[b]The Ohio Country[/b]

George Washington thundered across the snow covered field on his horse while the other six riders traveled in his wake. Snow flurries fell all around them as they raced towards the fire. The blaze and the accompanying smoke could be seen from miles away. Washington and his scouting party had spotted the smoke after an hour's ride east of the fort. Another hour on the road led them to the fire.

Washington was the first to dismount. He slung his long, powerful legs off his horse before it had fully stopped. He had his saber out as he approached the source of the fire: a wooden wagon consumed with flame. Scattered around the wagon were crates, barrels, and two bodies face down in the snow.

"Sir," one of the non-commissioned officers called to him. "There may be ambushers in the woods."

The colonel sheathed his sword and pulled his flintlock pistol from his belt. 

"Spread out," he said with an eye towards the fire. "The wagon is too far gone to save. Whoever did this can't be too far past. Look for trails in the snow."

His men complied the orders while Washington approached one of the bodies. It was a man, face down in the snow with blood covering the back of his head. Washington knelt and flipped the body over. Hobby Jones, the Welshman who made the two hundred mile trip to gather supplies from Fort Ohio. Jones' eyes were rolled into the back of his head and the top of his forehead had a deep knife wound on it. It looked as if someone had tried to scalp him and then gave up on the act before fleeing.

The second body was that of Jones' sixteen year old boy Hubert. Hubert, like his father, had been beaten in the back of the head by some hard object and was poorly scalped, Hubert's scalping being a successful but sloppy one that left a few patches of scalp upon his skin. Washington stood and grimaced at the sight.

"We found tracks," Lieutenant Reynolds announced. "They look to be horse tracks, leading northwest away from here off the beaten path. Too narrow to be Jones' wagon."

The young lieutenant made a face at the bloody mess that had been Hubert Jones. Washington remembered that the man was the third son of some English aristocrat, born and raised in England before the cold came and forced him out to the wilderness. This was probably his first taste of the violence that the rough country had to offer.

"Lieutenant," Washington said sternly, just enough to snap Reynolds out from his stupor. "You and Corporal Smith stay here, salvage whatever supplies have not been destroyed and make them ready to transport back to Fort Fredrick. I will lead the men forward to follow the tracks."

"Sir... what if it's a savage hunting party?"

Washington stared at Reynolds before turning to look at the carnage around the wagon.

"It's not," was all Washington replied with. "I know it to be true."

With a sharp whistle, he called together the rest of the party and mounted his horse.

"The Lieutenant and Corporal will stay behind. The rest of you, follow my lead and make your arms ready. I expect us to engage enemies very shortly."

Without another word, Washington spurred his horse forward and followed the tracks of the attackers.