Free War Path by Kerry Newcomb Page A

Adirondacks and keener on finding a warm fire and dry clothes, not to mention ridding himself of the burden he had labored under for the last three days.
    Oh sweet sight of home. Like the promise of paradise to a grieving sinner, the smell of freshly-roasting venison drifted to him on the moistened breeze. The mastiff stirred where it lay draped across the big man’s shoulders and growled, catching the scent.
    Stark knelt and gently slid the animal off his benumbed frame. The long hunter sighed with relief and stood, stretched the stiffness out of his back and arms. Duchess whined as if each breath might be her last. But she gamely raised her head and continued to sniff the air. The animal smelled the wood smoke and the pronounced aroma of sizzling meat roasting over open fires, caught the mouthwatering scent from cast-iron cauldrons of hearty stew hung above the crackling flames, warm slabs of crusty bread to sop up the meat juices in the stoneware bowls. Johnny’s stomach began to growl.
    He pictured the comfortable confines of the Page farmhouse, a sturdy two-story structure of logs and gray stone set on the edge of the settlement. A cheerful fire in the hearth. Another ablaze in the summer kitchen out back. Ephraim and Charity set a fine table. There’d be venison roast and sweet corn and perhaps a chokecherry pie.
    And in the aftermath of an evening meal, Molly would bring out the clay pipes for Ephraim and Johnny. The two men would enjoy their tobacco and debate the necessary presence of the British in the colonies while Molly sat nearby, watching the big man relax, her smile full of mysteries, that disturbing expression on her face, the look of a woman who knew some special secret a man like Stark could not hope to fathom. In his mind’s eye, he imagined, even now, how the tobacco smoke must be drifting through the open shutters as it followed the trail of the roasting venison up the slope to man and beast on the rise overlooking the settlement.
    Suddenly the mastiff abandoned its pitiful pretense and rose up on its legs and barked. Then to Stark’s amazement Duchess seemed to experience a miracle healing as she trotted forward a few feet, glanced back to see what was keeping the big man. The mastiff’s tail began to wag with furious abandonment. The dog started down the hill toward the settlement then paused again, sensing Johnny was holding back.
    â€œBlood and ’ounds , you black-faced Dasher. You’ve gone and played me for a fool,” Stark blurted out. “And here I have carried you all the way from Fort William Henry, more’n seventeen miles what with trying to keep off the road and make my own trail! Saved your life, by heaven and damn near broke my back when you could walk all along!”
    The mastiff barked and shook its massive head, flinging droplets of spittle and milky-white saliva over everything within a few yards of the dog’s jowls. Stark grumbled and wiped the residue from his hands. Again Duchess barked and this time ran up and nearly knocked the big man over when she placed her ham-sized paws on his chest.
    Grumbling, the long hunter checked the animal’s bandaged side while struggling to remain upright. The animal barked, fanning his face with its hot breath, loosed its deep, guttural bark that nearly rendered Stark deaf, then dropped down on all fours and began to pant and pace before him.
    â€œWait up, Duchess. Folks down yonder are apt to be a might skittish after all that’s happened. Best we let them come to us.”
    To that end Stark gathered enough deadwood to make a fire large enough to be seen by the sentries manning the earthen and timber ramparts of Fort Edward. Once the limbs were stacked, Stark added some kindling, then dusted that feathery pile of dried leaves and twigs with char cloth. He struck his knife blade on a length of flint and showered the tinder with sparks. Before long he had a robust blaze lighting the