Personal gear and long guns in tow, we trudged to the Dodd fire. Seeing how I was worn through and bone weary, I figured it would prove my ill luck to find Gabe Hookfin lolling about with a satisfied smirk on his leathery features. Thus, it was a relief to find not the beanpole, but Captain Miles Starkweather ringing the fire along with Val Dodd, Henry Cross, and Ira Fellows.
Upon spying Paw, the captain walked our direction. “Evening, Mr. Downer. I hate to impose an additional burden, but General St. Clair would like you to report to his tent immediately. The general was disappointed with the limited size of your shipment. He wants to discuss precisely when future supplies will arrive.”
Paw had no valid excuse with which he could refuse the general’s request. “Keep the fire hot, Valentine. I’ll return within the hour. Bear, soon as he’s through eating, send Ethan to watch over the riding stock. I don’t trust the army sentries to stay alert.”
Paw went off with Captain Starkweather, and we were finishing a meal of roasted beef and watered whiskey when a muscular figure strolled from the direction of the fort. I was about to welcome Paw back, but the words died in my throat. It wasn’t Paw who stepped into the firelight. It was Sergeant Torrance Devlin, Second United States Regiment, who stepped from the darkness.
The sergeant’s flushed, troubled countenance signaled his blood was up, threatening to erupt into boiling, uncontrollable rage. Was he seeking me out? Was he here to extract satisfaction for my intruding on Erin Green’s bath? I froze in place and stayed my ground, glad the fire separated us for the moment.
The sergeant planted his feet, butted his musket beside them, and snapped to attention. Without any sort of hello, he blurted, “We Devlins handle our own troubles, Jacobs. But much as it shames me, I’ve no choice except to request the help of you and Watkins.”
Tap frowned. “What’s chawin’ on yer knee, Sergeant?”
“My child’s been taken!” Devlin roared. “Taken, do you hear!”
Had I heard correctly? His child? What child? Who did he mean?
A cold, numbing chill speared my innards. God’s bones, he was speaking of Erin. And taken? Taken by whom? Hell and damnation, he could only mean the Injuns! The redsticks had taken Erin Green captive a second time!
Chapter 16
Nighttime, 18 October
I swear my tongue worked of its own accord. “The Injuns have Erin? How did they capture her?”
The sergeant ignored me and spoke to Bear. “It wasn’t the red enemy who carried her off. White men they be!” Devlin managed, barely restraining his fury. “Deserters from the Kentucky militia, by damned!”
Our encounter with the deserters at Ludlow’s Station was still vivid in my mind. Thus, the sergeant’s admission the redsticks weren’t responsible for Erin’s captivity did nothing to ease the coldness gripping my belly. Regardless of their origin or the color of their skin, desperate men were the most dangerous to deal with, and those having abandoned their sworn duty and fearing the hangman’s noose would be doubly so.
Bear waved a placating spread of fingers before Tor Devlin. “Pour the Sergeant a cup of whiskey straight from the jug, Tap. He calms himself a mite, mayhap we can make sense of what he’s sayin’.”
Tor Devlin gulped the fiery liquor in three huge swallows, never so much as blinking, and swiped his lips. “Now, tell us exactly what happened, Sergeant,” Bear said soothingly. “Where from was your child taken?”
“The spring at the northern edge of the eastern prairie. Her mother’s cart was nearby, and she went for water, the child did.”
“Did you yourself see her carried off?”
“No, not I. It was Marabee. Private Horace Marabee of me own company.”
“An’ he’s sure of what he saw? No chance of his bein’ mistaken?”
“None, none whatsoever,” the sergeant answered impatiently. “Marabee trips over his own shoes at drill, but he’s a keen eye for anything out of the ordinary.”
Bear sipped tea from his noggin. “All right then, how many deserters took Mistress Green, and when?”
“Four of the bastards there was. Marabee saw them marching to the spring, piggins in their grasp, the corporal amongst them giving the orders.”
“Was they bearin’ arms?” Tap put in.
“Yes, muskets, pistols, and knives, each and every one. That’s why Marabee noticed them, all those weapons just to fetch four piggins of drinking water. Marabee was at the fringe of the bullock herd an’ saw Erin join them. The child, unfortunately for her mother and me, knows no fear of strangers. On Marabee’s next round, they were gone, the child and every last one of the bloody buggers. Marabee rushed forward for a closer look but couldn’t see them anywheres. Had they walked toward the fort, he’d of spotted them straightaway.”
“And when did they take her captive, Devlin? What time was this?” Tap persisted.
“While you were bringing your pack train down from the ridge past our tents. Two hours back, it was now. Marabee reported her taking to me an hour ago.”
“An’ you didn’t chase after them?” an incredulous Tap wondered.
Tor Devlin’s features grew stormier than they’d been when he strolled to our fire. “I was refused permission to do so by our major. Four of our own showed their heels last week, and the major fears anyone venturing beyond our pickets will prove themselves of the same stripe. He won’t risk me or a detail to rescue what he deems a camp girl of little consequence to the campaign.”
“An’ you figure our bein’ unattached, we could track down your missin’ child?” Tap speculated.
“Yes, there’s no one else I can call upon,” Tor Devlin admitted with a reluctance that had to hurt him deeply. “There’s no one else free to go in search of her.”
Bear and Tap studied each other under the expectant gaze of everyone ringing the fire. It was those two Devlin specifically sought to trail the militia deserters and retake Erin. The sergeant apparently didn’t want Ethan Downer anywhere near his beloved child, not this go-round, anywise.
It was Bear who broke the silence. “But not tonight, Sergeant. Not tonight.”
Tor Devlin’s impatience rose to new heights. “Why not tonight? Why must you delay?”
Bear sipped more tea. “Findin’ her an’ her captors will be nigh onto impossible in the dark. An’ that’s if’n we can get outside our own sentries without their detainin’ us or shootin’ us by mistake. Those muskets firin’ every whipstitch at night every time some dimwit believes a flicker of moonlight be an Injun are loosin’ real balls that can kill yuh plumb dead forever. Come mornin’, we’ll locate their tracks and light a shuck after their miserable arses.”
Devlin’s next contention mirrored my own thinking. “But they might harm the child in the meantime!”
Bear stared at the woods north of our fire. “Not likely. They’ll keep movin’ fast as their legs will allow all night. She don’t fall behind or slow their pace too much, she’ll be alive at daylight. Even scum such as deserters might find murderin’ a white girl hard to stomach. An’ we can gain every hour on ’em tomorrow with us ridin’ an’ them afoot. Agreed?”
Tor Devlin hated the idea of postponing the pursuit, but he had no recourse lest he wanted to desert himself. He bobbed his head, conceding the field to Bear.
“Then it’s best you rejoin your company before that major sends a squad to arrest you for not manning your post,” Bear reminded him. “You’ll be the first to learn what comes of our search in the mornin’, that I promise.”
Tor Devlin braced his shoulders, extended his hand to both Bear and Tap, pivoted about, and faded into the surrounding blackness. “That man swallowed a heap of pride tonight,” Bear observed solemnly to no one in particular. “A heap of pride.”
Tap was now staring into the northern trees. “They scooted off in the direction of the Shawnee towns. Suppose they’re plannin’ on joinin’ the redcoats?”
Bear finished his tea. “Naw, they’ll feint north just long enou
gh to divert our attention, then swing ’round to the west. I scouted thataway with the Kentuckians when we were huntin’ a route clear of that big swamp. There’s an Injun path runnin’ north and south five miles west of the swamp that lends itself to fast travel afoot right smartly. Them Kentucky boys will seek it out. They’s bound for the Ohio an’ home.”
I went about preparing for my upcoming stint guarding the horses as if nothing extraordinary had occurred. Keeping my hands steady so neither Bear nor Tap would suspect how fiercely my heart pounded, I fastened the belt securing the Starkweather knife and my hatchet around my waist, slipped the carrying strap of my powder horn over my head, and checked the flint and priming of my rifle. I filled not one, but both of my coat pockets with strips of roasted beef, the same as any night guard would on the chance his relief was delayed. I was sly enough not to appear totally unmoved by the excitement of the evening. “I trust I will be allowed to help search for Erin?” I inquired of Tap and Bear.
Tap’s smile was full of devilish understanding. “Thought you’d never ask, lad,” he chirped. “And how’s Devlin to know, huh?” But a second later his smile vanished. “Though it’ll be for your Paw to make the final decision, won’t it now?”
That was my main worry. What if Paw decided the Downer men needed to head south with the Dodd packhorses on the morrow to speed up delivery of additional flour and other vital supplies? Given his penchant for seeing to essential business first and incidentals later, Paw could easily determine we had no time to spare searching for a missing girl whether we were subject to the command of the army or not. And wasn’t it rumored that St. Clair viewed all camp followers, men, women, and children, as chronic nuisances he’d sooner be shed of at the earliest possible date? There was much against even a cursory look for the mistress, even more against a full-scale, serious hunt.
Repeating the password supplied by their lieutenant earlier, I identified myself to the outlying sentries fronting the creek and sought our riding animals. They were scattered along the near bank, pawing and scrounging for what few nibbles of grass remained on ground grazed over for days by horse and bullock alike. The extreme shortage of forage convinced me more then ever that Paw would return south at daylight. He would at least move the animals in his charge where he could provide them sustenance.
I located Blue and rubbed his neck while pondering how best to proceed. I gave no thought to the danger involved in a lone pursuit of the four, armed deserters holding Erin. Nor did I dwell on the repercussions that would result from openly and willfully defying Paw’s authority. If I did either for a single, solitary minute, I feared my nerve would falter.
Well, damn, if I was hell-bent on risking my neck for a slap of the face, first I had to get clear of the army sentries posted along the creek around their herd of baggage horses as well as our packhorses. Much as I wanted Blue with me for ease of travel and a quick ride home once I had freed Erin, too many sentries patrolled the dark night for me to sneak beyond their watchful eyes leading a horse. So, it was make the trek afoot or wait till dawn. I was too anxious to be away from the army camp and Paw’s authority for the latter.
The moon peeked through a break in the clouds, and continuing to stroke Blue’s neck, I inspected the expanse of prairie bordering the creek. A copse of trees on my left flank, twenty yards off, offered cover on the near bank. Across the creek, trees crowded the waterway east and west to the stream’s nearest bend in either direction. Thick tangles of brush, too dense for any four-legged animal, blanketed the far bank beneath the crowding trees. Deeper into the woods, a solid mass marked the presence of higher ground. Once beyond that rise, a night marcher would be shielded from the sentries patrolling the prairie.
Wind-drifted cloud masked the moon. I dropped into a crouch, seized a fistful of Blue’s mane, and coaxed him toward the creek. Despite his hobbled front legs, he took a notion we were playing a new game and advanced in steady, measured hops. Not for an instant did my hat crown lift above his shoulder. I flattened on my belly short of the creek amid scattered piles of ripe horse dung and wriggled the last few yards required to gain the protecting copse of trees.
Assuming a low crouch again, I inched to the water’s edge and positioned myself where tree shadows extending from both banks meshed together above the surface of the creek. Much as I hated wet, cold feet, I fashioned a sling for my rifle with a length of leather thong from my coat pocket and slung that weapon on my backside. Then, strap of my powder horn looped about itself and clasped twixt my teeth, I crossed the knee-deep, thirty-foot stream on all fours. No yell of alarm rang out, and but the tiniest splash of water and crackle of brush revealed my passage as I slithered ashore on the far bank.
A pair of sentries circled behind the copse of trees next to Blue. The pair exchanged “All’s well” with their counterparts bound the opposite direction on the perimeter of the horse and bullock herds. I grinned in the night. My disappearance had gone undetected.
Immensely pleased with what I considered a clever duping of St. Clair’s sentries, I crawled a safe distance into the northern forest, stood, and began climbing to higher ground with long, purposeful strides. Everything was suddenly fine and dandy with Ethan Downer, who was off to rescue his true love—or the woman he hoped would be his undying love.
God forgive my shock and surprise when I topped the rise and discovered to my dismay Tap Jacobs leaning nonchalantly against a tree butt, hatless dome of his bald head shining ghostly white in the moonlight. I stood before him, cursing my sodden feet and the energy I’d needlessly wasted escaping from the prairie. “How did you get here ahead of me?”
Tap giggled, further infuriating me. “Wasn’t anything worthy of a bell ringing. I told them peach-bearded sentries I was traipsing across the creek to unbutton my breeches in private, and if they didn’t approve of my goin’ alone, they could trail along and smell my scat for themselves. Way their mouths drawed up tighter’n the skins on regimental drums, I knowed they weren’t about to stop me. They wouldn’t of cared if’n I’d stumbled into a passel of Shawnee on the other bank.”
“I’m not about to be stopped either!” I declared vehemently.
Tap settled his hat on his bare head. “I’m not here to drag on your coattails, an’ I’m too old to fight with young buckos liken you. I’ll just mosey along an’ keep yuh from losin‘ yer scalp or yer lifeblood savin’ that Green gal.”
“Does Bear know you’re here?”
“Naw, he thinks I’m visitin’ the Green wagon, an’ he’s gonna be mad as Hades when he finds out otherwise. But not nearly as upset as yer Paw will be. Now, I ain’t tryin’ to change yer plans, mind yuh, but are you sure you don’t want to talk this over with yer Paw?”
I lunged past the old scout and bolted down the slope of the rise. “Well, hell’s bells, I guess not,” Tap yelled, scrambling after me. “Sweet Jesus, my maw must be wailin’ for joy in her grave. Her onliest son is about to attempt somethin’ noble, even if’n it gets him killed. Ain’t nothin’ more pitiful than an old dead fool . . . well, less’n it would be a young one!”
Chapter 17
Daytime, 19 October
Once on level terrain again, I darted westward beneath the shielding shoulder of the rise. It was after midnight, and thickening cloud blinded the moon again. The leaf cover of open spots of ground was inches thick under my moccasins and slippery as grease. Briars and brambles rimmed the open places and clawed at my coat sleeves and the skin of my hands and neck. I plunged ahead, wending left and right among the tree butts, taking no heed as to the noise I made.
When Tap started gasping and wheezing and falling behind, I halted briefly at a small brook for a spelling drink. The old scout sucked water greedily on hand and knee, then scooted his backside against the nearest of the towering tree butts. “You are prayin’ every step, ain’t yuh, Ethan?” he inquired.
“What the hell you blubberin’ about?” I snapped.
The old scout sighed. “If’n yuh ain’t pray
in’ for the Lord’s help, yuh best get at it mightily an’ sincerely, ’cause the ruckus we’s makin’, any Injuns out an’ about will hear us miles off. Chrissake, we’d be easier to ambush than a newborn squalling in its crib.”
I gulped wind and calmed myself. I was glad to have Tap along. He was a tracker the equal of Tice Wentsell, Kenton, or Boone and had survived many a brush with the redsticks. But I feared his legs and his wind would give out on him. “We’ve got to risk bumpin’ into the Shawnee tonight. We can’t allow those deserters too much of a head start. The farther they get from the army, the greater the chance they’ll kill Erin.”
Tap wasn’t cross with me, though I was telling him what he already knew. “What’s your thinkin’?” he asked.
“We must reach that western Injun path Bear described close onto daylight as possible. Our only hope is that we can locate some sign of them there. We don’t, Erin’s the same as dead.”
Tap hitched his feet under him. “Leastways your foul temper ain’t clogged your head none. Lead off. I believe these old limbs will last me till dawn.”
Ancient legs or not, I soon came to rely on Tap’s wisdom and experience. In the middle of the night, with my own considerable strength flagging, he barked, “Put a bung in yer hole a while, lad. You’re driftin’ off course a mite.”
He fumbled in his haversack and produced a small, flat box made of tin and another the same size of wood. “Grab me a few dry leaves,” he ordered. Opening the tin box, he extracted bits of charred cloth, a piece of flint, and a steel dowel three inches in length. He knelt so a deadfall screened him from the chill night wind, laid the charred cloth on the leaves I fetched, and striking flint against steel, showered the blackened cloth with sparks. The cloth began to smoke. Tap immediately bent at the waist, blew downward with gentle breaths, and nursed the flickering embers into flames that spread quickly to the leaves underneath.
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