Daniel Boone: Westward Trail

by Barrett Jr. Neal

  “Oh, they’re finished for certain,” the man answered. “They got to give back everythin’ they took—horses, guns, prisoners, everythin’.” The man grinned. “An’ best of all, they ain’t even allowed to set foot south of the Ohio River.”

  The crowd cheered and pounded the man on the back until Daniel raised a hand to quiet them. “Kentucky’s their huntin’ grounds,” he said evenly. “Does Lewis believe they’re gonna quit eatin’?”

  The man glared, deeply offended. “Well, hell, they’ll have to hunt somewhere else, won’t they? I know what I’m talkin’ about. I was there!” And everyone was anxious to hear more. But as the messenger plowed back into his story, Daniel stalked away.

  “If that ain’t the biggest pile of buffalo chips I ever heard,” he later told Stoner and Gass, “you show me one bigger.”

  Gass agreed. “They’ll ease up for awhile, but that don’t mean nothin’.”

  “I didn’t hear anythin’ about Logan at that peace treaty,” added Daniel. “You can bet he wasn’t there and that he don’t give a damn about it.”

  “People think what they want to think,” shrugged Stoner. The big Dutchman hitched up his trousers and grinned. “Maybe we should go out and kiss a few Shawnee brothers, ja?”

  “You go out and find Logan,” Daniel said grimly. “He’ll show you somethin’ to kiss all right,”

  Everyone in the fort wanted to make the tenth of October, the day Lewis had beaten the Indians a regular holiday in the Clinch. Daniel figured he would remember it all right, but not for the same reason. It was a year to the day since James had been tortured and killed on Wallen’s Ridge. Daniel spent his fortieth birthday in the cramped cabin at Moore’s Fort. Rebecca managed to scrape up berries and flour enough to bake a pie. On the twentieth of November, he was discharged from the militia with a note of thanks from Colonel Preston. He cursed at the note and threw it in the fire.

  Everyone was eager to get out of the fort and to go back home, but Daniel couldn’t see much reason to celebrate. Nearly all the houses on the Clinch, including his own, had been cleaned out and burned. Winter was coming on, there were no crops or stores of food, and it was a bad time to begin building cabins.

  But there was nothing else to do. He led his family back to Castle’s Woods and began to construct a new roof over their heads. Boone, Russell, Gass and some of the others worked out a schedule of hunting and building so that no man would have to do the same task all the time.

  At least for the time being, it was safe to travel between the Clinch and North Carolina and Virginia again. Before the month was out, teams and wagons began arriving from the East with sorely needed goods. Frontier wives broke out in tears at the sight of sugar and flour and a few sacks of potatoes. Maybe it would be a Christmas to celebrate after all.

  But the approaching holiday season only added to Daniel’s dark mood, though he tried hard to mask his feelings. Becky and the children had been through enough hardship. They didn’t need to see his sour face now.

  What was ahead for him? he wondered. He was poorer than ever, with little hope of ever seeing better days. There were still suits against him in Salisbury—the papers were probably growing beards by now. How was he ever going to begin paying them off?

  More than anything else, he was angry at the senseless war he had just fought, and the suffering it had caused them all. And why? So that Lord Dunmore could grab Kentucky? Is that why he had played soldier on the Clinch, so that one of the King’s fancy boot-lickers could put a little more gold in his own pocket?

  Goddamn, Daniel raged, I didn’t fight so you could get there first, you British idiot!

  His grim thoughts plagued him more and more every day. Four days before Christmas, two more wagons arrived from the East. Driving one team was a young wagoner who worked for Dick Henderson. He had for Daniel and his family a large wooden box in which were fine gun tools and bullet molding equipment, French lace and bolts of cloth finer than Becky had ever seen, and candy and sweetmeats for the children. The wagoner also carried a sealed letter, to be delivered into Daniel’s hands only. Daniel read it quickly, gave a yell and shouted for Becky. The letter was from Henderson. It read:

  My dearest friend Daniel Boone,

  In greatest confidence I inform you that I am now prepared to purchase a considerable amount of land in Kentucky, and open such properties to interested buyers. I eagerly await your presence here in Salisbury regarding this venture.

  Daniel, I know you have waited long and patiently for my action in this matter of mutual interest. Wait no longer, my good friend. If all goes well, you will be a holder of great property in Kentucky by the spring.

  Your obedient servant,

  Richard Henderson

  Becky forced a smile. “That’s real fine, Dan.”

  “Fine?” Daniel affectionately grabbed her shoulder and laughed out loud. “Damnation, Becky, didn’t you listen?”

  “I listened, Daniel.”

  “Well?” He caught the cynical look in her eyes and clamped a hand to his brow. “All right. I reckon you’re gonna start in on Dick Henderson again, is that it?”

  “Start in?” Rebecca stiffened and glared at him. “No, Daniel. I’m not going to start in on Dick Henderson. Not Daniel Boone’s good friend Dick Henderson.”

  “All right, Becky.”

  “All right, yourself!” she snapped. He tried to walk around her, but she stood her ground in his path. “Oh, God, Daniel, don’t you see what he’s doing? The same thing he’s been doing for near ten years! And what’s it ever come to? Nothin’. Nothin’ at all!”

  “Times are different now,” muttered Daniel.

  “Oh, well, of course.”

  “They are, Becky. He acts slow, I know it—God knows I do. But Kentucky’s his dream, too.”

  “He’s got money in the bank,” she shouted. “He can afford to dream. You can’t, Daniel. You’ve got nothin’!”

  She caught herself the minute she spoke and saw the hurt look in his eyes. She wished could bite off her tongue. “Oh, God, Daniel, I didn’t mean that.”

  “Don’t be apologizin’,” he told her. “I reckon I know what I’ve got and haven’t got. Nothin’s real close to the truth.”

  “Daniel, please!”

  He looked at her a long moment, thinking of the shame she had tossed in his face and almost hating her for it. The hate wasn’t real, and he knew it—there wasn’t a way in the world he could feel like that about her—but the shame was there all the same. And the worst of it was that she was right. He would go chasing after Dick if there was a chance in hell of going to Kentucky. I’m not much better than a man who’s a slave to whiskey, he thought miserably. One more swallow’s ’bout all that makes it better.

  Henderson studied the golden liquid in his glass and raised a toast to Daniel. “To us, my friend. To a new year, 1775, and to the success of our venture.” Daniel, expecting whiskey, felt a different kind of heat slide smoothly down his throat. Henderson saw his puzzled look and smiled. “It’s brandy, Daniel. French brandy. Near the last bottle, too, and likely the last we’ll see for a while if things get worse.”

  “You think they will?”

  “Oh, yes. Indeed I do.” Henderson nodded gravely. “Have to. Too much bad blood between us and our British cousins. Some’s bound to get spilled before it’s over.”

  “Yep, that’s what Will Russell thinks.”

  “Russell is right. I do not hold with revolution, mind you, but we’re being pushed to the wall. King George and that idiot North will not see reason.” Henderson shook his head and filled their glasses, then gave Boone a sly wink. “Still, though I don’t ask for trouble, trouble will favor us if it comes, Daniel. Our Royal Governors are soon going to be too busy to concern themselves with Kentucky.”

  Daniel frowned. “Dunmore’s going to pounce on you for sure.”

  “Yes, the old hypocrite’s lost his chance in Kentucky, and he’ll rail righteously against anyone else who tries
to settle there, but the times are against him, friend. He has an angry nest of bees to tend to, now. Last fall, while you were holed up in that fort, a Continental Congress met openly back East. You heard, I imagine. Well they’re not about to sit still and see their grievances ignored.”

  Daniel couldn’t help but note the change in his friend. Henderson had never been especially resentful of the British, but he was clearly a rebel now. With his term of office behind him, he had thrown caution to the wind. Instead of hiding his plans to settle Kentucky, he flaunted them boldly. His Transylvania Company was already inviting settlers to new lands in the West. Henderson excitedly showed Daniel several drafts of handbills and newspaper ads, but so far, Daniel knew, Henderson didn’t own one square inch of the lands he was now eager to sell.

  That, said Henderson, was where Daniel came in. It was perfectly legal, he explained, to buy lands from “Indian Princes or Governments” through agreements or grants—without consent of the King.

  “Of course,” Henderson said blandly, “that law originally applied to the natives of India, but it doesn’t say American Indians are excluded.”

  Daniel laughed out loud. “By God, Dick, I reckon a lawyer could sell hell to the Devil and make a profit!”

  “I suspect it’s been tried, Daniel. At any rate, the next step in this venture is up to you.” He looked squarely at Boone. “You’re about to renew your friendship with the Cherokees, Daniel. Because we want to buy twenty million acres of land from them.” He stood and gripped his friend’s hand warmly. “I told you you’d become a landowner, and so you will, Mr. Boone.”

  Daniel took Stoner along on his trips to the Cherokees, for company more than anything else. He had been to these villages a dozen times before and was expecting no trouble. The Indians there knew and welcomed him. Daniel decided Dick had been right—the friends he had made before were showing their value now.

  It was hard to keep himself from looking for Blue Duck’s family. He thought he saw her in every other face, now—in grown women who laughed a certain way, in ten-year-old girls with soft doe eyes and gangly frames who were just about to blossom.

  I’m going to ask, he told himself. I just got to. But the time never seemed to be right.

  In late February, Boone and Stoner camped in a dry cave on the bank of the Holston and roasted a haunch of venison. They had visited two villages in the past three days, inviting chiefs and elders to a meeting at Sycamore Shoals, and promising that fine goods would be on hand for Wide Mouth’s Cherokee brothers.

  “I ain’t sure I like this business too well,” said Daniel over the fire. “It ain’t goin’ down my craw real good.”

  Stoner wiped his mouth. “Visiting Indians, ja?”

  “Naw,” grumbled Daniel. “Buyin’ Kentucky from ’em, an’ tellin’ em what a fine deal they’re gettin’ from Henderson.” He looked up at Stoner. “You’ve seen Kentucky. How many blankets and beads you figure it’s worth?”

  Mike nodded slowly. He stood and ran his hands over his trousers and peered out at the dark. “Why not, Dan’l? They will get little from the bargain, it is true. But if they do not sell, Henderson or someone else will get it anyway. If not now, maybe sometime later.”

  “Yeah. I reckon that’s what the Cherokees are thinkin’, too.”

  Stoner sat back and chewed a blade of grass. “My friend,” he said, “can I ask someting?”

  “Ask away.”

  “Did you find him, Dan’l? I have wondered about it.”

  Daniel looked up. “Find who?”

  “Flint. You looked for him. Gass and I know.”

  Daniel grinned slightly. “I know you do. I seen you doggin’ my tracks.” Daniel shook his head. “Yeah, I found him, Mike. He’d been just where you said. He left his tracks plain, knowin’ you’d seen him an’ certain you’d tell me about it. There’ll be another time. We ain’t through with each other.”

  Stoner said nothing, and Daniel busied himself cleaning his rifle. There was more to the story, but he couldn’t tell it to Stoner or anyone. Flint had left him a little leather pouch hanging from a limb where he knew Daniel would find it. The sack was stiff with blood. So were the objects inside, but Daniel could tell what they were—the fingernails the Shawnees had pulled off his son and Henry Russell.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  It was the tenth day of March, a pause between winter and spring. The night had been cool enough for blankets, but the day promised a warm sun in a sky without clouds. Morning burned the frost off the grass, and the Watauga River shone like polished steel. Daniel stood on a low hill over the valley waiting for Stoner. Smoke from the Cherokee lodges formed a haze in the trees; women, children and Indian dogs wandered about, while the braves clustered in tight little groups.

  As usual, a crowd was forming about the six cabins built along the shore. In a moment, Henderson’s men would open the wide doors and let the Cherokees peek inside. The doors would stay open that way all day, and the Indians would stand around until nightfall, earnestly admiring the treasures.

  Henderson knew exactly what he was doing, thought Daniel. He had waited till the Indians began to arrive in force at Sycamore Shoals before bringing in the goods. Arriving with great fanfare, six heavy wagons loaded with blankets, bolts of cloth, tools, beads, pots and pans, skinning knives, guns and clothing had rolled into the site. Most of the clothing was used, but nearly every item was brightly colored. And if the long rifles weren’t the latest and best available, they were at least in working condition. Daniel had warned Dick about that: “You give these braves guns that go off in their faces, an’ they’ll club you to death with ’em for sure.”

  The contents of the wagons filled six cabins to the rafters, and the Cherokees could clearly see everything they were getting. They had agreed to the cost: goods worth eight thousand pounds sterling, and another two thousand in cash. That was the price of Kentucky. Daniel doubted that the goods were worth anywhere near that much, but he wasn’t about to take Henderson to task. Dick had already convinced himself the Cherokees were getting more than a fair trade.

  Stoner waved at Daniel, and Daniel sauntered down to meet him. In spite of the moderate weather, the big Dutchman was soaked in sweat. Stepping down off his horse, he wiped a hand across his brow and spit on the ground. “Goddamn,” he said tightly, “we are going to have to horsewhip some fellers sure, Dan’l. I send two wagons back already this morning. You know what they are bringing? Whiskey! Fifty barrels of bad rum from Virginia!”

  Daniel shook his head. “Well, that’s sure all we need, ain’t it? I don’t want nobody shot or nothin’, Mike, so you better tell the other boys. This ain’t no county fair.”

  Right from the start, it had been clear to Daniel that the treaty signing could turn into something neither Henderson nor anyone else had bargained for. The Royal Governors of North Carolina and Virginia wanted the sale of Kentucky stopped. They protested that the whole business was fraudulent, and that every debtor in the colonies would run off to Kentucky. The land would become a haven for the dregs of the land. Besides, a separate treaty with the Indians was against the King’s law.

  Now crowds were fighting to get into Sycamore Shoals just to watch. Men, women and children were flooding in from all over. Worse still, every merchant who had bad stock to sell saw a golden opportunity to unload his wares.

  Daniel wasn’t having any of it. Everyone who didn’t have good reason to be there was stopped at the head of the valley and sent on his way. In a day or so there would be fifteen hundred Cherokees in the encampment. If one drunken Indian or white decided to have at it, there would be a fair-sized massacre on the Watauga.

  “Dave Gass and your brother are here,” reported Stoner. “I met them up the valley. Squire says Dick Henderson is behind him. They will be here in the morning.” Mike led his horse down to the river, and Daniel walked along.

  “That’s just fine. I want Dick to get used to the Indians.” He grinned at Stoner. “And them to him. Ol
d Attakullaculla himself is here now, and Draggin’ Canoe too. I know ’em both, and Draggin’ Canoe’s a mean one.”

  “You think there will be trouble?”

  “Not from the old man. But his son don’t care much for beads, especially when they come from whites.”

  “That’s fine,” Stoner said lightly. “Dick Henderson does not like Indians. They will make a fine match.”

  Daniel made a face. “Sure glad you’re along, Mike. Makes me feel warm all over.”

  “Ja, I am a fine fellow for sure.”

  The next day, Dick Henderson and his partners rode into the valley at noon on purebred horses, dressed from head to toe like English lords. Henderson might not care for Indians, but he knew what turned their heads. The great chiefs of the Cherokees would not be dishonored here. They would know they were dealing with men of high station.

  Daniel introduced Henderson to Attakullaculla, Dragging Canoe, and the other chiefs. Dick played his part like a professional on stage, treating the Cherokee leaders with the deference and respect due great leaders. He said nothing at all about the treaty, but invited them all to a feast that evening. Daniel caught the looks that passed among the Indians. This white man was in no hurry to do business. He was not a merchant selling blankets; he would honor his guests before mentioning serious matters.

  Henderson had made certain the feast would be the best. He had hired several families who lived along the Watauga to prepare the finest foods available—venison, buffalo, beefsteak, pigeon, wild turkey and pork. There were vegetables and cornbread, and even delicacies like pies and candies, which few of the Indians had ever tasted. By nightfall the valley was heavy with rich and succulent smells. As Dave Gass put it, “You give them Indians a pen right now an’ they’ll sell you everything from here to the Pacific Ocean, whether they own it or not!”

  After dinner, the Indians danced around the bonfires blazing along the shore, and Henderson provided a foot-stomping fiddle band that at first perplexed, then delighted the Cherokees.