War Path by Kerry Newcomb Read Free Book Online Page A

long hunter, determined to confront Stark and charge him with cowardice and drag him back to Fort Edwards to answer for his misdeeds.
    Drawing up a few yards from the big colonial, Ransom gulped air, then began to harangue Stark for his conduct and that of the Provincials. He had barely begun when to his astonishment Stark dropped the hunter’s horn and let it dangle at his side while in the same motion he brought up Old Abraham and leveled the long rifle directly at the major. Ransom balked, his mouth dropped open, he stammered a protest that Johnny Stark cut short as he squeezed the trigger.
    Major Michael Ransom dove forward as the Pennsylvania long rifle flashed fire in the pan then loosed an authoritative thunderclap, spewing powder smoke and flame. The lunatic had tried to kill him was Ransom’s first thought, as he dove face down in the dirt. Then he heard a cry behind him and rolled over on his shoulder in time to see a French lieutenant, brandishing a pistol in either hand, stagger backwards, his aim hopelessly interrupted by the fifty-caliber rifle ball that shattered his sternum and lodged in his heart. The lieutenant had hoped to claim the English officer for his own glory but found that glory had its price, one that fate and Johnny Stark forced him to pay.
    The lieutenant emptied his pistols into the air and toppled backwards. Ransom staggered to his feet, his ears still ringing from the proximity of the rifle and the flame that had nearly singed his eyebrows. Stark grabbed him by the sleeve of his coat and dragged him toward the woods as another hundred guns echoed Old Abraham.
    The Colonial Militia had regrouped and followed Robert Rogers to the sound of the hunting horn. The men had quickly formed a skirmish line in the underbrush where they had prepared to receive the French and Indians.
    Though outnumbered by the force sweeping toward them, the first volley from the Colonial Militia blunted the attack, for practically every rifleman found his mark. The Abenaki warriors and French marines recoiled from the terrible effect of those rifles which shot truer than any Brown Bess musket or Le Carabine. They fell back upon themselves as another volley rang out.
    Stark hauled the officer into the shade of the white oaks and flung him behind a stout trunk while he reloaded.
    â€œThe Regiment …” Ransom managed to say in a voice that was almost shrill with desperation. His first command and it had to be this debacle, one that was none of his doing. But he would get the blame. Not Farley. History would no doubt accord him heroic stature and in the same entry describe the battle as Ransom’s rout. The very notion galled him to no end. But maybe he could yet salvage his career and good name. “I must … the Regiment.…”
    â€œWent that way,” Stark replied with a nod in the direction of the road down which the 1st had fled. The stragglers were still visible. Indeed the entire force, all that remained, had slowed at the sound of the Colonial rifles. But they continued their trek southward down the road that must eventually lead to Fort Edward.
    â€œWe can still salvage this day,” Ransom blurted out.
    â€œMajor Ransom, this day was lost the moment Colonel Farley refused to let me scout that meadow. I reckon Atoan himself’s out there and I can guaran-damn-tee you he’ll rally his men and have them after us in no time.”
    Rogers, Moses Shoemaker, Locksley Barlow, Sam Oday and half a dozen others emerged from the thicket to join Stark and the English officer by the oak tree. The Colonials were busily reloading their rifles and pistols as they approached. And then all around them, Ransom sensed movement as the militia withdrew, following the regiment through the trees, each man choosing the course best suited to him.
    â€œThe heathen has regrouped. But he ain’t quite as anxious as before,” Rogers grinned. “Fool thing, Big Timber, standing out