The Wilderness Road

by James Reasoner

  The weather had grown warmer, and he was thankful for that. With no coat, a hard winter storm might have done him in. The worst of this season's storms appeared to be over. By next winter, he had thought to himself one day, he would have a good coat again.

  That day was special, he realized later, because for the first time since his life had fallen apart around him so unexpectedly, he was thinking in terms of the future once more. When he was locked up in that cell, his life had been measured in hours. Now it stretched in front of him indefinitely, like a road that dwindles into the distance.

  He was going to travel down that road as far as it would take him.

  Today it had taken him to a settlement called the Block House, after the massive, two-story, stone and wood structure around which it had grown. He was in the far southwestern reaches of Virginia, he thought, although he couldn't be sure of that.

  Borders didn't mean a lot out here. Several trails from Pennsylvania, Carolina, and eastern Virginia came together here. In the distance rose the Cumberland Mountains, green and hazy like the water in a pond, and beyond them was the land known by some as Kaintuck, by others as Kentucky.

  Davis stopped between the trading post and the Block House, which had served as protection for the settlers during times of Indian raids since its construction in 1777, and stared toward the mountains. He could see the narrow, winding trail that started toward them, but he soon lost sight of its twists and turns in the thick forests. He didn't have to see it to know where it led, however.

  He stood at the beginning of the Wilderness Road.

  A hand fell on his shoulder and he stiffened, muscles tensing in case he had to fight. As he jerked his head around, however, he saw a friendly grin on the face of the man standing next to him.

  "I seen ya lookin' at the Cumberlands," the man said. "Got a mighty powerful lure to 'em, don't they? Makes ya want to see what's on the other side."

  Davis relaxed a little. Evidently this frontiersman was just talkative. The man wore greasy buckskins which were stretched tight across his massive shoulders. He had a bushy black beard shot through with gray; his hat, with a drooping brim and a feather stuck in the band, perched on a tangled thatch of dark hair. Some accident had befallen the man's left eye in the past, leaving a white scar above and below the socket. The eye itself was milky and seemed to wander of its own accord. In the man's other hand was a long-barreled flintlock rifle, and the butt of the weapon rested on the ground at his moccasined feet.

  Davis nodded at the trail that wound toward the mountains. "That's the Wilderness Road, isn't it?"

  "Oh, aye, 'tis indeed. And a fittin' name it is, too. There was nothin' but wilderness out there when me an' Dan'l Boone started carvin' it out fifteen year ago."

  "You were with Daniel Boone?" Davis asked, trying not to sound too skeptical. He figured that most old-timers in these parts probably claimed to have been through the Cumberland Gap with Boone, whether they really had been or not.

  "Aye, Dan'l an' me was the first white men to see Kaintuck, I reckon." The man took his hand off Davis's shoulder and extended it toward him. "I'm Titus Gilworth."

  Davis hesitated. Even now, this far away from where his old life had ended, he hesitated to give his real name. "Call me Dave," he said.

  "All right, Dave. Thinkin' 'bout goin' to Kaintuck, are ya?"

  Davis nodded. "Thinking about it."

  "Good time to go, and get paid to boot. Colonel's over at the tradin' post, signin' up men for a chore."

  That caught Davis's interest. "What sort of chore?"

  "Choppin' down trees, makin' the road wider. Ain't nothin' but a trail now, you understand. Can't get no wagons through there without a heap o' trouble, only two-wheeled carts. Gov'ment wants to make it easier for folks to get to Kaintuck so's it'll get settled faster, so they figger to improve the road." Titus Gilworth spat on the ground at his feet. "You ask me, the place is already gettin' settled too damn fast. Can't hardly find a place where you ain't crowded no more. Last time I was over there, I heard other folks shootin' once, twice a week. I can't take all that uproar."

  Davis enjoyed listening to the garrulous old man, but what Gilworth had said about some colonel hiring men to widen the Wilderness Road intrigued him too much for him to stand there and let Gilworth ramble on. He inclined his head toward the trading post and said, "I think I'll go talk to that colonel you mentioned."

  "Good idea, son. Tell him ol' Titus sent ya."

  Davis didn't intend to do that, but he nodded anyway. As he turned to head for the trading post, he asked, "Are you signing on?"

  Gilworth shook his head. "Nope. I'm too old for such shenanigans." He sighed. "I got a cousin named Ulysses who settled up in Ohio country a while back, durin' that war against the redcoats. He wants me to come yonder an' live with him, and I'm thinkin' on it. Don't know if I'll be able to stand so damned much civilization . . . but hell, a man ought to try just about ever'thin' once, don't you think?"

  Davis nodded and smiled, then waved a hand as he started toward the trading post. He was glad he had decided to alter his pattern of traveling at night and avoiding settlements. This trip to the Block House might turn out to be fortunate if he was able to sign on with the group heading across the mountains to Kentucky.

  Over there in that far, wild land, the law would never catch up to him.

  He went up the steps onto the porch, then moved into the dim interior of the trading post. It was cluttered with goods, and the aisles were full of customers. Davis was taller than most of them, so he was able to look over their heads and see the group of men standing at a table set up in front of the rear counter, near the barrels of pickles and crackers.

  Davis made his way toward the table and joined the line of men waiting there. Most of them had a rugged look about them, and they were all armed. Some carried only a rifle, but others had pistols and knives tucked behind their belts as well. They looked like bad men to cross. Davis wondered if he gave that impression to people as well.

  After several minutes, he had moved close enough to the table to see the two men who were sitting there. Both of them seemed to be in robust middle age, but that was where the resemblance ended. The one on the left wore a dark brown suit and had graying sandy hair that was pulled straight back from his high forehead. His companion was dressed in buckskins and a cap made from the hide of a raccoon, with the animal's head still attached. Raven-black hair fell loosely to the man's shoulders, where it had evidently been hacked off squarely with a knife. His features were lean and dark, as opposed to the other man's broad, florid face.

  The man in the brown suit had a book open in front of him, an inkwell beside it. After talking to each of the men lined up in front of him, he used the quill pen in his hand to write something in the book, Davis noted. This man had to be the colonel Titus Gilworth had mentioned, and likely what he was writing in the book were the names of the men he hired for the work crew. Davis hoped his name would soon be in that book.

  When his turn came, he stepped up in front of the man in the suit and nodded. The man looked at him and asked, "Name?"

  Instead of answering right away, Davis asked a question of his own. "Are you the man who's hiring workers to widen the Wilderness Road?"

  "That's right. I'm Colonel Tobias Welles. And you are?"

  "Name's Davis." He thought quickly. "Hal Davis."

  "All right, Mr. Davis," Welles said. "Are you a fugitive from the law?"

  The question took Davis by surprise, but he tried to control his reaction. "Of course not," he said.

  "I have to ask that, you understand," Welles commented as he began to scribble the false name Davis had given him in the book. "We want only law-abiding men on our crew. This is Conn Powell, my foreman for this job."

  The man in buckskins nodded curtly to Davis, who returned the greeting in similar fashion. Powell's eyes seemed narrow and suspicious, but maybe that was how he looked at everyone, Davis thought. He couldn't remember seeing a dif
ferent expression on Powell's face since entering the trading post.

  "We'll feed you along the way, and the wages are twenty dollars, payable when we reach Logan's Fort at the other end of the Road. Is that acceptable?"

  Davis nodded. Twenty dollars was more money than he had seen in some years, when he was trying to make a go of the farm. To make that much money for a few weeks of work chopping trees seemed astounding to him. Of course, in addition to the labor involved in this task, there would also be the danger from Indians and bandits to consider.

  He was more than willing to run the risk. After everything he had gone through, such things didn't seem quite so bad.

  "Very good," Welles said. "We'll be setting out tomorrow. I'll have a full crew by then. Be ready to leave at dawn."

  Davis nodded and turned away from the table, as he had seen the other men do before him. Conn Powell stopped him by saying, "Davis."

  Looking back at him, Davis waited in silence for whatever the buckskinned man had to say.

  "I'll be keepin' an eye on you. Something about you rubs me the wrong way, mister."

  Welles said to his foreman, "If you'd rather I mark out his name . . ."

  Powell shook his head. "That ain't necessary. I just want this fella to know I'm goin' to be watchin' him."

  Davis swallowed the bitter taste of anger that welled up in his throat. "Go ahead and watch," he said. "I'll do my job and give you an honest day's work for an honest day's pay."

  "I'm sure you will," Welles said. Evidently he wanted to head off any further confrontation between Davis and Powell, because he hurried on, "Next man, please."

  Davis walked back to the front of the trading post, his pulse hard and his jaw clenched. What was it about him that had put Powell on edge? he wondered. Perhaps it had been just an instinctive dislike, the kind that had no rhyme or reason to it.

  Whatever had caused it, the incident had taken away some of the anticipation Davis felt for this job. Still, he was confident that he could force himself to get along with Powell for however long it took to reach Kentucky.

  And once he was there, he would lose himself on the frontier, spending the rest of his life in the isolation he craved.

  * * *

  Davis had some venison in his pouch from a kill he had made a few days earlier. He had smoked the meat as best he could, and it was still edible. Sitting cross-legged under a tree near the trading post, he gnawed on the tough flesh and watched the comings and goings in the little settlement.

  If there were this many people here now, what would it be like once the Wilderness Road had been improved enough to make travel over the Cumberland Gap into Kentucky much easier? If old-timers like Titus Gilworth thought the frontier was already getting too crowded, they really wouldn't like what they saw over the next few years, Davis sensed.

  He didn't waste much time thinking about such things. To him, the future was something to be endured in loneliness. He could hope that someday he would feel differently, but for now, that was all it was—a hope, as fragile and insubstantial as the mist that curled around the trunks of trees in the early morning light.

  As dusk began to settle down around the Block House and the trading post and the other buildings, a figure shambled toward Davis. He recognized the man in the gathering shadows as Titus Gilworth. The old frontiersman had a jug dangling from his hand, and his steps were a little unsteady. He stopped in front of Davis and said, "Evenin', Dave. Want a nip from this here jug?"

  Davis hesitated before answering. He had never been much of a drinking man, and the last time he had touched liquor had been when he drank the wine that Constable Abernathy brought him in the Elkton jail. Ever since then, while he was on the run, he had avoided spirits, knowing that if he allowed himself to get drunk, he might retreat into the oblivion it brought and never sober up again.

  But Titus was just trying to be friendly, and it seemed like an eternity since Davis had been able to call anyone friend. He had been convinced that he didn't want any friends. Without pondering the decision any more, he reached up to take the jug Titus was extending toward him. "Much obliged," he said, then he tipped the neck of the jug to his mouth and took a long swallow.

  The liquor burned like the flames of hell as it slid down his throat and landed hard in his belly. Davis couldn't suppress the little shudder that went through him. Titus must have noticed it, because he chuckled and said, "Mighty fine, ain't it?"

  Davis lowered the jug and swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "Aye," he said.

  Without waiting for a formal invitation, Titus sank down onto the ground beside Davis and put his back against the broad bole of the tree. "Signed up t' go over the Road, did ye?"

  Davis nodded. "Yes, Colonel Welles hired me."

  "Colonel ain't a bad sort. Some kind o' engineer, he claims to be. Don't know much about the frontier, but he's good at buildin' roads, I reckon."

  Giving in to curiosity, Davis asked, "What do you know about Conn Powell?"

  Titus looked over at him owlishly. "Used to be a long hunter. Don't know him very well, but I know he's still got the hide on. He's bossin' the job for the colonel, ain't he?"

  "That's right. I don't think he likes me much, but he told Welles to go ahead and hire me."

  Titus grunted and said, "Ain't nobody Powell likes overmuch. Try to stay downwind of him, son. Don't let him get your scent."

  Davis wasn't sure exactly what Titus meant by that, but he nodded anyway. He didn't plan on crossing Powell. He didn't want to draw any attention to himself, and causing trouble with the foreman of the timber-cutting crew would only accomplish that very thing.

  He handed the jug back to Titus, having taken just the one drink. That was enough to be sociable, Davis told himself. He shook his head when Titus took another swig, then offered him the jug again.

  "You sure?" Titus asked.

  "I'm sure," Davis replied.

  "You got sornethin' to hide? That the reason you don't want to get drunk?"

  Davis frowned. Despite Titus's inebriated condition, the old man had made a shrewd guess. Davis didn't want to admit that, of course. Instead, he said, "I'm just not much of a drinker."

  Titus shrugged his brawny shoulders. "Whatever you say." His tone made it clear that he didn't really believe Davis.

  It was a good thing, Davis thought, that Titus Gilworth was going to live with his cousin in Ohio, rather than traveling back over the Wilderness Road with Colonel Welles and the others. Titus was just canny enough to have caused problems for Davis before the journey was over.

  Several of the travelers who had stopped at the settlement had cooking fires blazing near their wagons, and the flames provided enough illumination for Davis to see fairly well even though night had fallen. He noticed three men walking past the tree where he and Titus were sitting, but he didn't recognize any of them. From the looks of them, they were probably part of the crew that would widen the Wilderness Road. One wore buckskins while the other two were in rough homespun.

  Just as the men walked past, Titus gave a mighty yawn and stretched his long legs out in front of him. That put his feet directly in the path of the buckskin-clad man, and he tripped over them, barely catching his balance before he sprawled headlong on the ground. His long-barreled flintlock rifle slipped from his grasp and thudded to the dirt.

  "What the hell!" the man roared as he swung around to face Davis and Titus.

  Titus was blinking rapidly and frowning, as if he was just as surprised as the man he had nearly tripped. He tilted his head back and said, "Better watch where you're goin', son. You could hurt somebody, trompin' 'em like that."

  "Watch where I'm—" the man began, then stopped to give out a string of curses. "You almost made me fall down, you mossbacked old bastard!" he added. "You did make me drop my rifle." He bent over to pick up the weapon.

  The confrontation was drawing the attention of several people who were camped nearby, and Davis felt his nerves start to crawl like worms as he se
nsed all the eyes turned in his direction. He realized they weren't looking at him. Their attention was focused on Titus and the angry man who was yelling at the old frontiersman. But in the past few weeks, Davis's aversion to too much attention had become as ingrained as a lifelong habit. He felt uncomfortably edgy.

  "I'm sure Titus didn't mean anything—" Davis started to say, but an angry exclamation from the buckskinned man cut him off.

  "I don't give a damn what he meant. You'd better stay out of this, mister. It's between me and the old man."

  That was excellent advice, Davis thought. He had never met Titus Gilworth until today, and he had no business defending him. True, Titus had been friendly toward him, but Davis hadn't asked for that.

  The buckskinned man sneered at Titus and kicked the bottom of his foot. "Get up, old man," he ordered. "I want an apology."

  "Oh, it's an apology you're wantin', is it?" Titus asked. He pulled himself shakily to his feet, still holding the nearly empty jug. "Well, you won't be gettin' it from me. It ain't my fault you're near as blind as a bat."

  "Teach the old sot a lesson," one of the other men said.

  "Aye." The man in buckskins clenched his hands into fists. "That's just what I'm going to do." He took a step toward Titus.

  Stay out of it. The words hammered a drumbeat in Davis's head. Stay out of it!

  Titus didn't wait for the man to reach him. With a yell, he flung the whiskey jug at the man's head and then reached for the butt of the pistol stuck behind his belt.

  Once again, just like that awful day back in the cabin, Davis was struck by the way the seconds seemed to sometimes slow down at a moment of extreme violence. He saw the jug tumble through the air toward the man's head, saw droplets of whiskey fly from its open neck like a shower of amber rain, watched as the man flung up an arm and batted the jug aside before it could do any harm. Davis turned his head toward Titus and opened his mouth to shout something, but no words came out. They froze in his throat as he saw how Titus was struggling to draw the pistol. The barrel had hung on something, and Titus was tugging frantically at the weapon.