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Authors: Eliot Pattison
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out the boundary in some other way. I do not know why, or for whom."
Duncan walked along the wide trunk. "There is a sequence, based on the weathering of the wood. The Indian signs from long ago. The Roman numerals from months ago. These peculiar runes made a day ago. How many of your other trees had Roman numerals?"
Van Grut did not need to consult his book. "Only the ones with Indian signs."
Duncan handed the journal back to Van Grut, who opened it to a blank page and quickly began drawing.
"What else did he say that day?"
"We made conversation. Spoke of the task at hand. He struck me as being in a hurry."
"What exactly about the task?"
"I showed him my drawings. He was most pleased with them, said he would choose ones to buy for his parlor wall when all was finished. Then he changed my assignment."
"How so?"
"There had been another surveyor named Putnam assigned to this region. He disappeared months ago. I assumed it had something to do with him, that they had found him or his records."
"But what was your original assignment?"
"I was to originally record a detailed description of the last fifty miles of the trail, the final western segment of the boundary line. Two days ago Burke declared that the last tree, by the Monongahela, no longer needed to be visited. In fact he said plainly do not visit it. I took it as an order."
"Burke had the whole wide forest," Duncan said as the Dutchman recorded the marks on the tree, "yet he left his men and came here. As his destination. It must have been to meet someone. He met his killer at a boundary marker just as he had met you the day before at one. Why?"
"A convenient place to meet," interjected McGregor, who had been watching the forest uneasily. "No other tree like it, because of the marks. You can't just say meet ye at yon beechy tree," he added, gesturing to the landscape around them. There were hundreds, thousands of beeches all around them, interspersed with groves of hemlock.
It was, Duncan had to admit, a likely answer. "Who else was in the region two days ago?"
"The Highlanders," McGregor quickly recited. "Three hundred regular infantry. A handful of scouts. Teamsters on the Forbes Road with their wagons."
"Teamsters going where?"
"The western forts have to be regularly replenished. Ligonier, Bedford, Pitt. As many as fifty wagons a week this time of year."
"Coming from where?"
"The Forbes Road goes from Philadelphia to Lancaster, Conestoga, Carlisle, Bedford."
"Who else?"
"That pack of French Indians you reported, looking for fresh stew meat," the sergeant added, referring to the enemy tribes' notorious, though much exaggerated, reputation for cannibalism.
"The tribal politicians," Van Grut added.
"Politicians?"
"The treaty delegations. Representatives of the tribes subordinate to the Iroquois are coming from many directions, with a rendezvous at Ligonier before traveling east. Half chiefs, the Iroquois call them."
"People are looking for peace with these treaties, not murder," Duncan countered.
Van Grut winced at Duncan's seeming naivete. "Do you understand nothing? The dispute over the Virginians' claim to this tract of land is the primary reason for the treaty meeting."
Anger simmered in Major Latchford's eyes as he watched the arrival of still more treaty participants. The flood of civilians clearly rankled him. The teamsters and their mules brought disarray to his orderly bastion, the merchants who traveled with the convoy defied his orders not to engage in trading out of their wagons, the Indian chiefs ornamented with tattoo, fur, and paint ignored his command to remain in the tribal campsite he had designated in the outer grounds, wandering around the fort like curious spectators. But as Duncan watched the officer from the stable, where he and McGregor unsaddled their garrison horses, it was the half-dozen men dressed in simple black that were the real target of the major's smoldering expression. It wasn't merely that the Quakers were
Duncan walked along the wide trunk. "There is a sequence, based on the weathering of the wood. The Indian signs from long ago. The Roman numerals from months ago. These peculiar runes made a day ago. How many of your other trees had Roman numerals?"
Van Grut did not need to consult his book. "Only the ones with Indian signs."
Duncan handed the journal back to Van Grut, who opened it to a blank page and quickly began drawing.
"What else did he say that day?"
"We made conversation. Spoke of the task at hand. He struck me as being in a hurry."
"What exactly about the task?"
"I showed him my drawings. He was most pleased with them, said he would choose ones to buy for his parlor wall when all was finished. Then he changed my assignment."
"How so?"
"There had been another surveyor named Putnam assigned to this region. He disappeared months ago. I assumed it had something to do with him, that they had found him or his records."
"But what was your original assignment?"
"I was to originally record a detailed description of the last fifty miles of the trail, the final western segment of the boundary line. Two days ago Burke declared that the last tree, by the Monongahela, no longer needed to be visited. In fact he said plainly do not visit it. I took it as an order."
"Burke had the whole wide forest," Duncan said as the Dutchman recorded the marks on the tree, "yet he left his men and came here. As his destination. It must have been to meet someone. He met his killer at a boundary marker just as he had met you the day before at one. Why?"
"A convenient place to meet," interjected McGregor, who had been watching the forest uneasily. "No other tree like it, because of the marks. You can't just say meet ye at yon beechy tree," he added, gesturing to the landscape around them. There were hundreds, thousands of beeches all around them, interspersed with groves of hemlock.
It was, Duncan had to admit, a likely answer. "Who else was in the region two days ago?"
"The Highlanders," McGregor quickly recited. "Three hundred regular infantry. A handful of scouts. Teamsters on the Forbes Road with their wagons."
"Teamsters going where?"
"The western forts have to be regularly replenished. Ligonier, Bedford, Pitt. As many as fifty wagons a week this time of year."
"Coming from where?"
"The Forbes Road goes from Philadelphia to Lancaster, Conestoga, Carlisle, Bedford."
"Who else?"
"That pack of French Indians you reported, looking for fresh stew meat," the sergeant added, referring to the enemy tribes' notorious, though much exaggerated, reputation for cannibalism.
"The tribal politicians," Van Grut added.
"Politicians?"
"The treaty delegations. Representatives of the tribes subordinate to the Iroquois are coming from many directions, with a rendezvous at Ligonier before traveling east. Half chiefs, the Iroquois call them."
"People are looking for peace with these treaties, not murder," Duncan countered.
Van Grut winced at Duncan's seeming naivete. "Do you understand nothing? The dispute over the Virginians' claim to this tract of land is the primary reason for the treaty meeting."
Anger simmered in Major Latchford's eyes as he watched the arrival of still more treaty participants. The flood of civilians clearly rankled him. The teamsters and their mules brought disarray to his orderly bastion, the merchants who traveled with the convoy defied his orders not to engage in trading out of their wagons, the Indian chiefs ornamented with tattoo, fur, and paint ignored his command to remain in the tribal campsite he had designated in the outer grounds, wandering around the fort like curious spectators. But as Duncan watched the officer from the stable, where he and McGregor unsaddled their garrison horses, it was the half-dozen men dressed in simple black that were the real target of the major's smoldering expression. It wasn't merely that the Quakers were
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