The Rogue's Return Read Free Page A

signed the letter, folded it, and sealed it. As he placed the three documents on top of the desk,he realized there was something else to take care of—the evidence he’d collected here.
    Not all of it was irreplaceable. Evidence of the sufferings of the Indians—of promises broken, tricks played, and vast lands purchased for a pittance—was all too easy to find. Others, especially the Quakers, were working hard for reparation.
    However, he also had evidence of trickery and even crimes committed by McArthur and his associates. Some documents were signed and witnessed testimony from people now suspiciously dead. Others were copies of cryptic messages that needed to be studied exactly as they were. He’d become sure that references to “coin” and “land” were actually codes for individuals in the administration or the military, but he couldn’t break them.
    If he died, the papers must go safely to England. But who could he trust? Isaiah was unwell. Friends here could have divided allegiances or even be hand in glove with McArthur. Lieutenant Governor Gore, the chief administrator, was an honest man, but even he might be tempted to bury trouble.
    Simon thought of Jane—but it was too weighty a burden to place on an unworldly girl. In the end he unsealed the letter to Isaiah and asked him to take care of things. Even ill, he’d know what to do.
    He then took out his pistols to clean and check them. They weren’t dueling pistols, but they were excellent guns. He hoped to able to use them, but if McArthur had a matched pair, they’d toss for it.
    Then he poured himself a little more brandy and sat before the dying fire, trying to think profound thoughts. It didn’t work, so he went to bed.
Chapter Two
    W hy the devil did people duel at dawn? In greatcoat, hat, and gloves, Simon paced to keep warm. He glanced to where heavy clouds seemed to be weighing down the rising sun, wondering if rain or even sleet would halt the affair entirely. No one could risk damp powder.
    No birds sang. Not even a dog barked. The only sound was the constant muffled moan of the great forest. Simon didn’t usually notice it anymore, but he remembered how it had struck him when first here. White men found it foreboding, but for the Indians it was the music of home.
    He supposed the early hour was to avoid the authorities. Pointless here, where lawyers and military officers were as likely to duel as anyone.
    No wonder McArthur had hit upon this way of getting rid of him. A sprig of the aristocracy shot in a duel over a woman. Unfortunate, but not outrageous. It gave Simon satisfaction to know that whatever happened, a duel over embezzlement would never be seen as trivial.
    And he hoped McArthur was choking on that.
    He looked to where his opponent was also pacing and couldn’t read any expression. The man was brave and bold enough—he’d grant him that. But a villain. Greed had driven him to fraud, theft, and, though Simon couldn’t prove it, murder.
    Delahaye and Norton were meticulously settling the last details. At a distance, Playter, the garrison surgeon, stood hunched and disapproving, his wide-brimmed hat pulled well down, a woolen muffler wrapped twice around his neck. He’d greeted everyone with a curt “Damn folly!” and then taken himself and his ominous dark bag aside.
    The seconds paced off the distance and then marked the firing lines with short lengths of rope. Come on, come on, Simon thought. Let’s get it over, live or die. But the proper procedures were important or someone might hang for murder, even including the seconds.
    Norton and Delahaye went to one side to inspect and load the pistols. In the end they’d agreed to use a set of dueling pistols borrowed from someone else. No advantage to either and theoretically more accurate, but guns were unpredictable. Norton was loading Simon’s. He hoped the man would take sufficient