Not to grind the same axe too often, but I set my feet and harkened back to Jeremiah’s tales before the supper fire. How had he described the camp I sought? Had he not related something about its location that would enable me to find it even in the middle of a blizzard? Uncle was always particular, downright fussy, when describing hunting ground and campsite. And why not? He might find himself right back in the same place some storming winter afternoon desperately in need of shelter, just as I was.
I drew his words from memory. “You knows when you’re gettin’ close. A deep ravine splits the high ground bankin’ the river. You gots to climb down the near side of the cut and swing left. Back a fair piece, as the ravine closes up for a quick endin’, on your right be a big dark hole. Look close, for an old deadfall slants down across part of the openin’. That hole be deep enough to keep the wind offen you. And fire smoke sifts up through that old tree frontin’ the hidey spot ’thout smarten your eyes all night long. No water there. But a fair resting place, nonetheless.”
The ravine. The deep ravine. That deep cut in the hills was the key. It was salvation. It would point the way to a safe camp. And once down between the ravine’s high walls I would be out of the unmerciful wind. Cold I could withstand. But not wind and cold and blinding snow. Together they made for a hellish brew, one impossible to swallow for long.
The wind now blew flat with the ground, and icy snowflakes slashed at cheekbones like tiny arrows. Eyesight range shrank to arm’s length. I moved ahead, eyes slitted with one hand guarding them, glad I hunted something at my feet with my head down.
The raging wind fought me every step but worked in my favor. I first sensed, then saw a wide black shadow under the streaming snow. The dark void of the ravine appeared bottomless, but appearances didn’t matter, down there was a safe haven from the ungodly weather.
I knotted tying thongs together, fashioned a sling for the long-rifle and positioned the gun on my back, then on hands and knees crawled along the rim of the ravine with my head stuck out over the edge till, between eddies of blowing snow, I saw a patch of straggly brush and windswept boulders, possible handholds for a downward climb.
I sucked in a deep breath, swung legs over the rocky lip, and eased sideways at a downward angle, gaining toeholds and handholds more by feel than sight. A mean and slippery affair, made extra risky and dangerous by ice-rimmed moccasins, wet mittens, and heavy pack.
Down out of the wind eyesight range lengthened in spite of the snow and I could pick my course with greater care. But the brush and boulders aiding my descent petered out and the ravine melded into a long slide of gravel and stone that extended left and right far as one could look. I held still a few minutes, pondering how I should proceed. The slide looked loose, much too loose for my weight. Finally, with no other choice, I eased atop the rubble on my belly.
A slight rumble sounded under me. Without further warning the ground came alive and everything let go at once. Before I could sink in with hand and foot and hold fast, I was trapped in a landslide.
The sliding mass of gravel and stone picked up speed. Sharp rocks gouged my shins, lanced my chin, and peeled skin from my nose. Down . . . and down . . . and down I rushed, belly whopping helplessly along. Just before my teeth rattled loose, everything—gravel, stone, tree limbs, and me—came to a shocking halt at the bottom of the ravine. The jarring stop stunned me from moccasins to hat brim. I rose from the rubble with a string of loud curses and got groggily on my feet. I spat gravel for a week.
After recovering my missing hatchet and making sure no other gear was lost, I sallied forth, feeling downright fortunate. True, my chin dripped blood, my skinned nose hurt something awful, and the places rubbed raw on my shins smarted. But thanks to the heavy greatcoat, there were no other serious cuts or injuries. And I was too shaken up to worry about my pride, which had been wounded considerably.
“Hang with me, Uncle Jeremiah,” I muttered. “I’ll do better on my own before something stupid kills me off . . . I promise.”
Following Uncle’s directions I swung left away from the river. The wind howled across the top of the ravine, and the snow, free of its clutches, fell in a thick curtain. I zigzagged through a white tunnel with no roof.
The old deadfall hung upside down just as Jeremiah said, covering the “cavey” hole in the wall of the ravine. This time I didn’t charge right in. I poked the gloom back of the snow-covered branches with my rifle barrel, not up to facing a pesky skunk, Lord forbid a bear or painter. Unable to raise a grunt of surprise from anything with fur and fang, I stooped low under the limbs and edged inside.
An upraised blackened fire ring surrounded by rocks the size of piggins fronted the deep hole. Some past visitor had caved in the rear wall and smoothed flat a wide sleeping bench that swept forward within a foot of the cooking ring. A few lengths of dry wood spotted the bench. A snug dry haven, free of wind and snow, good for outlasting a blizzard. Bless you, all who’d come before Matthan Hannar.
I dumped my gear on the bench and laid to. Darkness was at hand and a cache of wood needed gathering. Little was close by in the ravine, and without hesitation I thinned the overhanging limbs with my hatchet, then mixed dead leaves and oak shavings from my pack and fired them, as last night, with a flaming wad of tow.
I melted snow for tea in the iron noggin, fried bacon and ate the evening meal, vowing to snare a rabbit tomorrow for a change in fare.
As can happen after we fight through an episode where danger and excitement push a man at a fever pitch for hours on end, I sunk mighty low staring into the fire sipping the last of the tea, soured and tainted by loneliness. A bitter dose, the loss of Uncle Jeremiah. Linger on his death and I teared up. Uncle had been a true confidant, a well of love and understanding, tough and wise when need be. He’d taken Father’s place in my heart. I would forever miss him.
I missed Stepfather too, but he’d come late to our cabin and we’d never become close like Uncle and me. In plain truth Stepfather brought disaster down on all of us by favoring Abel Stillwagon with a seat at the family table. I doubted I’d ever forgive him that.
Sadder yet for me were the leavings of his partnership with Stillwagon—side with Abel or die.
The snow slackened and the wind buffeting the lip of the ravine overhead died away. I slept in snatches, chilled even inside the buffalo robe whenever the fire ebbed, heaping branches on sputtering flames each time I shivered awake.
In the realm of midnight came fitful dreams, a crazy hodgepodge of the sneering Lansford Van Hove, the black-faced Ottawa with the claw necklace, and the hard leathern face of Abel Stillwagon, bald head scarred by knife and powder burns, beard wooly and close-cropped, silver finger ring piercing the end of his long red nose.
Abel’s wide full mouth at first creased in a smile of warm welcome. Deeper in the night his flinty eyes peered down the barrel of a rifle held firm against his cheek, muzzle aimed square at yours truly.
Could a savior turn in such a flash? Was this the just desserts awaitin’ upriver? Had Jeremiah totally misjudged Stillwagon’s true nature?
These doubting questions made for a fretful, restless night haunted by a desperate man’s worst nightmare: fear of what morning will bring.
Chapter 10
January 10—11
Near daybreak I was awake more than asleep, a slave of the fire.
Faint light peeked through gaps in the deadfall’s remaining branches. Some foot stomping and hand clapping got me ready for a meager breakfast of hot tea and cold johnnycake.
The norther left in its wake harsh cold and knee deep snow that would linger for days. In such extreme weather I had to choose a travel route and future camps with great care. At the same time wild game sought deeper cover and was more difficult to take with trap or gun, so I had to hoard my meager food supply. Even the travel plans of the Ottawa war party would be affected by deep cold and drifting snow. The Muskingum’s open waters were for certain their best means of withdrawal, and their retrea
t would grow more rapid as the river froze and the channel narrowed. Thus, despite last night’s dreams and doubts, the rendezvous with Abel Stillwagon was still my best hope for survival. An iffy meeting with Abel paled beside a confrontation with five armed redskins. The faster I joined with Abel and his stiff-legged sidekick, the sooner the odds improved to three against five, a situation more to my liking.
The challenge of the next few days loomed mean but straightforward: outdistance the Ottawa war party, staying out of sight and leaving as little sign as possible; deal with the weather, avoiding calamities such as frostbite, bodily injuries, and starvation; then make the rendezvous site and wait for Stillwagon to appear—and accept or shoot me. A mighty tall order, saying the very least.
Tea finished and gear packed, I checked the priming of the long-rifle and kicked dirt on the fire, reluctant to part with its cozy heat.
Ascending the ravine’s northern rampart proved child’s play for fresh legs in stormless weather. From the high ground in early morning light flattened by thin clouds, the Muskingum was a broad expanse of pewter banded by mounds of purest white. A touch of breeze wafted from the west as the sun found a hole in the clouds. I glassed the waterway in both directions from an upthrust of boulders, staying below the skyline behind me. Nothing in sight, same as yesterday.
The rendezvous site agreed upon by Stepfather and Stillwagon was a hollow sycamore on Johnathan Creek, thirty miles on eagle wings, a greater distance afoot, and much too far for a single day’s hike in present conditions.
Months before, eavesdropping from the sleeping loft, I’d overheard Stepfather and Abel planning their daring trade venture with the Ohio Indians. While Abel and his second partner completed the exchange with the redskins—gunpowder and corn squeezings for hides and pelts—Stepfather was to return home and make certain Hezekial Parsons prepared for a quick sail south on his keelboat with the cargo being carted downriver on packhorses. If he was sure no suspicions had been aroused and the way was clear, Stepfather would fetch such word back to Stillwagon. On the homeward leg and return trip Stepfather had orders to cut and store firewood at selected camps to ease the downward passage of men, horses, and hides.
Their foresight could well prove the best stroke of luck I’d ever been dealt. I carefully recounted each and every word Abel and Stepfather had said that night. If Stepfather obeyed orders (and he was known as an exacting man), the nearest camp he’d stocked from where I stood was ten plus miles away: Rasher Morgan’s lean-to shelter. The lean-to nestled off the Muskingum in a shallow hollow, screened by good tree growth beside a stream that never ran dry. Hunting men overnighted in the hollow, knowing they could spring to the defense on short notice—or so Abel Stillwagon claimed.
I closed and pocketed the spyglass, got hat and gloves firmly seated, toted the long rifle across the chest like a redcoat, and taken off for the Morgan lean-to.
Uncle Jeremiah taught that, “When the leaves are offen the trees, no hunter need ever be caught with his breeches down, ever!” A bright clear winter forenoon testified to his wisdom. Gone were the eye-catching, eye-blocking colors and overgrowth of warmer months. Blacks, browns, and grays held sway against a solid background of white snow. One could see astonishing distances into the woods. Hills, ravines, bluffs, streambeds, indeed, every break and change in the land jumped out in perfect detail amongst the bare trees. The trail behind was as easy to watch as the trail ahead, no small advantage for a fleeing man.
Travel woes underfoot spun another tale. A sheath of slippery ice underpinned the thick layer of heavy snow. Every stride required considerable toil and considerable caution. Dead vines and rock crevices lay hidden and snagged the unwary foot. Sudden low spots jarred the whole body. Every trek up slope and down risked a rump-first sled ride on the seat of the nether parts. A mile gained seemed forever in time.
I nooned hunkered down without a fire in a west-facing rock cavity, glad for the touch of warmth tendered by the bright winter sun. A few chunks of johnnycake and a slice of pork bacon, washed down with handfuls of snow, served for the midday meal. The respite was short-lived; no point tarrying with the day’s journey half completed.
Once back slogging through the snow I stayed on the trail all afternoon, pausing to search the Muskingum with Jeremiah’s spyglass every mile or so, pushing the pace as much as I dared. I worried little about leaving tracks there on the high ground along the river. Water-bound hunters coming ashore shied away from steep gameless places and sought easier passage into the hinterlands by way of the river valley’s lower reaches. Tomorrow required a different tack when I approached those inviting lower reaches further north.
The sun kissed the horizon and winter dusk began casting shadows. I wanted to reach Morgan’s camp while some daylight remained and confirm Stepfather’d stored enough cordage for a long overnight. Lord, how I prayed he’d followed orders, I was about worn to the nub.
Within the mile three flat hills stood against the dwindling western light one after the other like stair steps, stacking upward left to right. Those hills sat behind the hollow where Rasher Morgan’s lean-to nestled. I turned toward them and eased off the ridge line. Daylight’s last glimmer faded to black and a gibbous moon rose while I slow-footed down hill.
On the flatland, Abel’s “stream that never ran dry,” an icy trough in the bitter cold, gleamed brightly in the moonlight and led straight to my destination.
Neither man nor beast presented themselves upon my arrival, and no mark made by foot or paw blemished the moonlit snow. My heart fairly pounded when I found woodpiles on both sides of the lean-to. How Stepfather gathered such a supply of wood without his bloody, hacking cough killing him was forever a mystery. I recited a prayer of thanksgiving and laid the supper fire.
Rasher Morgan deserved a plentitude of thanks too. He’d scalloped out a low mound on the creek’s bank, embedded thick side and rear pickets, and roofed the lean-to with thin poles fastened with crosstrees. The open wall faced eastward toward the creek, the solid back wall repelled west winds. A pile of stone heaped knee-high curved across the front opening, hiding light from the fire pit and reflecting heat back under the slanted roof.
Bless old Rasher. He’d labored building his station for cold weather trapping till the Shawnees lifted his hair last autumn. Luckily, the war party left his shelter intact, probably for their own future stays. But I was here alone tonight—so far—savoring every lick of warmth from a roaring fire.
I ate sparingly. A flitch and a half of bacon remained, a panful of johnnycake, and enough sassafras tea for three days, four if watered down. Unless I enjoyed good fortune hunting or Stillwagon rendezvoused ahead of schedule with a passel of vittles, Matthan Hannar’s backbone was likely to shake hands with his belly hole before everything was said and done.
Nothing—not fear of future starvation, not the risk roving Injuns might spot the fire, not the chance varmints might scent my food stock and come prowling about—kept me from a sound sleep. With enough wood salted away for three nights and a steady blaze holding back the cold, I snuggled with the long rifle and sawed the log with the best of them, too warm and content for old nightmares, unaware the bottom fell out of the weather gauge all night.
A loose pole thrashing on the roof and whistling moans at the lean-to’s corners jolted me awake right at first light. A nasty rush of air slammed down from due north under a cloudless sky, the kind of fear some January wind that lasted for hours in dazzling sunshine and locked the land in a deadly killing freeze. I ate a hot meal over flames tortured by raw gusts, then sat back and partook of an extra noggin of tea, readying for a miserable hike into the teeth of those icy blasts: north was my line of travel.
I’d planned a sashay north by west away from the sharp eyes and ears of the Ottawa raiders plying the waters of the Muskingum. But gale winds negated that since they piled snow waist-deep in valleys and bottoms till the flatlands became nearly impassable. Not wishing to buck those drifts all day and night, I donned ev
ery piece of clothing possible, tied hat under chin, and marched back for the high ground flanking the river where the wind at least scoured the path clean now and then.
Halfway toward noon, struggling with poor footing, the raving cold, and savage wind, a bad oversight placed me at great risk. In the haste of escaping the lowland snowdrifts I forgot the perils of the Narrows and unwittingly marched into the most dangerous stretch of the Muskingum.
In the Narrows the river ran plumb between tall hills crowding the banks so close together the shrinking Muskingum appeared to flow under my very feet. From down on the waterway looking up, the slightest movement in the high narrow channel against the skyline and snow-crusted ridges seemed to take place smack in front of one’s nose. No place for stealth ever, the Narrows, and passage through there put me at a decided disadvantage. If the water-bound Injuns, who gained miles on a foot traveler in a single day, showed and spotted me, they’d fan out, work a surround, and have my hair pronto. Just as troublesome, I’d reached a point of no return. With pursuit coming from behind (if it was), I’d best forge on past the Narrows, then veer westward and make a lowland sashay after all.
Naturally, once I understood my peril, I snuck a quick downward glance at the river every step or two. And good I did, for I eyed the lumpy brown smudge far back downstream right off, soon as it crept into sight. The legs flapping on that buglike lump were paddles beyond the shadow of a doubt.
A notch in the crest of the ridge beckoned. I slithered into the opening and scrunched down, hidden by a low hummock of broken rock, safe for the moment. Sunlight streamed over the ridge crest above and behind my position, leaving the notch in dark gloom. I trained the spyglass on my pursuers.
Thunder in the Valley Page 7
