Chapter Eleven
Stewart returned to camp. Both Holden and Cooley had complained to him about spending the winter in outlying posts. The hunting season was over, they had argued, and there’d be no more skinning or curing till spring. They could easily handle the furs from one camp, and saw no reason why they couldn’t hole up at Station Camp with the others.
“I got a reason,” Daniel snapped. “That’s what they’re bein’ paid to do.”
“They’re farmers, not hunters,” Stewart reminded him.
“I guess I know what they are, John.”
Stewart caught Boone’s dark look and ignored it. “I know you do, Dan’l. I’m just sayin’ to you what they said to me. Leave ’em out there if you want. It’s all the same to me. Just remember we got to live with them again come next spring.”
“There ain’t no reason we couldn’t haul what skins we got back here,” said Findley. “Put ’em with the big cache and let them two come back in.”
Daniel looked at him. “That what you want?”
“Don’t matter to me one way or the other.”
“Fine,” said Daniel. “Since just about anythin’s all right with you boys, why the hell don’t we quit talkin’ ’bout it?” He stood up abruptly and stalked away.
Stewart waited, then shook his head and spit on the fire. “Goddamn, Findley, if Squire don’t get here soon, Dan’l’s goin’ to scalp the both of us. The man ain’t fit to talk to!”
Findley gave him a curious look. “What’s Squire got to do with it?”
“Well hell, everything. We’re runnin’ out o’ powder and lead; we got no traps to work with—”
“—and Daniel thinks Squire’s dead,” Findley finished. “I know that, boy.”
“Then why you askin’?”
“’Cause Squire’s got nothin’ to do with Daniel acting like a bear with a burr up his tail end. That kind of mad comes from the head. But ole Boone’s temper’s hangin’ right between his legs.” He grinned at Stewart through his grey-white beard. “If he’d bed that goddamn squaw, ’stead of all the time thinkin’ about it, we’d have us a grinnin’ fool on our hands.”
Daniel strode right over to his blanket and started tossing trail provisions together in his pack. Stopping by the food cache, he tore off a long strip of jerked venison and poured two handfuls of parched corn into a leather pouch. Hefting the pack and two long rifles, he started down the hollow for his horse. He had everything loaded and strapped when Blue Duck came up behind him.
“Wide Mouth is leaving again?” she asked.
“Yep. He sure is.” Daniel averted his gaze from her.
“Can Blue Duck ask where he is going?”
“Huntin’.”
“But there is nothing to hunt. The land is cold and empty. Even a poor woman knows the deer’s meat is lean and its skin unfit in winter.”
“That’s right.”
“Then why does Boone….”
“Goddamn it!” Daniel turned on her savagely. Blue Duck quickly backed away.
“You got to know everything, woman? Get away from me. Go on, get out of here! Leave me the hell alone!”
Blue Duck turned and fled up the path. Boone glared after her. In a moment, she was nearly lost in the hollow, a shadow against the trees. He saw her reach the top of the hill, turn and look back at him. She made a small, almost childish figure in the fading light, but she was no child. No child at all, Boone thought. Even the heavy furs she wore failed to hide the full figure of a woman. Daniel clamped his teeth and turned away. In a moment, he was out of the hollow and into the open, driving the mare hard over the frozen ground.
Late in the afternoon, he saw the rider galloping behind him. Boone pulled out of the wind and waited. Stewart looked like a bear riding a horse, with only his deep brown eyes squinting from under the furs. He stopped near Daniel and blew on his hands.
“Mind some company?”
“Nope. Don’t mind at all.”
“Figured you might be goin’ after buffalo.”
“I was thinkin’ on it.”
Stewart nodded. “The trace that snakes down across the river oughta show a few shaggies ’bout now. There was sign there a week ago.”
“They’ll be there,” Daniel said confidently. “If they ain’t, we’ll look somewhere else.”
The ragged line of trees skirted the valley for another five miles, then fell away to open, rolling meadow. The thick, lush grasses Boone had seen there in summer were now turned to a stiff matting of brown, frozen against the earth. Kentucky lay dark and silent under a colorless sky.
“What day you figure it is?” asked Stewart. “I know it’s December, but that’s about as close as I can get.”
“You’re on it,” Daniel told him. “It’s December 22, 1769.”
“Hell, I know the year, Dan’l.”
Boone laughed. “Just tryin’ to be a help.”
“Three days, an’ it’ll be Christmas.” Stewart made a show of sniffing air. “Hell, I can smell Hannah’s pies. I sure to God can.”
“It’s a far piece to the Yadkin.”
“Hannah makes big pies.”
“She does that, John.”
Stewart sighed and blew a breath of frosty air. “This is the only life for a man, Dan’l. But there’s times when you oughta be home, you know?”
Boone grinned. “Quit talkin’ about those pies. I’ll get you a nice buffalo tongue and a steamin’ slab of liver.”
Stewart made a face. “Ain’t nothin’ real Christmas-like ’bout that.”
“Will be. Why, I’ll stick a piece of holly on that old tongue and it’ll sit right up and sing you a hymn.”
“Huh. I reckon that’d be worth seein’, all right.”
They reached the river in another hour. The buffalo, moving sluggishly down the long valley, looked like a rolling sea of shaggy black humps blotting out the land. The herd was enormous, its flanks swelling hard against the woods on either side. The tail end was somewhere far past the curl of the hills.
“Goddamn,” breathed Stewart, “must be a good mile from one side to the other!”
“Enough to make our supper, I figure.” Daniel, squatting on the crest of the ridge, watched in fascination as the thousands of great beasts shuffled by below. It was a big herd, all right, one of the biggest he’d ever seen. It looked like a long, furry caterpillar bellying down the valley.
“They’re funnelin’ south and west,” observed Daniel. “Movin’ nice and easy. We get us into that little side valley on the right an’ we can pick some off as they pass without makin’ everybody nervous.”
“’Cept me, Daniel.” Stewart raised a brow. “That little valley you’re talkin’ ’bout’s got straight-up walls.”
Daniel looked pained. “John, them buffalo ain’t interested in runnin’ through there. They got a fine road straight out ahead.”
“Right now they do,” Stewart muttered.
Boone grinned and started down the hill. Well, you wanted to get him smiling again, Stewart told himself ruefully. You oughta be pleased with yourself.
As Stewart had expected, the valley was a dried-up riverbed with high limestone banks. If Daniel noticed there was no way out of the place, it didn’t seem to bother him. He knelt down seventy-five yards behind a line of dead trees, which masked him from the animals thundering by. Stewart squatted beside him.
“You shoot and I’ll load,” John said.
Daniel nodded, took aim, picked the animal he wanted and dropped him solid. In a few moments, he had four. Stewart knew what Daniel was doing—the son of a bitch was showing off, dropping buffalo in a nice even line across the river bed to build a barrier between themselves and the herd!
“That’s a real nice fence,” Stewart said dryly. “Don’t see how you’re goin’ to get ’em to hop up and die on the second row, though.”
Daniel fired again. The rifle jerked against his shoulder and a big bull folded on its short front legs and dropped dead, kicking
up dust.
“I’d have put him ’bout three inches to the right,” observed Stewart.
“What you don’t understand is the next one goes right over the—”
“Oh, Jesus, Dan’l!” Stewart squeezed his partner’s shoulder and jerked up fast. Daniel’s eyes went wide. He snatched up the other rifle and sprinted off down the draw. In the blink of an eye, one arm of the herd had shifted abruptly out of the valley and started straight for them. Stewart didn’t dare look back, but he could feel the beasts shaking the earth at his heels. Boone shouted something, grabbed his arm and pulled him to the ground. Stewart rolled and came up shaking. Daniel was on his knees, steadily taking aim.
“Goddamn,” yelled Stewart, “we don’t need another buffalo!”
Daniel waited. A wall of shaggy backs and beady red eyes thundered toward him. His muzzle flashed. The hit animal staggered and tumbled twice, stopping no more than two yards from Daniel’s gun. Stewart suddenly understood and leaped after Boone. Huddled against the big furry mound, he could feel a million pounds of meat roaring by on either side. Hooves pounded the riverbed only inches away from his head.
It seemed like forever before the last of the beasts thundered past, leaving the pair choking in the dust. Daniel looked at Stewart and burst out laughing. Glaring back at him, Stewart wiped the dirt off his face.
“Well hell, it worked, didn’t it?” Daniel asked.
Stewart, scared and disgusted, refused to answer. Daniel knew that splitting a herd that way had about a thousand-to-one chance of working, and they’d both seen more than one poor hunter who’d tried it squashed flatter than spilled soup.
It was nearly evening before they finished skinning the animals and hauling the heavy hides behind the trees. The night was getting cold, and Daniel decided to make camp. In the morning, one or the other would ride back to the outcamp to get Cooley and a pack horse.
Boone woke early. Lying quietly under his blanket for a long moment, he peered up through naked branches at a low, heavy sky. There was no wind, and the air was so quiet he could hear a bear scratching wood far down the valley. Sitting up slowly, he let the sounds work through his sleepiness. He heard one sound that worried him. Puffing his hat down tight, Boone roused Stewart.
“Get up and make your way to the horses. We’ll worry later ’bout the skins,” he whispered.
“What is it?”
“Don’t know. Don’t want to wait ’round and see, neither.”
Stewart nodded and scampered off. When the horses were ready Daniel came quickly down the hollow. He motioned down the steep path and started off, leading his mount quietly, keeping a calming hand on the animals’ muzzle. At the end of the twisting path the trees thinned out. There was a narrow meadow to cross, then cover again. Boone studied the place carefully before moving forward. Stewart followed him silently into the open.
There wasn’t a sound to be heard except the hoof-beats of their own horses. The lead-grey sky looked swollen with snow. Boone watched small puffs of vapor drift from his horse’s nostrils. He heard the loud creak of his saddle and the gurgle of water running somewhere ahead.
Suddenly, from the woods to their left, a jackrabbit burst out of cover and ran a crazy pattern over the meadow. Stewart went stiff and jerked up his rifle.
“Hold it.” Daniel laid a hand on Stewart’s arm. “Too goddamn late for that, friend.” He motioned with his eyes and Stewart looked east across the meadow. A party of Shawnees stood there on their ponies, not thirty yards away. There was a good dozen of them. Five or six of them had long rifles aimed steadily on Stewart and Boone.
Chapter Twelve
It might be the last move he would ever make, but it had to be done. Handing his rifle to Stewart, Daniel walked straight across the field toward the Shawnees, keeping his steps bold and sure. Indians never believed what they saw in a man’s face, but his would tell them he wasn’t afraid. At least he hoped it would. He had never been much of a liar either talking or walking.
Boone knew which Indian to approach. The man sat tall and straight, well in front of the others. He was square-faced with piercing eyes and a broad slit of a mouth. Under his bearskin robe he wore a bright crimson British officer’s jacket. The Shawnee might have bought or stolen the coat, but Daniel figured he had more likely killed for it.
“Well, brothers,” Daniel said in fluent Cherokee, “it’s a fine day for huntin’, ain’t it? We have been havin’ some luck, and hope you’re doin’ the same. Got some good buffalo meat yesterday. I’d be pleased if you’d take some. It’d be a real pleasure to—”
“Wait.” The Indian held up his hand and narrowed his eyes at Boone. “Speak to me in English. The tongue of the Cherokee is a dog language.”
Off to a good start, thought Daniel. “I’m right sorry I don’t talk Shawnee,” he apologized.
The Indian nodded gravely. “It would be well if you did. You walk the Shawnee’s land, fish in his rivers and piss on his trees. You hunt his game and make fires in his forests. It seems strange to me that you do not speak his tongue, Boone.”
Daniel tried not to flinch. “I’m shamed that you know my name, and I don’t know yours.”
“I am called Captain Will by the white man.”
“Well. It’s a pleasure, Captain Will. My friend here’s….”
The Indian pointed his rifle between Daniel’s eyes. “You are a good talker, Boone. Now I see why the Cherokees call you Wide Mouth. But you will stop the talking. We will ride together to the camps where you keep your pelts. I am anxious to know how well you have done in the land of the Shawnees.”
Daniel’s heart near stopped. He kept his eyes on the Indian’s but said nothing. Captain Will’s stony look told him all he needed to know. The Indian plainly meant business, and there wasn’t a damn thing he and Stewart could do about it.
The cold December wind sang through the trees and cut through his heavy clothing. Still, Daniel hardly noticed the chill. He was seething with anger inside, and trying hard to keep the Indians from seeing it. Stewart rode beside him. Their horses were tied together, making it impossible for them to make a run for it. And if they tried, the two braves riding beside them and one behind would slow them down.
At first Daniel figured Captain Will knew everything about him—where the skins were, how many men he had, everything. Now, on sober second thought, Boone wasn’t so sure. The meeting in the meadow happened by pure chance—one hunting party coming across another. More than likely, the Indians too had been after buffalo. They had probably found the carcasses or heard the shots, and tracked Boone and Stewart from there. The Captain’s mention of the camps was straight-faced bluffing and nothing more. He and Stewart were clearly hunters, and it didn’t take much to figure that hunters would have a couple of caches of skins.
Something else worried him. Did Captain Will know about the Shawnees Daniel had killed? And about Blue Duck? Maybe the warrior who got away and had put him on the lookout. If Will knew about that business, he and Stewart were goners. They would live only until the Shawnees took all the skins they could steal. Or worse still, the Indians might take them up the Ohio as trophies to give to the folks back home for sport. Either way, the future looked dim.
Still, Boone thought doggedly, they weren’t dead yet. If the Shawnees didn’t know what he’d done, he and John might come out clean and healthy. If there wasn’t a real war underway, most Indians would let a white man go after they had robbed him.
Boone knew what he had to do—lead the Indians first to Cooley’s outcamp, but make enough fuss to warn Cooley off and to give him time to haul out for Station Camp. If he and Stewart could stall and wander about long enough, Findley and the others could get the main cache moved. That way they wouldn’t lose more than a few skins in the outpost camps. Damn it, it had to work that way. He wasn’t about to lose six months of hard work to a bunch of thieving Shawnees!
Still, one thought kept gnawing at his mind. How did they know who he was? The only answer
he could think of was one he didn’t like. Black Knife, the renegade Henry Flint.
Captain Will sat on his horse and stoically watched his warriors ransack the camp. Cooley was gone, but it was clear he’d just scampered off. The embers in the fire pit were still hot, and there was a pan of spilled beans soaking into the earth.
“Boone.” Will pointed at the pile of skins his braves had made in the clearing. “That is not enough. You will take us to the others, and quickly!” He poked Daniel hard with his rifle. “This time, you will not pretend to lose your way, Wide Mouth. The Shawnees are not children. Do you understand?”
“Yeah, I reckon I do,” Daniel replied evenly.
“We will see if you do.” He jerked around and spoke to a warrior in rapid Shawnee. The warrior rode up beside Stewart and kicked him savagely to the ground. Stewart clawed at the air and hit hard. Before he could move, three more Indians pounced on him. Stewart struggled and yelled. The Shawnees shouted with glee, tearing at his clothes with their knives until they had his trousers in shreds. Stewart realized what they were doing and screamed out in fear. The Indians ran their blades over his belly and thighs, leaving wicked streaks of red. Finally, one brave grabbed Stewart’s genitals and shook a knife in his victim’s face. The message was clear enough. Stewart went as white as a fish’s belly and threw up his supper.
“All right, goddamnit!” Daniel shouted angrily. “We get the idea. Leave him alone!”
Captain Will nodded to his warriors, then looked solemnly at Boone. “Now Wide Mouth will be a better tracker, I think. We will see more man-trails and chase fewer rabbits.” Turning his pony about, the Indian trotted through the camp and joined his warriors, leaving Boone to see after Stewart. Daniel knew better than to try the same trick twice. Convinced that Captain Will would castrate him if led astray, Stewart was shaken to jelly. But Daniel figured there was no need to worry. He had bought all the time he needed. Cooley had now had time to ride to the other outposts and to warn Station Camp. There was no need to push for more time.
Daniel Boone: Westward Trail Page 9
