Daniel Boone: Westward Trail

by Barrett Jr. Neal

  When it was over, Henderson asked Daniel to his tent for a nip of brandy: The lawyer’s fine silk jacket was set aside, and a determined frown replaced his diplomat’s smile; “Well,” he asked evenly, “are they happy?”

  “Sure they are,” said Boone. “Indians are always happy after a feast.”

  Henderson hid his impatience. “You know what I’m asking. Will they be ready to sign tomorrow?”

  “I reckon so. They wouldn’t be here if they weren’t. Indians are serious folks, and they take a pride in their word, Dick. They made an agreement, and they’ll stick by it if they can.”

  Henderson raised a brow. “What do you mean, if they can?”

  “Just what I said. There’s goin’ to be speech-makin’ and solemn noddin’ and a lot of gruntin’ and thinkin’. But you get impatient, Dick, or even look like you are, and these ol’ boys’ll have you for breakfast.”

  “Yes, yes, so you told me,” Henderson remarked irritably. He lit a clay pipe and gave Daniel a half smile. “I’ll try to behave, Daniel.”

  “Good. You aren’t dealin’ with no Royal Governors or judges, friend. These here are high-class folks.”

  Henderson looked at him curiously, but Boone kept a straight face.

  The Indians sat on their robes, their rigidly straight backs to the thick grove of sycamores. Dick Henderson tried hard to match his own expression to their grave, wooden faces. He opened the ceremony with great praise for the Cherokee people, honoring their bravery, wisdom, prowess as hunters—damn near everything, thought Daniel, except their cooking pots and dogs. Finally, he made an exaggerated show of respect for the Cherokees’ sovereignty in Kentucky. He told how the Iroquois had relinquished their claims to the area in 1768 at Fort Stanwix, and noted that the great British King himself had recognized the Cherokees’ ownership just five years before.

  “Here,” he said, presenting to the chiefs the map Boone had drawn, “is the land of Kentucky. It is this land I wish to buy from the Cherokees—the mountains, trees and valleys west of the Endless Mountains, where the waters of the Cumberland and Kentucky Rivers flow.”

  The chiefs studied the map thoughtfully, passing it from one to the other, and finally to their own white attorney hired for the occasion. He was a pompous little man who irked Dick Henderson no end. Who the hell ever heard of Indians have attorneys?

  Finally, Attakullaculla gathered his heavy buffalo robe about his square frame and stood to say his piece. Daniel had figured the old man would make the final decision. He was greatly respected by the Cherokees, and he knew the white men well. When he was younger, he had traveled to England and even dined with the King.

  “It is good that we meet here,” he said slowly. “The Cherokee people welcome their brothers, and thank them for the honor they have shown, and for the great feast they have given us….”

  The speech went on for nearly an hour, and Attakullaculla stopped frequently for his words to be translated into English. In the end, he made it clear that the Cherokees approved of the treaty, and praised the quality of the goods Henderson had promised in trade.

  Henderson relaxed when the old man sat down. The whole business was going well. Only the signing of the treaty and delivering of the goods in exchange remained to be accomplished.

  Then, Attalcullaculla’s son turned to his father and asked to speak. Henderson glanced at Daniel, who quickly glanced up at the sky. Dragging Canoe looked nothing like his father. He was a large, heavily muscled warrior with a furrowed brow and piercing eyes.

  “I honor my father and his words,” said the Indian. “Attakullaculla is wise. He says what is in his heart. He speaks as the spirits guide him, and he has great love for his people.” Dragging Canoe looked at his father and the other chiefs, then turned his dark eyes on Henderson. “Now I, Dragging Canoe, Tsiyu-gunsini, would speak. I, too, say what is in my heart. I also love the Cherokee people. And I would tell you this, my brothers. What we do here is unwise. The white men have already gone beyond the Endless Mountains and into the Cherokees’ lands. Now, they ask us here to sign a treaty. They give us a great feast and promise many things. If you wish to give up your lands, you will do so. But what, my brothers, will happen when the white man wants more land? Do you truly think Kentucky will be enough for him? Where will he tell the Cherokees to go next?”

  Dragging Canoe turned quickly and thrust his finger at Henderson. “I tell you now what he will do. He will push our people farther and farther away until there is no place left for us, until the Cherokee tribe is strangled and dead! That is the end the white man sees for us! This treaty we speak of is for men too old and weak to pull a bow or shoot a rifle. I am not an old man, and neither are my warriors. I say we must keep our lands. I say we must fight for them if we have to!”

  Dragging Canoe stomped out of the clearing and disappeared into the woods. The Indians and whites stared after him. The chiefs then began mumbling among themselves and many nodded approval of his words. Dick Henderson was stunned. Great God, the whole business was falling apart before his eyes! Everything had been just fine until this—this hulking savage put his two pennies in! Turning desperately to Boone, he found the frontiersman already on his feet and talking to Attakullaculla. The old man listened gravely. Then Daniel came back to Henderson.

  “I’ve gotten him to call a recess,” he said. “That’s the best we can do right now.”

  “What happens next? My God, Daniel.…”

  Boone shot him a warning look. “Relax, damn it! You want ’em to see you’re worried? Get back to your camp and stay there. I’m goin’ to see what I can do.”

  Henderson shook his head. “I thought the fellow was going to go for our scalps right here!”

  “Don’t be a fool,” Daniel remarked soberly. “He ain’t goin’ to scalp anyone at a talkin’. That ain’t good manners. If he’s planning on liftin’ your wig, he’ll wait till the meetin’s over.”

  Henderson waited for Boone to smile, but Daniel never blinked.

  Mike Stoner, Ben Cutbirth and Squire Boone were waiting for Daniel by the Watauga, away from the fires. “You think there will be trouble?” asked Mike. “Me, I don’t think so.”

  “No, not if you mean fightin’ trouble,” Daniel told him. “I’m goin’ to have me a little talk-fest with Dragin’ Canoe an’ see if we can pull this thing out of the fire.”

  “Well, at least we don’t have to worry if there is trouble,” Cutbirth said stoically. “Fifty whites fightin’ a thousand Indians ain’t goin’ to take that long.”

  Daniel and the others joined in the laughter. “Damn sure won’t,” said Daniel. “Poor ol’ Dick thought he was goin’ to be the first to go.” He turned, glanced over his shoulder, then faced the others. “I don’t have to tell you boys to keep your eyes open, just in case. These aren’t the first Indians you ever seen.”

  “No, just the most at one time,” Squire said dryly.

  Cutbirth grinned. “You just give the word, and we’ll start runnin’ for Boston, Dan.”

  “Anyone starts runnin’ is goin’ to see my backside right ahead of ’im. I’ll be the one ’bout two miles behind Dick Henderson.”

  Dim light from the Cherokee lodges guided Daniel up the hill through the sycamores. He stopped twice to ask the way before he finally found the camp of Dragging Canoe. Squatting outside over a low fire were two warriors who glanced up as Daniel approached. One returned his greeting and looked away. The other stared at him defiantly. Daniel’s eyes went wide and the muscles in his shoulders knotted hard. He recognized the man, and he had to force himself to swallow the anger that rose up to choke him as he met the warrior’s gaze. “Evening, brother,” he said lightly, and stooped to enter the lodge.

  Daniel knew where he’d seen the Indian before. It wasn’t a face he’d likely forget. Four years before, on another spring night that same Cherokee had walked into camp with some friends and shared venison with Daniel and Squire. When Daniel refused to trade his own good rifles for the Indian
s’ relics, the Cherokees had turned on them. Then they had stolen everything the Boones were bringing back from Kentucky.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Dragging Canoe sat in the low, red light cast by the dying coals of his fire. Daniel saw neither warmth nor hostility in the Indian’s eyes, only a curious mixture of caution and understanding.

  “Wide Mouth, I know why you come,” he said solemnly. “Now I would know who you are. Is it Boone, the friend of the Cherokee, who talks, or Boone, the servant of Henderson? With whose mouth do you now speak?”

  Daniel boldly met the Indian’s gaze and spoke with the stiff formality of the Cherokee tongue. “I am no man’s servant. Tsiyu-gunsini knows this and does me no honor with his question.”

  Dragging Canoe nodded imperceptibly. “Perhaps this is so. Perhaps Boone’s anger answers Tsiyu-gunsini’s question.” The Cherokee motioned to the silent old woman in the rear of his lodge. The woman pulled herself up and brought him a pipe and a leather pouch. Dragging Canoe spent a long time tamping tobacco into the bowl and lighting it from the fire. He puffed on it hard, then passed it to Daniel. Daniel drew in the acrid fumes and passed it back.

  “You know the white man well,” Boone said quietly. “He is crossing the mountains, my brother. His numbers are small, now, but soon they will grow so great that the Cherokees will be unable to count them. I do not say this is good—I only say it is true.”

  Dragging Canoe frowned thoughtfully. “If you think it is wrong for the whites to live on the Cherokees’ land, how can you then come to the Watauga and ask them to sell it? Your heart says one thing, while your tongue speaks another.”

  “Part of my heart is the Indian’s heart,” said Daniel. “It says the Cherokees must fight the white man and drive him back. Fight even if you die, and your women and children along with you. This is your land, and he does not belong here. These are also the thoughts in your head, Tsiyu-gunsini. I understand them. But my Indian heart also says that the Cherokee people have other land on which to hunt and fish, other land on which to build their lodges. Is it not far wiser to sell this land than go into battle and die for it so that the whites will steal it anyway? The Cherokees are great fighters. Everyone knows this. Still, when a storm comes over the mountains, does a warrior fire his arrow at the rain? Can he stop the storm this way?”

  When Daniel finished, Dragging Canoe stared into the fire, his dark eyes gazing deep into the hypnotic flames. When he looked up again, Daniel knew what the man had seen, all the pain and sorrow of his people was mirrored in his eyes. “The things you say are true,” he said.

  “Yes, my brother. They are true.”

  The Indian shook his head. “It would be good if you were a Cherokee, Boone. Your heart would hurt more, but it would be a whole heart.”

  Dragging Canoe turned away. Daniel pulled himself up quietly and left the lodge.

  Henderson saw him walking past the fires to the shore and ran down to meet him. “Daniel! I thought you were going to be in there all night. How’d it go?”

  “He’ll do it,” Daniel told him absently. “You got your treaty.”

  “Marvelous!” Henderson beamed and clapped Daniel on the back. “By God, I knew you could.…”

  “Damn it, Dick!” Daniel shook his hand off and turned on him angrily. “You got what you want, now leave me the hell alone!” He stomped off down the shore into the darkness, Henderson staring in confusion after him.

  In the morning, the talks began again. Henderson’s people sat on one side of the circle, the solemn Cherokee chiefs on the other. Once more, Attakullaculla rose to speak for his people. His speech was short. He told the white men that the Cherokees had listened carefully to the words of Henderson, and decided the trade was fair and good. They were prepared to sign the agreement.

  Dick Henderson held back his excitement. He rose from his place and stood before the chiefs, resplendent in a blue silk jacket and breeches he had saved for the occasion. “I am grateful for the wise decision of the Cherokees,” he said. “Still, I am deeply troubled. You have shown me great honor, and I cannot, in my heart, repay that honor with disrespect. You have sold me the land of Kentucky. Yet, I have no way to reach that place without crossing land that still belongs to the Cherokees. I would not insult my brothers by walking over their land. I ask you now to sell me a roadway into Kentucky. For this, I will be pleased to add even more fine rifles and other goods to the price we’ve already agreed upon.”

  When these words were translated, Dragging Canoe jerked to his feet, his dark face trembling with rage. “You see, my brothers? Is it not as I have said? The white man eats and eats, but he is never full. He has swallowed Kentucky, and he is still hungry!”

  Daniel translated quickly and shot Henderson a look of warning. He stood again and spread his hands openly to the angry Indian. “Dragging Canoe, I have no wish to take more. My only desire is to respect the rights of the Cherokees. Please understand this!”

  “Respect!” spat the chief. “Your respect will kill my people, Henderson.”

  Attakullaculla held up a hand. “What is it you wish, Henderson? I would hear it.”

  “Only a narrow path to Kentucky,” said Dick. “A road from the Watauga to the gap in the Cumberland.”

  Attalcullaculla glanced up at his son. Silent words passed between them. Dragging Canoe clenched his teeth and stomped his foot on the ground. “It is yours,” he said tightly. “From this spot to the mountains!” He turned, then, and took his place by his father. The anger in him had cooled. Now, his eyes were dark and empty.

  There was still much to be done. The Great Grant and Henderson’s new Path Deed had to be written, the land meticulously mapped and copies translated into Cherokee. Henderson left that job to his employees. The treaty had been accomplished and his mind was on other matters. “We’ll be at this eight or ten days,” he told Daniel. “There’s no use your wasting time around here. We’ve a road to build, my friend.”

  “You ain’t signed any treaty yet,” Daniel reminded him.

  “That’s a detail, Daniel, a detail. It’s as good as done.”

  Daniel shrugged. Leaving early was fine with him. He had no more heart for the Watauga. I’ll send Squire and Ben and Gass. They’ll find me some good men, and I’ll go on with Stoner.”

  “Fine, fine. It’s finished, then,” said Henderson. He gave Daniel a quick smile and hurried away.

  Daniel looked after him, then stared over the bright waters of the river. He could leave tomorrow, put this place behind him. A few days after that he would be blazing a trail toward his own piece of Kentucky. I ought to feel good about that, he told himself, but somehow, he didn’t. He couldn’t forget Dragging Canoe’s speech about the white man’s hunger. His own bite of Kentucky was already tasting bitter in his mouth.

  Dragging Canoe sought him out in the late afternoon and asked him to come for a walk in the woods. “You have gained a good land,” he told Daniel. “The Cherokees will honor this agreement, and we will not trouble the white man in his new country. But the Cherokees cannot speak for other tribes. You have caught a fat wolf in your trap. I think you will get bitten badly when you try to take it out.”

  Boone looked at him. The Indian turned and gazed into the west, toward the Endless Mountains. “There is a black cloud over this land of yours. It casts a shadow on the earth, and makes the ground dark and bloody.”

  “I’ve been there,” Daniel said quietly. “You’re as right as you can be, Tsiyu-gunsini. The land’s rich, but there’s much blood in it.”

  “Not as much as there will be,” said the Cherokee. His face grew more animated, and he turned to Daniel. “Now, come. We are finished with this, and there is one here who would speak with you.”

  Daniel gave him a puzzled look, but the Indian moved away and motioned for him to follow. Dragging Canoe walked far into the sycamores, past the last of the lodges. The woods were thick and dark here. Each great trunk competing with every other to thrust its branches t
o the sky. A small creek, no wider than a step, snaked down the hill toward the Watauga.

  Dragging Canoe stopped by the creek, and an Indian woman stepped into the open. Daniel was startled by her appearance. She was about thirty, tall, a strikingly beautiful woman with long black hair and high cheekbones. Only the sorrow in her eyes disturbed her beauty.

  “This is Flower-by-the-Rock,” said Dragging Canoe. “It is she who would speak to you.” He nodded at Boone and was gone.

  The woman looked at him curiously. “You are Wide Mouth.”

  “I am, yes.”

  “Come. Please?” She turned, and Daniel followed her through the trees to a small lodge hidden by the stream. The woman turned then, and faced him. “Boone, I am the mother of Blue Duck.”

  Daniel was surprised only for a moment. “Yes. I see that you are. You look much alike.”

  “She is here, Boone.”

  Daniel stared. “What!? You mean she’s—alive?”

  “She is alive.” The woman lowered her eyes. “That is her curse.”

  “I got to see her.” Boone started past her for the lodge.

  “No.” The woman held up her hand. “Hear me, Boone. My husband died of the sickness last winter. I have no one now, but Tsiyu-gunsini is a great and kind chief. He cares for the families of his braves.” She nodded toward the lodge. “Blue Duck was returned to us four years ago, We were camped to the south, far below the Catawba. The Shawnees brought her back, but not as a kindness. They left her here in the brush for us to find, with a war club beside her. My husband and Tsiyu-gunsini rode after the Shawnees, but they found only one, whose horse had hurt his leg. Before my husband was through with him, he told us many things. I know all that happened to Blue Duck. I know about you, Boone, and I know of the man called Black Knife.” She stopped, searching Daniel’s face with eyes he had seen before. “Was there love between you and my daughter?”

  Daniel swallowed hard. “Yes. There was love between us.”