Read Online War Path by Kerry Newcomb - Free Book Online Page B

maiming. Could the animal have feigned its own death?
    As Stark approached, the beast tried to stand but its effort only increased the flow of blood seeping from the bullet wound. The mastiff sank back on its haunches. But its ears pricked up as Johnny spoke gentle words of encouragement.
    â€œEasy, girl. You’re a fine one, you are. If the heathen hasn’t done you in by now then I’ll warrant it was meant you should live.” He knelt by the animal, allowed the mastiff to catch his scent, then he stroked its neck. He fished in his possibles bag and found a strip of jerked venison and gave it to the animal and continued to talk while he drew his knife to probe the wound. While the mastiff devoured the venison, Stark dislodged the musket ball that had lodged beneath the puckered flesh. The mastiff’s brindle coat was caked with dried blood, but his probing had opened the wound injury once more.
    Stark dug in a pouch Molly had given him as he marched out from Fort Edward and found a poultice wrapped in sailcloth. Molly had concocted the poultice from a mixture of strong black tea and boiled, softened root of balsam fur that she had pounded into a paste. Stark unwrapped the concoction and smeared the paste over the animal’s wounds and bound the worst with a torn piece of cloth and a length of leather string. The poultice would staunch the flow of blood and promote healing.
    The dog watched him work with a curious expression as if the mastiff were weighing whether or not to chomp off Stark’s arm clear up to the elbow. Eventually the animal decided the long hunter meant no harm and lay its head back upon the cool grass.
    â€œWell then, I’ve done all that I can for you,” Stark softly said, sitting back on his heels. What was the animal’s name? There was no telling. But a dog this big deserved no less than a title. “Now then, Duchess, will you stand?” The mastiff whined and protested. For the next few minutes Duchess made quite a show of attempting to stand then falling back. “Rise up. Come on. We dare not tarry in these parts. The Abenaki and their French allies will return. And woe to us both if those Stiff-rumps find us here. Come along.” He stood and started to cross toward the forest’s edge. A glance over his shoulder told him the dog had the will to follow but had simply lost too much blood. Duchess rose up on all fours, managed a couple of steps, then collapsed, whining.
    Stark cursed and returned to the animal’s side. The masitff stared at him with its large, sad eyes. The long hunter set his rifle aside, glanced around for any sign of movement among the trees. The breeze shifted and carried the stench to his nostrils. Stark had to keep from gagging. He listened to the wind, the chatter of the ravens like mad monks dining on the dead, the rattle of tree limbs, like clicking bones, as they rubbed against each other with every errant breeze.
    The long hunter knew what he had to do. There was one survivor of this massacre and by all that was holy, John Stark was going to bring him home. “So what must I do? Carry you?”
    The mastiff placed a paw on the man’s foot. Stark shook his head in disbelief. Was the great beast truly that far gone or playing the long hunter for a dupe? “Bloody hell, Duchess indeed. I reckon rank has its privileges or so I am told.” Johnny muttered and setting his rifle aside, knelt by the dog and gathering the animal by its brindle coat, hoisted Duchess upon his shoulders. “Damn if I will leave you behind,” he grimaced as the animal’s great weight settled on his shoulders. “I swear on my mother’s grave, God rest her soul, but I regret that venison I gave you, for I fear it has only added to your bulk.”
    Duchess barked. The sound set his ears ringing.
    Stark groaned and steadied himself, bearing the weight of the mastiff like another heavy pack. The seventeen miles to Fort