They killed for hours, stabbing and shooting things in the dark, until, under a graying sky, he came face-to-face with an apparition, a tall warrior wearing a Kevlar helmet savagely festooned with hundreds of scalps, bear claws, cougar claws and eagle feathers. The man was naked except for moccasins, a breechcloth and the cape of scalps that covered his body to the navel. His ribs on the left side were laid open to the bone; a hand-sized flap of skin hanging to his waist. He wielded Jay’s old two-handed claymore, and was just wiping bile and blood from it when Jay made eye contact with him. To the right were sounds of the Spanish retreat; horses snorting, armor clanging, orders barked in Spanish.

The face before him reminded him of an old picture of Yul Brynner that Miss Ann kept on her mantle, and he knew he was looking at one of his grandsons. “Well boy, you use dat blade like a Whiteman. Can ya speak like one?”

The man looked at him darkly. “Better than you grandfather-come-late-to-battle.” He then extended his hand. “I am Jay-Bear, grandson of Fierce Woman and DeathSong. How have you come to us? The women of the Circle of Hope have refused to summon you. I am near the last of our kind. Only two cousins and a brother remain, all wounded.”

He just had to hug him. Then he kissed him on the cheek and took off the barbaric helmet as Bruco illuminated their union with a torch. “Three-Rivers is back—‘e brought me. Lez ged our people sorted ‘fore daybreak. I wanna a close pursuit.”

All told he had more wounded then fit among his men. The field was horribly exposed at dawn as the snowfall dwindled to flurries. About 300 half-covered bodies littered the field. Warriors were still stalking among the dead and dying slitting throats and taking scalps—not always in that order.

He had 41 effectives. Bruco and Seamus and 15 warriors would be needed to get the wounded back to Doc, who was going to have a staggering workload for a while.

How can a place so full of people be so lonely?

He stood with Jay-Bear, RavenSong, Seamus and Bruco; the five of them staring dumbfounded across the small valley at the spectacle before them. There were three Spanish dons on horseback and perhaps fifty half-frozen pike-men, footmen and musketeers. The three finely dressed dons advanced and dismounted from their horses in the center of the field, obviously prepared to parley.

“Jay-Bear, tell RavenSong that only three of us can go forward. Who does he think should go forward with me en Seamus?”

The chiefs conversed in some dialect—the kid is a might handier with languages than you, Dad or Pap! Good for him—and Jay-Bear said, “Grandfather, he says I am to go speak, but he gets the horses.”

Jay slapped RavenSong on the shoulder and advanced with Seamus and Jay-Bear on either side.

The snow was now shin-deep. They pushed through this powder between the columns of deathly looking trees that were now filled with hundreds of crows and bustards waiting to get to work.

Jay-Bear and Seamus each hung back one step, as did the two younger dons. The older, larger don, with flaming red-blonde hair crusted with blood, and a great embroidered cloth-of-gold cloak, stepped forward.

Jay was unarmed except for a plundered cutlass and round arm shield, and was naked except for moccasins and breechcloth. The man looked at him in disdain, and then took the time to spit in Seamus’s direction with a Spanish curse. He then looked Jay in the eyes and spoke in good English with a slight accent, “You have me; an English renegade, a half-Christian chief and an Irish traitor. I have fallen to a sorry lot of heathen rogues.”

That attitude should hurry things up.

The don then glared from one to the other, his eyes finally settling on Jay. “I am Admiral Don Enrique. Having been unfortunately marooned in this savage land, we decided to take a part of it for our own, against the coming of the Dutch and English. When they come, and they will, it shall be good to have a hinterland and allies as well. I ask your leave to return to Porto Soto, and we will agree to a purchase of land. The holds of my galleons were well-filled.”

Jay narrowed his gaze and snarled, “Porto Soto is burnt to da groun’—every man dead, every woman taken. You may not return.”

The don’s eyes blazed. “And who be you, barbarian?”

“Your enemy.”

The don attempted to recover his composure. “Surely we can negotiate honors. I shall offer you my sword and my word not to make war upon you in return for safe passage up this track to Mission Woods; a peaceful Jesuit station across the river at the head of the bay. From there I will cast myself upon the mercy of the Dutch who now control the bay beyond this harbor.”

Just cut him down.

Jay glared and then growled, “My terms: die here and now; or die on that road trying to make the Mission.”

He motioned for Jay-Bear and Seamus to return. When he made to turn away from the don, the panicked gentleman grabbed his shoulder. “You mean to pursue, under these conditions?”

Jay locked eyes with him. “I go back to have a word with the wounded I leave behind. In a half hour I return to this spot either to cut you down or run you down!”

You should give battlefield terms more often. It suits you. You actually pronounced that whole statement correctly.

The don gasped in horror, “Tis a crime o’ war ‘gainst a Christian foe; a heathen act!”

Jay just stared into his eyes. Don Enrique lowered his head in despair and let go of Jay’s shoulder. “Renegade, who be you?”

Jay pointed to the heaped dead at the base of the L-shaped ridge behind him, “This, or so they say.”

Don Enrique responded in a rage. “I will see through heathen! If I must sell my soul to those shop-keeping heretics I will do so, that I might return for your head!”

You know, that was the first worthwhile thing this rich pig has said.

Jay saluted his enemy and returned to his men without a backward look.