Magua had little use for the French or English. He supposed they had certain benefits, but they weren't worth the trouble. The Huron elders were baffled when he expressed the opinion that there was no need for them.
At least they had been before the gray haired Englishman had come with his army. Most of the village had been destroyed. It wasn't until later, Magua was never how much later, that he learned his children had died. Murdered in the chaos of the destruction. Two sons and a daughter. His daughter had not yet begun to walk. Magua had seen Gray Hair several times while was a slave to the Mohawk. Every time, there was no recognition on the white man's face. But Magua knew him. His hatred grew every time he saw that face. Every time he swore revenge. Magua had lost everything; this man had lost nothing.
So he began to learn. He learned the English language. He learned the Mohawk way of doing thingas and gradually earned their respect. He learned how to use a musket and found himself proficient; though he vastly preferred more traditional weapons. When he was able to return to his own people, he learned the French and the English were at war. He learned that the Gray Hair was commanding a fort at the southern end of the lake the French called Saint Sacrament. He learned that Gray Hair had two daughters and that they would soon be joining him at the fort. He began to see his way to revenge.
Wipe them off the earth, he thought. All of them.
He had not planned on the three strangers coming upon the war party on the George Road. It disrupted his plans. Magua had the older girl in his musket sight and he had been annoyed, but later shrugged it off when he arrived at the French encampment. They had only delayed the inevitable. Montcalm was laying siege to the English fort; they would break soon. He could still have Gray Hair and his children dead. Magua had waited this long. A few more days would not make much of a difference.
It had made a difference, though not in the way Magua had expected. Standing over Gray Hair and slicing him open, there was still no sign of recognition. It was as if he had no idea why Magua was there or who he was. There was no satisfaction in his death. The daughters had eluded him during battle for a second time. Magua was growing increasingly frustrated and disappointed. There was seemingly no relief for the bitterness that had wormed its way inside of him. The dead were still dead.
Magua had tracked the women to a cave under a waterfall. Just them and a few English soldiers. Their trio of rescuers were no where to be found in the cave, not that it mattered. One of his men had convinced him that perhaps they would make better trophies than corpses. Magua had been in a haze of dissatisfied rage; he couldn't remember the other man's arguments. If he couldn't be satisfied, perhaps he could settle for being honored.
He ignored them over the miles back to the Huron village. He ignored them as one would ignore the dead. It allowed him the time to order his thoughts. He would need to make the sachem see reason and justice done. He was a successful war leader and had important captives as trophies. Surely, retribution would come. Surely, they would dies the slow agonizing deaths they deserved.
They had not. On the word of an adopted white man, they had not. On his word that Magua was twisted, retribution was denied. As if the death of only one Munro daughter was enough. As if taking the other Munro daughter as a wife would be enough. Enough would have been to burn them both. Enough would have been to wipe them out as if they had never been. Going west was an impulse of rage. He would probably just kill the girl on the journey anyway.
Magua was unperturbed at the sound of gunshots on the cliff side. It didn't surprise him that someone might come for the girl. He couldn't fathom why, she could hardly be worth the effort. Besides, whoever it was would be outnumbered. Then he saw it was the youngest of the three men who had been on the George Road. Magua rolled his eyes and readied his knives. Killing the boy would be easy.
He had been able to dodge most of the blows while landing his own. Even when the younger man tackled him to the stone ledge, he could still maneuver. He was back up on his feet faster, able to catch his breath while the younger man struggled to rise. The strangled sob he heard distracted his attention. Magua glanced at the pale Munro daughter. Her eyes were full of tears and she appeared to be about to beg. Beg for life, beg for death, he didn't know. He didn't much care.
It had been enough of a distraction that Magua never saw the musket aimed at him, only felt the lead shot burn through his shoulder. The instant he turned, he only opened that side to be struck by a war club. Where were his men that he was fighting alone? His end snapped back at the old man.
Magua saw it then, the retribution that he had sought for so long. He saw it in the older man's face, the fury at protecting his son. Magua stood still and erect, waiting for the blow. When the club swung, he closed his eyes and felt the club's blade pierce his body. Magua had fought and died alone.
Retibution had come.