Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1966

by Battle at Bear Paw Gap (v1. 1)

  As the bushel basket filled to the top for the first time, Schneider dipped out the miller’s share with a two-quart tin measure and carefully poured it into a cask near at hand. He talked to Mark and Celia about how he happened to have come to America and to Bear Paw Gap.

  Schneider was from the German province of Hesse, and in 1775 he had been drafted into one of the regiments hired by England to fight in the American War of Independence. “But I did not vant to fight,” Schneider explained cheerfully. “I vas bred up for a miller, not a soldier. So I marched along mit Lord Cornvallis, to a battle at a place called Guilford Court House.”

  “My father and my Uncle Mace fought in that battle,” supplied Mark.

  “But I did not fight,” went on Schneider. “I saw a chance to go avay, and I flung down my musket and ran. Kind people let me stay at a farm and vork in peace. After the var vas done, I helped at a mill near Salem. Last month Mr. Durvell asked me, come help him here and maybe get to be his partner. Ja, I came gladly. I am goot American miller now.”

  “And, I trust, a happy one,” ventured Celia, watching the meal mount in the basket.

  “Most times I am happy. But my cat Wessah makes me nervish.”

  Mark looked around the mill shed. Wessah was not in sight.

  “Oh, he is on the roof,” Schneider told them. “Most times he sits in sun, he hunts mice, he plays. But then, he is up the tree and sits high on the roof, he looks at what he sees yonder in the woods.” Schneider shook his head. “Vot he sees—I do not know. Sometimes I vish I knew, sometimes I vish I never find out.”

  Stepping outside, Mark looked up at Wessah on the ridgepole, like a black-coated, white-shirted sentry. “Wessah?” Mark hailed him, and the cat spared him but a single flick of green, round eyes, then looked off southward again.

  Simon Durwell came riding back from a visit to Trap Cave, bearing a pack of deerskins gathered by Captain Stoke and Stoke’s son Michael. “These I shall tan and sell, and the Stokes shall have meal in exchange,” he said. “Mark, I see Bram hath ground you enough corn to furnish your whose household for a month and more.”

  “And for us a share that vill feed you and me a veek,” added Schneider, pouring the last measure into the keg. “Eight bushels for Mark’s family, two pecks for us.”

  “Fair and more than fair,” approved Mark, coming to inspect the deerskins. “These are prime hides, Mr. Durwell, and will fetch a dollar each at Pine Fort. Your mill prospers, I think.”

  “We all prosper hereabouts,” said Durwell. “Come, I’ll help load that meal on your horses. What have you been talking of?”

  “Of Seth Ramsey’s husking bee day after tomorrow, and Bram Schneider’s becoming an American, and Wessah’s watching we know not what.” Hoisting a sackful of meal across Oscar’s spine, Mark spared another look for the intent cat on the roof. “I myself once watched and studied strange matters in these parts.”

  “Aye, for one thing you studied me and my friends Philip Lapham and Captain Stoke,” chuckled Durwell. “You thought us wild, dangerous prowlers. But we turned out to be friends, and now we are neighbors.”

  “Mayhap most seeming dangers are but fancies,” said Mark, because it was what he hoped.

  But as he and Celia headed home with the laden horses, he could not put from his mind the thought that something strange lurked among the woods, away from the road and deep in cover.

  Two evenings later, all the settlers gathered at the Ramsey home north of Jarrett’s Ridge. Mark and Will tramped over on foot, ahead of their parents and Celia and her little cousins. The Hollons came, too, leaving the tavern in charge of Stephen and Martha Arrington, the middle-aged couple Mace Hollon had hired to help serve guests. Joseph Shelton had come, and plump Tabitha Shelton bustled here and there to help Mrs. Ramsey prepare for the guests. As the sun set, a round harvest moon rose, and the September air was mild and sweet.

  All were glad to help, the more so since others would need neighborly assistance of the same sort with their own plentiful crops. Huge heaps of ripe ears were ready for the husking. The guests sat in circles, talking, laughing, and ripping away the husks by the light of big fires. Even the smaller children, the Ramsey Twins and Anthony and Alice Vesper and Will Jarrett, had a smaller pile of ears of corn to strip and toss into a big pannier.

  As the willow baskets were filled, they were borne to Ramsey’s tall crib to be emptied, then hastened back for a new cargo. The huskers vied with each other as to who could husk an ear the quickest, fill a basket soonest. When Mrs. Ramsey called a halt for supper, Seth Ramsey said grace, and all ate heartily of venison, boiled wild turkey with dumplings, green cabbage salad and molasses pudding. Afterward, they hurried to finish the work of husking.

  Mark and Celia sat together, laughing and talking as they tore the sheaths from the kernels. On Mark’s other hand squatted Tsukala. Though he had never planted or hoed corn for any of his white friends, he lent a skilful hand tonight.

  “Cherokees have much fun when they husk corn,” he said. “Here, young warrior, take this.”

  He shoved a big plump ear into Mark’s hand and picked up another for himself. Mark dragged away a handful of dry husk.

  “See to that corn, Mark, ’tis as red as blood,” commented Celia.

  “Aye, red it is,” cried Tabitha Shelton, leaning across to look. “Behold, neighbors, Mark hath found one with red kernels—know ye all what that betokens?”

  “Cherokees know,” said Tsukala weightily. “Find a red ear—you can choose your sweetheart.”

  “By my soul, ’tis the same with white people,” laughed Mace Hollon. “Husk a red ear and you may kiss the maid of your heart’s fancy.”

  Laughter and applause all around. “Goot custom, goot custom,” crowed Bram Schneider.

  “But who shall Mark kiss?” demanded Ramsey. “Who can tell of such a person?”

  “As if we didn’t all know,” teased Tabitha.

  Mark sat, the half-husked red ear in his hand, looking at Celia Vesper. Celia looked back, smiling.

  “Come, Mark, don’t scorn the custom,” urged his father.

  Mark looked to Tsukala. “ ’Twas you gave me that red ear,” he charged.

  “Ahi” Tsukala admitted blithely.

  “We wait here to see ’ere we work on,” another voice cried.

  Mark was blushing, but he took Celia’s hands in his, leaned to her. His mouth touched her soft, warm lips. The others clapped their hands and shouted approval.

  “I, too, have found a red ear,” spoke Esau from where he sat. “Now, if I may also choose Celia—”

  “No, too late,” Tsukala informed him, solemn as a judge. “One warrior pick one girl.”

  Esau flung the ear into a basket. “Then must I wait until another girl comes here to stay, a girl to my fancy,” he complained in mock misery. “That, or wait until Alice or Becky grows up.”

  “Among the Tuscarora, I hear tell, a red ear of corn means something else,” contributed Captain Stoke. “They say that whatever warrior finds it will soon fight in a battle.”

  “Then Mark and I are bound for the wars,” said Esau lightly. But there was no merriment at the suggestion.

  “Come, we will finish in a few more moments,” declared Ramsey. “Stow the last ears, then see to that smooth, hard stretch of earth, yonder next the house. Did Hugh bring along his fiddle? Then there will be dancing after the husking, and I’ll call the first set.”

  The last ear was soon husked and stowed in the crib, and four couples formed to step a measure. Towering Joseph Shelton and plump Tabitha were first to stand up together. Mark offered his hand to Celia, and they took their places. Michael Stoke and his wife were a third couple, and Mace and Sarah Hollon a fourth. Mr. Jarrett set his fiddle to his chin, laid the bow across the strings, and struck up “Soldier’s Joy.”

  “Honor your partners!” trumpeted Ramsey. “Balance all, and away we go.”

  Skilfully they trod the figures, changing partners and executing
the caller’s commands, while the onlookers clapped their hands in rhythm and sang snatches of the old song. When the set was done, others rose to take their turn. Mr. Jarrett handed his fiddle to Will and led out his wife. Esau came to take Celia for his partner, and Simon Durwell became caller so that the Ramseys might dance together. Philip Lapham and his wife were the fourth couple of the set.

  “What will you play for us, Will?” inquired Durwell.

  “The Miller’s Three Sons” Will replied, and Durwell laughed loudest of all at that.

  “So be it,” Durwell granted. “Let it be sung, too, that you may know my own honesty and Bram Schneider’s.”

  The dancers began to pace and jig, and Anthony Vesper and Jimmy Ramsey sang the old tale of cheating customers with grain to grind:

  “ ‘Father, father, my name is Jack,

  Out of a bushel I’ll take a peck—’

  ‘Father, father, my name is Ralph,

  Out of a bushel I’ll take a half—’

  ‘Father, father, my name is Paul,

  Out of a bushel I’ll take it all—’

  ‘Now, glory be!’ the old man says,

  ‘I’ve got one son who’s learned my ways!’ ”

  Mark joined Tsukala and Schneider. “All happy and neighborly here,” Mark commented.

  “Ja, they vould not sing that song if they thought ve stole too much,” said Schneider. “A miller’s fair toll is two quarts in a bushel, vun share out of sixteen.”

  “Your cat Wessah does not say that,” Tsukala made one of his unsmiling jokes. “He counts taladu nungi, sixteen four.”

  “Ach, Tsukala, all times you speak of strange doings.”

  “What strange doings?” inquired Mark.

  “He asked about Indian spirits,” said Tsukala. “I told him.”

  Schneider drew up his shoulders, not quite shuddering. “Ja, tales of spirits, teufels, ghosts burning like fire at night. I feel I am come to a haunted country.”

  Mark laughed. “I thought the same, when Quill Moxley and his rascals played tricks hereabout,” he said. “But those are things of the past, Bram Schneider. Your mill’s loud, brave voice will frighten all evil away.”

  “Ach so” returned Schneider, not much reassured. “By day all is goot, but at night the mill keeps silent. I lie in bed, and dream I hear feet valking, voices vis- pering.”

  Again Mark laughed. “Did I hear such things, I’d lean out the window and see how big a bullet a ghost could carry away with him.”

  “Nein” argued Schneider. “Ghosts are not hurt by bullets.”

  Tsukala looked steadily at Schneider, and his face was expressionless in the moonlight. “You asked for stories,” he said. “I should not have told you.”

  Will ceased fiddling the song of the miller, and the dances came to a halt. Mark returned toward them, clapping his hands. Then Durwell called for Schneider to dance a German jig, and Mr. Jarrett played

  "Betty Martin” while Schneider, nimble and even graceful for all his plumpness, jigged, postured, and whirled. He finished by leaping high and cracking his heels, and grinned around at the applause as though he had forgotten his nervous fears.

  When good nights were said, Mr. Jarrett helped his wife and Will mount Bolly and led them away. Mark helped Celia to Oscar’s back, lifted Alice and Anthony astride, then strolled with them on foot.

  “You are silent, Mark,” said Celia as they moved along the homeward trail. “See to the moon up there, is it not beautiful? This is no night to be grave and glum.”

  “I was only listening,” said Mark.

  “Listening to what?”

  “To the trees, the air. Bram Schneider spoke of strange noises around the mill, and so I have been lending an ear. But I hear nothing uncanny.”

  Celia laughed merrily. “I think that Mr. Schneider wants to be frightened. He’s in a strange, wild land, and he wants strangeness about him.”

  “It may well be.”

  They reached home as Mark’s father helped his wife down. Mark took the bridles of both horses and led them to their shed. A shadow moved at the door.

  "Ahi,” a soft voice greeted him.

  “What is it, Tsukala?” Mark asked as he unbuckled the girth of Oscar’s saddle.

  “That man Schneider is much afraid.”

  “He dreams he hears things in the night,” said Mark.

  “Maybe he does not dream. I walked in woods today to hunt. Found tracks by the river.”

  “My tracks, or Esau’s, or—” Mark began.

  “No,” said Tsukala. “No tracks of men who live here. I know all those tracks. These are made by a stranger.”

  Mark whistled softly. “An enemy, you think?” “You get up early,” Tsukala suggested. “Get up before sun. I will be here. You and I will go, see those tracks. Maybe follow them.”

  “Agreed,” said Mark, urging the horses into their stalls.

  “Tomorrow,” Tsukala said, and departed into the shadows under the trees.

  CHAPTER III

  Tracks of Evil

  Mark AND Will slept in the open-air bachelor quarters they had made, a roof of evergreen thatch raised on upright poles. An hour before dawn, Mark opened his eyes and slipped from his blankets. The oncoming fall would make nights chilly in this bower, he told himself. Perhaps he and Will would lay poles horizontally for walls, chink them with clay, and sheathe the roof with shingles. A small hearth and chimney would give cheerful heat. But just now, there was a morning expedition to accomplish.

  Taking care not to rouse Will, Mark donned shirt, leggings and moccasins. He took his rifle from its brackets under the roof, slung his powder horn over his shoulder and fastened his bullet pouch to his belt. He saw firelight through the half-open kitchen door of the family cabin, and made his way to it.

  Celia was inside. “This morning was my turn to milk the cow,” she said, arranging pans on a shelf. “Will you have breakfast with me? There’s coffee, and some of yesterday’s corn bread made warm, and fresh butter.”

  Gratefully Mark accepted a share. “I am for the woods today,” he said.

  “What do you seek in the woods?”

  “Tsukala wants to show me some tracks,” he replied. “Hark, I think he’s at the door even now.” Celia opened it, and Tsukala entered on silent moccasins, bow in hand. With a nod of thanks, he took a chunk of bread from the platter and drank a mug of coffee sweetened with brown sugar. They all finished quickly. Celia began to wash dishes, and Tsukala and Mark went out. In silence they followed the trail to the Black Willow River. The first gray light of dawn touched them as they followed the north bank.

  “I go in front, watch for the trail,” muttered Tsukala at last. “You come at the back, watch both ways. Keep your gun ready.”

  “ ’Tis always ready.” Mark poised his long rifle in practiced hands. “Where’s this moccasin track?” “You will see. No, don’t follow path. We will go beside the water.”

  They came to where a string of rocks made it possible to cross the river dry-footed. Mark followed his friend to the south bank, and Tsukala headed westward there, just inside the line of riverside trees. Not a sound did he make as he advanced. Mark, too, moved noiselessly. Months of scouting and hunting in these woods had made him able to do that. He peered into thickets, past big trunks, but saw and heard nothing.

  They had accomplished more than two miles, and the sunrise had turned the dim gray light to soft rose, when Tsukala put his hand behind him, palm toward Mark, to signal a halt. Then Tsukala crept forward alone, bending double, toward a sort of clearing by the river. It had been a drinking place for deer in the first days of the Jarretts’ adventures at Bear Paw Gap. Tsukala looked cautiously this way and that, across the river, and among the trees on the clearing’s far side. Then he ventured into the open. He dropped to one knee and motioned for Mark to join him.

  “See,” whispered Tsukala, and lifted a big patch of bark. “I hid track with this.”

  Mark studied the moccasin print.
As Tsukala said, it was not a familiar one—Mark, too, knew the tracks of his fellow-settlers by study. This was larger and longer even than the prints of the big feet of Joseph Shelton or Lapham Phillips.

  “Indian track,” pronounced Tsukala.

  “How do you know?”

  Tsukala gestured. “Deep here, at the outside. White men set whole foot to the ground. Indians walk on outside, toes turn in.”

  That was a new thought to Mark, but he had become used to learning trail wisdom from Tsukala. “It points westward,” he said.

  “Yuh. Come, we will go west, too.”

  Again Tsukala led the way, in the direction to which the big track pointed. He moved more slowly, questing this way and that. Some twenty paces farther along, he grunted and bent to look at a slight scrape in moist earth. Mark, also examining this trace, judged that it was hours old, probably made the day before. Tsukala turned away from the river, and squatted on his heels to peer at the ground again. He waved Mark close.

  “More than one man,” he said under his breath.

  Mark saw a flat piece of stone the size of his hand, with a smaller chunk upon it and a second pebble against it on the westward side. “What does that mean, Tsukala?”

  “Indian sign,” Tsukala replied. “Stone with little stone on top—that means a trail. Little stone to one side, that shows which way to go. Cherokees do that.”

  “A Cherokee should be your friend,” Mark suggested.

  “Maybe,” said Tsukala darkly. “Cherokees are like white men—some good, some bad. Come.”

  Watchfully they moved westward. Mark judged that they must be almost due south of Durwell’s new mill. Tsukala signaled another halt, and inspected the trunk of a tall oak. He gazed up among its branches, then looked in all directions. The morning sun gave clear light by now.

  “Somebody climbed this tree,” he said as Mark joined him, and stooped to survey the ground. “Aht, the big foot.” He pointed with the heel of his hand to where a blurred track was visible between two outspread roots. “He jumped, caught hold of that branch up there. See, his foot scraped the bark. He climbed to look at your friends, over there at what you call the mill.”