Free War Path by Kerry Newcomb Page B

hilltop.
    Taking up Old Abraham, Johnny Stark shouldered the weapon and pointed it at the sky. “This will announce us,” he said and fired into the air. The rifle shot echoed down the long hills. While the flames continued to devour the wood behind him, Johnny reloaded and fired again, then discharged his pistol. He unslung his hunting horn and blew several times on the brass instrument, sounding out his familiar call.
    Minutes later the moonlit settlement began to teem with activity. First came the answering gunfire, tongues of flame lapped the night air as men hurried from their houses and cabins and fired into the air. He could hear the excited voices, a chorus of happy shouts, as if a celebration had just begun. Then joining in with the Colonials, a series of drumrolls floated over the walls of the fort to mingle with the blaring discordant “halloos” from other hunting horns as the entire settlement joined in to welcome one who was feared lost after the rest of the relief column straggled in.
    Johnny Stark had come home!

9
    J ohnny Stark made his way through the ranks of his countrymen and climbed atop the boxes stacked in the center of the Council House, a longhouse erected in the center of the settlement where the colonists were wont to gather, to air their grievances and settle their disputes before one and all. Lanterns were hung from every post supporting the timber and mud-chinked roof overhead, and the glare from all those sallow lights painted the log walls with dancing shadows that belied the serious nature of this gathering.
    Molly was there escorted by her kindly uncle, Ephraim Page, who had insisted Charity remain at home with the other womenfolk, until after Stark gave his report. Ephraim, with his flowing white beard, unruly white hair and somber black frock coat more closely resembled some biblical prophet or a fire-and-brimstone Bible-thumper than a gunsmith. However much he thought this was a man’s affair, he knew his sage advice would be wasted on his headstrong niece. Much like her Irish mother, Molly Page had a mind of her own and she was going to be with Johnny Stark and did not care to listen to any word to the contrary.
    Stark glanced in her direction. Whatever emotion the sight of her instilled remained hidden beneath his stony expression. His gaze swept across a row of familiar faces. There was Sam Oday, black scarf concealing his mangled scalp, blunderbuss in the crook of his arm. Moses Shoemaker, wrinkled and wise, a bandage around one bony calf where a musket ball had carved through his leathery muscle, and Locksley Barlow, leaning on his Pennsylvania long rifle, his youthful eyes grown serious now, since the events of the last few days. Barlow had helped carry Shoemaker throughout the retreat and was not going to let the wounded old jehu forget it, not for a while anyway. Robert Rogers worked his way to the fore and held up his hand to bring some order to the congregation.
    â€œQuiet down now, good lads,” he said, then noticing Molly (they weren’t all lads here) attempted to correct himself, then decided the hell with it, he was already down the trail and beyond turning back. Anyway, in her hunting shirt and breeches she could almost pass for one of the young men if she tucked her hair back and stood so as not to emphasize her rounded figure. “Quiet, and we will hear what Johnny has to say.”
    â€œBetter wait for the column I seen marching down from the fort,” Cassius Fargo called out from the doorway. “I reckon Ransom has sent one of his aides to give a listen.” The dour-looking frontiersman glanced sharply in Stark’s direction where the big man commanded the attention of his comrades at arms by the sheer force of his character and towering build. Cassius frowned, his brow knotted like a length of coarse rope someone had glued to his forehead. Fargo abstained from further comment, but cleared the doorway as the tramp, tramp,