Passage to Natchez

by Cameron Judd

  Animated by this righteous wrath, he mounted again and rode. He reached Canoe Creek without incident, found the scouts with relative ease, and with them watched the supposed Harpe cabin without seeing any signs of life. Eventually he and the others had crept down to the cabin itself and found it was indeed empty. If the Harpes had been here, they were gone. Clardy was relieved on a superficial level, disappointed on a deeper one.

  One of the scouts said, “Hang it all, we’ve wasted time enough already looking for them devils. If they’ve gone, I believe we ought to forget all this and get back home.”

  Clardy thought: Home … I have no home to get back to. I don’t want to forget all this. I want to find the Harpes.

  He turned to the scouts. “Well, I ain’t quitting. I’m going on. But just where, I don’t know. Back up to the general’s, maybe?”

  “If you’re mad enough to keep this up, then I suggest you go see the squire instead,” one suggested. “He’s been watching and prowling for the Harpes, and may have news of them that General Hopkins don’t.”

  “Who’s the squire?”

  “Squire Silas McBee. A big, heavy man, but good and as brave as you’ll find. Lives on Deer Creek, to the south of us. Offer him your service. He’ll have heard of you and be glad for the help.”

  Clardy obtained better directions, said his farewells to the two scouts and set off.

  “There goes a brave man,” one of the scouts said.

  “Nope,” replied another. “There goes a fool who’s liable to get himself killed.”

  Within an hour of his arrival at Squire McBee’s, Clardy was handed evidence that Isaac Ford’s belief in unseen forces that prodded men along through their lives just might be accurate. He found he had come to McBee’s just before the advent of a remarkable sequence of events.

  He had scarcely arrived, made his identity known, and received a hearty welcome from the rotund McBee, before a man rode in behind him. McBee made the introduction to Clardy of one James Tompkins, who bore news of an encounter with men he suspected might be the Harpes.

  “It so happens I’ve had a possible encounter of my own,” McBee said. “Come inside and we’ll sit. You tell your story first, Jim.”

  As Jim Hopkins spoke, he struck Clardy as a good-hearted fellow, perhaps slightly simple of mind, but clever enough to have looked below the surface of the situation he described.

  “Squire, sir, I was setting at home yesterday toward the evening, when I heard my dogs commence to barking in the yard. I looked out and here come two men, wearing nice wool suits and carrying rifles and pistols, and right off I was worried, knowing the Harpes were said to be about, you see. But these two, they didn’t look dangerous, being so nice-dressed and all, and I says to myself, Jim, them two are traveling preachers, I’ll betcha. You know how you can generally tell a preacher, Squire. Don’t know what it is, but they got a look to them, generally speaking. And these two, they had that look—”

  “Yes, yes. Go on,” McBee prodded.

  “Well, they come up to the door and says to me, ‘You won’t let them dogs bite us, will you?’ and I says, ‘No, not if you’re the kind of good folk you look to be.’ And they says, ‘We’re Methodist preachers looking for a meal.’ And I says, ‘I thought you was preachers. You can generally tell a preacher by his look.’ I reckon it was the clothes. They looked new. The little one of the pair was tugging and scratching at his collar, like maybe it didn’t fit just right.”

  “Little one?” Clardy interjected. “One little, one big?”

  “Yes sir. Just like the Harpes. But I wasn’t thinking about that at the time. They seemed to be what they said. And I’d heard the Harpes traveled with women and babes. There was none such with these two.”

  “No women …” Clardy frowned.

  “What happened then?” McBee asked.

  “Well, I let them in and had the woman put some food out for them. The big one, he said he wanted to pray over the food and bless our house for us being so kind. And what a prayer it was! You never heard the like. When he was done, I was sure he was a preacher. You know how you can generally tell a preacher’s prayer. Got more to it than the prayers of plain folk.”

  “What kind of things did they talk about?” Clardy asked.

  “All the common things, you know. Weather, crops, stock and such. Then they brung up the Harpes. The big one, he did most of the talking, and he says, ‘We’re sorry to come to your home carrying such a bunch of weapons, but with the Harpes about we have to be careful.’ And I says, ‘Bad men, them Harpes,’ and the big one—he give the name of Williams, by the way, and the little one Smith—he says, ‘Men bound for hell, they are. Men surely put in the world by the Almighty to smite wicked mankind for his sins.’ And the little one, he gave a sort of laugh, and that struck me odd, but I didn’t say nothing.

  “They ate some more and praised the victuals, which was truly right poor, if truth be told. I says, ‘I’d have liked to have fed you better, but I’m so low of powder right now I ain’t been able to shoot no meat lately.’ So Preacher Williams ups and fetches his own powder horn and pecks out a teacup full of powder for me to have. “There you go,’ he says. ‘Now you can shoot some meat and protect your family against the wicked Harpes.’ And the little one laughs again.”

  “Obviously they didn’t do you any harm, whoever they were,” McBee said.

  “No sir, they didn’t, I’m glad to say. But they did take to asking about folks who lived hereabouts, names and where their homes was and all. The little one chimes in and says, ‘We hear there’s a man named McBee lives in this vicinity. A good man who is said to be a bane against the Harpes.’ And I says, ‘Yes, there is,’ and then I told them where you lived. Soon as I did I thunk that maybe I’d done the wrong thing.”

  “Why was that?” McBee asked. His eyes had taken on an eager luster when he heard Tompkins’s last statements.

  “Just a feeling, you know. Once they left, I worried about it to no end. ’Fraid that maybe they really was the Harpes and had ill plans for you, Squire. You’ve been right loud in calling for the Harpes to be found and done away with, you know.”

  “I have indeed. Is there more to your story?”

  “That’s pretty much it.”

  “Then hear mine. Jim, I do believe the pair you met were the Harpes. Last night after dark, you see, I heard a stir among my bear hounds, just like you did, and looked out the window. I was able to see enough to make out two men there on the edge of the road, getting into quite a fray with my hounds. I might have called off the dogs, but it struck me odd that these two were coming in at such an hour—I thought of the Harpes, naturally—and they weren’t calling for any help in getting the dogs off them, as folks with good intent would. So I let the hounds have at it, and before long this pair ran back to their horses with the dogs all but tearing off their backsides, jumped into their saddles and rode away. Odd thing—but it fits with your story like two notched logs going together.”

  “Indeed it does, Squire,” Tompkins said.

  “I wonder where the women and babies were?” Clardy asked.

  “You’ve heard the suspicions that the Harpes are lodging on Canoe Creek?” McBee asked.

  “Yes. But the cabin is empty. I came to you directly from there.”

  “Empty … well, maybe they’ve lodged their women and children somewhere else for the moment. They must be aware that suspicions are turned toward them.”

  “No doubt about it,” Clardy said. “But what do we do now? Is there any chance of tracking down these ‘preachers’?”

  At that moment noise from outside brought all three to their feet. McBee went to his door, threw it open, and looking over his shoulder, Clardy saw riders thunder into the yard in a great state of excitement.

  “What’s this?” McBee asked.

  “Squire McBee,” one of the riders said breathlessly as he dismounted, “a bad thing has happened.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Mos
es Steigal’s house burned to the ground last night. We found the ruins of it this morning, still smoking. Not a sign of life about the place. We fear there’s been some deaths.”

  “Did you look for bodies?”

  The man looked sheepish. “Truth was, sir, we weren’t too keen on finding burnt corpses right after breakfast. We rode straight here to let you know, you being sort of a leader hereabouts, you see.”

  McBee, his broad face solemn, nodded. “I thank you, men.” He turned to Clardy. “Mr. Tyler, this merits investigation. If our ‘preachers’ took lodging in the Steigal house last night …”

  “I was thinking just the same,” Clardy replied. “I’ll come with you, if you like.”

  “You are welcome. But there may be some gruesomeness in what we find when we get there, you should know. If that family died in the fire …”

  “I have a brother who is weak of stomach, but I’ve never been plagued with such,” Clardy replied. “You lead, and I’ll follow.”

  McBee faced the riders. “Will you men come as well?”

  “Well, sir, we have business on down the road—”

  McBee waved his hand. “Be off, then. I’ll not ask anyone to come who doesn’t want to. Jim, how about you?”

  Tompkins didn’t look eager, but he nodded. “I’m with you, Squire. Lord, I hope nothing has happened to Moses and his family. And I believe Colonel Love has been staying there some lately, too.”

  “What kind of family does this Steigal have?” Clardy asked.

  “A wife and a baby, four or five months old,” McBee replied. “God help them all. This is grim news. Very grim.”

  CHAPTER 30

  They rode toward the Steigal house, passing by the home of another neighbor, William Grissom. Grissom was there, and when he learned what McBee was doing, joined them, bringing along some of his family, too. In short measure they reached the Steigal place, and found it burned to the ground and still smoking.

  They called around the immediate area for the Steigals but did not find them. After waiting about an hour more for the ashes to further cool, they began probing around in the ruins, and before long McBee made the ugly discovery of the apparent body of Mrs. Steigal, then that of the Colonel Love whom Tompkins had mentioned. They looked for the baby’s remains but did not find them, and concluded that either the child had been thoroughly consumed by the fire or perhaps had not been in the cabin at all, but was gone somewhere with his father, who also was obviously not here.

  Clardy wasn’t so confident about the strength of his stomach when McBee began more closely examining the dead. He stood off to the side, looking elsewhere, smoking his pipe until he noticed the smoke tasted too much like the charred-wood stench hanging heavily around this place. He knocked out the burning tobacco and put the pipe away.

  McBee, who had been kneeling beside Mrs. Steigal’s corpse, then Love’s, stood with much effort, being a massively built man. “These two have been murdered,” he announced. “This is my friend Colonel Love here, I’m sorry to say. His head has been split, probably by an axe or tomahawk. And Mrs. Steigal has been repeatedly stabbed.”

  Clardy strode up to McBee. “Might her husband have done this?”

  “I doubt that. Moses Steigal is a man I don’t fully trust, but I don’t see him as a murderer.”

  “Then it was probably the Harpes,” Clardy said.

  “Aye, young sir, I feel sure it was.”

  “Why would the Harpes kill these folks?”

  “Who can say? They seem to require no reason. But I have heard it rumored that Steigal knew the Harpes in Tennessee.”

  “In Tennessee?” Clardy felt a prompting of memory. “Steigal … I recollect the name, though I didn’t make the link until now. I’m a Tennessean myself, Squire.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “What happens now, Squire?”

  “First, there is some burying to be done.”

  Clardy dug Love’s grave, the activity making him think back to that night when he and Thias had dug up and straightened their grandfather’s bent leg. It seemed like a memory from a century ago, considering all that had come and gone since then.

  When the graves were filled, they returned to McBee’s house to prepare for the inevitable manhunt. They were greeted mere moments later with the arrival of a distraught-looking rider. Clardy recognized him from having seen him in Knoxville in times past: Moses Steigal. Steigal looked at Clardy as he swung down from his saddle, but didn’t act as if he remembered him.

  “Squire, is it true?”

  “Moses, I’m sorry to say that it is.”

  Steigal shuddered as if someone had struck him in the spine with a hammer. He closed his eyes and pursed his lips. Clardy looked away, uncomfortable at the sight of a man being overwhelmed. He expected Steigal to break down and weep, but the man managed to get a hold on himself.

  “The Harpes,” he said, very softly. “They’ve done this.”

  “I do believe so, Moses,” McBee replied.

  “I intend to see them pay for this.”

  “You will find me beside you when you do.”

  “There are men I know who can help us,” Steigal went on. “Three good and capable ones, all at Robertson’s Lick right now.”

  “Then go fetch them, Moses,” McBee said. “Come back here as quickly as you can, and we’ll be ready to join you. It’s time that all this hellishness end. The Harpes have ridden free long enough.”

  Clardy remained at McBee’s that night, Tompkins returning to his home with the promise of joining the manhunters the next day. Clardy expected a difficult night’s sleep, filled with both dread and anticipation of the next day’s grim quest, but in fact he slept very soundly. He awakened in the morning refreshed, as ready as any man can be for dangerous work.

  Steigal returned from Robertson’s Lick shortly after sunrise. With him were three men, Matthew Christian, Neville Lindsey, and John Leiper, all of whom had been boiling down salt at the lick when Steigal found them. They seemed impressed to learn who Clardy was, no doubt having heard many tales of him as “Harpe hunter” over the past few weeks.

  Grissom came riding in shortly afterward, bringing his family with him, and also James Tompkins. The family members were placed inside McBee’s ample house, the women and older children being given weapons and told not to expose themselves outside the house until the posse had returned. The Harpes were a vengeful, unpredictable pair and might be close by. It would be just their kind of jest to wait until they saw the posse ride out, then come punish the people left behind.

  With that grim bit of warning freshly ringing in every mind, the manhunters set out, eight in number: McBee, Grissom, Leiper, Steigal, Christian, Tompkins, Lindsey, and Clardy Tyler. With McBee in the lead both physically and authoritatively, they rode to the burned house, which Steigal looked at only a moment before turning away, his face hiding unspeakable thoughts. Nearby, they found the apparent tracks of the Harpes and began following them, grateful that the weather had been dry and no precipitation had fallen to obliterate them.

  Deeper into the wild terrain they plunged, following the remarkably clear trail. Then came what struck Clardy as a potential disaster. The trail vanished, having been pounded into nothingness by the passing of a buffalo herd sometime earlier that morning.

  “Have no fears about that,” McBee said. “We should be able to find their spoor again by dividing, circling around over the buffalo track, and coming together some distance away on the far side.”

  The exercise worked, and the group regathered itself on a Harpe trail just as clear as it was before. Clardy felt encouraged. It appeared that once again the Harpes were being careless about their trail. As he had many times before, he felt astonished that such reckless men could have escaped capture so often and with such apparent ease.

  Soon they encountered the first evidence that the Harpes might be worried at least a little about pursuit. The trail forked, and here the Harpes evidently had parted ways. The ma
nhunters divided into two groups and followed each course, and soon found that the trails came together again. The Harpes’ parting had been only temporary.

  The clear weather of the prior night had been only temporary, too. By dusk the sky was filled with heavy, wet clouds. Clardy anticipated a rough night. They had no tents, nothing to throw over themselves but saddle blankets, which would be saturated within minutes. They made camp on the west bank of the Pond River, ate their supper, and waited for the storm.

  It came with the darkness, soaking men, supplies, weapons. Only with effort did they keep their powder dry. They grumbled and swore about the rain, Clardy along with the rest, but the truth was he minded it much less than he would have only a year or so before. He wasn’t nearly as occupied with his own comforts as he had been back in his reckless days on Beaver Creek.

  “I hope we’ve drawn nigh to those murdering buggers,” Steigal said beneath his sodden blanket. “There’ll be no trail remaining after this kind of wash.”

  They rose with the sun, ate a sparse, cold breakfast, and set out. About an hour later they found two dead dogs on the road, knifed to death.

  “That’s Harpe work,” McBee said. “Most likely these hounds were barking at them, and they feared they would give them away.”

  “That means they are worried about being chased,” Clardy said.

  “Aye, and that they are close,” McBee replied. “These dogs are still a mite warm to the touch.”

  They dismounted at once and walked their horses, wanting to be able to take cover on foot in a moment’s notice, if need be. Ambush was possible. But after a mile they had run across nothing new and remounted.

  Almost immediately McBee let out a startlingly loud shout: “Yonder, men! See them there?” He pointed up a hill that rose ahead.