A Moonbow Night

by Laura Frantz

  Whilst Paige and Aylee tended the garden and helped Russell in the corn, Tempe was let loose in the woods. From now till Indian summer she’d be gathering, her most beloved task of all. With the sap running high beneath the new July moon, she fashioned her berry baskets. The bark of tulip trees was best, laced together with hickory.

  For a brief spell she almost fancied she was in Eden, taking a special delight in her Maker’s garden. As she wandered, she felt the Lord’s pleasure in the things He had made. Did He too take pleasure in the ways she put His bounty to use?

  “Gather you some blackberries,” Aylee called after her. “I’ll be needing some leaves for the summer complaint.”

  Tempe began gathering thimbleberries in cool mountain ravines and gooseberries atop rocky outcrops and ledges. Raspberries, huckleberries, and blackberries filled her baskets and her belly. Once dried they’d hang in sacks from the rafters. But first their kitchen would turn out an abundance of pies and cobblers brimming purple, with sweet, rich cream poured atop them.

  Thoughts as full of Pa as her baskets were of berries, she had little room left for Sion. He and his party might have reached the Green River by now or the white sulphur springs on the east fork of the Little Barren River. With the Shawnee River sinking lower by midsummer, he’d be wise to raft to the farthest reaches.

  She tarried late in the woods, stumbling home by the stars, having waited at the rockhouse without reward. No light issued from the inn. Ma and Paige were early to bed, early to rise. The door was barred and she’d need to sleep in the loft of the barn-shed.

  Opening the springhouse, she left her berry baskets till morning, tarrying long enough to drink some rich sweet milk, the cream at the top unstirred. Thirst slaked, she quietly shut the heavy door.

  Was Russell abed?

  The barn-shed loomed empty as she passed through to the loft. The hay gave beneath her weight, and she was spared its prickles by lying atop a saddle blanket. The familiar smells and sounds settled around her. Worn leather and wood shavings. Burnt ashes from the forge. Aging rafters. The cooing of doves. Through the shrunken timbers she could see the stars, great white spangles of them flung out across the heavens.

  Russell usually slept in a near corner. Tonight no one seemed to be lodging with them. The few hobbled horses at the woods’ edge were their own.

  She fell asleep missing her feather tick, then stirred awake at the sound of someone below. Raven? His striking silhouette was before her. The supple upper body, bare in summer. The ragged outline of fletched arrows at his back. The graceful arch of his bow. Three hawk feathers in his hair.

  She rolled to one side to better see him and realized her mistake. Not Raven. This man was taller. Stouter. The hay gave a faint rustle as she moved for a better look. He looked up, and she held her breath till he turned his face away.

  Hiskyteehee. Five Killer.

  An icy finger trailed down her spine. She’d last seen Five Killer a year or so ago when Pa took her south to trade with the Cherokee. She’d not forgotten him. On his jawline was a ragged scar that told of a hard-won victory over five white men in the settlements, hence his name. He was young. A leader among the new Chickamauga sect. He had a special hatred for settlers coming over the Gap. She’d heard worse . . .

  The moon bespoke midnight. ’Twas light enough for her to see a rolled paper leave his hand. As soon as he placed it on Russell’s worktable he left, moving beyond her line of sight to the midnight woods.

  She waited for several long minutes before going below and lighting a wick from the forge’s dying coals. Holding the taper aloft, she perused the paper. A handbill from the British? Since the war began she’d seen her share. This one was meant for the tribes, and not only the Cherokee. Sent by the Cherokees’ agent, Alexander Cameron, one boldface line particularly chilled her.

  Your father, the great King George, who lives in the lands where the sun rises, says the time has now come to feast on settlers and drink their blood.

  Sickened, she let the paper go as if her fingers were soiled. It landed on the worktable, but she was of a mind to burn it. Taking it up again, she turned to feed it to the forge’s embers when the sound of horse hooves stopped her.

  Russell rode into view just outside the barn-shed, looking just as she remembered him before Powell Valley. Unmaimed. Whole. In control. Where had he been? His stallion snorted, further jarring her. A look of pure suspicion marred his face.

  “Temperance, what is that you’re holding?”

  She faced him, torn between destroying the missive and handing it over. “Somebody just brought this by. Some Indian other than Raven.”

  Dare she say it was Five Killer?

  He dismounted and walked toward her as fast as he could. Taking the paper from her hand, he read it. Stoic, he turned his back on her and surrendered it to the forge’s embers. “It doesn’t concern us.”

  Stunned, she stared at him. “Are we not settlers?”

  “Aye. But we’re peaceable folk—”

  “Peaceable? This inn sits on unpeaceable ground near the Warrior’s Path. An Indian delivered this very handbill. Do you think it some courtesy on his part?”

  “He might have tomahawked the lot of us instead.”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Do? What can I do?” He thrust his bad leg forward and locked eyes with her. “I can do nothing but keep the peace.”

  “Peace? There is no peace!” She thrust her hands into her pockets to still their shaking. “The Indian that came—Hiskyteehee—was one of the party that killed James and the others that day, or so I heard tell of it. They meant to kill you—”

  The words died in her throat as she took in Russell’s expression. His haunted gaze left her and fixed itself on a far corner. She’d seen that look. Feared it. It bespoke a terrible wound, one she couldn’t see. His silence was sudden and full of reproach. Twice now she had mentioned what happened in Powell Valley. What had made her blurt it again?

  “Take care, Russell.” She gentled her tone, carefulness with him taking hold. “When Pa comes back he might bring news. He never says where he’s going, but I sense he’s in the thick of trouble traveling south into Cherokee country.”

  Russell blew out a breath. “This is hallowed ground, remember. You know that Raven’s full of talk about how the tribes give us a wide berth because this is a burial place.” He took down a large wooden hetchel from a beam, its bed of nails coarse. The flax harvest was over, but the gathering of green corn was nearly upon them. “The Indians are shy of Pa, Raven says. They think he’s naught but an Azgen spirit.”

  “What about the rest of us? We’re flesh and blood, living right here in the way of danger. This handbill is naught but a flaming arrow. We need to prepare, lay up provisions, and bar our doors. You need to arm yourself, sleep inside the cabin of a night with us women.” At his indifference her anger simmered and boiled over again. “You need to quit jabbering with Raven and mending Indian muskets and whatnot—”

  “Mending those muskets and whatnot is what keeps your hair attached to your scalp.” He turned on her, hetchel in hand. “How else do you account for my jabbering and fixing? I aim to keep things calm, to stop any bloodshed. You, Ma, and Paige are my responsibility. With Pa in hiding, what else am I to do?” He threw the hetchel into a spidery corner. “I keep the peace to keep you safe.”

  She fell silent, torn in two. Wasn’t Russell’s logic twisted? Could one wounded man keep danger at bay by mending a few Indian guns or fixing what they brought his way? Living unharmed by the falls but a few years was no promise of continued safety. They’d once thought that those first settlers would scatter the tribes and quash the danger. They’d been wrong. Something terrible was coming, mayhap a hundredfold of what had happened in Powell Valley.

  Russell was regarding her with a haggard look, clearly spent from her outburst—and his. “Say nothing of this to Ma or Paige, nor Pa when he comes back.”

  If he came back
.

  With that, he turned his back on her and staggered off into the shadows.

  11

  Our way is over mountains, steep hills, deep rivers, and muddy creeks; a thick growth of reeds for miles together; and no inhabitants but wild beasts and savage men.

  —FRANCIS ASBURY

  A giant chestnut and laurel thicket shut out Sion’s view of Nate at the rear of the column, but he could hear Lucian’s exclamation of alarm followed by the dull thud of a hatchet.

  “Lord have mercy!” Nate’s voice, rarely aggrieved, had the capacity to chill Sion to the bone.

  Alarmed, Sion pushed past Cornelius and the chain carriers and the skittish pack train through a swarm of chiggers to reach Nate. He sat on a downed hickory, clutching his leg, abject apology on his grizzled face.

  “Lucian here—he nearly saved me.”

  Nearly. Cornelius’s manservant stood by, hatchet in hand, near the coiled, cleaved body of a copperhead. Thick as Sion’s forearm and still writhing, it had done its ugly work. Deep in Nate’s calf two scarlet gashes were sunk.

  Kneeling, Sion examined the leg, soon to swell.

  “By heaven, it burns,” Nate moaned.

  Sion looked up at Lucian. “Get some whiskey.” Out of his budget Sion took a dried root and thrust it at Nate. “Chew this hard then spit it out.”

  Nate stuffed the gnarled root in his mouth and chewed, making a disagreeable face.

  “It’s campion,” Sion explained. “Rattlesnake’s master, some call it.”

  Nate jabbed a dirty finger toward the copperhead. “That ain’t no rattlesnake.”

  Sion shrugged. “No matter. Poison’s poison.”

  Lucian brought the flask of whiskey and Sion poured a bit over the wound. “Now drink some down.”

  Nate spit the chewed root into Sion’s hand and took the flask with far more glee, sipping and watching as Sion applied the mashed campion, tying it in place with a strip of clean linen.

  “Best get you to the Moonbow Inn. It’s not more than a few miles south by my memory.” He couldn’t recall how much time had passed since he’d last seen those rock chimneys. A blur of humid days dazed his brain. But there was no disguising the glimmer of pleasure the prospect of returning once again wrought. On account of the victuals, not that indigo skirt. “Want to ride?”

  Lucian had brought Nate’s horse, which nickered at the sight of his fallen master. “If I’d been ridin’ to begin with, I’d not be in this predicament.” With a sigh, Nate handed Lucian the flask. “‘Behold, I give unto you power to tread on serpents and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy: and nothing shall by any means hurt you.’”

  Standing, he tottered toward the waiting gelding, and Sion helped him into the saddle. The other men ringed round, concern on all their faces. Nate, for all his Scripture spouting, was a favorite. Sion took the reins, leading him toward the front of the line where he could keep an eye on him. Surprisingly, Cornelius took his place at the rear without comment, and they started off again as the forenoon faded and the real heat of midday spiked, the Moonbow Inn ever in their sights.

  “Well, I’ll be . . .”

  Aylee’s wonderstruck tone turned Tempe round before she set foot in the keeping room.

  Her mother was looking out the kitchen window, suspended in a rare idle moment. “Here comes Sion Morgan—and a string of men and horses. Again.”

  “Looks like they’ve lost all but one dog,” Paige mused.

  They’d last seen Sion’s party at planting time. Were they now back? This was the last thing she’d expected. Her insides somersaulted, betraying her outward calm. Why this unbridled excitement at the mere mention of him—them? Aye, it was them that addled her. Fear of another fracas left her half winded and nervy.

  The dogs began to howl, and Tempe could hear Smokey’s excited yip. Clutching a bowl of new peas, as supper was about to commence, she stood stone still till the flutter inside her settled. Only it didn’t settle.

  Did the inn have enough to feed them? Maybe they weren’t after a meal. But why else would they come? There was so much trouble brewing she’d expected them to head back to Virginia till things quieted down, if they ever did.

  But Sion was a man who defied expectations. She could only guess the gist of his thoughts. Make a stand, stake a claim, come what may. Like Boone, he probably reasoned the land would never be settled by running back over the Gap at every whiff of trouble. This was why he was at their door. He was about his business, passing through, or in need of something. This she knew.

  Russell entered the kitchen, looking no less worn down than when she’d confronted him about the handbill. Their heated words seemed to leave a bitter aftertaste, tainting their every exchange.

  Yet here lately she’d begun to feel a new understanding for her brother beyond the usual pangs of pity. She needed to say she was sorry, that she’d spoken out of fear. She now saw Russell in a kinder light. Not the lame, haunted survivor but a man who made the most of what he had, not striking out in anger and hatred but attempting to secure their safety by keeping the peace. Even if he was misguided. Even if it seduced him into believing they were safe.

  If it be possible, as much as lieth in you, live peaceably with all men.

  The Scripture had come to mind a dozen times since. But she wasn’t sure how it fit into their life on the frontier, when it was settler against Indian and sides must be taken.

  “You have plenty to feed Morgan and his men?”

  She stared at Russell. What did it matter if they did? Russell, shy of most newcomers, seemed to take a shine to this particular surveyor. But Tempe couldn’t move past the fact that having them at the inn was like firing a powder keg. Explosive. Dangerous. If the Indians knew they were cavorting with land stealers—feeding and hosting them—there’d be a price to pay.

  When he could see and smell the inn’s wood smoke, Sion’s breathing eased. But another quick glance at Nate ratcheted his fears. The exposed, bitten leg looked like a water-soaked log, half again its normal size. Nate’s face was fevered. He was having trouble sitting on his horse, listing slightly to the left. Sion expected him to fall to the ground any second.

  Heavyhearted, he called for Spencer and Hascal to take Nate on up to the inn.

  Tempe’s mother had come off the porch and was making a beeline toward Nate. Sion watched as she motioned for the chain carriers to bring him into the west cabin, not the keeping room. Curious, Sion followed, leaving Cornelius and Lucian to see to the horses. His spirits rose on sight of Smokey, who hobbled to him despite her splint. Her fur was like lamb’s wool against his weathered hand, her tail a-swish. The dogtrot curs quieted as Russell emerged and stood in the keeping room doorway.

  Nate was moaning now. Was delirium setting in? Once inside the west cabin, Sion swept the room in a glance. As tidy and spare as its mistress, the room held a charm and warmth that only came from a woman’s hand. At Aylee’s bidding, a cornhusk tick was brought down from the loft and placed beneath a far window.

  Sion removed his hat and ran a hand through his damp hair, glad for the shade. The cabin was blessedly cool and smelled of sassafras. Clumps of herbs hung from rafters overhead. Nate was in good hands. Sion stood by silently as Tempe’s mother brought a basin, seating herself on a low stool to bathe Nate’s flushed face.

  Aylee shot a glance at his departing chain men intent on a meal before settling her gaze on Sion. “Get you into the keeping room and see to your supper. I’ll tend to your friend, but I don’t know his name.”

  “Nate. Nathaniel Stoner.”

  In time Sion went out, wondering if any supper could be had given the number of horses tethered about the place. He crossed the dog-infested dogtrot, disgusted at the sight of Hascal’s and Spencer’s bad manners at table. He could only see the tops of their heads bent over their trenchers.

  Cornelius and Lucian had yet to enter, and the main table was full. A man and two women occupied one end, two small children between the
m. Russell motioned Sion to the cold hearth, fireless on so warm a day, where an empty chair beckoned.

  No sooner had he sat down than the door to the kitchen swung open and his meal was served. He’d expected Tempe, but it was the flaxen-haired girl who came, two plates in hand, her long braid swishing like a pendulum as she walked. He tucked away his disappointment, refusing to glance about for a glimpse of Tempe.

  His own table was a checkerboard that the girl soon crowded with ham and new potatoes and peas, fried hominy and cornbread. A mug of cold sweet milk hovered precariously on the board’s edge.

  Saying little, Russell had taken up a pipe that turned the air rich and spicy. Sion paused before he took a bite of meat, almost missing Nate’s mealtime prayers. The hearty mouthful tasted like ashes. A few more halfhearted swallows and he pushed away from the table.

  He felt he owed some explanation but had no words. Russell looked unconcerned, puffing quietly on his pipe, eye on the main table. Across the dogtrot Sion tread, enveloped again by the sweet scent of sassafras. Tempe’s mother hadn’t left her stool, and Nate was still thrashing, murmuring a string of fevered words that made no sense. Sion stopped in his tracks at two unmistakable, aggrieved mumblings.

  Harper . . . Sion.

  A rush of emotion poured over him like scalding water. He took a cane-bottomed chair at the foot of Nate’s pallet, trying to stay atop his fractured feelings. They frothed and bubbled over, stinging his eyes and tightening his throat till it seemed a hot stone lodged there.

  Somehow Tempe’s mother had peeled off Nate’s shirt. It hung from a peg on the wall Sion leaned against. Nate’s worn moccasins lay beneath, nearly soleless from all their tramping. She didn’t look Sion’s way, her ministrations never ceasing. To his amazement, she was parroting Nate himself, Scripture flowing from her lips like a song. As if she knew Nate. Knew that he needed the Word as much as any tonic.