Daniel Boone: Westward Trail

by Barrett Jr. Neal

  “It’s time,” Daniel finally told Squire. “Time, and then some.”

  Squire looked up curiously. “Time for what, Dan’l?”

  “Nothin’. Just talkin’ to myself.” Through the trees he could see the outskirts of Salisbury. It was early yet, but the streets were full of people. Besides the market trade, there were extra folks in town for court—just where he would be in the morning, Daniel reminded himself. What in hell was he going to tell his creditors this time? They had heard just about every tale he could spin already.

  “Go on over to the store and find Findley and Stewart,” he told Squire. “I’m goin’ to have me a talk with Dick Henderson, if can find him.”

  “About court or Kentucky?”

  Daniel grinned. “A little of both, I reckon.”

  Squire brought his mount up close and shook his head. “You’re fair wastin’ your time, Dan’l. You been plaguin’ Henderson for four years about Kentucky, and he hasn’t done nothin’ but sit on his tail, far as I can see.”

  “Dick Henderson’s land hungry. Don’t you forget that, little brother. He’s slow, but he’s hungry.”

  Squire made an irreverent noise with his tongue. “He knows I’m goin’ to get there with or without him,” Daniel insisted.

  “I heard that before somewhere.”

  “Well, you’ll likely hear it again,” Daniel replied.

  Urging his mare forward, he jerked the pack horses down the hollow and into the streets of Salisbury.

  When the skins were sold and the few supplies he dared to purchase were loaded on the horses, he stabled the animals and started after Henderson. The clerk in Henderson’s office said his boss was out, probably down at the sawmill with a client. If Daniel cared to wait … but Daniel didn’t. He had already waited all winter.

  The sawmill was half a mile down the hollow, on the far edge of town. On his way, Daniel passed by Miller’s Tavern. The laughter and fiddle music inside was inviting, but the place was full of disreputables, so he kept on going.

  Suddenly, from behind, he heard a girl scream. At first he thought nothing of it, but then she screamed again, this time crying out his name.

  Sprinting back up the hill, he cut through the trees to the front of the tavern. The sight that met his eyes turned him rigid with anger.

  Three roughnecks were playing cat and mouse with a young girl. Two of the men on foot would let her run for the trees, then the third man, on horseback, would herd her back.

  The game could end only one way, and the girl knew it. Her hair was disheveled and an ugly bruise colored her cheek. Her blue blouse was torn off one shoulder, exposing a breast.

  Daniel recognized her. Her name was Mindy, and she was a second cousin of Becky’s. She was a pretty girl, not a day over fifteen.

  When Daniel stepped forward, the girl saw him and screamed his name again. The two men on foot instantly froze in their tracks, and the horseman glared, then clutched his reins and jerked the mount toward Daniel.

  “Don’t,” Boone said calmly, leveling his rifle at the man’s chest. “I’ll kill you sure and quick, mister.”

  The horseman reined back and sat easy, as if nothing had happened. Daniel looked the three over. He knew Billy Girt, a drunk and a ne’er-do-well, the worst of three brothers. The second, stocky and mean-eyed, looked half-Indian.

  Boone moved his gaze from Girt and the half-breed to the rider. Lean and wiry as a wolf, he was a breed like the other, but obviously had more white blood than Indian. His deep-set blue eyes were as cold and blue as river ice, and he looked a hand taller than Boone.

  Daniel glanced at the man’s buckskins. They were common enough, but no frontier wife had stitched them together. They were made by Indians, for certain, like his moccasins and horse gear.

  “Mindy, get over here with me,” Boone said quietly. The girl struggled to her feet and stumbled to him. “Billy Girt, you got to answer for this.”

  Girt forced a tight grin. “No harm meant, Boone. We was just.…”

  “I know what you were doin’, Billy.” His tone was hard and uncompromising. Out of the corner of his eye, Daniel saw the rider suddenly sit up straight.

  “Hold it!” As Boone swung the rifle to cover him, the stocky breed charged from behind. Daniel turned and fired. The ball parted the breed’s hair, but he kept coming. His head met Daniel’s belly and bowled him to the ground. Daniel sucked in air and tried to roll away, but the breed had a grip like a bear. Daniel clawed his face, found an eye and jabbed a thumb in hard. The man yelled and tossed Boone aside. Daniel came to his feet, pulling the tomahawk from his belt as the short man staggered and shook blood from his eye. A long blade flashed in the breed’s fist.

  Daniel glanced to one side. Billy Girt was gone, and the rider was bringing his horse around hard to get behind. A pistol waved at the end of his arm, following Daniel for a clear shot. Daniel stepped quickly away, putting the short man between himself and the rider. The breed feinted, tossed the knife to his left hand and lunged at his opponent’s stomach. Daniel skipped aside and came in fast. The tomahawk whistled. The breed ducked, but not fast enough. The weapon ripped at his sleeve and tore flesh.

  “Goddamn it—kill him!” he shouted hoarsely as he backed away.

  The rider looked amused. “Kill him yourself, Rafe.”

  The breed raged and charged again. Boone moved away easily. The man was strong but slow. Daniel knew he could take him anytime. He also knew that the rider had no intention of staying out of the fight. He’d kill quickly when he felt like it.

  Swinging the tomahawk in wide circles, Boone went for the breed. When the man crouched to meet him, Daniel shifted to the right, lashed out with his foot and kicked him solidly in the crotch. As the breed doubled up, Daniel buried the tomahawk in the back of his neck. The man staggered, then dropped like a sack. Daniel wrenched the weapon loose, turned swiftly and tossed it at the rider.

  The rider instinctively brought up his hand to ward off the twisting weapon. It glanced off his shoulder and spun in the air. The pistol exploded and the horse bolted. Daniel leaped for him. The tall man cursed, kicked out and drove him back, then swung the mount around fast and crashed through the brush.

  Daniel wiped his brow and looked around. The breed was dead. The fellow had asked for it plain, and Boone had no regrets. Miller’s Tavern had gone suddenly quiet, as if the men packed inside had disappeared.

  Daniel brushed himself off, found the tomahawk and stuck it in his belt. Billy Girt would have to get a talking-to, and that meant taking on his brothers. Damnation! The whole business irritated him no end. He had plenty to do without fooling around with Girts. He picked up his rifle, walked to a tree and sat down to reload. It was then that he noticed Mindy had taken to the woods as well. The party sure had died quickly. There was no one left but him and the breed.

  Chapter Four

  It was well past noon when Daniel finally tracked down Dick Henderson. Henderson welcomed his old friend into his office, but Daniel knew better than to accept. This wasn’t talk he wanted interrupted. As a Rowan County judge, Henderson was busy enough on ordinary days. On the day before court, everyone in town wanted his ear, so Daniel guided him quickly out of the building and down the street to a table at Steele’s Tavern.

  When they were settled over a pitcher of ale, Henderson leaned back and gave Daniel an amused smile. He was a tall, portly man who always gave Boone the impression of relaxed authority.

  “The way you’re acting, Dan, I’d say you’re a man with something on his mind.”

  Daniel grinned. “I guess it shows, don’t it? Well, you’re as right as you can be.”

  “We’ve known each other a long time, my friend.”

  Daniel nodded absently, glanced back over his shoulder, then leaned toward Henderson. “It’s time for us to do it, Dick. It’s time to get to Kentucky.” He laid his fist solidly on the table. “You recall me talkin’ about John Findley, the feller that was with me on the Monongahela?”


  Henderson nodded. Boone told him how Findley had shown up at the start of winter, and what he had said about the Warrior’s Path. Daniel ended by telling how he and Findley, along with his brother Squire and John Stewart, were bound and determined to find the Path. They were ready to go, and to go now.

  “I never saw a time when you weren’t ready, Daniel,” Henderson remarked warily.

  “This is different.”

  “You believe in this Warrior’s Path, do you? It’s an old story.”

  Boone started to protest, but Henderson held up his hand. “I’m not saying it is or isn’t there. If it’s not, though, it wouldn’t be the first Indian legend that didn’t hold water. You have to admit, old friend, a secret path through the mountains….”

  Boone swallowed his impatience. Sometimes it was difficult to remember he and his friend were as different as night and day. Dick was a town man, not a wanderer. His round, full features spoke of too much good whiskey, and even his fine, well-tailored clothes failed to hide an ever-expanding middle. Only Dick Henderson’s eyes spoke of his love for the far side of the mountain. It was a look Daniel knew and understood, the one thing that brought them together. “It’s there, Dick, and it’s more than a goddamn Indian story.” He borrowed Findley’s words. “How do you think the Cherokees been gettin’ to the Shawnees all this time? They sure ain’t been flyin’!”

  Henderson frowned thoughtfully. Daniel didn’t give him time to argue. “It’s time, Dick, you know that as well as I do. Look what’s happenin’ on the Yadkin, and here in Salisbury—all over North Carolina and Virginia, too. Folks are goin’ to cross those mountains to find land. Whoever gets there first will get the best pickin’s. If it isn’t us, it’ll be someone else.”

  Henderson grinned and shook his head. “You know how to get to me, don’t you, Daniel? Right to the throat, eh?”

  “I reckon I do. And you can’t argue it, Dick.”

  Henderson took a stiff pull on his drink, then looked carefully at Boone. “It would have to be done right, Daniel.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I mean proper. There would have to be legal foundations for settling up land….”

  Daniel made a face. “You’re talkin’ like a lawyer, Dick.”

  “Why, damn you, I am a lawyer!”

  “Well stop actin’ like one a minute and talk like Dick Henderson, who’s as eager to get his toes wet in Kentucky as I am!”

  Henderson smiled. “You’re not such a bad lawyer yourself, Daniel.”

  “I’m nothin’ of the kind, but I know the man I’m drinkin’ with. Hell, Dick, I been scoutin’ out land for you for how long? Ain’t any big secret—everyone in North Carolina knows it.”

  Henderson cleared his throat. “There is no law against scouting or surveying,” he said evenly. He caught Boone’s expression and broke into a laugh. “All right. You’ve made your point.”

  “Fine. My old grandpa used to say thinkin’ about sinnin’ was the same as doin’ it. Besides, I won’t exactly be goin’ in there and layin’ out towns behind my horse, Dick. This is a huntin’ expedition, and nothin’ more. If there’s as much as Findley claims, we’ll more’n pay for the trip.”

  “Of course,” Henderson said with a straight face. He raised a brow at Daniel. “But in case you should happen to stumble across some land in Kentucky you would like for your own, it would be prudent to arm yourself with some authority to claim what you’ve seen. Though at present, I must admit I don’t know where that authority would come from, Daniel.”

  Daniel grinned. “Hell, you’ll think of somethin’. Lawyers always do, Dick.”

  Henderson pretended to cringe, but Daniel could tell by the gleam in his eye he was interested.

  “What do you need from me?” Henderson asked. “I know you want more than just my moral support.”

  Daniel tried to swallow his relief. “Two things, Dick. Money for the trip, first off. Enough supplies to hold us till we can get our own meat.” Daniel hesitated. “And I got to get these damned suits off my back. I can’t leave Becky with that hangin’ over us.”

  Henderson nodded. “You want me to get a continuance.”

  “If you can. I don’t see how I can go without one.”

  “No. Nor do I.” He sat up straight and looked squarely at Daniel. “You’ll go, my friend. By God, you will go. Rest assured of that!”

  Henderson watched his friend leave and ordered another ale. He knew Boone was likely the happiest man in North Carolina right now. Daniel didn’t give a whit about the business of acquiring land. He might think he did, but Dick Henderson knew better. All Daniel really wanted was the chance to find his promised land. He’d do that, and willingly, even if he never took one acre of Kentucky for himself.

  Henderson treasured his bond with Boone more than any other. In one respect, they were worlds apart. Boone’s life was in the forest and on the plain. His friends were scouts and backwoodsmen like Findley. Boone cared nothing for the undercurrents of colonial society that were Henderson’s element. Only once had Henderson tried to mix their worlds. His friends had been fascinated by Boone, but, although Daniel would never say it, the small talk of lawyers and businessmen had bored him. When Daniel spoke of buffalo and endless forests, Henderson’s friends saw only acres of profit, new settlements and new industry.

  Still, Henderson recalled with a grin, Daniel had no trouble at all communicating with the women at that gathering. The aristocratic ladies there had swarmed around him like moths around a flame. The aura of danger and excitement that seemed to surround the rough backwoodsman set many eyes fluttering, and brought a flush to the cheeks of even the most sedate colonial lasses. Even his own wife, the daughter of an Irish lord, had not been immune to Boone’s charms. Daniel’s presence at the party had clearly been a feather in her cap. Who else could boast a guest who had actually killed a buffalo and had lived with savage redskins?

  Barely through his second cup of ale, Henderson spotted his partner, John Williams, making his way through the crowd. Henderson waved him over.

  “Been looking all over for you, Dick. For Boone, really. The office said—”

  “You just missed him. Sit down. What’s the trouble?”

  Williams looked concerned. “Nothing, maybe. But Daniel ought to know about it. That little fracas he got into this morning. One of the men in it was….”

  “Wait.” Henderson held up a hand. “What little fracas are you talking about?”

  “Didn’t he tell you?” Williams frowned, then quickly recounted the tale.

  “Well, by God!” Henderson shook his head in amazement. “We sat here for half an hour and he never said a word. Killed a man, you say?”

  “His name was Rafe Flint. A wagoner who works for us saw the whole thing, and he swears the one who got away is Rafe’s half-brother, Henry.”

  Henderson sat up straight. “Henry Flint, the renegade?” He shook his head adamantly. “That bastard wouldn’t have the nerve to show himself among decent men!”

  “Maybe not, but if it’s true….”

  “Damnation!” Henderson slammed his fist on the table, staining the wood with ale. If it were true, Daniel had made for himself a bad enemy.

  There was more than enough to do, and as far as Boone was concerned, scarcely any time to do it. The first smell of spring was already in the air. Provisions had been packed, and Squire had bought a team of pack horses. There were bearskin blankets, pots, kettles, salt, flour, lead, powder, extra rifles, skinning knives and spare moccasins. Plenty of rope and leather were also packed, as well as traps and rifle tools.

  Daniel wouldn’t have left the tools behind for anything. He had learned to work metal from his blacksmith father, and the knowledge had saved his life more than once. A sharp eye with a rifle was important, but a weapon was nothing more than worthless wood and metal if it wouldn’t shoot properly. A man who had his own bellows and files and knew how to use them could damn near build a whole new rifle in the woods if
he had to.

  Daniel had thought long and hard about who else to bring along on the trip. With him and the others spending all their time exploring and trapping for skins, someone else would have to keep camp, and prepare and pack the hides. Boone finally settled on Joseph Holden, James Mooney and Will Cooley. They had always been good neighbors and reliable men. They would have to be paid, of course, but the time they would save the others would make them well worth the expense.

  In mid-April, Daniel had one of the few arguments with Squire he could remember. Someone had to stay back to bring new supplies in the fall. Squire agreed, but didn’t think he ought to be the one.

  “Hell, I been part of this thing from the start, Daniel. You know how I feel about goin’.”

  “Isn’t anyone else I can trust,” Daniel told him. “That’s the truth, Squire.”

  “Ha!” Squire forced a laugh at Daniel’s expression. “I’m your brother, remember? You don’t have to rub no grease on me!”

  Still, in the end he agreed. Someone had to get the crops in and look after Daniel’s family, as well as John Stewart’s. And there was the other matter, too. Daniel had quickly dismissed Henderson’s news about Henry Flint, but he was more than a little worried about the renegade. Squire could read it plainly on his brother’s face.

  Nat Gist, or any number of friends or relatives for that matter, could have looked after the families till fall, but Daniel had more faith in his own brother. Daniel told him so. That decided it for Squire. He gave Daniel no more trouble about staying behind.

  A few weeks earlier, he had ridden out with Daniel to give Billy Girt a stern warning. They had nearly scared the life out of Billy, but when Daniel asked him about Flint, Girt denied knowing the man. Obviously, by the look in his eyes, he was more frightened of Flint than he was of Daniel. And with good reason, Squire decided.