LITMIR.BIZ

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to the rest of the horses in the party.

      “Hunter?” The other white man stood in his stirrups, as if a few inches of height would improve his view of the woods.

      The tall man’s attention returned to the horses.

      “Pompey, if you can’t control that animal I’ll have you walk.”

      The black man so addressed wheeled his horse in a tight circle, murmuring all the while. His horse stopped fidgeting. The whole party grew still.

      The second shot was farther away, the low thump of a musket.

      “Crogan said we’d find a hunting camp.” The tall man ran his eyes over the rest of his party and touched his heels to his horse’s flanks, moving off at a trot. He already seemed focused on a distant goal, but the other men, black and white, cast their eyes nervously on the woods around them as they moved off on the narrow track. He slowed his horse to a comfortable walk and flowed in next to the other white man.

      “No point in hurry, Doctor. We’ll need Nicholson to talk to them.”

      The doctor seemed oppressed by the shots, but if the tall man noticed it, he gave it no heed.

      “You were speaking of the price of tobacco, Colonel.”

      “So I was, Doctor. Probably dwelling on it more than is healthy. But if the price continues to fall, we’ll all have to find another crop or see our sons debtors.”

      “You’ve planted wheat, sir?” Dr. Craik was always a little diffident with Washington, who was not just his friend but frequently his patron.

      “Indeed. I don’t grow tobacco except to cover expenses, but my tenants are old-fashioned men and need to see a thing done many times before they’ll consider it. I am confident that the soil will support it. And the price is better, whether I sell it in the Indies or grind it myself.”

      “It could make a difference, sure enough.”

      “I doubt it. The Virginia gentry are too used to easy money from tobacco to settle for a hard living on wheat.”

      “Perhaps the price will rise in time, sir.”

      “Oh, it may. But there are bills due now. I’ve had two bills refused in London, on very worthy men, at that. Gentlemen. They write bills to cover the cost of my smith and the like, you know. And those bills were refused. Very alarming.”

      “Ho’se behin’ us, suh.”

      “Thank you, Pompey. Good ears, as usual. That would be Nicholson,” he said. “And I sold Tom. Did I tell you that?”

      The two black men looked at each other, just for a moment, but neither white man remarked it.

      “You said he was a problem.”

      “That he was. Ironical, if you can believe it. And he tried to run. I wouldn’t have it, so I sold him in the Indies. I asked Captain Gibson to get me another, good with animals. We’ll see what he brings.” The tall man stopped his horse and turned, one hand on its rump. A white man on a small horse was trotting up the trail, a rifle across his arm and the cape of his greatcoat turned up around his face against the chill.

      “Are you sober, Nicholson?”

      “Aye, Colonel. Sober as a judge.”

      “Hear the shots?”

      “Aye. That’d be the Shawnee that Crogan was on about.”

      “Let’s go find them, then.”

      Nicholson glared a moment, his narrow eyes stabbing from under heavy brows. Then he shook his head, touched his mount with his heels, and passed to the front.

      

      Whatever his state of sobriety, Nicholson found the Shawnee camp so quickly that the conversation never seemed to rise again, beyond muttered comments about the beauty of the country. The party moved on at a trot until the hard-packed trail opened into a small clearing with several brush wigwams around its periphery. There was a strong smell of butchered meat and rot, overlaid with wood smoke. Two native women were scraping a hide. An old man sat smoking. None showed any sign of alarm when the party rode in. The tall man dismounted and threw his reins to one of his blacks.

      “Ask them if we can stay the night.” He inclined his head civilly to the two women, who laughed and smiled.

      Nicholson didn’t dismount. He nudged his horse forward, raised his right hand toward the old man, and spoke a long, musical sentence. The man drew on his pipe, blew a smoke ring, and nodded. Another shot sounded, quite close. The old man batted at a fly with a horsetail whisk and waved at the tall man, then spoke for a moment.

      Nicholson turned to the tall man. “Says he knows you, Colonel Washington. Says you’re welcome here.”

      “Excellent. Dr. Craik, this is our inn for the night. Please dismount. I’ll have Pompey and Jacka set up a tent.”

      

      Pompey made coffee at one of the small native fires while Dr. Craik admired the skill of the women in cleaning the deer hides, a thoroughness his assistant back in Williamsburg would have done well to emulate.

      “They learn as girls,” said Washington in a level tone.

      “Use makes master, I suppose. Handsome wenches, too.”

      “Oh, as to that…” He looked off into the middle distance and took a cup of coffee from Pompey without glancing at the man. “Beautiful country. Look at this clearing. Trees that big come out of the best soil.”

      “And the savages have little idea what to do with it.”

      “They grow corn well enough. Better than some of my tenants, if the truth were known.”

      “I had no idea.”

      “Not so savage, when it comes to farming. Of course, the women do it. Men mostly hunt and fight.” He sipped his coffee appreciatively. The old man was still smoking, looking at him from time to time but otherwise off in his own thoughts. Washington couldn’t place him, although he had a good memory for men he had known during the wars.

      Between one thought and the next, the clearing began to fill with native men, all younger and most carrying guns. Others carried deer carcasses on poles or dragged them by the legs. Nicholson, his back against a tree and a bottle in his hand, called a greeting, and two men walked over to him. One took a drink from his bottle when it was offered, and they had a short exchange. The old man merely waved the flywhisk several times and the deer began to be sorted out.

      “That fellow is a black!” Dr. Craik was pointing at a tall man in red wool leggings.

      “Yes, Doctor. So he is. Probably started as a captive.” Washington nodded civilly at the warrior so indicated, who inclined his head a dignified fraction in return.

      “We didn’t see blacks among the Shawnee during the wars.”

      Washington’s thoughts were elsewhere, and he didn’t reply.

      

      The deer were being butchered. Hearts and livers were set on bark trenchers, intestines set aside, and haunches separated even as they watched. The older women moved from carcass to carcass providing advice while the younger women did all the work and got coated in the blood and ordure. The whole process seemed to take no time at all, Dr. Craik had never seen the like and watched, fascinated. The other two white men seemed oblivious to the spectacle, the tall one standing with his coffee, the small one sitting by him with his rum. Some of the native men were sitting with Nicholson; the older men had gathered in a knot around the smoker, who was now passing his pipe. None showed any curiosity about the strangers.

      Pompey walked up behind his master and took the empty horn cup.

      “Dat be trouble, suh.” He inclined his head, the slightest gesture toward their tent.

      One of the younger women had a white ruffled shirt on.

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