He had 26 warriors of five tribes fit for pursuit. He was most impressed with RavenSong of the Cherokee and Slicer of the Nanticoke. None of the Sons of Fierce Woman were fit to do more than walk. He detailed Slicer to take the mixed warriors up the east side of the track and RavenSong to take the Cherokees up the west side. They were to flank and fire, leaving the casualties lay as they continued to shadow the retreating Spanish. Jay would follow on the road alone, finishing the wounded Spanish as he dogged their trail.

In a brief ceremony Jay-Bear placed the scalp-caped helmet on his head and handed over SoulDrinker the claymore and NightWing the fiberglass bow. These weapons, and his other two original arms—now lost—had become talismans to his descendents.

Even marching at double-time it would take more than a day for the Spanish column to make it on foot to the Susquehanna. He did not plan on letting them live to see the next sunrise.

Point of the spear Bracken!

Sarge?

You just miss him dummy. This was his mission, finish it for him.

He trotted for a half hour before he came upon the first two lame Spanish footmen clutching at arrows in their legs. He finished them and jogged forward with their heads held by the hair in his right hand. When he got within 20 yards of the rear end of the column, which was now hunkered down ducking arrows, he hurled the heads into the midst of the ten or so footmen armed with swords and shields. With this they broke and ran, cut down by Cherokee arrows. None of them made it more than a few paces.

He walked among them and finished the wounded with the claymore, and took a head—one would do—and trotted on behind the column, which, he could hear, was being harassed by the mixed group of warriors not 200 paces ahead.

Somewhere in the deep recess of his mind he sensed his mother would be horrified and had a moment of doubt, hesitating among the sprawled bodies gushing in the foot-deep snow.

Just keep up the scare dummy. Drive these people from your land.

He pursued the column, its rear barely in his sight and under fire the entire time, as he jogged slowly up the frozen snow-covered mud track that would have been Old Philadelphia Road, or US Route #7 back in the 21st Century.

One desperate footman actually came back to fight, limping with an arrow through his ankle. Jay just cut off the other leg and walked on by. That heroic soul impressed Jay and spared himself decapitation and having his head used as a terror weapon. The rest clung to life in their panicked frost-bitten state with far less elan. For hours he just butchered what had been left by his man-hunters as he continued trotting up the road collecting one head at a time…

You know hillbilly, if you get back to Duty, I don’t think George will want to put this on the resume?

The dreary pattern of following at a trot, tossing a severed head at the terrified wounded left for him to butcher, and then cleaving them into manageable pieces as he passed, and taking the head with the most hair to be hurled at the next bunch of abandoned wounded, became a dreary exercise. For the first time in his life Jay did not feel invigorated by the taking of enemy life. Nor did he feel the sacred guilt associated with putting down some innocent beast for food.

That bastard should stand and fight, not leave his men to die. This is killing you man. How many more pleading, crying eyes looking up at you while they clutch the arrows in their legs, can you stand to look into? How many more before you are so empty you dry and crack like an unused water-skin, unable to take on more liquid without leaking? How long, how many!?

He could smell the horses up ahead, smell the fear of man and horse wafting down the trail before him. He could hear the dull clomp of hooves muffled by the snow. He began to focus on the smell and sound even as he felt the crows light in the track behind him to pluck out those unforgiving eyes…

I’m coming you cruel coward. Night will not fall for you Don Enrique!

He heard and even felt the rumble in his chest as he tossed the last head aside and reversed grip on the claymore and broke into a run. He rounded a bend within seconds and saw the Spanish column ahead—perhaps 20 foot struggling on behind the three mounted dons—limping along under fire. A musketeer took an arrow in the butt and a pike-man dropped his weapon to pick him up and took an arrow through the knee. The warriors could be seen on either side of the road darting among the trees.

A footman came back, discarded his shield, and bent to help the musketeer—obviously a popular guy—and took an arrow through his thigh.

The dons continued on with a soldier each leading their horse.

Those bastards have the best veterans helping their horses along and are leaving the rest to die!

In a fit of rage he ran around the knot of disorganized men trying to make a common defense as they were mercilessly filled with arrows. One pike-man had seven arrows in his body and was still trying to shield a fallen friend. The warriors were closing in and shooting faces.

The dons now began to trot, the soldiers on foot still holding onto the horses, but by the stirrups now, and running as hard as possible to keep up. He bounded through a snow-covered briar patch, relishing the sensation of having his legs tear and bleed in the cold morning air. When he emerged back on the track he did not spare a backward glance for the sorrowful scene behind him. He admired the men that were dying just now, and did not wish to witness their end. He funneled this pang of guilt into rage for the fleeing Admiral and began to close on the horsemen and their escorts.

The young dark-haired don with the red hat turned his mount and barked an order. The musketeer by his stirrup drew his rapier and advanced as the don spurred his horse to charge. Jay charged with an inhuman scream. As the horse thundered down on him he dove forward with a lateral forehand slash that took off the charger’s left foreleg above the sock as he slid on his chest through the cold powder.

Before he could scramble to his feet the musketeer had advanced and thrust. The point missed its mark and the blade slid between his right chest and bicep, cutting arm and chest superficially. The musketeer slipped foreword with his thrust as the blade of his rapier became entangled in the mass of human scalps that formed the cape of the helmet. Jay rose to one knee and smashed the back of the man’s head in with the pummel of his claymore.

The don behind you.

He turned in a panic and saw the young don pinned under his dying horse. To his left RavenSong and a warrior were putting arrows into the necks of the other young don and his musketeer.

That’s right, the old boy wants a horse and you just ruined this one.

He walked over to the dying horse as it bled out and looked into the eyes of the young dark-haired man whose legs were crushed beneath the big stallion. The young man just swallowed painfully and looked up into Jay’s eyes. “Madre Maria?”

Jay raised his sword between his hands for a finishing thrust. It then occurred to him, as the sunlight shined briefly on the blood-dripping wired grip, that his weapon resembled a crucifix. He looked into the boy’s eyes momentarily as he hesitated, and the young man repeated his question painfully, “Madre Maria?”

“Naw boy, wrong church.”

He gave him a sure thrust for a quick end. He deserved it. Jay had come to like him.