Rated R. Contains some violence, some “adult situations,” and some fun battle scenes.
by John Brown
He looked at their leg tattoos. Mohawk. One of the Iroquois tribes. Well, he couldn’t kill them then.
Not that he’d want to. They were, after all, just boys. Still, Indian boys weren’t like the lads back in Rotterdam. It had been small Abenaki lads, just like these, that tried to take his scalp the first year as a trapper. He’d killed them all with the blood flowing down the side of his face and a chunk of his scalp flapping about like a wig.
And so he’d need to be ready. Hunting knives hung from the belts at their waists. But none carried a war club. Only one held a bow.
Jan sneaked back the way he had come and then up and around in front of them so that the boys would walk right up the trail into him. The path bent around a hill where the river willow grew thick. He waited for them there.
He withdrew rope and a knife from his pack. He couldn’t kill them, but he could tie them up and scare them into good Christian men.
About the Author
John D. Brown is an award-winning novelist and short story writer. He currently lives with his wife and four daughters in the hinterlands of Utah where one encounters much fresh air, many good-hearted ranchers, and the occasional wolf. His agent is Caitlin Blasdell of Liza Dawson Associates.