Blood at Dawn

by Jim R. Woolard

  He then hurriedly removed the lid of the wooden box. Inside was a brass-dialed compass. Holding the instrument beside his tiny fire, he peered intently at the dials and giggled. “Damned if’n I ain’t near skillful as yer Paw. We’re traveling northwest, not due west like we should be. We angle too far north, we’ll delay gainin’ that Injun path an’ mayhap miss our quarry altogether.”

  He rose and stomped out his tiny fire. Though I couldn’t be certain, he had to be grinning in the dark. “Old goats with weak limbs can still be of some help, lad. Turn halfway about where you stand, follow your nose, an’ by the by, we’ll find Mr. Bear Watkins’s Injun road.”

  Tap enjoyed funning me, which I deserved, and I bore him no ill will. Long before first light, he again proved indispensable. His soft whistle sounded while I was resting, waiting for him to catch up to me. I backtracked and found him standing in an opening not a dozen feet wide. “We’re there, lad.”

  I hesitated, peering at the shadowy shape of him, and he beckoned me forward. “I toed the ruts of traveling horses. Your stride’s longer’n mine, and you stepped plumb over them. We’ve found our pathway.”

  I thumped Tap’s upper arm. “Then let’s settle somewheres till there’s enough light to hunt for sign.”

  The old scout grunted. “Spell of sleep wouldn’t insult me none, neither.”

  We retreated from the Injun road and hunkered down. I closed my coat collar. Was the mistress clad warmly? She’d be hard pressed to stay warm in nothing but her thin shirt. And where was she? Was she still drawing breath? Had her captors abused her?

  I shrank deeper into my coat and strained to clear my head. I’d been awake a day and most of a night, and sheer tiredness dulled my senses, lulling me asleep. No matter how often I shook myself, the tiredness won out, and within minutes I dozed off.

  I flamed red from embarrassment when the old scout, seeming frisky as a spring colt, kicked me awake. Though the sky was overcast, the dawn light was stunningly bright. I jumped to my feet, and Tap laid hold of my coat sleeve. “Hang still, young’un, ain’t no point gettin’ all riled up for nothin’,” he advised.

  “What you mean by that? You find sign or didn’t you?” I demanded.

  “Yeah, that I did. Step over to the pathway, an’ I’ll show yuh.”

  The old scout, grinning with the utmost satisfaction, positioned me shy of the hoof-carved ruts he’d located in the dark of night and knelt between them. “Four pairs of shoes, soles holed and flopping, it appears.” His bony finger touched the dirt of the path. “And here, part of a much smaller print, made by a moccasined foot. That’d be yer mistress, most likely.”

  I fought against sinking spirits as I had sleep. We’d missed intercepting them, but at least Erin was still drawing breath. “How far behind are we? Can you tell?”

  “I’d guess from the crust on these prints ’bout half a day. These boys planned ahead. They went north only far enough to lose sight of the army encampment, then bee-lined for this here pathway.”

  Tap stood and gazed southward. The slim pathway meandered to the left and disappeared from sight within twenty yards. Injun roads weren’t like those the army hacked out of the forest on a constant compass heading. They followed the contour of the land, seeking the most natural, open course of travel. In low, flat country, they favored waterways leading to ever-larger streams while at the same time never neglecting the sites of the closest springs and salt licks. The deserting Kentuckians owed the redsticks much. Even if green to the woods, they needn’t fear getting lost. Stick to the Injun pathways crisscrossing the Ohio wilderness, always bearing in the desired direction, and they would eventually emerge from the otherwise trackless forest smack on the bank of the Ohio.

  Tap turned his attention to me. “Give a listen, lad. If’n we’re to overtake this bunch, we’ve got to husband our strength. We wind-break ourselves, yer gal be good as dead. It don’t wound yer pride too awfully much, I’ll set the pace an’ pick our course. Mayhap we can shortcut now an’ again an’ save some steps. Yuh want to hurry along any faster, remember, they ain’t slept at all, and sooner or later, their legs will give out. That’s when we’ll gain the most on them. Once we lay eye on them, we can get down to the serious part of our business.”

  “Which is to rescue Erin,” I interrupted.

  “Yeah, but be warned, we’ll have to snatch yer gal away from them. They ain’t gonna free her willingly with a smile on their ugly faces just ’cause we ask. She’s the person whose story, once told, guarantees them a dangle at the end of a noose. We better be prepared for a helluva fight.”

  It was Tap’s sincerity about recovering Erin that won me over to his approach. He would ensure my impatience didn’t get the best of me on the trail, then be there at my side when we confronted her captors. In a tight situation, with a man being outnumbered, a supporting rifle might not even the odds, but the added weapon could give him some chance of success.

  Tap smiled at my nod and passed me his haversack. Then, moccasins hardly lifting from the pathway, he set off in a ground-devouring half trot that he sustained without tiring. He sipped water from his canteen on the move, gently chiding me for having left mine at the Dodd fire, but still sharing. As the miles mounted, he showed me the legs of his youth when his belly was small and riding stock was scarce. He showed me the endurance of the early hide hunters like himself who had dared to kill and skin game in the bluegrass Shawnee country and outrun the redstick foe to save their scalps. And he showed me the valiant heart of a true friend willing to risk his own life to spare a slip of a girl unfairly taken by her own kind.

  A northerly wind pushed at our backs. The sun shone weakly the hour before and after high noon. Tap’s eyes never ventured from the tracks we followed except on those occasions when we would veer into the woods for a spell. Despite his claim he had never before so much as sashayed north of Fort Washington, we always regained the Injun pathway with unerring ease. It was as if at one glance he grasped the lay of the land. His frequent brags were suddenly the truth of the moment.

  The old scout’s half trot never slackened till near dusk. His halting was so abrupt it scared me, and I dropped to a knee, rifle poised and ready. Tap’s hand leapt upward, and his head turned slightly. I stayed silent, for I could see his jaw was hanging open. He was listening.

  A dull boom like the faint rumble of thunder beyond faraway hills teased my ear. The booming noise was faint enough, had I been on the move, I would not have heard it over the tread of my feet and the working of my lungs. But how had Tap known to stop and listen for it before it happened? Amazing fellow, Tap Jacobs, damn amazing.

  His explanation tarnished the feat not a whit. “That was a second musket firing. They must have missed the first try.”

  “Redstick ambush?” I asked in a whisper.

  “Naw, there’d be more shooting. Our boys be awfully hungry. Probably startled a deer and let fly. Hell’s bells, the milk ain’t even dry on some of those militia boys’ lips. They’d shoot game inside St. Clair’s tent and gut it in his lap, the devil with the consequences.” Tap’s smile was wicked and cunning. “Makes them easy to hunt, don’t it though?”

  Tap dropped to a knee and sipped water, then tossed me the canteen. “What do we do now?” I inquired.

  “Well, they’re gonna eat their bellies full, all the while talking themselves into believing it’s no big risk was they to sleep the night through beside a nice warm fire.”

  I started to stand, and the old scout glared at me. “Settle back there, lad. We need be in no great rush.” He grinned to lessen the sting of his rebuke. “Trust me, we ain’t shy on time. We’re gonna sleep our own bones fresh while the day ends itself. Once them boys yonder is sawin’ the log, we’ll lay a right proper sneak on them in the dark. Might help get yer gal loose if’n they was to think we was Injuns, mightn’t it now?”

  The prospect of gaining the advantage by scaring the deserters out of their wits plastered a huge grin on my own face. R
eaching them across wooded terrain buried in leaves in the black of night without raising the alarm gave me pause, but I would depend on Tap’s experience to avoid such a disaster.

  “Too bad we’re shy victuals our ownselves,” Tap opined.

  I yanked the sacks of roasted beef I had stashed for guard duty from my coat and shared one with the old scout. “Young bellies may not be the wisest, but they never travel with empty pockets, they can help it.”

  Tap beamed. “Damned if’n you ain’t yer Paw all over again, lad.”

  I enjoyed the compliment but fell asleep in the nearby brush doubting Paw would second Tap’s enthusiastic endorsement of his oldest son just now. Trouble, big trouble, loomed for Ethan Downer at both ends of the journey. I decided a few earnest prayers were in order. A young man about to undertake a dangerous venture needed all the support he could muster.

  Chapter 18

  Midnight, 19 October

  Wily Tap located the deserters’ camp by the simple expedient of following his nose. He circled around southeast of where he guessed we would find them, then quartered northwesterly into the wind till he sniffed the smoke of their fire. We fetched up to a creek fifteen feet across and turned due north hard along its bank, treading earth swept clean of leaves by the freshets of recent rains. On the sneak, Tap employed a crouching, wide-kneed gait that resembled the walk of a waddling duck but produced less noise than a stalking ghost. Try as I might, I was sweating inside my coat and still not matching his stealth.

  A shaft of moonlight pierced the spotty clouds. The creek bent away to our left, and Tap motioned for me to squat and wait. I couldn’t spot the deserters’ fire, but we had to be drawing close, careful as Tap inched straight ahead into the trees. Though I was alone for mere minutes, the waiting played havoc with my nerves. Clouds shrouded the moon, and Tap’s unexpected whisper from arm’s length gave me a genuine start. “Found ’em.”

  “Erin there?” I whispered anxiously.

  Tap’s breath was damp on my ear. “Seems to be five lumps ‘round the fire. Seein’ as how I can’t tell which one she be, might be wise we surprise them at first light when we can sort things out.”

  My overwhelming devotion to Erin’s ultimate safety negated that strategy. “Ain’t nothing guaranteeing they’ll all be asleep then. They spy us, they mightn’t kill her, but they hold a musket to her head, we’ll have to let them go free and take her along.”

  “What yuh plannin’, lad?”

  “What you said earlier. You cover me with both our rifles. I’ll sneak in and bring her clear. Anything goes amiss, I’ll take her to ground with me while you let loose an Injun war whoop and shoot over their heads. That should create enough confusion I can tug her into the trees.”

  “Dangerous, lad, powerful dangerous. But I agree they’ll hide behind her we give them the chance, an’ I can’t think of anythin’ better.” Tap’s sigh tickled my ear. “All right, we’ll do ’er. I hate to admit it, but you bein’ younger and stronger, yer a better choice to sneak in amongst ’em. Just remember one thing, by God.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Worse comes to worst, it means nothin’ they’re white like us’ns. Don’t hesitate to draw blood. They kidnapped that gal to save their hides. They’ll kill you an’ her in a wink ’thout a twitch of regret. They ain’t no better’n the Injuns took yer brother Aaron. Yuh don’t believe that, you hold the rifle an’ leave the knife work to ol’ Tap.”

  “I promise. No quarter for any of them.”

  “Good lad,” Tap commended with a rap of my shoulder. “Now, shuck yer belt, coat, an’ that frock of yer Paw’s. Less they can grab onto, the better. Move low and quick, they discover yuh. Strike down with yer ’hawk an’ up with that Starkweather knife. An’ don’t forget to whoop yer ownself. Scare the nerve from a man, yuh muddle his thinkin’.”

  The night wind was shivery cold on my bare chest and raised gooseflesh on my forearms and shoulders. I hefted my hatchet in my right hand, knife in my left, and followed on Tap’s heels as the old scout retraced his earlier steps. The ground lifted slowly beneath my moccasins. We topped the swell and waited for a break in the clouds. When it came, I made out the creek and then beyond it the deserters’ camp, which occupied a treeless spit of sand bounded by the creek and a smaller stream flowing from the west. I estimated the glowing embers of their fire to be no more than twenty yards from Tap and me.

  Tap stretched and removed my flop-brimmed hat. His arm pointed below us. Leaves piled deep by past winds lay in heaps at the base of the swell. Tap’s arm swung to our right and jabbed at a lengthy deadfall on the slope of the swell whose trunk slanted into the water of the creek like a thin, black bridge. Tap’s first and second fingers switched to and fro, aping the legs of a marching man. I gulped. Lord Jesus, he expected me to climb down the slanting trunk of the deadfall and drop into the creek.

  I didn’t hesitate. It was the quietest route leading into the water. I eased next to the deadfall and levered myself up onto its trunk. I turned sideways and spread my arms for balance. Traversing the smooth bark of the dead beech was akin to sliding from the neck to the tailbone of a greased hog with the hog standing on his hind feet. The roots at the bottom of the trunk rose in front of me. I wedged the blade of my knife twixt my teeth and wrapped my right arm ’round a root to arrest my forward progress. I hung there a minute till I was reassured my clumsy descent hadn’t alerted the deserters, then slipped into the creek with no more ripple than a diving muskrat.

  The water was knee deep, and exploring the bottom for rocks or holes with my toes, I waded without lifting my feet above the surface. I ignored the shocking chill as my moccasins filled with water. Better wet footgear than to risk a sneak in bare, unprotected feet.

  The weather wasn’t helpful. The clouds had thinned to wisps, and the moonlight appeared brighter than full sunshine as I placed a foot on the sandy bank fronting the sleeping deserters and their prisoner. Lowered in a crouch, I crept ahead two steps, then another. The wind suddenly bore the sound of heavy snoring. In the woods beyond the fire, an owl hooted. Leastwise I hoped it was an owl and not real Injuns lurking about.

  I advanced a long stride, straightened up a tad, and studied the bodies surrounding the fire. The smallest of the sleepers, whom I took to be Erin, lay closest to the dying fire. Beside her, almost touching her, sprawled the largest of the deserters, his bulk equal to that of Bear Watkins. I crouched again and crept onward, taking pains that I didn’t cast a shadow on the outlying sleepers. The big body next to Erin stirred. I sank onto my haunches, shrinking small as I could. The burly bastard lifted Erin’s arms and felt her wrists, apparently checking that her bonds were secure. I heard his short, snorting laugh as he wriggled against her. His companions snored wildly as ever.

  I hung still and calmed my nerves. If the burly bastard was mistreating Erin, I’d no intentions of betraying my presence till the last second. No quarter, I’d said. And I’d meant it.

  The moon was a white ball in the nearly cloudless sky. The wind rustled my hair. I rose into a crouch and tiptoed toward the two of them. Erin was twixt the glowing embers and the big Kentuckian. I was appreciative his backside faced my approach. A discarded musket angled along his spine.

  At my last creeping step, my moccasins brushed the stock of the musket. “Ain’t yuh a sweet thing, my missy,” the big deserter muttered hoarsely. Erin squirmed, pulling apart from him, and I saw his left hand squeezed her neck while the right was inside her silk shirt, caressing her breast. Anger overwhelmed me as Erin struggled harder, her strangled “No” barely escaping past the fingers clutching her windpipe.

  I swept the hatchet above my head, drawing back for a lethal blow to the deserter’s shaggy skull. But at the top of my reach, with every muscle flexed and poised for that cleaving, fatal blow, I failed myself. I broke my vow. I froze for the slightest instant, paralyzed by the awareness it was not an Injun I was about to kill without warning but a fellow white man.

  Wh
ether Erin saw me and her widening eyes alerted him or the big Kentuckian saw my hatchet lift out of the corner of his own eye, he reacted with astonishing speed. In one swift movement whose pieces knitted together in a single blur, he freed Erin, flipped from right hip to left, and lashed out with a booted foot while his hands streaked for the discarded musket. The lashing boot smashed into my left thigh and staggered me. Even with my balance in peril, I leaned into him, trying to keep my descending hatchet on target.

  The rising stock of the deserter’s recovered musket met the blade of my hatchet in a thudding impact that tore the weapon from my grasp. The deserter slanted the musket across his chest as I landed atop him. The weight of my body made no more impression than the bump of a floating feather. He didn’t so much as grunt. Braced against the ground, he pushed upward with both arms. I grabbed the barrel of the musket with my now empty right hand and jabbed at him with the knife in my left. But the jabbing blade found only the bony back of his shoulder instead of soft, yielding flesh.

  The deserter sucked wind and gathered himself. Desperate to stop his throwing me aside, I loosed the knife and thrust my left arm between us. My palm slid along his forearm. I felt the hairs on the back of his hand, then the finger curled about the trigger of the musket. I grabbed and yanked backward. Excited as I was, I still had the wherewithal to shut my eyes against the flash of the muzzle blast. Flint struck metal. Hot flecks of exploding priming seared my bare ribs. The roaring boom of the musket set my ears ringing something awful.

  A mighty heave of steely muscles, and I, no small man, went flying, the musket barrel ripped from my fingers. Sandy loam broke my fall, but I was prone and unarmed with the excited shouts of the awakening deserters filling the creek bottom. I opened my eyes, and the big Kentucky deserter, stock of his smoking musket raised to bash in my skull, loomed above me. I was a goner!