by John Legg
But she hesitated. Ohio was a far piece. And if all the Indians were indeed on the warpath, as seemed likely, Hannah would have little chance of making it. And the Turners had fled to Indian Creek with most of the others from the area when the alarm was first sounded.
Hannah sighed. She knew that at Indian Creek—or Aunt Jess’s for that matter—she would be smothered with sympathy, kindness and pity. She would hate that, but she knew she had to go to Indian Creek, to tell them what had happened, warn them.
Hannah made her way down the Somonauk, toward where it and the Fox River came together. Then the Fox ran on a ways, until it entered the Illinois River, where Indian Creek sat. As she traveled, Hannah trapped and shot small animals for food. She did not keep the skins, since she did not think she would need them.
Eventually she spotted the great lightning-split oak that marked the way toward Indian Creek. As she neared the settlement, she noticed a strange quietness about the region. There should be the noise of a dozen or more families, a blacksmith shop, children. Instead she heard only the birds and the wind. A nervousness akin to what she had felt when she approached her house after the attack arose inside her, threatening to choke her.
Judging by the number of graves she saw, Hannah figured that the carnage here must have been great. She flopped down, filled with despair.
She sat that way for some time, but then she decided she needed to move on. Once more she had a decision to make: Make her way to Aunt Jess’s place in Ohio, or…or what? There was no place else for her to go. But better that than her Aunt Jess’s place. If her mother had been a pious woman with strong ideas about a young lady’s behavior, her Aunt Jess was far, far worse.
Dejected, Hannah followed the Illinois River along its westward course. At the Vermilion River, she crossed the Illinois on a quickly made raft and then journeyed southward up the Vermilion. She had become more and more worried as she traversed the Illinois, since she had seen plenty of Indian sign. Military sign, too. But she decided that to seek haven with the army or the militia would be as bad as going off to her Aunt Jess. The military would give her to some respectable family who would try to make her conform, to dress up prim and proper and suffer the affections of boys who might take a shine to her.
No, neither alternative was for her. So she avoided farms and towns for the next few days, knowing that to appear in any of them she would have to explain herself. And once that was done, she would be packed off to live with some family.
She found a cave in the riverbank in a quiet, secluded area. A hardwood grove lay across the river, and there was plenty of game about. She spent a month there, grieving, but also trying to make do. She trapped small animals for food—and for the fur. Then she decided she needed to move on. She neither knew nor cared where; she just had to go. She had had her fill of mourning; it was time to get on with life. She hacked off her long, tawny hair. With her loose, hand-me-down clothes, short hair and dirty face she would, she hoped, not call attention to herself being a female.
She didn’t have many furs, but it still took a while to get them to Peoria across country from the Vermilion. She would load some of her pelts on a small, rough travois she had made. She would pull the contraption several miles, hide those furs and go back for the rest.
With the meager funds she received, she bought more powder, some lead, two traps, food, boots and new boy’s clothes. Outside town, she saw an old, decrepit Indian, and her blood raged; she thought immediately to kill him. But the old man was so pitiful that she could not bring herself to do it. Feeling almost guilty about her rage, she instead traded him her old clothes for his rickety birch-bark canoe.
Hannah had had a long time to assuage her grief, and saw that her life had some possibilities now. With renewed hope and a reborn spirit, she piled her few belongings in the canoe and set off down the Illinois. Panic over the Indian troubles was not evident here, and she had learned in Peoria that the fighting was confined to the northern areas of the state.
Several weeks later, she awoke one morning to find her canoe and most of her possessions gone. She stood, fuming for a while, before shaking her head. It could be worse, she told herself. She still had her pistol, a little powder in her horn, a few lead balls, some hardtack and her flint and steel. She would make out.
Discouraged, but not beaten, she headed west on foot. There was a whole new country to see out there. Maybe she could find something in St. Louis. She had heard of that bustling city. Surely there’d be some way to make a living there, or at least enough cash for a stake.
She was not exactly happy as she walked along, following the Illinois, and later the Mississippi, but she smiled ever so slightly as she hummed the hauntingly beautiful “Star of the County Down.”
Chapter One
His face was plain, but the gaudy clothing drew glances as he pushed through the creaking doors of the seedy St. Louis waterfront saloon. Winding his way through drunken roustabouts, trappers and gamblers, he made his way to the bar.
He approached a nattily dressed, thick-bellied man whose paunch belied a formidable strength.
“Colonel,” he said, not altogether pleasantly, “I think I’ve found our man.”
Colonel Leander Melton, who had earned his title in the war with Britain in 1812, beamed. “Well, William, who is he? And where is he to be found?”
William Strapp wiped his perspiring brow. It was close in the smoke-filled saloon, and much too loud and odorous for him. He was more accustomed to the civilized, quiet rooms of wealthy friends in large cities in the East, or in Europe.
“Well, Colonel,” he said unhappily, “his name is Nathaniel Squire. And from what I’ve been told, most likely we’ll find him in one or another of these such places.”
“All right, then, William,” Melton said with a hearty laugh, “let’s go find this frontiersman of yours.” With one large gulp, he finished off his drink and pushed toward the doors and the muggy afternoon heat beyond.
The two men walked quickly past the mottled bar fronts, grimy bawdyhouses and filthy restaurants as the stench of sewage and rotting garbage swirled around them. Melton took it all in, while Strapp hid his nose behind a perfumed lace handkerchief.
They barged through the doors of another saloon, one indistinguishable from the last, and asked the surly bartender about a man called Nathaniel Squire.
“Ain’t seen him today,” the barkeep snapped. “Try the Water Rat, down the ways a bit.” He nodded in the direction.
Minutes later, Melton and Strapp entered the dim interior of the Water Rat.
“Excuse me, sir,” Melton said to the bartender. “I’m looking for a fellow by the name of Squire. Nathaniel Squire. I was told he might be found here.”
The barkeep looked him up and down, taking in the satin clothes and silver buttons, the pleasant, wide face with the long, thin nose centered between a generous mouth and expressive brown eyes. He was not impressed. He was less impressed with Strapp, who stood uncomfortably next to Melton. His grayish eyes flickered about the room, nervous under a thatch of close-cropped light-brown hair, sharply defining his sallow-complected thin face.
The barkeep shrugged and pointed. “He’s that fellah settin’ to hisself in yonder corner.”
“Thank you,” Melton said, sliding a small gold coin across the plank bar. The bartender’s opinion lifted minutely as he surreptitiously swept the coin off the bar and made it disappear. Melton turned, squinting in the dimness, trying to size up this Squire before he got to the man’s table.
Even in the gloom, Melton could see that Squire was a huge man, dwarfing even his own considerable size.
“My God,” Strapp blurted out as he and Melton turned from the bar. “Look at the size of him! I was told he was a big man, but he is a behemoth.”
Melton nodded. “He is that, all right. Judging from here, I’d say he stands better than six and a half feet tall, and I’d wager he weighs considerably more than two hundred and fifty pounds— about eighteen,
maybe even twenty stone, as you are so fond of figuring such things.”
“At least that, Colonel. He looks like a heathen Indian, too, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t,” Melton said a little more sharply than he had intended. Strapp had a way of getting under his skin too easily even with the most innocuous statements. “But I care not about his appearance. Only that he can do the job we will ask of him.”
Nathaniel Squire did, indeed, look like an Indian, except for the shaggy mustache and the full beard that swept down onto his broad chest. He was dressed in soft, fringed buckskin trousers and beaded moccasins. His shirt was of bright red, floral-printed calico, and peeking from beneath the beard was a necklace made from the claws of a huge grizzly bear. Squire’s hair was long and pale, covering his ears and lying thick on his massive shoulders.
As Melton and Strapp approached, they could see that Squire had two small knives in soft, beaded sheaths that dangled from his wide, leather belt, which was studded with brass tacks in designs of crosses and circles. They could not see, since he was sitting, the large, heavy-bladed butcher knife in the hard, plain leather sheath at the small of his back, or the tomahawk next to it. A heavy-barreled Hawken rifle with elaborate brass ornamentation rested against the wall not far from Squire’s right hand, and a pistol of similar variety lay on the table next to Squire’s ham-sized right hand. Nearby rested a cap made from the fur of a bobcat, the head, paws and tail still attached to it.
The two visitors stopped at the table. “Pardon me, sir,” Melton said. “Might you be Nathaniel Squire?”
The man turned his weather-browned face upward. Two watery-blue eyes peered out from above the tawny beard and mustache. The huge, split-knuckled hands rested comfortably next to the pistol and a bottle of whiskey. “Aye,” he said, showing the traces of his English-Irish parentage. “And who be ye?”
Melton introduced himself and his companion. “I may have a business proposition for you, Mr. Squire. May we sit?”
“Suit yourself.” Squire looked over the two men as they pulled up rough-hewn chairs and plopped down. He had an instant liking for the big, politely gruff Colonel Melton, and an equally quick disliking for William Strapp, who reminded him of a ferret, what with his pale complexion, sharp, pointy features and furtive manner.
“I hear that you know the Western mountains well, sir,” Melton said as he shifted his bulk to seat it more comfortably in the rickety chair. “Is this true?”
“I been around some.”
“Then you know where beaver can be found?”
“Some.”
“And you know how to trade with the red Indians?”
“I’ve done so.” Squire wasn’t sure why he liked Melton; after all, the man was annoying him with question after question. But he did. There was something behind the dark, sparkling eyes that inspired trust and even friendship. Squire thought it a little strange that he should feel that way.
Melton smiled. “I have been commissioned by certain people in the East to outfit a brigade of men to head westward into the mountains in search of beaver pelts, Mr. Squire. The men I have hired have little experience,” he said without flinching. “A few have trapped the Mississippi north of here, and in other places, but from what I have been told, there is a considerable difference between trapping here and doing so in the Western mountains.”
Squire took a healthy swig from the bottle and then held it out. “Drink, Colonel?” he asked politely, but his eyes glittered.
“Don’t mind if I do,” the Colonel said cheerfully. He took the bottle, drank from it, then held it toward Strapp.
“I think not,” Strapp said, a disgusted look on his sallow face. Squire almost smiled, but caught himself. He had known this weasely looking man would refuse the bottle. His initial impression was bolstered. Squire could see right off that this scrawny, silk-clad little man had no backbone. Squire was glad to have confirmed it so quickly.
Melton took another long swallow and then passed the bottle back to Squire, who did grin just a little this time. He felt pleased with himself that his first impression of Melton as a man to be respected and liked also was confirmed right off.
“What I need, Mr. Squire,” Melton said, staring straight into the icy blue of Squire’s eyes, “is a man who is experienced in those mountains. One who knows where beaver can be trapped in quantity. Someone like yourself.”
Squire sat back, running his fingers through his lush whiskers. “Ye askin’ me to do it, Colonel?”
“Well, yes, I am, Mr. Squire. The job is yours, if you want it.”
“What’re ye offerin’?” Squire had no intention of taking the job, really, but he wanted to hear all the options before making up his mind.
“A full outfit of supplies, two good horses and three hundred dollars for a year. You will be paid in full even if we get back to St. Louis in less time.”
Squire sat in thought for a short while, sipping at the whiskey. Finally he said, “Sorry to disappoint ye, Colonel, but I reckon I’ll be turnin’ ye down.”
“But why?” Strapp interjected, irritation heavy in his voice. “We have spent days looking for someone with your credentials. You’re the only one. There’s no one else.”
Squire gave him a cold stare, under which Strapp wilted. Then Squire turned to Melton. “Ye e’er wonder, Colonel, why ye could only hire yourself a bunch of know-nothings? Or why I be the only one with any experience available?”
“Yes. But it’s been said that we’re a little late in beginning our search.”
“Hell, Colonel, a little late would be fine. Ye be a heap late for such doin’s. Any lad that knows the least thing about trappin’ was signed up long ago. Same with anyone who can lead a brigade, men who been to the mountains, who know where all the good beaver streams be. They all been hired on, too. Those that ain’t set out already’ll be in Independence, or Westport Landing, gettin’ their plunder together for jump off.”
“Then why are you still free?” Melton asked, a little exasperation settling on him. “Could it be that you’re not so well-versed in the Western lands as we had been led to believe?”
Squire chuckled. “I been in the mountains longer’n damn near e’erbody. But I work mostly alone, Colonel. I aim to be meetin’ my partner, an old Frenchie name LeGrande, soon enough. We’ll be winterin’ up together. I can’t say as I’d be taken with the idea of workin’ with a group large’s the one ye plan to head out with.”
“More money, then?” Melton asked. “Would that change your mind? Say, five hundred dollars for the year?”
“Nay, Colonel, it ain’t the money. I been out here more’n twenty year now. Come out with M’seur Lisa’s men when I were but fifteen, back in 1812. It were the last time I set out with a large brigade. Nay, Colonel, I don’t need your money, nor the troubles leadin’ such a party would be bringin’.”
Melton nodded slowly. “Well, sir, if that’s your wish, then so it’ll have to be. However, it does leave me in an awkward position. I had planned to leave within a fortnight. A month at the latest. Not to do so would jeopardize my plans.”
“That it would,” Squire said. He was wavering in his resolve. There was just something about Colonel Leander Melton that made him want to help the man. Suddenly he realized that Melton was much like himself: strong, independent, fiercely proud, stubbornly determined. “And I’ll give ye a bit of advice. If’n ye can be gone in two weeks, best make sure ye do it. Waitin’ a month just might be a spell too long. Winter comes early to the mountains, and it comes on hard.”
He leaned back, carefully watching the Colonel, who sat with brows knitted in thought. Squire also kept an eye on Strapp, who fidgeted, casting his eyes about tensely, toying with a silk handkerchief in his pale, delicate hands.
Melton closed his eyes, as if making a decision he didn’t want to make. Then his eyes popped open, fixing on Squire. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Squire. We will leave as soon as possible,” he said firmly. “And I will lead.”
Strapp looked up, startled. “Colonel, you cannot,” he stammered. “Impossible. A man of your station and breeding cannot lead a pack of half-wild ruffians into mountains no white man has seen. Preposterous!”
“Aye,” Squire said, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. The Colonel was showing some grit; Squire wanted to see just how much of it the fleshy, jovial man had. “Best be listenin’ to him, Colonel. Ye and the lads you’ll be takin’ will be dead afore ye hit the Platte River.”
Melton glared at the mountain man. “Think what you will, sir,” he said quietly. “I fought the English in 1812, and I fought the Shawnee in the Ohio Valley. I led survey parties in areas bordering the Great Lakes. I am untested by the Western lands to be sure, but I am not frightened by them. I’ll do what needs doing.”
Squire stared at Melton for a few moments, thinking. Then the crinkles around his eyes deepened and his face split into a grin. “Aye, Colonel, I believe ye would.” He swallowed a substantial amount of whiskey and handed the bottle back to Melton.
The Colonel took a quick drink and then wiped off his mouth with the back of his hand. “Then come with me, Mr. Squire,” he said earnestly. “I am at my wit’s end in finding a guide. William and I have searched and searched. You are our last hope of a guide. Help me out. Or,” he said shrewdly, eyes narrowing, “are you really afraid? Eh, is that it? Perhaps you are not the great mountaineer that your reputation says you are. Perhaps,” he paused a heartbeat for effect, “you’ve never even been to those Western lands.” He leaned back, tilting the bottle up to his lips, trying not to look as smug as he was beginning to feel.
Squire stared hard at him for some seconds. Then he laughed, his big voice booming out from his huge, muscled chest and slamming around the walls. “Ye are somethin’, Colonel. Aye. I can see ye leadin’ them boys all right, and, by God, I believe ye’d come out atop it all, too. You’re a man of stout heart. You’d do well.”
