The Winds of Autumn

by Jim R. Woolard

  “Sad that water tank ain’t bigger. An overall bath ain’t the worst event can befall a man,” Blake said.

  Lem paid him no mind. “Yeh, I knows, but who ain’t swole like a frog’s throat an’ scratchin’ everywhere ’ceptin’ his belly hole.”

  “Never fear,” Wentsell countered. “Nothin’ else, we’ll soak yuh in the Scioto tonight till yuh beg our pardon.”

  Blake seized the opportunity Wentsell’s jibe provided. “We’ll be after Three Feathers an’ the rest ’fore the day’s out?”

  Wentsell’s cross-eyes stared, but his features showed no annoyance. “That we will.” His stare switched to me. “Gather faggots for a fire with the sergeant, Mister Blaine Tyler. We’ll eat an’ sip, then palaver so we all sleep good.” He held up a cautioning hand. “Believe I’d let Lem go first, then take the opposite tack, was I yuh.” Lem huffed and barged into the brush hefting his hatchet. Not inclined to foist undue hardship on my smeller, I heeded Wentsell’s counsel.

  We ate the morrung meal round a smokeless fire of white oak faggots, Lem seated downwind of the cooling breeze. Much to his delight, Blake and I served him with dispatch and let him have his way with the brown jug, anything to keep him in the least offending spot possible. He enjoyed the attention without comment, alert for any sign of disapproval from Wentsell beyond the glare of those odd eyes.

  Eating completed, the jug and water noggin made the circuit, and Wentsell fired a fresh pipe of tobacco. He set puffs of smoke on the breeze and watched the little clouds drift in Lem’s face. The old sergeant’s nose twitched and he scattered the annoying smoke with a fan of the hand. Much amused, Wentsell repeated his remark of last evening that turnabout was fair play. Then his mouth firmed and his jaw jutted. “’Nuff child’s play, let’s have our palaver.”

  Elbows on his crossed legs, he held the bowl of the pipe in both hands and studied us separately, insuring our complete attention. “We’re in the most dangerous country west of the high mountains about ta seek out our worst enemy. Our only chance be ta outsmart Three Feathers, an’ flyin’ after him ain’t gonna do nothin’ but get us killed dead. They’ll keep a sharp lookout a day or two. After that, the further they travel ’thout spyin’ any serious pursuit, the less they’ll concern themselves with their backtrail, an’ the less they’ll guard their camp each night. If’n it seems cold-hearted and unfeelin’ ta leave women at the mercy of savages night after night, keep somethin’ uppermost in mind: Three Feathers could’ve scalped ’em easy as not an’ didn’t. If’n he didn’t, he wants them alive. An’ that bein’ so, they ain’t likely ta be put ta the knife any time soon ’ceptin’ they become real troublesome. An’ yuh brothers need ta know Injuns on the warpath don’t pester women. They’ll slaughter em’ an’ scalp ’em in the fight, but they don’t pester ’em then nor after they take ’em captive. I’m certain of what I say. I been there with ’em.”

  I couldn’t speak for Blake, but a new surge of respect and awe for Wentsell coursed through me. In Lem’s many tales of his storied life, included was mention that Wentsell had lived amongst the Injuns— Delawares, I seemed to recall. But his venturing on the war trail with them had never come to light. That he had lent further credence to every opinion he voiced about Sarah and Hannah Ferrenden’s captors.

  “An’ what about Meek?” Lem asked.

  Wentsell drew on his pipe. “Somehow I don’t believe he’ll bother ’em neither. Hannah Ferrenden’s got a quick knee an’ sharp teeth for the bold as well as the sly-handed. An’ she’d show the same for one of her kind.”

  She believe she’s good as any man?”

  “Naw, Hannah don’t believe that. But she ain’t no ordinary female neither. She’s stubborn, willful and bound ta protect and help her paw. Don’t let how she dresses throw yuh none. Under them long pants and loose shirt there’s all the necessaries that make a woman what she need be ta turn your head double quick. An’ once she fixes them violet eyes on yuh, yuh start noddin’ ’fore she’s finished the askin’. The rumheads called her Water Princess.”

  “What’d they mean by that? Too high-handed for ’em?”

  “Naw, she was always washin’ and bathin’ some part or other of herself. Changed clothes head-ta-toe ever’ other day or so too. Tell yuh, boys, she smelled real good anytime I was close by. Yuh can’t help but ponder how she’d fare in tight bodice and long skirt. Hard not ta lay hand on her, meanin’ no disrespect.”

  I hung on Wentsell’s every word. Maybe they came from opposite ends of the road, dressed differently and looked nothing alike, but Hannah Ferrenden stirred the same urge in men to touch her as Loraleen Oldham. Did Hannah Ferrenden stun you silly like Loraleen? Did she tie your tongue in knots? My breath shortened and my palms were suddenly clammy. I lowered my head, afraid someone would notice the blush on my cheeks.

  I needn’t have worried. No one was paying me a lick of attention, for Blake’s patience was again wearing thin. Foremost for him was how we’d pursue Three Feathers and rescue Sarah, not the bewitching charms of a rebellious female who chose to dress herself like a man and wear her skin scratchy bathing every whipstitch. Lem saw Brother’s squirming and asked a pointed, diverting question of Went-sell.

  “Fine an’ well, Tice. Just how can the four of us free these here two women?”

  Wentsell tamped his pipe bowl with a fingertip. “’Tain’t no doubt where the Shawnee be headed. They stole the powder an’ supplies for the fight agin Harmar an’ his troops, an’ leadin’ a horse string the proven path be their best bet for fast travel. They’ll stick on the Scioto War Trail till the bend where Hurricane Tom had his town way back when. Sometime after that, they’ll turn west.” That deep laugh rumbled in his throat and chest. “Three Feathers ain’t overly pleased though he won the day. Ever’ mile he’s burdened with loaded horses that need graze, water an’ rest, all the while puttin’ down tracks an’ droppin’s a half-blind dog could sniff out. So, knowin’ where he’ll head, how’s that do for us?”

  He blew smoke rings at Lem. “Seein’ as how there’s fifty of ’em, we can’t let them Shawnee learn we’re in the same country till we make our strike. Any sign we’re about, they’ll double the guard an’ tie the women ta themselves at night. Even then, we sneak the women off in one try or go home empty-handed.”

  Once more Wentsell studied us, seeking any flicker of discouragement, I believe. “I ain’t a liar. I ain’t yet figured exactly how we’re gonna win out. I just knows there’s more’n one way ta skin the biggest catamount if’n yuh can grab hold of his tail. Meantime, ta make sure we have our chance, we travel smart an’ heady. No fires, no clank of noise, no tabaccy for me. We expect the Shawnee each an’ ever’ step we taken. Case we get scattered, we’ll split the vittles in two lots, one for Blake, second for Blaine ta tote. Lem, yuh side with Blaine no matter what. I’ll partner with Blake here.”

  Wentsell tapped dottle from his pipe. “The odds don’t favor us atall. But we’re sprightly, got vittles, powder an’ forty balls ta the man. Anythin’ else we need, we’ll steal from the Redsticks. Any questions?”

  “When we taken out?”

  Wentsell grinned lopsidedly at Blake. “Late afternoon soon enough? Whatever distance Three Feathers covers today in the mud an’ skeeters of the bottoms, we’ll do that an’ more through the night on the high ground flankin’ the Scioto’s east bank. The Shawnee packhorses’ll reach Hurricane Tom’s ol’ town site, say, mid-morning tomorrow. We’ll be hid out there waitin’ ta take up the hunt. That suit yuh?”

  “Good as anythin’ will,” Lem put in hastily. “Let’s get them vittles divided an’ repacked. I’m sleepier’n a hound that’s run a month of days all in a row.”

  Blake wasn’t in Lem’s hurry to end our palaver. “What ’bout the judge’s boatmen yuh sent Abner after?”

  Wentsell dropped the pipe in his shot pouch, cross-eyes never leaving Blake. “We count on them for next ta nothin’. Abner’s a fine fellow, honest an’ forthright in his dealin’s
with others. But Limestone rum’s waylaid many a crew with less ta fear. Them boys love talkin’ the hero. Unfortunately, I misdoubt all their brag an’ bluster will give ’em the courage ta cross the Ohio an’ lend a helpin’ hand. We go it alone or shuck for home. Anybody wants ta flag his tail, I’ll not hold it agin him.”

  Blake’s stern countenance never wavered. “I’ll see my sister home hale an’ hearty. There’ll be no change of heart with us Tylers.”

  “Fer me neither,” Lem pledged. “Now can we divide the vittles ’fore I doze off an’ fall in the fire?”

  As was Lem’s wont, his humor kept Blake and Wentsell from poisoning the well of friendship forever. A slow smile warmed Brother’s eyes. “Ol’ salts don’t burn, does they, Tice?”

  “Naw, an’ just our luck he’d scorch an’ stink the place up proper,” Wentsell responded, doubling us all over with laughter.

  Things proceeded smoothly the balance of the afternoon. We divided the remaining vittles evenly and repacked them in the saddle pouches, checked the priming of our rifles again and slept away the daytime hours stretched full length in warm sunshine, slough hats perched atop snoring mouths, prepared for either a planned or hurried departure.

  Though not common with me, fitful dreams spoiled the last of my sleep. Sarah appeared, golden hair disheveled, gray eyes beseeching me, a bronzed, snake-tattooed arm encircling her throat. Loraleen Oldham pushed Sister aside over my objections. Her red hair, freckled skin and dark eyes were more beautiful than I remembered. My heart pounded crazily and I longed to run my fingers over her skin. She faded away as my hand lifted and in her place loomed a shock of black hair and twin violet eyes suspended above a towcloth shirt. To save my life, I couldn’t make out the rest of the missing face. I yelled for Blake and Lem. No one came. I stared at the floating hair and eyes and yelled again and again.

  Then I felt a painful tugging at my earlobe and Lem’s voice said, “Wentsell’s back. Time ta be about it.”

  Chapter 11

  Dusk, September 13 till Dawn, September 14

  I awakened with a start, unsure of my whereabouts. I lay quiet a bit, clearing my muddled head. Where we were bound, a wandering mind cluttered with bothersome dreams got a man ambushed and scalped.

  Lem scattered the coals of the fire with a leftover faggot and rapped my shoulder. “Stand, lad, an’ we’ll tie the saddle pouch on your backside.”

  Blake and I made ready with the packs while Wentsell reported on his unannounced scout. “We best remember Three Feathers left two of his clan ta watch the Ohio for pursuit. They’ll follow along tomorrow, an’ we don’t want them stumblin’ onto us from behind once we close up on the main party. I’ve seen a mite of the country ahead an’ I’ll hold the point. Blake, you’re next, then Blaine, with Lem in the rear. Stay alert an’ don’t tarry. I’ll set the pace an’ I frown on laggards.”

  The sun was slanting downward when we departed the clearing. Our line of travel took us along and across the highest ground. Wentsell had a knack for fitting together direction and the Jay of the land without breaking stride. It was as if he had an extra sense the Lord overlooked with the rest of us. He knew beforehand which way to bear whenever trees, boulders, rock walls, cliffs and sharp ravines blocked the way. We zigged and zagged where necessary, but he always selected the most open path and never backtracked. In the darkness of evening before moonrise, his judgment proved unerring and our pace seldom slackened. That he saw equally well at night with those crossed eyes was no particular surprise. I was beginning to trust such feats were routine with him.

  Even more astounding than his talent for finding a trail where others swore none existed was the speed at which Wentsell traversed mile after mile of broken hill and ridgeline. His stride was a crab-like step that bore him uphill and down with minimum effort. Some way, despite the clumsy appearance of his gait, his head bobbed not the slightest, permitting his eyes to sweep left and right on the level in time with his feet. He actually marched cocked sideways, left shoulder leading the right, forming a perfect nest for his long rifle in the crook of the left arm. Aping him, I cocked myself so, and discovered that with a quick upward slide of left hand along the barrel and lift of right hand nestled under the trigger guard, my gun was at the cheek and leveled in a flash. After a little practice, I matched the set of his shoulders while on the move. His gait forever remained something unique and peculiar to legs shorter than mine. Though he tried hard, Blake had no better luck. We could only tag behind Wentsell in a fast shuffle, Blake quietly, me stubbing toes and raising enough racket to awaken the Shawnee dead. How I longed for our horses.

  Wentsell marched on and on, never looking back. Given his stealth and rapid pace, had it not been for the light of the risen moon we’d have lost sight of him and undoubtedly incurred his wrath. He proved a taskmaster who meant his words: We marched till the sweat ran, our breath was ragged and thirst swelled the tongue. He finally granted us a blow at the base of a craggy knoll noisy with an underground fountain that bubbled a hearty welcome.

  Blake and I near foundered ourselves slurping and drinking. Wentsell watched bemused from a slab of rock. “Don’t overdo, lads. We ain’t sincerely stretched our legs yet.”

  “How far ta Hurricane Tom’s Town?” Blake inquired. “’Nother twelve-thirteen miles. We’ve notched that many since camp.” Wentsell glanced at the half-moon. “Still well short of midnight. We’ll make it at daybreak.”

  “Yuh believe Three Feathers can cover thirty miles in the Scioto bottoms with a horse string in a day and part of a mornin’?”

  Wentsell’s moonlit forehead nodded. “He done it already from your plantation ta the Ohio. That Redstick ain’t lackin’ for bold. If’n he kills the horses, he’s enough warriors ta tote them stores two-legged.”

  He drank in measured swallows, then dug an iron canteen with wooden stopper from his possible sack and filled it with fresh water. “Fair piece ta the next spring. We may need a nip afore that. Let’s be off, lads. Smartly now.”

  For some miles thereafter the water I’d been free with set me to sloshing inside like a barrel riding the bed of a mountain freight wagon. The painful fullness lingered till we reached Long Run. We forded that knee-deep stream, wended through thick cane and gained the high ground once more. Wentsell’s pace was relentless. He again never looked back, trusting we’d secure the rear and not fall behind.

  A single-track game trail made for better going, but Wentsell soon abandoned that thin trace for a rugged slash in the ridgeline that crept ever higher. At the top of the slash was a narrow ledge of gray stone that glittered in the moonlight. Ignoring the yawning depths of the ravine below, Wentsell sallied onward, surefooted as a sea captain walking the deck of a becalmed ship. Blake did likewise. I shivered at the height and crept after them, eyes nailed to the brim of Blake’s slouch hat, one hand anchored to the jagged wall flanking on my right shoulder. Lem griped and padded behind me.

  Across the way a soaring ridgeline blanketed the western sky line. Within a quarter mile, the deep ravine a few inches from my feet narrowed and that western wall of high ground swept in upon us like a huge wave of water beating ashore. Just before the two cliff faces joined, our narrow ledge punied out. Not the least perturbed, Went-sell turned and said, “It’s a long step or short jump ta the other side. I know yuh can’t see it with the moon shinin’ here and not over there, but the landin’ place’s deep an’ level. Watch me. I’ll show yuh how next ta nothin’ it be.”

  Without any response from us, Wentsell jumped and disappeared into black shadow. We heard no sound of his landing anywhere. Blake started to yell after him, and Wentsell’s voice said, “Give me your rifle an’ I’ll reach yuh an arm.”

  Blake extended his flintlock butt foremost and Wentsell’s hand, ghostly white in the wan light, seized the weapon, then returned empty and beckoned Brother forward. A lengthy step and Blake too was gone. The ghostly fingers were quickly back, signaling for me. I silently cursed my fright, passed my La
ncaster and had me the longest stride possible. Wentsell clutched my forearm and boosted me along. I landed stiff but safe. Surprisingly, under a shielding overhang, the opposing ledge was wide as a horse stall.

  “I ain’t no squirrel, Wentsell,” Lem proclaimed loudly, bending at the waist and peering into the blackness that hid us from him. “Stick a paw thisaway.”

  Wentsell laughed. “By an’ by, yuh ol’ jack-tar. Bad as yuh stink, we may have need of yuh for some misbegotten reason.”

  Humor aside, fetching short-legged Lem across the gap separating the two cliffs was a deadly serious matter and Wentsell left nothing to chance. He planted a foot at the front edge of the sheer drop-off, had Blake and me anchor an arm, and asked Lem for his rifle; that obtained, Wentsell leaned far out, his entire free arm and head clearly visible in the feeble light. “Jump, Shakett! I gots no cause ta drop yuh.”

  With a hop-step for starters, Lem leaped and landed at the midpoint of Wentsell’s arm. Wentsell sagged momentarily, then with strength deceiving for his size, he arrested Lem’s fall and held steady long enough for the old sergeant to swing his dangling feet onto solid ground and heave himself upright. Lem’s sigh of relief rivaled the night breeze.

  Wentsell tendered his iron flask, and the excited Lem unthinkingly guzzled a hefty slug, gasped and spat most of it into the ravine. “Water, for christsake! I’m stuck bringin’ up the rear an’ asked ta drink water ta boot. My ol’ pappy must be churnin’ in the grave, fit ta be locked an’ whipped.”

  “Trust me,” Wentsell assured him, “it’ll grow on yuh liken them Limestone lasses. Fetch his rifle, Blaine. He takes ta yarnin’, we’ll lose half what we gained by this here shortcut.”

  That said, Wentsell took out triple quick before Lem could partake of his jug. Blake and I took after him in the proper order. Lem, fuming at Wentsell’s abruptness and closed ear, swore a blue streak, but never lagged so much I wasn’t privy to every curse he uttered.