She remembered what Captain Sam had said about how important it was to make Indians believe you are brave, even if you are scared witless. If you display fear, they are far more likely to attack. She put her face close to the portal, the rifle protruding well out in front of her, and ignored her rapidly beating heart. “Leave my cabin. Now!” she roared, making her words a command, spoken with as much authority as she could muster.
Then a dirty hand reached over from the side and grabbed for her rifle. Fingers tightened around the long barrel. Using all her strength, she struggled to hold on to it. The brave’s other hand gripped the rifle too and then both hands commenced pulling the rifle away from her. She could feel the precious weapon slipping away. “No!” she shouted, and fought to hold onto it. She put both of her legs up against the wall beneath the portal. Using her legs and weight for leverage, she wrestled the rifle back inside, but fell backwards in the process.
“You bloody beast. You’ll not take my rifle,” she shouted as she scampered up.
Kelly quickly traded her rifle for her already loaded pistol. She put its shorter barrel against the portal, but not beyond it. She’d learned her lesson.
She looked out again and her heart froze. A brave cruelly seized Riley by the neck and held him out at arm’s length. She’d heard that natives often ate dogs. The thought made her want to retch. A sweat broke out on her face. She couldn’t shoot the Indian without risking hitting Riley.
Her pup growled and wiggled trying to free himself from the Indian. Annoyed, the brave smacked Riley’s face with the back of his hand.
“You forest demon, leave my dog alone,” she bellowed. Powerless to stop him, her rage made her grind her teeth together.
Riley took the blow and then lips curled back, bared his teeth and growled ferociously.
At that, the Indian delivered a wallop to the dog’s side. Riley yelped in pain.
Kelly screamed. “You bastard!” she yelled. She stomped her foot in frustration. She desperately wanted to help Riley, but exposing herself would mean risking her baby’s life.
The despicable brave yanked out a knife and his expression grew even more malicious.
“Oh God. Oh God. No!” Now she wanted to bawl, but held a hand against her mouth, holding her horror in. She resisted the urge to throw open the door and race outside.
What should she do? She had to save Riley. Her nerves twitched madly. Her mind raced. Trade. Trade them something. Sam said Indians typically honor trades. But what? Her eyes darted around. Her new shawl? She grabbed it and put her face to the window. “Trade? Trade for dog?” She held the garment up to the port-hole for him to see and then pointed to Riley. “Trade?” Would they understand the word? She prayed they would.
Then two other braves rode up. The muscled, shiny arms of one held the three large hams from the smokehouse. Another Indian carried a sizable bag loaded with apples from their orchard and one of her egg chickens—the one named Deuteronomy. Its neck hung limp and flopped with each step of the brave’s horse.
Thieves! If they were hungry, she would have given them food if they’d just asked. But stealing food, especially during winter, was wicked and the worst kind of pilfering.
Following behind the braves who’d stolen the food, another more impressive Indian, his shaven head bedecked in colorful feathers, rode into sight. But this one’s plunder was far more precious. Someone’s little girl. A crying blonde-haired child of about five years rode in front of the imposing Indian, her fair ivory complexion in stark contrast to his dark skin. Her tiny legs didn’t even reach to his knees. Dressed poorly, the child had to be nearly frozen.
The sight stunned and sickened Kelly. Her stomach clenched as if gripped by icy fingers. “Lord have mercy,” she whispered aloud. Now tears filled her eyes in earnest as her heart reached out to the bawling little girl. She desperately wanted to help her. But how? What could she possibly do? Frustration made her pound her fist against her hip.
A bitter anger rose up inside her, climbing above her fear and shock. Suddenly enraged, she banished her tears and sorrow and replaced them with determination and grit that felt like a solid rock inside of her.
Somehow, she would help this child, she vowed, clenching her jaw.
The Indian carrying the sobbing child barked some orders to the others. The one on the porch in front of her reached in and yanked her shawl out.
She jumped back, but let him take it. Would they release Riley? Would they kill him? She shuddered at the thought. If they hurt him, she would shoot the Indian that did it, she swore to herself. She couldn’t shoot the one holding the child for fear of hitting the little girl, but she would sure as hell kill the brave who harmed Riley.
Then the brave dangling Riley dropped him to the ground.
Thank God.
Riley sprung up and raced to her door, then turned and started snarling at the braves, now leaving with their pickings and someone’s precious daughter.
Kelly listened until she could no longer hear the little girl’s wretched heartbreaking cries.
CHAPTER 24
William rubbed his forehead. Since early that morning, he had diligently tackled the official paperwork and tiresome details included in his duties. His stack of new statutes needing to be read, warrants to file, lists of tax evaders and tax payers, correspondence, and all the other administrative work his job required, seemed never ending. What he wanted to do was far different—pursue criminals and see that they received the appropriate punishment.
And what he really yearned to do was even more different—he wanted to jump on his horse, go home, sweep his wonderful new wife up into his arms, and carry her to bed. He gave a few moment’s thought to doing just that. But his steadfast sense of duty held him back. He needed to put in a full morning’s work before he went home again to satisfy his aching, seemingly insatiable, need for her.
He stood and went to the window to stretch his aching neck and tight shoulders. The sky remained the grey blue color of early winter. He noticed though that the occasional intrepid rays of sunshine already melted the earlier frost.
Just outside the fort’s entrance, a group of men were talking excitedly, and gesturing wildly as they hurried inside the enclosure. “Looks like trouble,” he told Deputy Mitchell, who sat nearby cleaning his pistol. “You’re in charge ‘til I get back,” William said. “I have a feeling this may take a while.”
He grabbed his shot flask, powder horn, and weapons. As usual, his long knife already hung from his belt. He donned his tricorne and coat and hurried outside.
“Sheriff Wyllie,” one man yelled as he strode toward William. His voice sounded frantic and worried. “Please help.”
“What is it?” William called, lengthening his stride in the man’s direction.
“My daughter. Savages have stolen her!” the man cried.
“You’re Mister Merrill, are you not?” William asked.
The man, holding the reins of his winded mount, nodded. Anxiety etched the features of his face. His dark hair hung on his forehead in clumps that got in his eyes. When he swiped them away, William could see his pleading eyes.
“How old is your daughter Mister Merrill?” William asked, laying a calming hand on the man’s shoulder. William could feel the poor father trembling with worry.
“She’s just five. Please, we have to hurry. They stole her away this morning while I was hunting. My wife says they headed away from my place toward Whispering Hills, where Colonel Boone used to live. We visited there once with Boone and his family,” Merrill answered, his voice wavering and his expression grim.
William’s stomach clenched as though bony fingers just clamped around it. “That’s where my home is. My wife is there.” Immediately, dread and anger knotted inside him. They would need the militia. He turned and sprinted toward Colonel Byrd, with Merrill and several other men in tow. The Colonel, standing tall and shouting orders, was training his militia on the far side of the Fort’s inner courtyard. Good, the men
had already been mustered. That would save valuable time. He needed to reach Kelly and the little girl before the Indians could harm them. Just thinking of the possibility threatened to shatter his nerves. Trying to keep his worry under control in front of the other men, he took several deep breaths as he hurried toward the militia.
“Colonel Byrd,” William yelled as he ran up to Byrd with Merrill trailing just behind him. “Urgent news.”
“What is it, Sheriff Wyllie?” Byrd asked.
“Mister Merrill, tell the Colonel what’s happened, while I saddle my horse,” William directed. “And don’t worry, we will get her back.”
He ran to the nearby stable, his own apprehension building inside him like a developing thunderstorm. After quickly saddling Smoke, he rode back out to the Colonel, and then nearly vaulted off his stallion. His chest felt like it would burst if they didn’t get going soon.
“What’s your plan Sheriff Wyllie?” Byrd asked immediately. “Twenty-one men await your orders. Since it’s your home that may be under attack, I will defer to you.”
He checked the powder in his weapons and then tightened the cinch on Smoke as he spoke. “I’ll leave at once with Merrill. You and your men follow us as soon as you can. Bring plenty of lead.”
“As you say,” Byrd said and then starting barking orders to the militia.
William and Merrill mounted and turned to leave, but stopped when a rider stormed through the Fort’s gate riding to beat the devil.
The rider brought his horse to a skidding halt in front of the Colonel, William, and the others.
“What news do you bring?” Byrd asked the man and everyone else gathered in around the fellow’s lathered horse.
“The Shawnee attacked Logan’s Fort in retaliation for Colonel Logan’s raid,” the rider answered, nearly out of breath.
The man appeared both anxious and weary. He must have ridden all night.
William was already alarmed. Stephen, Jane, and their daughters now lived not far from Fort Logan. Sam and Bear would have ridden through the settlement on their way to Stephen’s new home about ten miles north of the Cumberland River. And all three brothers often went into the settlement for supplies. He didn’t want to wait any longer to leave, but he had to know what else the man had to say.
“But Logan’s Raid was ten years ago!” the Colonel objected.
William had been studying Kentucky history lately, as well as Kentucky law. A decade ago, Logan and his militia attacked Shawnee villages along the Mad River while their warriors were away raiding settlements here in Kentucky.
“It was, Sir, but as you know, in retaliation for native attacks on settlers, Colonel Logan’s forces burned Shawnee villages and food supplies and killed a considerable number of Indians who were not warriors. One of Logan’s men killed Moluntha, one of their older chiefs. So we speculate the attack is in retribution and stems from the long-held hatred of Logan by natives from the Ohio Country.”
William remembered reading that the killing of Moluntha was in retribution for the Battle of Blue Licks. A hotheaded soldier angrily felled the old chief with a hatchet, and, as he tried to regain his feet, killed him with a second blow and scalped him. The Shawnee then sought revenge by increasing their attacks on the whites.
It was the same scenario, replayed over and over, back and forth, again and again, with only the details changing. The memory of a person wronged, no matter the color of their skin, is long.
“Colonel, we must leave now!” William urged. “Mister Merrill’s daughter is in grave danger and my wife may be as well.”
“Please Colonel Byrd, you and your militia must depart straightaway to help the settlement at Fort Logan,” the rider pleaded. “A large number of Indians attacked. The women milking the cattle had to run for their lives. The men protecting them fired back. Arrows hit two of the militiamen—killed one and wounded the other. Captain Logan knew someone had to help the wounded man or he would certainly be killed. He asked for volunteers to go rescue him. No one volunteered.”
William knew right then that Sam and Bear were not at Fort Logan. If there was danger involved, Sam always volunteered and Bear would only be a step behind him.
The rider, both he and his horse still breathing hard, continued to relate his story, trying William’s scant patience.
“Logan decided to go alone to rescue the man. He used a large bail of wool as a shield and rolled it in front of him to get to the man, picked him up, and ran back to the fort. Then we watched in horror as the Indians lifted the scalp of the dead man in full view of the fort, including his screaming wife. Then the natives surrounded the fort and started building fires all around us. I escaped to seek help using our hidden tunnel to the well house.”
“This is disturbing,” Merrill grumbled, “but I have my own Indian troubles. My daughter is stolen. Colonel Byrd, we need to be on our way now.”
“I agree,” William said, “let’s go.”
“My apologies, Sir,” Byrd said quickly, as he turned to William, “but my men and I will not be able to assist you. Given the uncertainty of the situation at Fort Logan, and the number of threatened settlers there, I feel I need to take the entire militia there. I’m sure you and Mr. Merrill will be able to prevail against a small band of natives.”
William didn’t object to pursuing the child’s kidnappers without the militia’s help, but it did concern him that Colonel Byrd was leaving Fort Boonesborough and the town virtually undefended. The last thing the town needed now was a serious Indian attack like the one at Fort Logan. Boonesborough was overflowing with farmers and others ill-equipped with either experience or weapons to defend against attack.
“Colonel, do you think Boonesborough is in danger of a similar attack?” William asked.
“No. We have Colonel Boone to thank for that. He and his men fought valiantly for our fort and the local natives respect him and honor the peace accord they made with Boone,” Byrd explained. “Merrill’s daughter was undoubtedly kidnapped by a renegade band.”
For a moment, William considered trying to enlist the help of some of the men who had come into the fort with the child’s father. But, with the twenty members of the militia gone, he was concerned about leaving Boonesborough with even fewer men to defend her. Most of these men were unarmed shopkeepers anyway. No, with Merrill’s help, he was certain he could take care of this himself.
“Then Mister Merrill and I will set out without delay to rescue his daughter,” William said.
“We wish you God’s speed,” Byrd said, his expression tight with strain.
“And to you as well, Sir,” William said, reaching up to press his tricorne on snugly.
William and Merrill took off at a gallop. As soon as they exited the fort and crossed the town’s busy main street, he nudged Smoke to an even faster run. At this pace, they should reach the cabin in less than twenty minutes.
William felt the seconds of every one of those minutes despite their grueling pace. The muscles of his shoulders and back tightened as Smoke’s strong legs pummeled the hard ground mile after mile, the hooves of both horses throwing up clumps of mud and frost moistened fall leaves.
They were riding too fast and too hard to talk and the silence between them grew tight with tension. William pitied the man. To have a daughter stolen by Indians might mean he would never see her again. But if William could do anything to prevent that, he would.
The poor girl was undoubtedly beyond terrified. He just hoped they could reach her before the Indians disappeared into the hills with the child, her life forfeited to slavery.
As concerned as he was for the little girl, his own uneasiness for Kelly’s safety grew with every mile. If natives appeared while she was inside, she could bar the door, and stood a good chance of staying safe. But if they came while she was out and about, as she often was, then…he squeezed Smoke with his legs and leaned forward, encouraging the stallion to run even faster.
Why would Indians go toward Whispering Hills? Perhap
s they thought Boone still lived there. What would they do when they found Kelly there instead? His face twitched at the question.
A warning cloud, filled with foreboding, settled in his mind.
CHAPTER 25
Kelly flung the door open and let Riley inside.
He jumped up on her apron, whimpered, and studied her with his big brown eyes, tail wagging again just a little.
She could tell he was checking to be sure she was all right. Except for her heart, still pounding furiously in her chest, she was fine. Relief that the Indians did not attack her home more forcefully filled her and she let out a long breath.
She fell down on her knees, hugged Riley, and patted his sides, overjoyed that he wasn’t hurt. She was so thankful that they were both okay she started to weep. “Riley, Riley, you brave foolish boy,” she said stroking the top of his head and sniffling. “You could have been hurt. Next time listen to me.”
Tail wagging more vigorously now, he licked the salt and tears from her face and put a big golden paw reassuringly on her arm.
“I love you too,” she said and kissed his wet black nose.
Kelly wanted to keep loving him, but she needed to get going.
She had to help that little girl. What if the child were her little girl? She would want someone to help her. For this child, that someone could only be her. She couldn’t wait for William and risk losing the Indians’ trail. She had to go now.
She swiped the remaining tears from her eyes and prepared to leave. She quickly changed into her riding habit, found her jacket, threw it on, and then retrieved her paper, ink, and goose quill.
William,
Indians came this morning. Stole our hams, apples, and a chicken. Almost killed Riley. Worse, they have a little girl captive. I am going to track them. Forgive me, but I must try to help her. Follow me. I’ll leave an apple trail starting at the big Sycamore tree. The apples should be easy to spot. There are five Indians.
Whispering Hills of Love (American Wilderness Series Romance Book 3) Page 19
