War Path Read Free

began to exhort him to die bravely. Not for an instant did any of the braves doubt the outcome of this afternoon’s sport. The long hunter’s size only made him that much more of a target for their war clubs. He was like a great oak that they intended to fell.
    â€œCome, Anglais !” Kasak shouted. “My knife is thirsty.” His youthful features were streaked with charcoal and ochre, his head shaved but for a topknot of black hair braided with a raven feather. A necklace of shells and panther claws and pounded silver disks jangled against his hard chest as he paced and taunted.
    Johnny Stark didn’t need any more of an invitation than that. He barreled down the slope like a raging whirl-wind, his long legs devouring the distance, pulse racing, his wild heart nearly bursting through his rib cage. The bold-eyed sun washed the clearing and the creek bank with a honeyed light that filtered through the entwined branches of the sheltering red oaks and glistened on the surface of the meandering waters.
    It was a land of beauty.
    It was a day of rage.
    The warriors lining the gauntlet braced themselves for battle, each man eager to land a blow on the long hunter and send his spirit after those of his fallen comrades, Walch and Fargo, whose lifeless forms had been dragged off to the side to allow Stark an unimpeded entrance to the killing ground.
    Fifteen yards … ten … five … Johnny Stark loosed a wild battle cry and veered to the side and charged the brave closest to him, a startled youth unprepared for this change of course. The young warrior retreated, his legs tangling, keeping him off balance.
    This might be naught but a game to the Abenaki, but Stark had no intention playing by their rules and running the gauntlet. Damn if he’d be a mere target. It was time these red devils had a taste of their own medicine.
    He ducked as the warrior swung at him. The long hunter drove his big shoulder into the brave and sent him reeling. He caught the brave by the wrist and twisted the war club from his grasp and before the other Abenaki could adjust to his tactics, Stark rushed the next lot, broke bones and bashed heads, spun and struck and powered his way along the length of the column.
    Johnny blocked and battered, caught one man by the scruff of his buckskin shirt and spun him about and used him for a battering ram as a pair of warriors descended on him. Stark’s human shield yelped as blows rained down upon him. Johnny forced his way forward, turned and blocked a second round of strikes that left the man in his grasp bloody and dazed.
    The brave sagged forward. With a mighty effort Stark hoisted the smaller man aloft and hurled his limp, compact frame into the faces before him, knocking another pair of warriors to the ground.
    â€œCome on, you cursed bastards, I’m for you!” Stark bellowed. His voice rang out above the chorus of war whoops like a trumpet’s blare. “Here’s for your songs. Is this sport enough for you? Come and take me!”
    And they tried. Again and again the Abenaki braves closed in, only to be beaten back one by one. Oh, Stark was an easy target when it came to size, and they landed blows right enough, but nothing connected with enough force to cripple their intended victim. And he gave as good as he got, even better in most cases as he barrelled forward. And the force of his unexpected attack served him well and propelled him past many of Atoan’s men before they could get in a good lick.
    A gruff-looking warrior with a brooding brow and a deep hatred in his eyes rose up before the long hunter and swung his war club. Stark parried the man’s attack, tore the war club from his grasp and now with a weapon gripped in each of his ham-sized fists, struck the Abenaki across the forearm, in the belly, then as the man doubled forward to retch, struck him between the shoulder blades. The red man dropped like a rock, landing face forward in the