œI offer no guarantees.” The métis watched the sulphurflare and waited for it to burn down to the wood. “This is not the sort of thing one can practice. Since there is no other way out of this fort, however, we must convince Major Harms that it is in his own best interests to release us.”
    â€œGhost Shirt made it out without all this.”
    â€œGhost Shirt lost three men doing it and killed that many soldiers. I assume that you wish to spill as little of your own countrymen’s blood as possible.”
    â€œMeanwhile,” I pointed out impatiently, “the smell of that coal oil is drifting toward our friend outside.”
    â€œQuite right.” Pere Jac squatted and touched the match to the hem of a lace curtain.
    The flame caught, burned slowly at first, then spread to engulf the pile with a hollow, sucking sound. A pillar of oily black smoke rose to the ceiling and sent greasy curls unwinding into all the corners of the room. The choking stench of burning rags followed. We got down on the floor where the air was sweeter and waited for results.
    We didn’t wait long. There was shouting outside the door and pounding, and then a key rattled in the lock and the trooper on guard, a grizzled old campaigner with leathern features and a great swelling belly solid as a sack of lead shot, burst into the room, coughing and digging his fists into his eyes as a wall of smoke hit him square in the face. He stumbled about, clawing at the air and calling for assistance between fits of hacking. In another moment the room was full of troopers in varying states of undress, but all of them armed. Finally buckets of water were produced and emptied in the general direction of the flames, which hissed and spat and sent up thicker and more fragrant columns of smoke than before. The firefighters’ curses were colorful and, as a rule, had to do with someone’s ancestry. A muck of water and soot darkened the muted colors in the Brodericks’ carpet, which was the kind you bought out East and had shipped back here.
    Quincy Harms came striding in just as the troopers were slapping out the last of the flames with coats and army blankets. He was in his shirtsleeves, and the scrubbedcleanliness of his face and hands in contrast to the grimy cross-hatching on his neck and wrists indicated that he had been shaving, or more likely trimming his beard, when the alarm had sounded. His suspenders were twisted from having been hastily drawn up over his shoulders. He circled the room, taking in the smoking, charred debris on the floor, the soot on the walls and ceiling, the objects overturned and smashed in the commotion that had followed the troopers’ arrival. Our guard, his face streaked black and glistening with sweat, saluted and began to tell his side of the story, but the major cut him off with a slashing motion.
    By this time the air had cleared and the three of us were sitting around the table with innocent expressions pasted on our faces. Harms kicked aside a smoldering scrap of tunic and stalked up to us, fists clenched at his sides. He was livid.
    â€œSomething wrong, Major?” I was seated nearest him.
    His left fist caught me on the corner of the