grabbed hold of a winter-fallen branch of an apple tree. He beat Miles into the dirt, taking out the years of frustration caused by his obedience in one mad act of violence. A poorly swung blow crumpled Milesâs skull like an overripe waterâmelon. Miles fell to the ground and didnât stir.
Dougal stared down at Miles. Fear clutched him in its tight, bony grip. He hadnât meant to kill the man. He had just lost his temper and found it too late. He knelt and attempted to scoop out a hasty grave, using the end of the bloodstained apple-wood branch as a makeshift shovel. Itâs hard work rooting in the dirt with a stick. It took a good half-hour to make any kind of impresâsion in the ground.
Finally the grave was dug. Dougal stood, grunting as he straightâened his back. He still didnât know what he could do. He was safe enough, he supposed. His master had fled New York in the safety of the night without telling anyone where he was bound. There was no record of him ever living here in New Brunswick. How can you murder a man who wasnât ever there?
The nearby stream seemed to laugh at his predicament.
âIt wasnât my fault!â Dougal shouted. âHe drove me to it.â
Then he shoved his masterâs body into the grave, kicking him in because he couldnât bear to touch the corpse. He scooped what dirt he could over the body and scattered dead branches and leaves and pine needles overtop, kicking them into a mound.
And thatâs when Dougal remembered the gold.
How could he be so foolish? All that money lying there, wrapped around the gut of a dead man. It was such a waste to leave all that gold for the digging of the bears and the churning of the worms.
Dougal knelt down slowly, as if in prayer. He reached toward the makeshift grave, pawing the dirt aside. Gently now, bit by bit. A grave was a sacred place, he told himself. You canât be rooting at it like a sow at slop.
And then, just as he touched the bag of gold, feeling the hard edges of the coins pressing against the soft leather sack, Miles rose up from the grave, grabbing at Dougalâs extended hands. Dougal shrieked and drew back, snatching up the branch and beating Miles back down. Then he rose to his feet and leapt onto the waiting horse, which was prancing nervously at the sound of the battle. The horse took off, very nearly braining Dougal with an overhanging pine bough.
Dougal fled, leaving the gold behind with his master. There was no way on this good green earth that Dougal would dare try his hand at that gravesite again. The gold could stay there and rot for all he cared.
Years later, Dougal could still feel his masterâs dying grip upon his wrists. He didnât sleep well and he took to drink whenâever he could scrape up enough to pay for it. Sometimes he stole the needed beverage. Sometimes he stole from others in order to get the money he needed to buy a jug or two of numbâing amnesia.
Eventually he was caught at his petty thieving and sentenced to jail. While he was in there he talked with far too many eager listeners, telling whoever would listen his tale of woe. He told his audience of the murder and the apple tree and the laughing little stream that ran by Wolf Point.
âIt was all his fault,â Dougal would tell them. âIâm not a violent man. I wouldnât raise a hand to save my life. He drove me to it. Heâs the reason Iâm lying here rotting in prison. Heâs laying there still âhim and all that gold just waiting for me to drop dead.â
âWell, why should we keep him waiting?â Lambert Rogers asked. Lambert was a hard man who had grown up the hard way and heâd never seen the need to pass up an opportunity that offered itself to him as readily as this.
He strangled Dougal in his sleep. True to his word, Dougal did not raise a hand to save his own life. Lambert was pleased. He knew that Dougal had told many of
Dougal stared down at Miles. Fear clutched him in its tight, bony grip. He hadnât meant to kill the man. He had just lost his temper and found it too late. He knelt and attempted to scoop out a hasty grave, using the end of the bloodstained apple-wood branch as a makeshift shovel. Itâs hard work rooting in the dirt with a stick. It took a good half-hour to make any kind of impresâsion in the ground.
Finally the grave was dug. Dougal stood, grunting as he straightâened his back. He still didnât know what he could do. He was safe enough, he supposed. His master had fled New York in the safety of the night without telling anyone where he was bound. There was no record of him ever living here in New Brunswick. How can you murder a man who wasnât ever there?
The nearby stream seemed to laugh at his predicament.
âIt wasnât my fault!â Dougal shouted. âHe drove me to it.â
Then he shoved his masterâs body into the grave, kicking him in because he couldnât bear to touch the corpse. He scooped what dirt he could over the body and scattered dead branches and leaves and pine needles overtop, kicking them into a mound.
And thatâs when Dougal remembered the gold.
How could he be so foolish? All that money lying there, wrapped around the gut of a dead man. It was such a waste to leave all that gold for the digging of the bears and the churning of the worms.
Dougal knelt down slowly, as if in prayer. He reached toward the makeshift grave, pawing the dirt aside. Gently now, bit by bit. A grave was a sacred place, he told himself. You canât be rooting at it like a sow at slop.
And then, just as he touched the bag of gold, feeling the hard edges of the coins pressing against the soft leather sack, Miles rose up from the grave, grabbing at Dougalâs extended hands. Dougal shrieked and drew back, snatching up the branch and beating Miles back down. Then he rose to his feet and leapt onto the waiting horse, which was prancing nervously at the sound of the battle. The horse took off, very nearly braining Dougal with an overhanging pine bough.
Dougal fled, leaving the gold behind with his master. There was no way on this good green earth that Dougal would dare try his hand at that gravesite again. The gold could stay there and rot for all he cared.
Years later, Dougal could still feel his masterâs dying grip upon his wrists. He didnât sleep well and he took to drink whenâever he could scrape up enough to pay for it. Sometimes he stole the needed beverage. Sometimes he stole from others in order to get the money he needed to buy a jug or two of numbâing amnesia.
Eventually he was caught at his petty thieving and sentenced to jail. While he was in there he talked with far too many eager listeners, telling whoever would listen his tale of woe. He told his audience of the murder and the apple tree and the laughing little stream that ran by Wolf Point.
âIt was all his fault,â Dougal would tell them. âIâm not a violent man. I wouldnât raise a hand to save my life. He drove me to it. Heâs the reason Iâm lying here rotting in prison. Heâs laying there still âhim and all that gold just waiting for me to drop dead.â
âWell, why should we keep him waiting?â Lambert Rogers asked. Lambert was a hard man who had grown up the hard way and heâd never seen the need to pass up an opportunity that offered itself to him as readily as this.
He strangled Dougal in his sleep. True to his word, Dougal did not raise a hand to save his own life. Lambert was pleased. He knew that Dougal had told many of
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