Free Drums Along the Mohawk by Walter D. Edmonds Page B

hold of herself and stood still.
    “Mrs. Wolff,” said Weaver, when the company had drawn up behind him, “where’s your husband?”
    “What do you want with John?”
    Weaver said heavily, “We’re militia on duty. Where’s John?”
    “We hain’t done nothing,” she said in her dull voice. “John, he’s out in the lot.”
    “You call him in,” said Weaver.
    She stared at them for a moment more. When her eyes met his, Gil felt vaguely ashamed. But she didn’t say anything as she turned for the log store. She went onto the porch ahead of them and took a small hand bell and swung it slowly.
    They all waited for John Wolff.
    He came in a moment with a dead pipe in his hand. A little charred corn silk sticking over the bowl showed that he must be out of tobacco. He was a year or so older than his wife, but he had a healthier color, and a set stubborn jaw.
    “What do you want?” he demanded. He didn’t try being friendly. Everybody knew which way he stood. He thought they were damned fools.
    “Where’s them two Seneca Indians was around here this morning?”
    “There wasn’t any Senecas around here.”
    Reall’s voice piped up from the back of the line.
    “Yes there was. Me and Gil saw them. Setting in the woodshed.”
    “Oh, them. They wasn’t Senecas. I don’t know who they was.”
    “What were they doing here?”
    “They come in last night. Hungry. I let them bed in the barn and give them something to eat. I never saw them before.”
    “You admit they wasn’t Oneidas or Fort Hunter Mohawks.”
    “I don’t admit anything. I gave them something to eat. What the hell business is it of yours, Weaver?”
    “John.” His wife breathlessly touched his arm. “Don’t get angry, John.”
    “Shut up,” he said. “What right have these Dutch punks got coming onto my land?”
    “We’re on duty. We got to keep track of people without business in these parts.”
    “Why don’t you ask them what their business was, then? I don’t know.”
    “Where are they?”
    “Go and find out. They left here at nine o’clock.”
    Weaver stood uncertainly on the porch. Jeams MacNod went up to him and whispered. Weaver put his finger in his ear.
    “Yes,” he said. “You stay in the store. Both of you. We’ve got to investigate the grounds.”
    Wolff said, “Suit yourself. But you can’t do anything to me.”
    “I’ll just go through your place first,” said Weaver. He called for Gil and MacNod and Kast to come with him. The rest were to surround the store and wait till he came out.
    The inside of the store was a long room with a fireplace at the end and a bed in the corner. There were rough shelves along onewall and storage chests along the other. There were two benches set end to end down the middle of the floor. The benches were made of split basswood logs with hickory legs let into them. Two windows allowed some sunlight to filter through the fly specks.
    There wasn’t anything an Indian could hide behind. Weaver went into the woodshed. He found about a month’s supply of wood stacked sloppily, two pairs of snowshoes, an axe, a wedge, and a maul. “No one out there,” he said, and helped the other three lift aside some axe helves, a keg of lamp oil, and a couple of rum kegs. The oil keg had four inches of oil. The other kegs were empty.
    They stood looking round. It was so still inside the store that they could hear the men outside talking softly through the buzzing of the flies.
    Jeams MacNod tried to lift the lid of a chest.
    “It’s locked,” he said.
    Weaver turned on Wolff.
    “Give us the keys, John.”
    “Like hell I will.”
    “Then we’ll have to take an axe to the chests and bust them in.”
    “All right,” Wolff grinned thinly. “You’ll find it’s a hot job.”
    “Get the axe, Kast. It’s in the woodshed.”
    Kast returned with the axe.
    Wolff said, “You spoil them chests and you’ll hear of it. I’ll make a complaint to Captain Demooth.” He drew his hand over his thin