Departure from the cabin wrenched my heart. But my eyes were dry and my head up. I snugged the door shut and headed for Cousin Hezekial’s trading post on the Muskingum. My future, whatever was left of it, would be played out in a setting of my choosing with the advantage of surprise on my side for a change.
Come the devil or high water, I would prove myself man enough to wear Father’s greatcoat.
Chapter 5
Midnight—January 8
The moonless night favored an overland trek with little risk of detection. A traveler could see just close at hand, a few rods at best. The steady rain altered constantly with the wind, first pattering lightly on the blanket of dead leaves carpeting the floor of the forest, then drumming heavily on the same lifeless remnants of months gone by. Bare and open ground turned sticky as mushed corn. Backwoodsmen were wary of such January storms. They ushered in unseasonal thaws, then rapidly gave way before seasonal freezes of great duration. It might well be raving cold and snowing by noon tomorrow.
The raw, dank night suited me fine. Settlers and their dogs would stay indoors, bequeathing the foul darkness to the desperate few such as I who either braved the elements or risked death by remaining where they were. And the warming weather would choke the Muskingum River Valley with a soupy fog before sunrise, a fog that would last for hours and hinder those hunting me with hanging rope in hand.
I followed the bank of Wolf Creek downstream till I reached Colonel Van Hove’s grist mill. Beside the unmanned two-story mill the rising waters of the creek rippled over a solid limestone bottom. I slogged across to the far bank and loped into the woods, angling away from the stream. Wolf Creek coursed behind me and mated with its south branch, curved short of Waterford, then snaked around northward before turning again and emptying into the Muskingum. The beaten path bordering the stream from the mill to Waterford would’ve been a less strenuous route, but I couldn’t be certain all the villagers had indeed crossed the Muskingum and taken shelter behind the Fort Frye palisade.
A mile of hard plodding found me at the south branch of Wolf Creek. I forded, stepping from rock to rock, and paused, getting my wind and my bearings. The terrain straight ahead roughened, climbing and steepening, breaking into rows of tall hills separated by deep ravines and gullies. Over left a couple of miles sat Waterford. Beyond the town site a ridge butted up against the Muskingum, and on the far bank, facing the far end of the ridge, was Fort Frye. Off right sprawled unsettled country. Being doubly safe, I circled right before quartering eastward toward the river, seeking Cousin Hezekial’s trading post on the near bank of the Muskingum below Waterford.
I planned on stealing Hezekial’s keelboat and steering it downriver a fair ways, after which I would abandon the keelboat in mid-river for a skiff and row back upriver between Fort Frye and Waterford, then come ashore at the mouth of Wolf Creek. A dangerous, ambitious scheme, I concede. But I’d none better. It’d worked for Uncle Jeremiah years ago out on the Mississippi. And if carried off, it would bless me with a lengthy head start into Injun country while my pursuers rushed after the empty keelboat. It mattered little if Lansford’s boys learned later they’d been hoodwinked. They wouldn’t trail me upriver any great distance—they feared the redskins too much for that.
Sheerly by happenstance, I stumbled abreast the trading post shortly after midnight. I would’ve wandered past that sizable structure in the dark if not for Hezekial’s keelboat. I eared the creaks and groans of the moored vessel’s hull a scant step before bumping into the railing of the catwalk that descended the bank to the ship’s dock. More startled than hurt, I dropped on one knee, looking and listening, alert as a rox stalking a guarded henhouse.
The wind rattled brittle leaves on a few tree branches. Raindrops dappled the surface of the mud puddle edging the catwalk. The keelboat nudged the dock when the current of the river ebbed. Otherwise, the black night matched a silent prayer at a church meeting.
The post building, sixty yards up the slope from the catwalk, couldn’t be seen from the riverbank. An approach from downwind and the backside seemed in order. I’d been a fugitive for less than a day, but I reasoned like one already. Most every fugitive, if he cherished remaining free and unfettered, showed a distaste for rapping on the front door if a dwelling’s owners hadn’t already made known their sentiments regarding his outlawed station in life. For all I knew, if Hezekial or one of his cohorts was to home, either might just as leave shoot me as shake my hand. A dead Matthan Hannar couldn’t hardly reveal the past associations of his shirttail cousin with that infamous Indian trader, Abel Stillwagon, could he now!
I backtracked a hundred yards and zigzagged uphill through the rock outcroppings littering the slope amongst the sparse timber. The rain slackened, becoming a drizzle. I identified the pitch of the post roof against the slightly lightened skyline, and the wind teased my nostrils with the pungent odor of wood smoke. I scurried for the leeward portion of the nearest tree trunk.
Whorls of smoke slipped downwind. They came from a steady, tended fire.
Someone was to home.
Straight out I eliminated my cousin. Though he went by the name Parsons and didn’t brag of his blood ties with us Hannars, Hezekial, a devious rascal, maintained a paid spy at Fort Frye and he would be across the river at Lansford’s meeting, allaying any possible hint he had had a hand in the Indian dealings with Stepfather and Stillwagon. In his absence, guarding the post would undoubtedly be Toby, his half-black, half-red servant and roust-about. A superstitious misfit, the breed insisted demons and evil spirits roved the night. He’d hide indoors till dawn or till Hezekial returned from Fort Frye. His presence didn’t discourage me any; I’d a thing needed doing and it couldn’t be done cowering back of a tree.
First off, was Toby ensconced behind barricaded doors? My scheme required access to the post. If Toby needed overpowering, even shooting to get in, so be it. But no need for foolhardiness. Toby being a powerfully built man, I preferred surprising him and sparing both of us undue grief.
Beams of light winked between the boards of the shutter covering the closest window. I padded for that opening, cursing softly when my feet rustled leaves heaped back under the protecting eave of the roof by the wind. I needn’t have worried. I peeked through the largest of the cracks in the shutter and located Toby. The breed lay sprawled on his chest before the fire, an overturned whiskey jug at his hip. He’d seemingly partaken of too much liquid courage warding off his nocturnal demons and spirits. He snored louder than a pit saw biting into dry wood.
I couldn’t help grinning. Perhaps in his drunkenness Toby had neglected the minding of the doors. The doors could be seen from my vantage point and, sure enough, the back door was shut and barred but the front, crossbar leaning against the jam, was ajar. His carelessness provided an opportunity for gain ing the upper hand without a struggle.
At the rear of the post I stashed the long rifle and the haversack atop the woodpile there. If Toby awakened, he must see only the Ballard gun. If he saw the long rifle and the pack and later learned they weren’t found downriver on the keelboat, he might question their absence and expose Matthan Hannar’s diversion for what it was-a clever deception. On the other hand, if I didn’t stub my toe, come morning all could easily accept things as I wanted.
If perchance there was a tussle with Toby, a misfire of the Ballard gun couldn’t be chanced. By the light of the shutter crack I pocketed the lock cover from Joseph’s rifle and thumbed open the frizzen of the lock. A puff of breath blew the powder from the firing pan, and a flick with a vent pick reamed the touchhole clear. Once I’d reprimed the pan with fresh powder, I crept past the front corner of the post and eased out into the commons yard.
The rattle of a chain—and only that warned me.
I jumped back, shielding my face with the Ballard rifle. Fangs snapped an inch from my arm, a hollow clicking that sent spidery fingers of fear racing down my spine.
The mastiff, a huge brute of a dog, hung suspended in midair
, stopped short at the end of his chain. The abrupt halt jolted the breath from him, and I felt the warmth of it on my hands. I slashed at the beast with the rifle. The heavy barrel caught him below the ear, knocking him senseles. He landed with a solid thud, legs twitching, mouth slobbering.
I yanked a handful of tying thongs from the pocket of the greatcoat, tied those massive jaws, then bound his legs. Chest heaving, hands quaking, I sat on my haunches staring at the mastiff. Barrel-chested, long of limb, he had paws wider than my palms. I hated the beast for almost tearing my arm off. But admiration warmed me too. No bark or growl’d betrayed him. A little less anxious and he would’ve nailed me proper.
The mastiff regained his senses, tested the deerhide thongs, found them too strong for breaking and accepted his fate, not wasting himself on a hopeless endeavor. A smart beast. I scooped up the rifle and headed for the front door of the trading post.
A few paces from the stoop I heard Toby’s grating snores. I gently shoved the door open. He hadn’t budged. On his shirtless body, muscle bulged like coiled rope. His kinky hair shone in the firelight. I crept near and jabbed him sharply in the ribs with the muzzle of the Ballard gun.
Toby’s forehead being flush with the floor, just his right eye could be observed. The eye popped open, widened in alarm, widened more, and widened yet again. I thought the yellow orb would burst from the socket.
I couldn’t rightly blame him. The sodden brim of my hat sagged past my nose. A turned-up coat collar veiled my ears, throat, and mouth. The greatcoat teemed with thorns, stickers, and thistle needles from the night march. I appeared a sightless, godless demon. Who else but a demon of the dark, the thing the poor devil feared the most, could sneak into the post past his watchdog, that huge mastiff, without being chewed apart?
I’ll say this much for Toby, his dismay didn’t last long. The breed casually lowered the lid of his eye, feigning another passing out spell I . . . and tricked me pure and simple.
With the swiftness of a striking snake, he clamped the barrel of my rifle with one hand, sprang upward, and stabbed at my belly with a knife. I sucked in my gut and twisted sideways. The liquor in him spared me. It ruined his aim. The knife missed my belly and lodged harmlessly in the front flap of the greatcoat. For an instant Toby was as defenseless as the mastiff at the end of the chain. I fisted my hand, swung backhanded, and connected with the very point of his chin, landing a lucky, brutal punch.
Torn from his feet by the force of the blow, Toby twisted about and smashed face first against the plank floor, arched his back, and went limp. A trickle of bright red blood seeped from under his head.
I angrily ripped the knife from the flap of the greatcoat, pitched the weapon into the fire, and trussed Toby’s hands so tightly the thongs gouged the skin of his wrists. I finished the tying and my anger cooled. Since the breed couldn’t resist, abusing him wasn’t proper. I was really angry with myself anyway. Letting the mastiff almost tear an arm off could be overlooked; no watchdog had been at the post on previous visits. The tussle with Toby was a horse of a different color. Instead of handling his capture like a man with something more than a smattering of brains, I’d gloated over catching him in a drunken stupor and fallen for a simple ruse, the kind of silly stupid mistake that’d killed far better men than I.
Loosening his bindings a tad, I raised Toby’s head. His smashed and bruised face was an awful visage, but he breathed evenly. If Hezekial didn’t shoot him for swilling corn liquor and not guarding the post, he’d live. I gingerly lowered his head cheek side down.
The trading post secured, I got cracking. It was late and Hezekial or some of his henchmen might show suddenlike in the doorway and spoil my get away.
Uncle Jeremiah always said, “When you’re tricken a fella, don’t make it hard on him. Shake out a scent any dumb hound can follow without prowlin’ all over.” I would lay a smelly scent, one I trusted would lead my pursuers in the wrong direction, with a letter to Hezekial. A missive affirming Hezekial’s purported innocence of trading with the Indians would gladden his devious soul. He’d hustle before Lansford Van Hove, present written evidence I’d robbed his post and taken off with his keelboat, and the downriver chase would be on.
Some pilfering preceded the letter writing. To spice my scheme I would discard on the keelboat the Ballard gun and a cache of stolen supplies. When the boys flagged down the keelboat and turned up no sign I’d reached the bank, my leavings might convince them I’d fallen overboard and drowned, since a fleeing man never willingly parted with his necessaries. A long shot, but worth the effort.
The thievery took no time atall. Hezekial’s stock of goods ranged from guns, pigs of lead, traps, and tools to flitches of bacon and lidded tubs of salt pork, all stacked or shelved the length of the front wall. Behind the counter rested his desk and mounds of deer, beaver, and otter pelts. The mounds were low, the pelts few in number. The good trapping season had begun, but the redskin troubles would hamper the catch all winter. Even someone no smarter than me appreciated why Hezekial had thrown in with Abel Stillwagon: one prosperous exchange with the dreaded Ohio Indians would offset an otherwise meager year for a fur trader.
I piled the supplies collected from about the room on the largest of the deerhides, drew up the edges, and secured the cumbersome bale with a piece of rope. Then I wrote the letter. A sheet of parchment from Hezekial’s ledger book provided paper; a Betty lamp, rag wick fired at the hearth, gave forth light enough; an inkstand and quill pen I snitched from the desk.
Elbows planted on the counter, greasy smoke from the lamp stinging my eyes, I penned the most important message of my young life:
Mr. Parsons
I taken salt pork, bacon, tea, traps, lead, and bullet mold.
Sorry you be hurt by troubles no maken of your’en.
M. Hannar
I read the letter twice over. Not naming Hezekial a relative was deliberate. Many folks swore by the old saw—dogs sleeping together bred the same fleas—and Hezekial might hesitate in sharing the letter with Lansford if it revealed his blood kinship with the Hannars. I positioned the sheet of parchment, weighted down with the inkstand, in the center of Hezekial’s desk.
The knots binding Toby were still plenty taut. The breed snored peacefully again. I spread a coarse blanket over him, lugged the deerhide bale and the Ballard rifle outside, recovered the long rifle and the haversack from the woodpile, then hiked downhill for the river, staggering a little under the load of it all.
Make no mistake, I’d been lucky journeying over land at night without a serious fall, even luckier in escaping unscathed the fangs of the mastiff and Toby’s blade. And my ordeal was far from over. The most demanding segment of my scheme remained undone, but I’d no other choice except plow through to the end. After the crime I’d just committed; nothing short of a miracle would change the opinion of the Fort Frye settlers that Matthan Hannar was decidedly lacking in saintly qualities.
Maybe I’d climbed in on my own rather than at the bidding of the Ballards as before, but I’d slid back in that box with no lid.
Chapter 6
After Midnight—January 8
The ending of the night rain thinned the clouds shrouding the moon, and I descended the steps of the catwalk to the boat dock without incident. At the bottom of the steps I wrapped three flitches of bacon and a few traps from the deerhide bale in my buffalo hide. The meat wrapped in the hide and the johnnycakes in the haversack would sustain me till I could trap for my vittles. Any man with a grain of respect for the Injuns did little shooting when traveling alone in their territory.
The size of the keelboat, moored fore and aft with thick rope hawsers, awed an upcreeker like me. Forty feet long, eight feet in beam, the vessel was short of bow and stern. A cargo box six feet high covered the whole of its middle. A narrow cleated walkway ran all around the gunwales for footing for the poling crew, and seats for rowers filled the bow. A long oar pivoted atop a steering stoop in the stern served as the main means of st
eerage. The keelboat dwarfed the dock, glistening with moisture in the feeble light.
I suppose a fair-to-middlin’ worshiper of the Almighty should’ve been aghast he was considering the theft of such an enormously valuable piece of property. Be that as it may, I didn’t feel guilty in the least. Desperation will drive a beleaguered man to the most sinful of deeds in the hope he can avert his own extinction.
Tied from an eyebolt in the railing at the keelboat’s stern floated a sharp-prowed skiff, one of two Hezekial owned. He seldom had need for both on a given night, and I’d trusted one would be available. I was still relieved to see it. Without the rowboat my scheme had no more consquence than a flash in the pan of a long rifle.
Maneuvering the keelboat from the dock took a tad of cleverness. I stowed my gear at the foot of the steering oar. Next I chopped through the fore mooring line with my hatchet. The current pushed the bow out and away from the dock, and I hotfooted along the cleated walkway for the mooring hawser in the stern, watched the ship come about and point downriver, then cut the aft line. The keelboat drifted clear of the dock pretty as you please.
The Muskingum was on the rise after the rain and the keelboat picked up speed fast. With no one at the helm the ship might run aground. But the rising water would likely warp her free and wash her on downstream toward Marietta. The ship drew no more than two feet of water and could withstand a lot of tossing about without sinking. Unless severely holed, she would still be afloat at dawn.
Discarding the Ballard gun and the bale of stolen supplies by the steering oar, I tugged the skiff in close and handed the long rifle and the haversack down into it. The bobbing rowboat seemed about the size of an acorn. I screwed up my courage and levered my legs over the stern of the keelboat. So far, so good. But when I reached up from the skiff and untied the tow rope, all hell broke loose.
Thunder in the Valley Page 4
