What an eyeful. Two paddlers, no passengers. They drew closer. Fur caps, no roached topknots. Closer still. Bearded faces, no war paint, no party . . . the Shaw brothers, Zed and Zeb, in a hurry upstream, rifle barrels protruding from the bottom of the canoe ready for action, heads turning left and right ceaselessly quartering both river banks.
I was puzzled. I’d expected the war party, not any white men, let alone the Shaw brothers. Why were the Shaws braving the awesome cold and inviting an encounter with hard-knot redskins to chase down Matthan Hannar? A bounty? Gold coin for my head on a platter?
Now something was amiss here. The Shaw brothers might be ornerier than ten-peckered billy goats and always ready for a rough-and-tumble brawl, yet some brains lurked in their upper parts. They enjoyed hunting and eating and funning others enough they’d not throw all that away for what a few gold coins bought. Something other than Matthan Hannar brought them deeper into the Narrows every second. But what?
They certainly weren’t on a winter hunt. What then had so roused Zed and Zeb they’d abandoned their own good sense and come charging into territory where they knew the Injuns held the upper hand?
I pondered while they paddled, whiling time away.
If the Shaw boys weren’t after me, Zed and his brother clearly sought to overtake the Ottawa war party. But why? Surely not on a lark . . . or a bet . . . or at anybody else’s bidding. None of these notions explained a thing. Everybody knew the Shaws wore their feelings on their sleeves, loyal first and always to family and little else, and if they were here in front of me racing after the retreating war party, they did so for personal reasons, some slight, some cruel affront foisted on the Shaw clan by the Injun raiders.
I cut a big sigh, dead certain I’d hit on the answer. Some relative near and dear had been wounded . . . or slain. Maybe old Zebulon himself, even, Lord forbid, sister Zelda. Truth was, nothing short of a family outrage could swing Zed and Zeb this far out of kilter, flying full bore into terrible danger, outnumbered and unconcerned for their own safety.
I couldn’t help speculating about what might have happened. Suppose the Shaws—father and sons—ansered the summons of the signal cannon and joined the chase after Hezekial’s keelboat. Left at the Wolf Creek cabin by herself, what chance had Zelda against five painted redskins hell-bent on murder and pillage?
“None,” I lipped silently, “none atall.”
Talk about spirits sinking. There was no ducking around it, regardless of what had befallen the Shaws, I was as guilty as the black-faced Ottawa and his painted henchmen.
I squirmed further back into the notch, taking no chances. The Shaw brothers were awfully upset and didn’t have any warm hello for me swelling their hearts waiting to bellow forth. Lower than the heathen Injuns was where I stood with them.
Perhaps because it lifted the guilt a mite, one other thing popped into my head that might explain the rash haste of Zed and Zeb: the off chance Zelda wasn’t dead, the red devils had taken her captive. Given how the brothers watched over their skinny sister who even dressed like them, they’d attack an entire Shawnee village in hopes of taking her home safe.
It was gladdening to think Zelda might still be alive. On second thought, that didn’t seem likely. The Ottawa’s black face argued against prisoners of any kind, and the Ohio Injuns, while known for taking males alive in some instances, seldom had any leanings for sparing females who slowed their withdrawal after the raiding ended.
I shook my head clear. Forget the Shaws and their troubles. Whether Zelda had perished or was in redskin hands, there wasn’t one whit I could do to extract a measure of revenge for her or help her enraged brothers retake her. I’d a handful watching after my own hide, and, as yet, hadn’t fared particularly well with that simple chore. Anyways, better a live dog than a dead lion (or so Jeremiah said).
Zed and Zeb glided past, paddling hard as ever. I stayed put. Once they were out of sight, then and only then could I show myself.
What next?
The sun stood in early afternoon, the cold undaunting. I had to get clear of the Narrows, off the high ground, and decide on a camp. Trailing after the Shaw boys was out of the question. With the brothers and the Injun war party maybe cluttering the lower reaches upstream, things might become touchy in an eyewink. Backtracking went against the grain. It led me out of the Narrows, but wasted much precious daylight. And just suppose the Shaws were misguided, suppose they’d somehow overshot the Injun raiders in their hurry to find and engage them. The Ottawa and his painted companions could be forthcoming behind Zed and Zeb, hot on their track, planning a bloody surprise of their own when the brothers finally camped and slept.
The best course for Matthan Hannar didn’t demand much figuring. Leave the river as quickly as legs could carry me and, never halting, march all night till I made the rendezvous tree, a site far enough away for risking a warming fire.
One last sweep of the Muskingum up and down with the spyglass. No Shaw brothers one way; no Ottawa war party the other. Time to move. I stomped blood into cold-stiffened joints, climbed the rear wall of the notch, and went over the crest behind it, slipping beyond the skyline.
A few miles westward the high ridge line ended. What lay ahead in the lower hills was hellish in the beholding. The wind still slammed from the north, less forceful, but billowing waves of icy frozen snow whipped through the bottoms before it, a force to be reckoned with. I sawed an end off a haversack flap with my knife, cut eye slits, and held the snow mask in place with a tying thong. Then I headed down to buck the drifts.
With the passing of daylight the wind backed down a notch, then another. The gibbous moon shone high and bright. I plowed north by west, reading the stars whenever the ground swelled enough so my head stuck above the swirling, wind driven snow.
I disremember the last hours of that twenty-odd mile journey. My legs faltered and breath came in ragged bouts. Hunger cramps had me near tears. Somewhere I lost a mitten. Numerous times I stumbled and fell. A blind, dumb beast was steadier afoot. I pinned my mind throughout on the rendezvous tree. There shelter from the wailing wind awaited; there bones could be warmed through; there life-staying vittles could be heated and chewed and swallowed; there Stepfather had piled another stock of wood in the hollow of that gigantic trunk.
I found Johnathan Creek the easy way. I tumbled down the bank and came to rest on the ice covering the water. I knew where I was all right, Johnathan Creek was the largest stream emptying into the Muskingum south of the Licking, the wide bed and tree-lined borders unmistakable in the moonlight and swirling snow.
I turned left upstream and walked the black ice. My flagging spirits soared when sheer rock walls rose on both sides and sealed off the moonlight. Those rock walls had a message for me: the rendezvous tree was within hailing distance.
I spied the dark entryway hole on the leeward side of the mammoth sycamore from the creek bed. I plunged up the bank, trudged the final few steps, and nipped inside even as I shed my pack, heedless of any nocturnal guests who had already taken lodging.
Matthan Hannar lived to fight another day after all.
Chapter 11
January 17
Snow moon . . . cold moon . . . January 17 and 92 was the worst in memory.
The stabbing, pounding, everlasting gale wind regained its earlier savagery and blew for five days and nights without end. Tree limbs popped with the crispness of pistol shots. Dead trees and those weakened by past storms went down in thunderous crashings. Before the big blow ended, first the owl, then the wolf turned mute.
I huddled inside the hollow sycamore over a small fire in a ground hole, buffalo robe wrapped tighter than second skin, burning just enough wood to stay alive, parceling out food in driblets to give innards steady easing, fearful my very shelter might snap like dry tinder. By the morning of the sixth day, the bacon long gone, only johnnycake crumbs littered the bottom of the haversack pouch, too tiny for even a wettened finger. Stepfather’s wood wasted away, nothing left
but scattered twigs.
The gale finally lifted its smothering hand, and I ventured forth for food and wood.
It was hunt or die time.
The sun ruled a cloudless sky. Frozen layers of snow mantled tree limbs and rock surfaces. Crazy quilt drifts piled high against the banks of Johnathan Creek and ran this way and that amongst the tall trunks. I donned the snow mask against the eye-watering, blinding whiteness shining from everywhere, primed the long-rifle with fresh powder, slung a string of traps over my shoulder, and headed down the rippled ice between the creek’s drifted banks.
Woods creatures never changed habits. When deep cold threatened, small game sought the thickets, canebrakes, and cattail clusters in the lower reaches of streambeds. There they took advantage of the thick cover and patches of thinner ice toenails could scratch through for drinking water. Traps set in their favorite winter haunts nabbed small varmints searching for food during night hours.
A long disappointing morning ensued. No wings stirred the air. The wind had rubbed out every trace of game. Cover of any promise along the creek was too scanty for trap-setting. I stubbornly refused to retreat with nothing gained.
By noon I neared the point where Johnathan Creek bustled into the Muskingum. That gave me pause, but unfortunately not for long. I was near starved, hungry enough to risk discovery by the Shaws, the heathen redskins, or any other Jack fool I might meet up with over on the river. So over I went.
The first sign the rest of the day wasn’t going to get much better was the backside of an armed Injun. That spooky sight confronted me partway round a sharp bend in the creek. The fur-covered red devil stood with legs spread, musket leaning against hip, and chewed on a meaty bone of some sort while answering the call of nature. His water splashed on the ice, sizzled, and spawned a whisp of steam between moccasined feet.
Twenty yards behind him, standing straight as a ramrod, rifle uncocked, comforted by the knowledge my approach had gone unnoticed, stood me, one scared white fugitive.
I didn’t hesitate. Never taking eyes from him, a long backward step placed the creek bend between us again. As I drew back, the Injun yanked at the front of his breechclout, shouldered the musket, and moved off, gnawing at the blackened bone in his fist. I envied him that meal.
After a goodly spell I peeked round and, no surprise, he was gone downstream, following the frozen creek bed, bound for the Muskingum.
A wise soul would’ve headed home for the rendezvous tree, gathered branches, stoked up a warming fire, and slept with his hunger till Stillwagon showed in a day or two. But that Injun had meat and somewhere to travel. Where was he headed? Who waited for his return? How much meat did their trail larder hold?
Curiosity got the best of me. It likened the day I’d jabbed a hive with a stick, wondering how bees handled an attack. Not unexpectedly the bees returned the favor and young Matthan Hannar ran for the cabin a-swarm with white men’s flies (as the Injuns called them). Now, even knowing I’d probably get stung again, I couldn’t resist the urge to trail after that red devil and learn what he was about.
I’d enough sense not to follow him directly. I angled cross-country, keeping Johnathan Creek on the left. A far knoll topped by ragged young trees overlooked the Muskingum south of the river’s juncture with the creek. I crawled the last few yards into the trees, rifle cocked, spyglass at the ready.
The frozen Muskingum was a wide slab of jumbled gray ice. Ragged snowdrifts tortured by past winds wound along the banks. I pocketed the snow mask, searched where the creek entered the river, and the red devil I sought centered in my glass. He crossed the ice surefootedly, eyes fixed on the far bank.
The view over there gave me a start.
A handsome fire burned brightly. Around the blaze, all busy stuffing their gullets, knelt the black faced Ottawa war leader and two others. One eater sported a roached topknot and slash-painted forehead. The other wore a flat-crowned hat and chewed with head down, face covered to my glass. Probably a stolen hat, the bastard.
The topknotted warrior pointed upriver without rising from his knees. The Ottawa jumped to his feet and peered the way his companion directed, and I followed with the spyglass.
The fifth and final member of the war party, fronting the woods well beyond the fire, signaled with broad sweeps of a musket held over his head. The Ottawa leader took command instantly. With hand gestures, never raising a shout, he stopped the Injun out on the river, dispatched him up the ice, then grabbed his own weapon and loped to join the warrior waiting at the woods. The two redskins left at the fire resumed their meal.
The Ottawa and his subordinate met and exchanged wriggling hand signs. At a beckoning gesture from the black-faced leader, the river warrior left the ice and joined them. All three melted into the trees like smoke.
Altogether, a most puzzling development. Given the bright winter sunshine, at this time of day—near noon—no four-legged animal it would take three armed men to kill would be out and about. Three of the war party then sought a two-legged quarry, a dangerous enemy, armed as they were.
Lord, maybe the Shaw brothers..... Certainly, the Shaws. Who else could it be?
But something didn’t seem right. Why face any foe with less than a full force of arms? Why leave two warriors behind out in the open?. . . A trap? Bait to lure in the unsuspecting and spring an ambush?
I swung the spyglass back to the fire. The two warriors left behind hadn’t missed a bite. I spotted no firearms about them. They would certainly be tempting for the Shaws, who carried both rifles and belt pistols. The brothers smelled blood at the kick of a bucket. If they were still hell-bent on vengeance, they’d rush into an ambush sure as the sun set in the west.
I hung in the trees, feeling safe watching from afar, held spell-bound by what would happen next. Dare I help the Shaws?
A gunshot upstream rent the silence. A nerve-jangling screech from a red-skinned throat followed. Three more muzzle blasts in rapid succession echoed through the hills. The briefest pause. A barking concussion, sounding like a pistol shot. Another Injun war whoop. A second pistol shot. A running fight was under way, moving away from my position upriver, as best I could tell.
Jerking movements at the fire. I trained my glass. The eaters were on their feet, jawboning at each other in loud tones. A knife appeared in the hand of the bareheaded warrior. He threatened his comrade in the flat-crowned hat across the flames. Hat-Injun crouched and stepped back with bare hands shielding his face.
Two distant shots. I ignored them, fascinated by the squabble in front of me.
The knife-wielding warrior began circling the fire, handle held low, blade pointing up. No tomfoolery here. Hat-Injun circled in the opposite direction, still showing no weapon, crouching lower to protect vital parts.
With a long quick stride, Knife-bearer closed ground and swept the wicked blade upward. Hat-Injun tripped and flopped on his back. Knife-bearer leapt atop of him, grabbed for the throat, and plunged his weapon for the gut.
A knee caught him in the crotch and Knifebearer’s head snapped back. A darting hand caught his wrist and turned the knife aside. His weaponless opponent scrambled from beneath him, losing that damnable hat in an escape from certain death.
My hand shook and the spyglass wavered. The exposed head on Hat-Injun was a real jolt. No plucked skull and roached topknot. No war paint. A full growth of short yellow-brown hair framed what was assuredly a sun-bronzed but white face.
Who was this?
The stalking by Knife-bearer began anew, and the yellow-brown head spun around before I got a full-face look-see. One thing for certain: this wasn’t a fight to the death twixt two Injuns. Knife-bearer had been left behind to guard a captive, not lure th Shaw’s into an ambush.
Knife-bearer advanced, dragging one foot as if badly hurt by the blow to the crotch. Without warning the dragging foot planted hard and true and his free hand snaked out and grabbed the front of his prey’s buckskin frock. Knife-bearer tightened his grip, hunched down, and
slowly pulled his enemy toward the waiting knife.
Hat-Injun ducked his head, lunged backward mightily, and popped out of the frock like a jack-in-the-box. Bare white skin flashed in the sunlight.
I steadied the glass, holding my breath. They might not be oversized, but those bobbing, sharp-nippled breasts beating a hasty retreat belonged to no man. God Almighty, a woman. I raised the glass a mite. Jumping blue blazes, Zelda Shaw, in all her unadorned spit-tempered beauty, staring straight into my lens.
I might have hesitated helping her brothers. I might not have helped them. But if I was ever to sleep peacefully again, I couldn’t ignore her predicament with the old excuse better a live dog than a dead lion. Not on your sweet life.
New shooting upstream. I paid it no heed, nor the danger ahead. I bolted from the trees, hurtled the snowbank, and landed on the frozen Muskingum, beelining for that desperate standoff on the far shore.
The jumbled river ice smoothed out briefly. I raced onward. Cracking sounds under my feet, spreading. I ran faster. Would the ice hold? Could I get there before he killed her?
Knife-bearer grew impatient. He sprang over the fire, swept his blade in a searching arc . . . and missed. Zelda glided sideways, putting the blazing fire between them once more. She leaned and snatched a burning branch from the flames.
Good girl! Hang on. Hang on, I’m a-coming!
The ice rumpled into hummocks and broken clumps. Grunting with strain, I picked a path through the clutter. The snowdrift along the far bank mounded belt-high. I jumped, landed on my flank, rolled and came up running. Was I too late?
On either side of the fire Zelda and Knife-bearer parried and feinted, burning branch against jabbing knife. She held his complete attention.
“Down, girl! Down!” I yelled.
My voice jerked Knife-bearer’s eyes from Zelda. He saw me behind her, a wild, crazed new enemy charging in with tomahawk in right hand, long rifle leveled waist-high in left. Baftled and confused by my unforeseen appearance, feeling suddenly under armed, Knife-bearer retreated, waiting for me to round the fire one way or the other, but I turned his own trick on him, vaulting through flames and smoke, tomahawk poised for the death blow. Caught off guard, Knife-bearer lifted his arms to protect his plucked skull. I slid the long rifle under his upthrown limbs and pulled the trigger.
Thunder in the Valley Page 8
