By the end of the day, it was clear there was no chance of moving north, not with Will Twitty fading fast. A late winter storm was forming in the north, and Daniel had trees cut and stacked to shelter both Twitty and Walker, who seemed to be holding his own.
The second day, Twitty grew feverish, then cold again. On the night of the twenty-seventh, he died in his sleep. A light, unseasonal snow fell around midnight, swirling in eddies about the camp.
“He was a good man,” Dave Gass said solemnly. “We could use more like him in Kentucky.”
“Yeah, we could.” Daniel huddled in his blanket against a tree, staring at the snow. “How soon can we move Walker? I don’t like hangin’ around here, Dave. It ain’t good for the rest of ’em either.”
“We can take him in a couple of days. Have to carry him, though. He won’t be walkin’ for a while.”
We’ve got to get out of here, and soon thought Daniel as he lay back later, trying to sleep. By God, if it wasn’t snowing and cold, I’d move ’em right now, right in the middle of the night.
He woke to a woman’s screams, sat up and saw Callaway’s slave Lucy running frantically around the fire screaming her lungs out.
“Oh, Lord, Indians!” she moaned. “Thousands of ’em!” She pointed shakily toward the trees, then dropped in a faint.
The camp came alive as the woodsmen grabbed their rifles. Daniel went to his knees and, aimed into the forest. This is it, he thought numbly. They’ve got us in the light of the fire and it’s over. “Hold fast,” he said evenly to the others. “Take as many as you can!”
The fire crackled and something moved in the brush. “Jesus, don’t kill me!” shouted a voice. “I’m a white man!”
The figure walked out of the forest, his eyes wide with fear. Daniel stared and lowered his rifle. It was Lew Draper, the man who had disappeared the night of the ambush. One of the men laughed, and the others joined in, breaking the tension. Daniel stalked up to Draper. “What the hell you been doin’ out there, man?”
“I don’t know,” he stammered. “I thought maybe you was all dead.”
“Well, we ain’t,” Daniel said shortly. “But you just now come damn close to it yourself.” Cursing to himself, he wandered back to his bedroll in disgust.
In the morning, Daniel tended Felix Walker. Walker claimed he was feeling fine, but he still looked weak. They would wait another day, but no more. After that, he wouldn’t risk staying at Taylor’s Fork. The threat of an attack by the Shawnees had made the tension in the camp unbearable. The cutters quarreled over trivial annoyances. Who had tended the fire last, and who hadn’t. Who hadn’t taken night guard duty lately. When they could find nothing more to fight about, Dick Callaway helped them out. There was a better way to post guards, he said. Anyone who had served in the militia as long as he had would know that. Daniel ignored him until the man started changing the roster around to suit himself. Then Boone took Callaway aside and walked him down to the river.
“I’m glad you’re here, Dick, and I count you a good man,” began Daniel. “But I’ll tell you this straight. We got enough trouble around here, and I don’t intend to take on more.”
Callaway looked puzzled. “Why, you’re as right as you can be, Dan’l. What’s that got to do with me?”
Daniel studied the man’s full, pink cheeks and the slight touch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. “You know what I’m tellin’ you, Dick. I ain’t runnin’ no army here, and you ain’t no colonel in Kentucky. You got suggestions, fine, but you make ’em to me.”
Callaway’s color rose, but he swallowed his anger and smiled. “Why, certainly, Dan’l. I have no desire to offend you. I hope you know that.”
“I’m sure glad to hear it,” said Boone.
Callaway took a deep breath, set his chin and marched back to the camp. Daniel gazed after him. Stoner was likely right. Dick Callaway was a born troublemaker, but they were stuck with him now.
Daniel sent Gass and Ben Cutbirth out the next morning to scout for game. Before the day was half over they were back, galloping fast down the river, digging up muddy puffs of snow. As Gass swung off his horse, Daniel saw a small boy sitting the saddle behind him. Cutbirth lifted him off and took him to the fire, and Dave stalked over to Boone.
“Found him in a camp ’bout eight miles out,” be said tightly. “Says his pa’s named Sam Tate. They was hit by Indians last night. Likely the same ones that found us.”
“Where’s his pa now?”
“Don’t know,” Ben shook his head. “The boy saw two men drop. He thinks his pa got away with some of the others, but he ain’t sure. He was too scared to look.”
“What the hell was they doin’ out here, anyway?”
“Boy says they were on their way to Harrodsburg.”
“Goddamn.” Daniel spat into the fire. Just what we need, he thought.
Daniel had heard James ’Harrod was again trying to get a settlement started, but this was the first real news he’d had. Dick Henderson’ll have a fit, he decided. James Harrod was a strong-willed man and wouldn’t much care whether a Salisbury judge thought he owned all Kentucky.
Posting extra guards around the camp, Daniel took Squire and Cutbirth back to the creek where the boy had been found. There were two men dead, shot through the chest and scalped. Ben and Squire dug holes while Daniel searched the area for fresh sign.
Tracking was easy over the light coating of snow. Five men had escaped and scattered down the creek. One was bleeding, but not badly. Two had doubled back to check the camp, then rejoined the others. All the tracks led off northwest toward Harrodsburg. Daniel shook his head. It was only twenty miles or so, and they would make it easily unless the Shawnees found them again. There was no use worrying about them now—whatever was going to happen had happened already.
Daniel took a long, careful look at the tracks of the Indians. There had been about a dozen. If this was the same party that had attacked Boone’s camp, they had picked up some friends. They had come in from the north, left their mounts some fifty yards upstream and attacked the settlers on foot. They hadn’t tried too hard to find the survivors, which likely meant they were mainly after horses.
Once more, he circled the place where the Shawnees had left their mounts, tying his horse to a tree and squatting down low to study their prints. The snow left clean marks, but the ground was churned up and muddy where the horses had milled about.
He let his eyes follow the low line of trees that masked the creek, but saw only untouched snow melting slowly into the earth, a half-covered log and the tracks of a rabbit. Daniel stopped, looked again, then walked thirty yards toward the trees. Another horse had stood there, away from the others. The rider had remained on his mount. Now why did he do that? Daniel wondered. Boone returned for his horse, then led the animal by the reins while he kept his eyes on the ground and followed the rider’s tracks. The man had kept to the trees, following the line of the creek. Half a mile further, Daniel saw where he had stopped, gotten off his horse and peed against a tree.
Bending low, he studied the man’s moccasin prints. A chill touched the back of his neck, and he went down on all fours, hands and knees pressing the cold layer of snow. It was him. By God, it was him for certain. Daniel’s heart beat faster. The stride, the weight, the slight turn of the right foot all belonged to Henry Flint. Black Knife. Daniel knew if he tracked the horses back farther, he would find Flint had left the Indians and taken his path by himself.
Daniel felt a sudden swell of anger, and at the same time, a great sense of relief. His hand moved absently to the knife at his belt. He lifted it halfway out of its sheath and touched the dark lock of the girl’s hair wrapped tightly around the hilt. It was Flint’s way, Daniel thought, the kind of thing he would do. Stealing horses gave him no pleasure. He had waited and taken no part. Flint had other amusements that had nothing to do with horses.
Did Flint know he was here? More than likely, Daniel decided. He was cold and deadly as a snake, an
d as good a woodsman as any man alive. “I’m here,” he said softly, looking past the trees to the north. “And now I know you’re here, Flint.”
When Daniel returned to camp, he found sour, disgruntled faces. Stoner was fuming. “Goddamn, Dan’l, I told you so, ja? That bastard has a mouth that needs a good blooding!”
“I don’t have to ask who you’re talking about.”
“No, you sure as hell do not,” glared the Dutchman. “He’s got half these fellows scared of their shadows. Says he will lead them safely to Harrodsburg. You like that, my friend? Harrodsburg? The colonel is going to save us from the savages!”
“He’s pushin’ me some, ain’t he?” Daniel said calmly.
Stoner looked appalled. “Pushing, Dan’l? This is what you call it? It is treason, by God!”
“We’re not exactly a troop of Regulars, Mike.”
“Hah!” Stoner cast a dark stormy look toward the camp and stalked off like an angry bull. Daniel looked over the faces around the fire, searching for Callaway’s. Mike was right. Boone was a great deal more concerned about the colonel than he had let on. It wouldn’t take much to blow the whole expedition apart right now. Damn near anything would do it. A raid by the Shawnees, another freak snow that would make it impossible to hide their tracks, or a fat little half-ass colonel, who didn’t feel complete without a regiment at his back.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Daniel stalked through the crowd, pushing men roughly aside, then took a place on a large rock before them. “Looks to me like an awful lot of gabbin’s goin’ on ’round here,” he said evenly. “You ladies havin’ a quiltin’ party, or what?”
Most of the cutters laughed easily, but a few kept solemn faces.
“Well?” Boone’s gaze touched them all. “Let’s get it out, goddamn it.”
“Daniel.…” A man stepped hesitantly out of the crowd. He was Luke Mitchell, one of Twitty’s crew. “Some of us was just thinking that maybe we’re in over our heads out here. Kentucky’s a rough place, you know?”
“No.” Boone’s eyes drilled him. “I don’t know, Luke. Suppose you tell me about Kentucky. I just came in from Boston.”
The crowd laughed and Luke colored. “I got a right to say my piece, same as anyone else.”
“Yeah, he does!” called out one man behind him, and then another.
“Keep talkin’,” said Daniel.
“I ain’t the only one,” Luke continued hotly. “There’s others.” A few voices urged him on. “What it looks like,” said Luke, “is the Shawnees is plumb set to drive us out. They’ll see us all dead ’fore we settle up Kentucky!” Angry voices chimed in. Daniel raised a hand to still them.
“If you was a Shawnee, what would you do, Luke? Damnation, the Indians have always been set to drive us out! That sure don’t mean they’re goin’ to.” His eyes swept the crowd. “Any of you fellers want to turn back, just say so. I’ll be pleased to buy your land from you.”
Most of the men looked startled at that, as if they had forgotten what had brought them to Kentucky. They hadn’t signed on to take Dick Henderson’s pay. They had signed on for land.
In the end, Luke Mitchell, Lew Draper and four others stepped forward to say they were heading back to the gap. Daniel breathed a silent sigh of relief. For a while, he had imagined the whole damn crew might desert him. He still had plenty of men, good men, well armed and ready to stake their claims in Kentucky. If the Shawnees don’t hang ’bout a thousand warriors on my ass, he thought grimly.
Dick Callaway had openly supported Daniel against the dissenters, even shaming a few into staying who might have ridden off. Daniel wasn’t surprised. Callaway didn’t want to go back, he wanted to run the show. The moment Luke and the others rode out, he started to harangue the man who had stayed. They were naked to attack at Taylor’s Fork, he said, and they would be even worse off moving up to Otter Creek. Harrodsburg was the only answer. James Harrod had a settlement started there, likely even a fort, from which they could hold off the Indians. Only when the Indian situation eased, could the expedition move safely to Otter Creek. He knew how to organize a stand and he would lead them all safely into Harrodsburg.
But while Callaway was exhorting the cutters, Daniel was sending riders out as far as Harrodsburg, the Salt River and the Kentucky to warn travelers about the Shawnees. If folks would gather at Otter Creek, Boone promised he would protect them with more than twenty well-armed, experienced men, enough to make any Shawnee war party think twice.
When Callaway discovered what Daniel had done, he raged against Boone, telling all who would listen that Daniel was determined to lead them all into a bloody massacre.
Mike Stoner and Dave Gass politely took the colonel aside and had a talk with him. Daniel flared up at the pair when he found out. “You two got no business shuttin’ the man up,” he said. “Callaway’s got a right to say what he likes!”
“Dan’l,” Stoner said blandly, “what are you talking about? We was only passing the time with our good friend.”
“That’s all,” Gass agreed. “Nothin’ more than that.”
“Uh-huh.” Daniel eyed them narrowly. “Then how come he ain’t opened his mouth all mornin’?”
“Maybe the cat has got his tongue,” Stoner suggested.
“I expect that’s it,” said Gass.
Daniel could get no more out of them. Whatever they had said to him, they had certainly impressed the colonel.
On March 31, Ben Cutbirth and Squire rode into camp and took Daniel quietly aside. Their dour looks told him all he needed to know. “We found all the settlers we could,” reported Squire, “an’ some stray hunters wanderin’ about. They’ll get to Otter Creek if they can.”
“That’s not all, though, is it?”
“No.” Squire shook his head. “There’s Shawnee sign everywhere, Daniel. You can’t spit without hittin’ an Indian.”
“I ain’t surprised. How many you figure?”
“Can’t say,” put in Ben. “Might be the same six wanderin’ about that bothered us awhile back.”
Daniel looked at him. “You believe that, Ben?”
“Hell, I don’t know what to believe. All I know is they’re out there.”
“Keep it to yourselves,” Daniel told them. “No use spookin’ the boys any more’n we have to.”
That evening he wrote a letter to Dick Henderson. The message-read:
Dick,
My compliments to you, old friend. I must write this letter to acquaint you with our misfortune here. On the twenty-fifth day of this month, a Shawnee war party fired on my company half an hour before dawn and killed Captain Twitty and his Negro. Mr. Walker was badly wounded, but I think he’ll recover.
My advice to you, sir, is to come to our aid with help as soon as possible. Your presence is greatly desired, for though the men are most uneasy, they are willing to stay and risk their lives with you. Right now is the time to flusterate the Shawnees’ intentions and take the country whilst we’re in it. Dick, if we falter and give in to them now, we will never see an end to our troubles. This day we start from the battle ground for the mouth of Otter Creek, where we shall immediately erect a fort.
I am, sir, Your most Obedient Humble Servant,
Daniel Boone
April 1, 1775
Daniel sent one of his best riders with the letter the next morning. Then he gathered his men, had Felix Walker hoisted on a litter, and set out north for Otter Creek.
Dick Henderson stomped his feet to keep out the cold and pulled his heavy fur greatcoat over his shoulders. From the west face of Wallen’s Ridge, he could see the broad valley sloping up to the Cumberlands. The famous gap in the mountains was lost to his sight, veiled behind a white curtain of snow. The damn stuff had fallen steadily, for six days now, and showed no promise of stopping. Scouts said the weather was clear on the other side, nearly as fine as a spring day.
But what good did that do? he asked himself glumly. He had to get over the damn gap first, and
the way things were going, that wasn’t likely to happen soon.
When trouble came, it damn sure came in bunches. Nothing had gone right since he had left Sycamore Shoals. Nothing! Three long weeks from the Watauga, and here he was, squatting like a bear on the side of a mountain and still not over the gap.
Some of the delay was his own fault. He would admit that. Daniel had told him from the start to leave wagons behind, but how could you tell that to a bunch of settlers and their women? Kentucky’s a grand place, folks, and I aim to sell you some fine land there, only be sure and don’t bring anything. Lord, no, you have to leave all your belongings behind, ma’am!
Finally he had given in to the settlers, and the whole venture became a disaster. Folks crawled along the roads like snails, breaking their wagons apart and carrying them, a wheel and a plank at a time—anything to keep Ma’s rocker and the bed that came all the way from England. And in the end, of course, none of his troubles had mattered at all. At Martin’s Station, he learned that the whole business had gone for nothing. The trail ahead was impossible. The wagons wouldn’t move another foot closer to Kentucky.
Of course, the settlers had blamed him. Some of them were turning back now, right at the door to Kentucky. Unless he did something soon, they would likely all go.
And on top of everything else, there came this frightening letter from Daniel. He had sent it on the first, and today was the seventh. What had happened between then and now? he wondered. Was Daniel alive or dead? If two had been killed already, how many more had been massacred since?
Henderson cursed and tried to light his pipe from the fire, but his fillings blew out into the snow. If only he could have kept the damn letter to himself, he thought angrily, but bad luck was still with him. The rider who had brought the message was spreading the word everywhere. Shawnees were thick as flies in Kentucky; it was risking your life to go over there. How the hell was a man supposed to sell land with everything going against him?
Daniel Boone: Westward Trail Page 22
