The Winds of Autumn

by Jim R. Woolard

  I spread a hole for myself as had Wentsell in time to observe the judge’s daughter fading into a rock crevice matching our cabin door. The hidden crevice led to a covered passageway that was damp and mossy, its ceiling tall enough that I walked without stooping. The dank passageway curved starboard and connected with an isolated, high-walled, circular compound barely sixty feet across and open to the sky, Wentsell’s camp for the night.

  Excitement surmounting fatigue, I emerged from the passageway on the search for Sarah. Stunted trees shabby of leaf bearded the northern half of the compound. Beyond their thin trunks, Sister’s blue linsey skirt and golden hair were faint splotches of color in the dim gloom of evening. I surged past the others and went directly for her.

  Sarah lay on sparse grass without benefit of blanket or bedding. Her head lifted at my approach. Greetings welled in my gullet, but she was on her feet and in my arms before I could speak. Her fierce hug wrought a grunt of pain from me. I paid it no heed and clutched her good and strong, no mean accomplishment for a man with Lancaster flintlocks in both fists.

  We Tylers were known for prolonged hugging and clinging after just brief absences, and Sarah and me by no account sullied the family custom. We hung together, words unnecessary, till Blake sauntered round the stunted trees and said, “Wentsell wants to parley.”

  We circled about in the untreed half of the compound, mere shadows in the failing dusk. Flint struck steel and sparks chased one another. Wentsell patiently nurtured a small blaze, his newly dug fire pit of less size than the crown of my slough hat. Flickering light stained our features pale gold.

  It pleased me that Sarah and the judge’s daughter acknowledged each other without rancor, if not with genuine warmth. Sister sat on my right, Hannah Ferrenden, at her choosing, on my left. Blake, Wentsell and Lem, the old salt supported by our bundled gear, lined the nether rim of the ranger’s meager blaze.

  “With these high walls, yuh can’t hardly spot fire shine from outside. Savvy thing be ta keep everyin’ burnin’ low,” Wentsell advised, adding slivers of wood. His cross-eyes swept from face to face. “I’ll allow the Redsticks ain’t ever set foot through the passageway yonder. Morgan Ramsey tracked a white trapper here in the snow the winter of 17 and 86. Whoever he was, he weren’t ta home an’ Morgan ’fessed no other sign of him. I’ve slept inside here with Shawnee buzzin’ closer’n gnats in my ear an’ they ain’t yet tumbled ta the secret of the wild plum. Yuh sleep dark an’ quiet after I taken out, it’ll be the same this slash of the hoof.”

  “When will you return?” queried Hannah Ferrenden.

  “Afore first light at the latest. I’ll scout the near bank of the Scioto first. If’n I find nothin’, I’ll ramble west where we’re bound.” His gaze speared Lem. “I’ll steal an Injun horse for the sergeant … or we’ll rig a litter for him. I misdoubt he’ll walk on the morrow, not for a day anyways.”

  Feisty Lem spurned the suggestion his tortured limb wouldn’t recover overnight, but the judge’s daughter had little tolerance for prideful nonsense. “He’ll be most appreciative of your kind consideration and he doesn’t thank you, I will speak for him.”

  Her intercession left Lem mumbling while Wentsell stood in one smooth upward movement. “Ration the vittles carefully, there may be no more. The Shawnee stumble on yuh, stay put an’ fort up. I’ll hear the ruckus an’ pounce on ’em from the rear an’ draw ’em off.”

  His voice so rang with conviction you believed what Wentsell said, whether four or forty redskins might besiege us by dawn. He stepped across the fire, slipped betwixt Sarah an’ me, and vanished with rifle and possible sack into the darkness behind us.

  Hannah Ferrenden shot to her feet. “Lemuel, if you’ll surrender your backrest, I’ll cook for everyone.” She glanced at Blake and me. “You Tyler men keep the fire hot. Sarah will knead the johnnycake.”

  Given our mutual hunger and weariness, her proposal was warmly agreed to by all present. She took stock of our supplies during the meal preparation and fed us as Wentsell instructed—sparingly. Our fare consisted of a single fried johnnycake, a scrap of jerk, and a few swallows of heated water tasting vaguely of chocolate. The old salt lamented our lack of hard spirits, and was brusquely told by the cook what smidgen of rum remained was for doctoring afterwards.

  It was a quiet meal, well chewed and properly savored. Sarah, grim of countenance and unnaturally dull of spirit, accepted Hannah Ferrenden’s offer of a blanket from Meek’s bale and settled down where I’d found her, the farthest point from the mouth of the passageway. Sister hadn’t uttered a word throughout the eating, sitting with eyes downcast, staring at the fire’s reddened coals. More than a tad worried, I asked after her, and Blake assured me that with Sarah shy of Three Feathers and his savage horde, she would be her old self come daylight. I accepted his judgment of her well-being without question, trusting his devotion to her. Later on, I would learn Brother purposely chose that evening to overlook the wisdom of Paw’s admonition that bad news never smells better with age.

  At the last swallow we menfolk tended the flintlocks in our possession, same as if we were at the table in the Tyler sleeping cabin. That chore completed, Hannah Ferrenden popped to the fore once more. She goosed the dying flames with brittle branches snapped from the spindly trees, and securing the rum jug, ordered me out of my frock. Her very stance, feet staggered, head tilted toward me, free hand on hip, so remindful of Paw, indicated she expected obedience, not obstinacy and delay.

  Bemused smiles stirred on the faces of Blake and Lem. The two jaybirds watched Hannah Ferrenden’s treatment of me vigilant as hawks circling for the kill, tiredness suddenly forgotten. It didn’t comfort me any when she explained aloud what they could mostly see for themselves, revealing as she jabbered particulars of our Salt Creek sojourn I preferred Blake and Lem’s eager ears not hear, then … or ever.

  She removed the deer skin and explored my wounds front and back, walking on her knees round my seated body. “Bullet holes, all of ’em, are knitting nicely, no proud flesh, no fever. Seems you wrestlin’ into your breeches an’ shirt did no lasting harm. Sure goes faster, though, when you undress yourself.”

  Discarding the fouled, innermost layer of leaves, she splashed the remaining portion with rum—Lem moaning over the few drops that spilled—and covered the rear wound again. The deer-hide bandage had cooled and chilled me from hipbone to hipbone. “Grab it at your sides like before,” she said. I did, and she waddled to the front of me, plugging the entry hole with rummed leaves. Retying the deer hide, she lifted her hand and felt the line of my jaw. “You’ll need shaving soon, won’t you?”

  I lowered my head, hoping her words were too softly spoken to be overheard. Her hand lifted higher, and she fingered the gap betwixt my ear and my hat. “Lump’s mostly gone. Your head isn’t still thumping where I bashed you with the paddle, is it?”

  I was approaching total mortification, dying by inches. I peeked out from under my hat brim. Blake’s grin was enormous now, so wide his ears threatened to touch behind his skull. Both he and the rumormonger of the Limestone taverns were leaning forward, anxiously waiting further revelations from Hannah Ferrenden … and she didn’t disappoint them. Easing back on her heels, she said, “Those stitches in the crotch of your breeches are holding up, aren’t they?”

  As it had at Salt Creek, the brow of Lem’s unpatched orb tried its darnnest to mate with his pelt cap. The bash on the skull and my resewn breeches were heretofore unbeknownst to him, and he could no longer restrain himself. His chest filled and laughter leaped from his belly. But only a garbled “Haw” burst forth, for Blake reached and cupped his opening mouth with a smothering palm.

  I relaxed and smiled at Blake’s action, understanding exactly why he’d stifled the old salt. Hannah Ferrenden was a woman of breeding and wealth whom Brother knew personally hardly at all, and who might take powerful offense at being laughed at or about. And much as Blake loved females, the better-looking they were, the less prone he w
as to foolish missteps in their presence.

  Pivoting on her toes, the judge’s daughter reclaimed her seat alongside me. Blake hurriedly freed Lem’s mouth and the old sergeant, covering for himself, pretended something had lodged in his throat, hawked repeatedly and spat. The innocence of his tattooed countenance equaled that of an angelic child. Hannah Ferrenden, her coy smile almost too knowing, passed him the rum jug. “Just a dampening of the tongue and no more,” she said.

  Lem had his small swig, then Blake. I declined, after which the four of us lingered quietly for some minutes. Though we were all admittedly worn to the bone, it proved one of those late evenings that conclude a hellish hard day when exhaustion is absolute and sleep plays the stranger, regardless of how earnest the summons or great the necessity. Brother Blake eventually broke the silence with a pointed question aimed at me. “Just what happened that got you wounded?”

  Hannah Ferrenden, peering in the direction of Sarah, beat me to an answer. “Tell us instead how you and Tice Wentsell stole your sister from under the very noses of fifty Shawnee. That’s the story worth hearing.”

  And Sergeant Shakett, bless him, took her hook, thereby closing the door on Salt Creek for the evening. “Can’t say I ain’t mighty curious how yuh an’ Tice done it,” Lem admitted.

  My nod was almost a bow, presenting Blake little choice: Honor our request or appear ill-mannered before a highly desirable woman. Brother crossed his legs, rested his Lancaster on his thighs and scooped dirt into the fire hole with his knife, mulling over how to begin.

  The moon topped the eastern rim of the compound, casting whitish light on the crown of Blake’s hat and his frock-clad shoulders. He glanced first at the newly risen moon, then at the dark hole of the passageway. “Hour’s late. I’ll tell the tale quick now the fire’s out long as we post a guard when I finish.”

  He waited for a nod from each of his listeners.

  “It was mostly Wentsell’s doin’. Naw, that ain’t the whole of it. It was all Wentsell’s doin’. He sent yuh skedaddlin’ after Meek an’ Stick Injun, swum the river again, and we hid till mornin’ close enough we saw, heard and smelt whatever took place amongst them Shawnee. Or leastways that was true for me. I couldn’t sleep bein’ surrounded by Injuns, but that didn’t no way cause Wentsell ta miss a wink. Was I ever glad he don’t saw gourds like Lem.”

  The old salt’s derisive snort flustered Blake not a whit. “At dawn, Three Feathers kicked the whole bunch upright an’ they seen ta themselves, one buck pissin’—excuse my tongue, Mistress Ferrenden—on the very brambles where we was layin’. They made off northwesterly, strung out near quarter a mile. I was plumb beside myself ta rush after ’em. Tice, though, he just rolled over an’ said wake him when the sun was straight up, an’ slept the mornin’ same as he had a feather bed ’neath him.

  “Come noon,” Blake related, tamping the dirt-filled firepit with the handle of his knife, “Tice hadn’t anymore sat up when he shushed me an’ dropped back down. We laid a goodly while, nothin’ movin’ or soundin’ anywhere, but I knowed better’n ta wiggle even a toe till I was told. Pretty soon two Shawnee, lean an’ painted an’ stripped ta their clouts, trotted from the south on our side of the river. They was sweatin’ buckets from hours of runnin’ an’ still had plenty of breath. They zipped past our bramble hideaway so near I could’ve poked ’em with my rifle barrel. Once they was out of earshot, Tice reared up again an’ told me the two runners were the same devils Three Feathers left at the Ohio ta guard his backtrail, an’ now we’d accounted for all the Redsticks, we could taken out our ownselves.

  “The Shawnee followed what Wentsell named the Blazed Way. It wasn’t nothin’ stayin’ on their trail, there bein’ a notched tree ever so often—marked by some half-witted trapper ’fraid he’d git lost— along with horse tracks an’ droppins so fresh they were still most and shiny. Short of midday, with the sky growin’ black as a coal tunnel, the Blazed Way crossed Crooked Creek, a waist-deep ford, an’ brushed the headwaters of Injun Creek. From there, Wentsell guessed the Shawnee would follow the Way north ta their old town at Chillicotha an’ turn west along Paint Creek. So’s we hitched up our breeches an’ leggins an’ rain or no rain, jaunted cross-country, him figurin’ Three Feathers would camp the night where Raisin Run an’ the Paint come together. I asked him how he could be so certain of Three Feathers’ line of march, an’ he reminded me the Way an’ Paint Creek was the fastest route west from the Scioto with a pack train, an’ over west was where Harmar was massin’ his troops, was it not.”

  Blake’s head lifted and he sheathed his knife. “Yuh couldn’t see your thumb the length of your arm for the rain, an’ it was uphill and downhill the whole blasted afternoon. I swear Wentsell showed more lung than them Shawnee from the mornin’. He triple-quicked all the while like we was on dry hardpan with nothin’ in the way instead of wood slopes slick with wet leaves. I stretched my guts chasin’ his heels, an’ damn sure came ta appreciate why yuh sleep ever’ chance he allows yuh.

  “It ain’t easy ta believe an’ I was with him, but we ended the afternoon in the worst of the downpour at the precise spot he anticipated Three Feathers’d spend the night. We scrunched down there an’ sat out the storm.” Blake sighed and wagged his head. “The rain quit an’ the Shawnee come ploppin’ along just like he figured, the lead horses sashayin’ further up the Paint, the middle of the train haltin’ with Sarah an’ Three Feathers himself smack in our laps … well, almost, considerin’ they wasn’t more’n forty yards from us. The Injuns cold-camped on salt pork an’ rum, lettin’ them horses, packsaddles cinched tight as ever, browse an’ water themselves careless as all get-out. They wasn’t payin’ Sarah much attention neither. She sat in the last of the sun an’ dried her dress an’ her hair, then curled up on what seemed an old bearskin an’ fell asleep after a bit.

  “Then it was wait for night so we could make our try. Wentsell dozed off, smilin’ calm as a crib-bound baby full of mother’s milk. Me, I commenced worryin’ over little things like damp powder an’ bein’ scalped an’ which way was we ta run once we had Sarah in our grasp. Now, don’t tack wrong on me, I was beginnin’ ta accept Wentsell’s word as gospel, but we was hemmed in every direction— Raisin Run on the left, the Paint an’ the Redsticks before us, ample hills ta the right an’ our rear. So soon as he woke of his own accord ta study the Shawnee camp a second time, I overlooked his resentment of tomfool questions an’ asked how we’d make our escape.

  “Ta my surprise, he didn’t rile up. He kept on starin’ below us an’ answered out of the corner of his mouth so soft I had ta scoot against him ta hear. ‘Don’t fret yuhself. We ain’t runnin’ far. We’ll take advantage of the mornin’ fog an’ have them Shawnee meetin’ themselves searchin’ for us.’ That was all he said, none of which made sense ta me, but I clamped my jaw, not wantin’ ta push my luck with him.

  “We didn’t twitch again till the deepest part of night. The moon by then was westerly, fainter by the quarter hour, an’ the fog not yet on the swell. Wentsell gripped my forearm an’ gave his orders short an’ blunt. ‘That blotch on your sister’s left flank be Three Feathers. Lay bead on him with yuh rifle an’ don’t flinch no matter what. Anythin’ goes akelter an’ I raise my right arm, shoot the bastard, retreat uphill ta the rear, an’ don’t never falter. There won’t be nothin’ can be done for me … or your sister. Everythin’ favors us, I’ll bring your sister ta yuh. Yuh understand?’ I assured him I did, and with that he slithered forward, armed with just hatchet an’ knife.

  “He descended the hill surprisingly fast, never unsure of his tread. At the bottom, he paused an’ fixed in his mind where ever’ Injun slept, then skulked round an’ ’cross ’em silent as a bird on high. He hovered over Sarah, rose her up, an’ brought her clear of the heathen. Dawn was a-blushin’ when they joined with me. Wentsell right away angled downhill toward Raisin Run, me an Sarah followin’. We went directly into the water an’ waded upstream in the mornin’ fog, movin’ delibera
te an’ slow so as not ta splash. In less’n a mile, the Raisin widened an’ cane twenty feet tall choked the lee shore. Where the cane grew the thickest, Wentsell separated the tall stalks an’ motioned Sarah into the brake. She hesitated, not sure what he intended. ‘Climb in, missy,’ he says ta her, ‘ain’t nothin’ in there ta bite yuh. Not even Tice Wentsell outruns a fresh Shawnee war party. We secret ourselves for the day, they’ll most likely give up the hunt an’ leave us in peace.’ An’ with that, into the brake went the three of us, Wentsell straightenin’ the stalks we disturbed with his rifle barrel. Plumb fussy, he was.

  “It was hot an’ miserable an’ stank of mud an’ rot in there,” Blake continued, “but we outsmarted them Shawnee. We heard ’em prowlin’ upstream an’ down, some mounted, some not, yellin’ back an’ forth. By that afternoon, after the fog burnt away an’ with the heat nigh onto intolerable, Wentsell had him a scout much like tonight, an’ returned with news the pack train an’ its heathen masters was gone, headed westward same as before.”

  “If’n that’s your story, how come Tice’s so determined the Redsticks are still scourin’ the country for yuh?” Lem asked.

  “Cause Three Feathers watched him steal Sarah away.”

  “Say again!” Lem exclaimed.

  “He claims Three Feathers wasn’t asleep an’ eyeballed him the whole while.”

  “An’ done nothin’.”

  “Tice insists that big Shawnee knew he had someone out there in the night with a rifle on him, an’ not lackin’ for brains, he didn’t sing out.”