In the autumn of 1756, Fort Loudoun wasn't really a fort yet. It was a half-built square of log walls with piles of cut timber everywhere and sawdust floating through the cold air. Colonel John Armstrong himself was in charge, and he was NOT in a good mood.
"Work faster, lads! The French are out there! Winter's coming! This fort will NOT build itself!"
Ten-year-old William was hauling buckets of water for the work crew. His mother, Mrs. Patterson, had come up from their cabin that morning with the most beautiful apple pie anyone had ever seen. Golden crust. Cinnamon apples bubbling through slits in the top. It smelled so good the soldiers dropped their axes.
"It's for the Colonel," Mrs. Patterson announced, "as a thank-you for protecting our family."
Colonel Armstrong's stern face softened. "Mrs. Patterson, that is the kindest thing anyone has done for me in a month. I'll have it at noon."
Mrs. Patterson set the pie on a flat tree stump inside the half-built fort walls, where it could cool in the shade. Then she went back down the hill for more water.
An hour later, William was stacking buckets when the Colonel's voice thundered across the worksite.
"WHERE. IS. MY. PIE?"
Every axe stopped. Every saw stopped.
The tree stump was empty. The pie tin sat upside down in the grass next to it, licked completely clean. Next to the tin, pressed into the soft dirt, were four small paw prints.
"Paw prints, sir!" someone shouted. "A fox got it!"
A murmur ran through the men. "Aye, a fox. A bold one."
But William wasn't so sure. William had watched his father track animals his whole life, and something about this scene was bothering him. He crouched down next to the paw prints and frowned.
"Ma," William whispered, "I think somebody's trying to fool us. Let me figure this out."
William looked at the paw prints again. Then he looked at the pie tin. Then he looked up at the stump. And every place he looked, he found another thing that didn't quite add up.
Problem number one: the paw prints were only right next to the stump. They didn't come from anywhere. They didn't go anywhere. A real fox would have left a whole TRAIL of prints coming in and going out. But these four prints were just sitting there by themselves, like someone had pressed a fox paw into the dirt four times.
Problem number two: the pie tin was upside down in the grass, sparkling clean. William had seen foxes eat before. Foxes are messy. They rip. They drop crumbs. They don't neatly flip the pan over and lick it to a shine. A fox would have left crumbs and a scattered mess. This pan looked like someone had wiped it with a cloth.
Problem number three: William leaned down and sniffed the dirt where the prints were. He could smell cinnamon and apples. But he couldn't smell fox. And William had smelled plenty of foxes in his life. They had a strong, musky smell. A real fox had NOT been standing here.
"Colonel," William said loudly, "I don't think it was a fox. I think somebody WANTS us to think it was a fox. Line up the men."
The Colonel blinked. Then he shouted, "FALL IN! Every man who's been inside these walls in the last hour!"
Three men stepped forward.
First was Reverend Thomas Barton, the traveling minister who had stopped by to pray with the soldiers. Reverend Barton was thin and tall, with kind eyes and ink-stained fingers from writing in his journal.
"Reverend, did you take the pie?"
"Colonel, I have been writing under that oak tree for the last two hours. Every man on the north wall can see me from up there. I never left the shade. And besides—" he opened his coat pocket. "I brought my own lunch from the last cabin I visited." He held up half a loaf of bread and a chunk of cheese, both untouched. "Search me if you like."
Colonel Armstrong waved him off. "No need, Reverend."
Next was Private Dawkins, the skinny soldier who was always hungry. His stomach was famous around the fort for growling so loud you could hear it across the courtyard.
"Dawkins. Did you take the Colonel's pie?"
"Absolutely not, sir! Upon my honor, sir!"
"Open your mouth."
Dawkins opened. The Colonel peered in. No pie. No cinnamon. Just a very nervous tongue.
"Show me your hands."
Dawkins held them up. They were filthy—caked with sawdust and pine sap. "I've been sawing logs since sunrise, sir. My hands are clean of any pie."
William stared at those hands. Sawdust. Pine sap. And… was that a speck of something else? William stepped closer. There, wedged under Dawkins's thumbnail, was a tiny crumb of golden pie crust. And on the front of Dawkins's shirt, down low, was a small reddish-brown smear. The exact color of stewed cinnamon apples.
William said nothing yet. He kept looking. And that's when he saw the fourth and biggest clue of all.
Private Dawkins was wearing a wide leather belt. And tucked into the back of his belt, hidden under his coat but sticking out at the bottom, was a folded cloth—wet and stained dark. The kind of cloth a hungry man might use to wipe a pie tin clean before flipping it upside down in the grass to make it look like an animal had licked it spotless.
Finally, William glanced at Dawkins's boots. There, stuck to the sole of his right boot, was a small crust of dried mud pressed into the shape of… a fox paw.
A carved wooden fox paw. Dawkins had CARVED a fox paw stamp out of wood and pressed it into the dirt four times.