Crossed Arrows: Mountain Men (The Mountain Men Book 1)

by Terry Grosz

  * * *

  Jacob and Martin stopped first to say goodbye to Daniel’s family, and then to Jeremiah’s, both of whom lived nearby. Jacob made one last stop, at the gravesite of his parents, Lemuel and Sarah. Martin watched silently as Jacob paid his folks his last respects. Tears welled in Jacob’s eyes, then cascaded down his cheeks. He got a grip of his emotions, straightened the cross one last time, and watched as the morning’s sunlight spill over the treetops and on the gravesite at his feet.

  Martin nodded. He always saw signs, The Way of Indians. “This is good,” Martin said.

  It was time.

  Jacob walked back to his horse and swung lightly back into the saddle.

  “Let’s go.”

  Chapter Five

  On the Road

  For the next three weeks, Jacob and Martin settled into the regimen of traveling and roughing it as they headed northwest towards St. Louis. They traveled old Indian traces, wagon trails, rutted roads, game trails and directions provided by the locals through the forests and glens as they worked their way ever westward. Day after long day with the cold moisture-laden air and even cooler fall nights surrounding them, winter weather was becoming their ever-present traveling companion. Winter came early that year and the boys had discovered they would be facing its icy blasts from out of the northwest on a daily basis. Yet their excitement at being on their own and seeing new country every day softened all weather-borne adversities.

  Martin, the ever-efficient Delaware, spent his evenings by the light of the fire to work with knife, steel awl and freshly chewed sinew on some of the tanned hides. Soon he had fashioned heavy, three-quarter-length winter coats from tanned buffalo skins for both of them. Riding was ever a cold venture when riding horses. The coats covered their legs with its added warmth and, if necessary, could be used as a roll-up blanket of sorts when sleeping on the cold ground. As the miles and days passed, both men discovered that what had once been strong memories of home were now softening. It was now difficult to visualize faces of loved ones or remember the tastes of specialty foods prepared especially for them by their families. Also lost were many of the sunrises and sunsets experienced with their loved ones in times past. Replacing those memories were now those new found experiences on the trail. Harder memories than those of home softened by the passing of time. But life as the two young men now came to know it had been bittersweet, in those aspects needed for the soul and life that was to come.

  * * *

  Jacob and Martin passed numerous small settlements and lone farmsteads along the way. Being the outdoorsmen they were, they chose to sleep in the forests by themselves come dark. They knew the forest to be friendlier, except for the occasional bear and panther, compared to the rough looking settlements and even rougher looking people. Besides, many on the frontier resented any white man befriending and associating with an Indian. That violent period of Indian fighting on the frontier provoked many bitter memories and feelings from the settlers—memories and feelings that died especially hard for those having lost loved ones during the many years of death and privation associated with the Indian wars.

  Jacob and Martin journeyed through the Kentucky countryside, cold and wet from the latest November storm that had howled in their faces all day. They prepared to spend an evening in a heavy, protective stand of evergreen timber along the trail.

  They built a small lean-to for sleeping and a simple pole corral for their livestock. Jacob tended to the horses while Martin started a large campfire to warm up, cook dinner and dry out. Martin had taken a nice fat deer earlier with his bow and arrow, a tool that was a constant companion and one which was always deadly in his hands. Now they would soon smell venison roasting by the fire on sharpened cooking sticks and have a frontier repast of the first degree. Jacob smiled at his friend’s labors for a tasty outcome soon to follow. A heavy meal of hot fresh deer meat and coffee would be a welcome addition to their long, wet and cold day with only jerky for breakfast and lunch.

  Jacob placed the saddles and saddle blankets over corral poles under a heavy forest canopy of branches to dry, then curried the tangles out from the thick winter coats of the horses. Care of the animals was something Zeke had taught him well. Horses had to get you there and get you home. The only way that was possible was if they were cared for properly before you cared for yourself. Jacob had learned those words of wisdom well. He had just finished currying a second horse when he heard the unmistakable sounds of horses’ hooves quietly approaching.

  Jacob gave a low whistle to get Martin’s attention. He pointed to his ears and then in the direction towards the sounds of the approaching horses on the soft damp forest floor. Jacob moved closer to his rifle that lay across a nearby saddle. Martin in turn picked up and cradled his rifle in his arms. Five burly riders soon rode into view and seeing the firelight, headed directly for the campfire.

  “Hello the camp,” hailed the apparent leader of the group who was a bear of a man. Standing at least six feet tall and weighing over two hundred pounds, he really was a bear of a man.

  “Hello,” responded Martin as he cautiously cradled his rifle in his arms at the ready. “Care if we light down and share your fire a mite?” asked the leader.

  “Help yourself,” responded the still very alert Martin. It would have been improper to turn anyone away in their time of need.

  The rest of the horsemen pulled up short of the campfire and began quietly dismounting.

  Jacob kept a sharp eye as well. The newcomers appeared encumbered under their heavy, full-length buffalo skin coats. When they dismounted, Jacob noticed in addition to their rifles, they carried large .69-caliber, single-shot horse pistols, tomahawks and knives as well.

  “Got any extra of that?” one of the men with few front teeth asked pointing, to the deer meat happily roasting away by the fire.

  “Help yourself,” smiled Martin, never taking his eyes off the group as he nodded towards the deer’s carcass laying at the edge of the light cast by the fire. It was then the group finally noticed Jacob standing silently by his horse watching the happenings.

  “Hello,” said another burly man with a bright red and still very fresh knife scar running from his lower cheek clear across the bridge of his nose, stopping as it narrowly missed his eye.

  “Evening,” said Jacob pleasant enough but still on the alert. With that many men roaming the forests late at night and the two of them being in possession of four fine horses, it made good survival sense that both he and Martin kept their eyes peeled for any signs of trouble.

  For the next twenty minutes, the strangers talked and acted very friendly. In fact, almost too friendly, to Jacob’s way of thinking. They pitched right in gathering extra firewood and dressing out the deer, hanging it from a tree limb to continue cooling out. From all intents and purposes, it now appeared they were preparing to stay not only for supper but spend the night in their company as well. While cutting and propping up extra cooking sticks loaded with some fresh cuts of venison around the fire, the small talk quickly changed and then darkened.

  “Where you two fellas from?” asked the man with the fresh facial knife wound.

  “Down near Salt Lick,” replied Jacob, as Martin still on the alert, continued brushing up their lean-to for sleeping.

  “Damn, that is a fer piece for a couple of young bucks to travel,” replied the leader of the group, as he spit a long stream of tobacco juice into the fire. Jacob sensed an edge in the stranger’s tone.

  Jacob kept currying their last horse, all the while keeping a wary eye on the entire group. Jacob figured if anyone tried anything, it would first come from the burly one appearing to be the leader, since he continued verbally setting the tone for the group.

  A tall man who had yet to speak said to Jacob, “What you doin’ travelin’ with an Injun?”

  Jacob, without any emotion in his voice replied, “He is my friend.” As he spoke, he looked the tall one dead in the eyes and quietly cocked his rifle unseen from behind
the pile of drying saddles and saddle blankets.

  “And a stinkin’ Injun at that!” declared the tall one, now looking hard at Martin.

  The air went instantly electric and silent around the group with the utterance of those words.

  Martin just continued brushing up the lean-to as if he had heard nothing, in typical Indian fashion. However, Jacob could tell Martin was ready to go “native” the moment anyone so much as touched the frizzen pan on their rifles.

  Jacob realized this group wasn’t going to leave until they had his and Martin’s hair, all four of their horses and anything else of value. He grimaced. Well, not without a fight, he figured as his eyes narrowed. Narrowed like they always did just prior to him killing a varmint that needed killing.

  He had killed men before in his sixteen short years of life on the frontier and found it a very simple thing to do. Man, unlike most wild critters, killed or died easily, spoke the dark voices from his memory.

  The leader slowly rose from his place by the fire and then in an instant whipped out his tomahawk from his belt and swung it viciously at Martin’s head.

  Martin just as quickly knocked the blow aside with his rifle barrel and then whipped the muzzle of his rifle around towards the assailant’s belly and pulled the trigger. Poo-foof!

  Flash in the pan! A damn misfire! thought Jacob as he quickly raised his rifle. One man was drawing a bead on Martin with his rifle. Jacob shot the assailant square in the face. The man dropped like he had been pole-axed.

  In that instant, the mass of men confronted Martin and Jacob as one. They whirled with their rifle barrels clanking and poking every which way. They were so close to each other, they were getting in each other’s way.

  In one fluid motion, Jacob dropped his now empty rifle and vaulted the corral fence. He ran in a low crouch towards the center of the group of surprised men, yelling madly like an Indian on the warpath.

  That had the effect of further startling the men for an instant, creating additional panic. An instant which coupled with Jacob’s surprise attack to provide just enough time—Martin brained the leader of the group with the stock of his now spent rifle. And in that braining blow to the leader’s head, Martin’s hard maple rifle stock exploded into two pieces.

  Martin hit the leader so hard, the man’s brains spurted out over everyone close at hand, creating even more consternation.

  Pow went the explosion from a horse pistol as the toothless man fired, hitting and knocking Jacob sideways as he continued his sprint for the group of milling and confused men.

  “Ugghh!” went Jacob. The .69-caliber lead ball had skidded along his side, ripping and tearing at the hardened muscle mass covering the outside of his ribs. Fortunately the bullet glanced off a rib and exited harmlessly out the back of Jacob’s buckskin jacket.

  Jacob instantly saw red, but still quickly closed his distance. He sank his tomahawk into the toothless man’s face who had just shot him. The tomahawk smashed into the nose and facial bones on the shooter’s face with a loud bone-crunching thwack, followed by a blood curdling, primal scream from Jacob that pierced a simultaneous kaboom.

  Another rifle bullet had creased Jacob’s face. It left a six-inch-long bloody gash and a powder burn on his right cheek from its close range.

  By now Jacob felt nothing but the hot-blooded urge to kill every man in sight. Jacob drew his gutting knife with a swift sure motion. He closed with the man who had just shot him in the cheek. In that fatal instant, the man tried to raise his rifle and use it as a club to still the onrushing Jacob.

  Jacob knocked the rifle aside with his left hand holding the knife. Then he grabbed the now terrorized man by the throat with a right-handed iron grip—a steely grip that had made many oak stumps yield in Zeke’s fields.

  Down the two of them went onto the forest floor, both looking for an opening to kill the other.

  Jacob finally got his knife hand loose from the man’s hands and plunged its long blade deep into the man’s throat with such force it severed the spine. A gurgling rush of fetid air from his mouth and a surprised look in the man’s eyes was the reward for Jacob’s savage attack.

  Jacob leaped instantly to his feet like an enraged panther. He saw Martin tomahawk the last man of the group as he tried running for his horse to escape the deadly scene. A loud “Ugghh” accompanied the tomahawk’s entry into the back of his skull followed by a soft sigh. He fell to his knees. Then—killed before he hit the ground—the man gently rolled forward onto his face into the leaf litter. The body kicked a bit with one foot and leg, then lay still as blood pooled around its head in the damp earth.

  Both Jacob and Martin surveyed the scene with the eyes of animals forced to the primal brink of survival. They had not wanted this altercation, but both had killed with a ruthlessness and sureness that surprised them. A ruthlessness that was never further discussed or questioned then or in the future between the two young boys rapidly growing into men. Sometimes violence was a way of life on the frontier and best approached in the way it was meant to be. When deadly circumstances were forced upon a man, he met them violently and then moved on or he himself became part of the soil.

  The winter damp air now hung heavy with the pungent smell of freshly-fired black powder. There was another pungent smell now sharply rendering the cool night air. One of fear as the five men had soiled themselves during the quickness and ferocity of the attack by Martin and Jacob. This was a frequent occurrence with some men going into deadly battle with the mortal outcome present in one’s mind, especially as it turned out in the case of these five strangers.

  As Jacob’s emotions subsided somewhat, he began feeling the pain in his side. He slowly sat down with a soft groan. Martin, upon hearing the moan, was at Jacob’s side in an instant.

  “How bad you hurt?” he asked with deep telling worry in his eyes.

  “Don’t know,” responded Jacob as he pointed to his bloody right side with difficulty.

  Martin lifted Jacob’s blood-soaked shirt, then poked his fingers around the wound’s edge with less than a gentle touch—but a touch guaranteed to ascertain the true extent of the damage.

  “Maybe cracked ribs, plenty of blood but flesh wound only,” Martin uttered with a look of relief flooding his face. “Face looks like hell though,” he continued with another smile of relief.

  Satisfied his friend would live, Martin walked around the scene of carnage to check all the men for any further sign of life and existing possibility of danger. “All dead,” he said with obvious, yet stoic satisfaction.

  Sitting on a fallen log next to the lean-to, Jacob tried to get comfortable, but the wound on his side now blazed with pain. In fact, every time he breathed it was like getting shot all over again.

  While Jacob sat there trying hard not to move, Martin rounded up the dead men’s horses. He put them into the makeshift corral with their own four horses. He removed their saddles and saddle blankets and stacked them alongside the trail for any traveler to take upon discovery.

  Martin gathered up all the dead men’s weapons and placed them within arm’s reach alongside their lean-to, then sat down. He then determined their calibers and reloaded those fired in case other outlaws or kinfolk of the dead drifted by as well. Five rifles of different calibers and various makes, four horse pistols, six knives and four tomahawks graced the pile of weaponry alongside the lean-to when Martin finished his “gathering of the deadly sheaves.”

  “Yes,” Martin said, “these men came looking for trouble and not just something to eat or a warm place in which to crap between a pair of moccasins.”

  Realizing his own rifle was now useless without a stock, he picked out another like rifle of equal quality from those laid alongside the lean-to. He quickly double checked to make sure it was loaded and kept it close at hand now as his own. He also stuck a newly acquired and freshly loaded horse pistol snugly in his sash, just in case. Then he helped Jacob over to a large granite boulder closer to the fire on which to sit. He cut off
several pieces of cooked meat and handed it to his friend. Jacob ate slow, groaning and occasionally flinching at the movement of his cheek and side. Yet Jacob didn’t turn the food away—the hot deer meat seemed to offer him an inner warmth that helped.

  Apparently satisfied that his friend was eating, Martin walked over to a cedar tree and plucked some black moss off the bark from its north side. He returned to Jacob and laid the moss on a log. Then he walked over to one of the dead men and cut a long strip of cloth from the back of his shirt. Martin returned to Jacob and took out his moccasin needle and his remaining thread. Without a word, he took the flaps of skin left by the passage of the rifle bullet across Jacob’s face and pulled them together. He squeezed the open wound until Jacob flinched, then forced out a mass of blood clots in order to clear the wound. Then with a deftness born from living on the frontier where open wounds were common, he sewed the flaps of muscle and skin together. Next, he packed the moss from the tree over Jacob’s cheek wound to slow the bleeding. Deftly, Martin then tied the piece of shirt recently taken from the dead man around Jacob’s head like he had a toothache. That move forced the wound closed. At first, Jacob objected, but then the moss began to work its magic as it softened in the blood. Soon, its healing properties began “melting” into the wound and deadening the pain.

  The pain and bleeding soon diminished as a result of the medicinal properties of the moss and now Jacob found it was easier eating. But there was little Martin could do for the side wound at the moment. That meant a sharp pain followed every breath making it hard to move the arms or turn in place, which is typical of a rib wound. But eat Jacob did. “Damned if I’m going to let a little hurrah spoil my appetite,” he said.

  Then, as if they didn’t have enough to worry about, another problem arose. The horses began to get jittery and started snorting and nervous hoof stomping. Soon a pack of wolves glided silently into view at the edge of their clearing. Within moments the camp was surrounded by a dozen sets of red eyes hungrily reflecting off the firelight.