And there were other signs of progress in Boonesborough. Folks were doing more than just hunting and roaming about. Crops had been planted in the fields and a number of small gardens had been dug. Squire had set up a gunsmith shop. One newcomer, named Pogue, was making wooden tubs, churns, plates, cups and a few crude chairs and tables.
Becky hesitated before walking into the fort. This was the part she didn’t care for, living elbow to elbow with so many strangers. There were fifty small cabins squeezed in under the walls, and you could hear everything that happened in your neighbors’ houses. It was a far cry from having your own place on the Yadkin. She never said so to Daniel, but she missed her home terribly. Especially now, with October coming on and the crisp smell of fall in the air.
The sycamores down by the river were already turning red and gold, and there was a light burr of frost, on the ground. Inside the fort, there was no real season to speak of—only hard-packed earth, narrow walls and the smell of wash.
All that would change, of course, when Daniel found time to start the construction of their own place. He was too busy for that, now. With Henderson gone, responsibility for the whole settlement fell squarely on his shoulders.
Poor Dick, thought Rebecca. She had never really cared for him, but you couldn’t help feeling sorry for the man. He had struggled hard to hold on, but there was just too much against him. Folks hadn’t come to Kentucky to find new landlords. There was land enough for everyone here, and few saw the sense in paying for it.
At the cabin, Jemima and two of the Callaway girls were giggling over a gawky young man in a raccoon cap and buckskins. The boy saw Becky coming, turned beet-red and scooted off round a corner. Becky hid a smile as she watched him go. Lord God, were Daniel and I ever that young and stumble-footed?
The boy was one of the newcomers, and Daniel couldn’t stand him. ’Course, he couldn’t stand anyone paying court to Jemima—especially boys in coonskin caps. “Coonskins look best where God put ’em,” he was fond of saying. “On the backs of raccoons.”
Still, even Dan Boone couldn’t keep the boys from flocking about his daughter. She would be thirteen in a few days, and already looked a woman. Along with the Callaway girls, Jemima was one of the major attractions of Boonesborough. That wouldn’t last with more people coming, but she was queen bee now and making the most of it.
They grow up and leave so quickly, thought Rebecca. You just had to be thankful you had them for as long as you did. James had seen sixteen years of life, and poor little William, born in June, had lived only a few short days. They had buried him there in the Clinch, a few miles from where James lay. Losing a child that young in a way seemed a greater sorrow than James’ death, for she had so little to remember of William.
While Becky was cutting meat in the pot, Mary Callaway burst in, eyes blazing with anger. “Becky, you know what that Baxter woman had the nerve to say to me?”
Becky looked up at her friend. A rebellious wisp of hair hung over the woman’s brow.
“I’ll tell you what she said,” Mary went on without waiting. “She said if my chickens got into her corn again, she’d wring their necks and drop ’em in the pot. Can you imagine?” Mary shook her head in wonder. “What am I supposed to do? Let ’em sleep with the children?”
Mary launched into a recitation of another, even more flagrant abuse by the dowdy Mrs. Baxter. Becky listened with half an ear, dropping the last bit of potato into her stew. Boonesborough’s become a regular town for certain, she thought. When ladies from Virginia and North Carolina start quarrelling over chickens, there’s not an Indian anywhere who would dare come between them.
Daniel spent half the morning shouting at a group of hunters who had just come in from a trek on the other side of the river. Damnation, when would the thickheads learn? They would kill six or eight buffalo, load up the choice cuts on a pack horse, and leave the rest out to rot. The herds that had grazed right outside the fort in April had already disappeared. A man had to go twenty or thirty miles now just to catch sight of a deer! What the hell was going to happen when winter came?
“We been here six months,” he complained to Squire, “and the damn place is closing in on us already. One spring and a summer gone, an’ already we’re fresh out of meat an’ up to our asses in people.”
Squire grinned and shook his head. “Daniel, it’s a settlement now, not a huntin’ camp.”
“I know what it is,” Boone said grimly. Glancing out of Squire’s shop, he saw Simon Kenton walking by and hailed him. He liked the young man; he was a fine woodsman, a lad with a level head on his shoulders. “When did you get back? Thought you was still up north.”
Kenton stepped inside, nodded to Squire and gripped Daniel’s hand. “Late last night. I was comin’ in to see you.” He leaned against a bench and set down his rifle. “You was right, Cap’n Boone. The Indians are gatherin’ up from here to the Ohio. Not doin’ much now, just gettin’ ready.”
Daniel nodded and rubbed his chin. “We got us a fine winter comin’ up. Goin’ to be short on everything ’cept Shawnees.”
“You reckon they’ll bother us ’fore that?” Kenton wanted to know.
“Maybe. Maybe not. If I was Black Fish or Cornstalk, I’d wait till the cold, when no one can make it ’cross the mountains with powder and lead and food.”
“Be a proper time, all right.”
“Well, with any luck,” sighed Squire, “we’ll be ready for ’em.”
Daniel frowned. “Squire, we ain’t ever goin’ to be ready for the Shawnees. Not the number that’s coming.” Boone vividly recalled another talk he’d had about Indians, earlier that year. Young George Rogers Clark had been on the Clinch when he had gone back for Becky in June, and they had shared a jug of whiskey. Clark had just come from the East with plenty of startling news. While Daniel had been on the Licking after Flint, colonial militia had clashed with British troopers up in Lexington, Massachusetts. The colonials had been driven off, and a few killed. Later, though, other patriots had ambushed the redcoats at Concord and had given them a sound beating. While Daniel was still on the Clinch, news came of another big battle. His old commander George Washington was a general in the Continental Army now and had gotten himself whipped proper at a place called Bunker Hill. Things were heating up, it seemed, and were likely to get worse.
It’s a strange world, Daniel mused. The officer leading the British against Washington had been a man named Gage. He too was a general, but Boone remembered him as a young lieutenant colonel under Braddock when they had moved on Fort Duquesne. Gage and Washington had been fellow officers in that campaign, and neither had liked the other. Evidently, they weren’t about to grow a hell of a lot closer now.
“A war’s coming,” Clark had told Daniel. “Just as sure as we’re sittin’ here. We’ve gone too far to turn back.”
“I kinda figured,” Daniel had replied, setting down his cup. “What’s it goin’ to mean to folks in Kentucky. Not much, I reckon.”
“It will, Dan’l. If you take my advice, you’ll be ready for it. If the British have any sense at all, they’ll use the wilderness to get to the colonies, come in the back door to Virginia or the Carolinas. And when they do, you can bet they’ll use the Indians.”
“You mean work with the Shawnees like the French did?”
“Exactly. I reckon it’s happening already. In Boston, we heard Royal agents are counciling with Shawnee chiefs. The redcoats’ll be buyin’ Kentucky scalps this time next year. You wait and see.”
“Yeah, I reckon I will,” Daniel had replied.
Now, as he thought about it, Daniel figured Flint would be aiding the British. Even if he’s lost face with the Shawnees, the British could use him. Maybe, Boone thought grimly, he should have killed the bastard when he had the chance.
“You look worried,” Rebecca told him. “Something wrong, Daniel?”
“Nothin’ new, I guess.” Daniel stretched and walked over to warm his back at the fire. “Hunters are wastin’ meat. I can’t g
et the gates up or the wall finished. Same old stuff. I ain’t cut out to be no town planner, Rebecca.”
“You can do it as well as any,” she said firmly. “Better’n most, I imagine.”
“Well, I sure don’t care for the job.”
“You don’t have to tell me that.”
Daniel looked curiously about the room. “Where’d Jemima get off to? Haven’t seen her since supper.”
Rebecca busied herself with the patch on Israel’s shirt. “Well, I suspect she’s out with the Callaway girls.”
Daniel caught her tone. “Rebecca, you’re not lettin’ her keep company with that fool in a raccoon cap!”
“He ain’t a fool, Daniel. He’s just young.”
“Huumph! Anyone walkin’ ’round with a dead critter on his head, ringtail and all….”
“Growed men do it.”
“There’s plenty of growed-up fools walkin’ ’round, Becky.”
“The boy kind of reminds me of you,” she said.
“What?”
“Long time ago, of course.”
Daniel made a face. “I damn sure never acted like that.”
“Well,” sighed Becky, “there was this one young suitor I had. We was at this picnic, and he was so gawky and shy he kept playin’ with his knife ’stead of lookin’ at me. Cut about a hundred holes in my only white dress. Ma gave me what for, I’ll tell you. Can’t imagine who’d marry a fool like that.”
Daniel grinned. “Wonder what become of him?”
“I expect he grew up some. Maybe learned there was ways to treat a girl’s dress, other than pokin’ it full of holes.”
Daniel walked over, lifted her out of the chair and pulled her to him. “Becky, would you still marry that fool if you had it to do over?”
Rebecca leaned her head against his shoulder. “Lord yes, Daniel! I know for sure I would. Guess I’m likely the same kind of fool he is.”
Daniel Boone: Westward Trail Page 25
