Daniel said eagerly, “Mebbe that was just his usual carelessness. Mebbe he didn’t want ‘em sore—they just got that way because he didn’t load ‘em right. Or mebbe he hurt ‘em a-purpose so’s he wouldn’t be suspected. So folks’d think just what you’re thinkin’ now.”
Amos still shook his head. “Well, they’re gone, and Pa took a real loss on ‘em. But I still don’t think....How’d they know where he was a-goin’ to cut ‘em loose, if what you think is true? Tell me that!”
Daniel said, with a shudder, “If they was Indians, they could have followed alongside of us in the woods, and we wouldn’t have seen ‘em. Then, as soon as the hosses were cut loose—and I’d swear that rope had been cut, Amos—they were run off and hid from us.”
“The ropes on the two we caught could ha’ been broken, not cut,” Amos said.
Amos was still doubtful, Daniel could see, and he began to wonder if he was unduly suspicious, or whether Amos and his father were too trusting. When they got to their camp, Simon was nowhere to be seen, and Ben was waiting for them impatiently.
“Here, you lads, take care of the hosses. Your pa needs me, Amos, and I’ve got to git along. Dan’l, Mr. Gregg says you’re to have a reg’lar string of your own next trip—you did so well helpin’ Amos this time, he says he feels he can trust you with a small one. He’s out buyin’ ponies right now. Saddles, too, if he can git ‘em.”
Daniel’s chest felt tight with emotion. This was something he had not expected. To think that Mr. Gregg thought so highly of him! He could not even stammer his appreciation, for his throat had closed up. But Amos clapped him on the back and said, “There, now! You’re as good as a man, see?”
Daniel blinked back sudden tears and said, “I’ll work hard. See if I don’t! Your pa won’t be sorry, Amos.”
They spent the whole next day in Cincinnati and since Simon, poorer and soberer than he had been the day before, had no more money to spend, he was left with the horses while Amos and Daniel saw the town. Daniel, of course, had no gun, and it was his ambition to own one, so first they looked at guns. There were muskets and rifles. Daniel gazed longingly at a slim, long-barrelled rifle with a fine walnut stock, but did not even dare to ask the price. He knew it would be a long time before he could afford a gun like that.
Next, they went to get new moccasins. The footgear they had worn on the march was worn thin and would not last for many more miles of such rough wear. After that, Amos said he was going to buy his mother a present—a loaf of sugar.
Daniel was aghast at the thought of such extravagance. “You’ve got maple sweetenin’ at home,” he reminded Amos. “And the Worders used to boil down punkins for a kind of molasses. Loaf sugar’s only for rich folks.”
“Yes, but Ma said once she wished she had some. She said if she had, she’d make us some sweet cakes like she used to back in Pennsylvania. And I’d sure like to sink a tooth into some of those again!”
Daniel laughed. “So that’s the real reason!”
They went into the store of Findlay and Smith, and instantly Daniel was amazed. So many things for sale; so many unusual things. He wondered where there could be a market for all of them. There were kegs of wines and liquors, tobacco and “segars,” coffee, tea, and chocolate among the luxuries. There were bolts of nankeen and cambric and linen, hair ribbons and pomades, and blackball for polishing boots.
His head was whirling at the sight of all these things for sale, and he was just about to ask Amos who could be the buyers of such merchandise, when he heard Polly’s voice behind him. He turned around, and found she was half-hidden by her Aunt Lydia.
“I want some needles,” she was saying, “both heavy and fine.” She was clutching an iron kettle by the handle. It was new, and already held other purchases.
“Isn’t that heavy?” Daniel asked. He saw her head jerk back with surprise.
“I told you to set it on the floor, Polly,” Aunt Lydia said. “Ain’t nobody goin’ to steal it from you.”
Polly flushed a little and set the pot on the floor. When Amos later bought the sugar loaf for his mother, that went into the pot, too. There were all kinds of things in it but, as Daniel said with a laugh, “wouldn’t none of ‘em make a good stew.”
Polly carried the kettle when they left the shop. It was customary for a woman to carry her own bundles, and she felt she was nearly a woman, Daniel could see. She walked proudly beside her aunt, skirting mud puddles and scuffing through the dirt in her best, and only, pair of shoes. Amos and Daniel, staring at all the sights of the water front, soon dropped behind.
It was Aunt Lydia’s voice that brought them on the run. “Get away from me!” she was shouting. “You rude louts! Get away!”
Daniel, racing toward them, saw that a couple of rowdies had swaggered out of one of the taverns and were blocking Aunt Lydia’s and Polly’s path. When they moved to the right, the men followed suit. When they moved to the left, the men dodged over that way, too. As Daniel came near he heard one of them say, “What you got in that kettle? Somethin’ good? Somethin’ I’d like?” And with the words, he snatched the pot out of Polly’s hands and fled.
Polly, without a moment’s hesitation, ran after him, and so did her aunt. But the other ruffian successfully headed off Aunt Lydia, and the thief, with Polly at his heels, suddenly rounded on her and knocked her to the ground.
Anger made a red haze in front of Daniel’s eyes. The delay had been just long enough to allow him to catch up with them, and now he launched himself upon the man with such force that the two of them were borne to the ground. The kettle clattered as it fell and the numerous parcels flew out in all directions.
In the next few seconds of furious wrestling, Daniel remembered everything he had ever heard about the fighters on the Cincinnati water front—the tales of eye-gouging, nose-biting, ear-chewing, and bone-breaking all flashed before him and, in some miraculous fashion, he managed to keep out of his opponent’s grasp.
That time was all he needed, for Amos had reached him by then, and with two strong young lads upon him, both wildly furious, the man decided to turn tail and run. His companion went pounding after him.
Polly was already on her feet, her eyes blazing, a long smudge of dust along one cheek, and her dress dirty and rumpled. “The bully!” she cried. “Oh, I wish I could have been a man to give him what he deserved!” Then her eyes softened, and she smiled at them. “But it was the next best thing to watch how the two of you handled him!” She tossed her head proudly.
Aunt Lydia came up, chattering with rage, and darting right and left to retrieve the bundles that had been in the pot. Polly and the boys helped her, and soon they were on their way again. It had all happened so quickly that the few onlookers had had no time to intervene.
Walking back to Aunt Lydia’s house, Daniel knew a lightness of heart that had not been his for several years. It was almost like having a family of his own to be so close to Amos and Polly and all the other Greggs. Even Aunt Lydia looked handsomer and kindlier to him because she belonged to them.
Suddenly he wanted to burst into song, but did not dare. His voice was too much inclined these days to go from treble to bass without warning. And so he hummed a little instead, an old song his father had often sung.
“Feelin’ chipper, ain’t you?” Aunt Lydia said, but her sour tone was belied by her smile. “Well, day after tomorrow you head back into the Indian country again, so you might as well be cheerful now.”
But not even the mention of Indians could dampen Daniels spirits.
CHAPTER EIGHT
They were ready to leave the Gregg farm two days later when Daniel suddenly called Polly to him. “I near forgot,” he said, flushing red with embarrassment. “I wanted to give you this afore we go. I—I don’t own anythin’ else you might want.” He thrust the pewter button that had been his father’s into her warm hand and turned away quickly. But Polly ran after him.
“Where’d you get it?” she asked, highly pleased with his g
ift.
“It was Pa’s. It was on his coat. It must have got torn off when the Indians grabbed it, because the coat wasn’t there any more when I—when I found him. I hid it for the whole time I was with the Worders. Just so’s I’d have something that was mine, you see.”
“But now”—her face wore an expression of real distress—“now you won’t have anythin’ at all!”
“I’ve got me a job—a real one,” he said proudly. “I’ll be able to buy things now if I need ‘em....But that’s not the reason I wanted you to have it,” he added. “It’s because I thought so much of it. It’s been like a little bit of magic. I always felt, when I had it, that nothin’ would harm me.”
Polly’s smile lighted her whole face, “Why, Dan’l,” she cried, “I think it’s right sweet of you to want me to have it! I hope it keeps on bein’ magical for me, too.”
“It will,” he said earnestly. “I’m certain-sure.”
He did not stop to think that it was odd he no longer felt the need of it himself; this did not occur to him. He heard Josiah’s hallooing signal for the start and got his horses into line. Soon the clustered Gregg family and the cabin were lost to view.
There was another haying detail in the prairie below Fort Hamilton. The fort itself no longer looked as large to Daniel as it had the first time he saw it, now that he had visited Fort Greeneville. That afternoon they passed the taciturn pack-horse master who had told them about the scalping near Fort Hamilton. He was on his return trip and would be in Cincinnati by evening. Already Daniel was beginning to know and to recognize many of the men who drove the pack-horse trains.
The following day was uneventful, with only moderate showers in the afternoon. “I wish we’d have a reg’lar slam-bang thunderstorm to clear the air,” Amos complained as they made camp that evening outside Fort St. Clair. “It’s so close I could cut it with my knife.”
Daniel said, thoughtfully, “If I’d had any sense, I’d have bought a better knife than this in Cincinnati.” He looked with disfavor at the cheap one he had purchased. “But I thought I was savin’ money not to. I reckon my pa was right. He used to say that buyin’ cheap things was givin’ good money for bad goods.”
“I’ll hone it for you,” Simon offered. His own hunting knife was razor-sharp. “‘Course I don’t guarantee it’ll keep an edge, but leastways I’ll put an edge to it.”
Daniel was grateful. That night, after their simple supper, Simon sat by the fire and patiently whetted the cheap knife until it was reasonably sharp. With it hanging in the sheath from his belt, and with the musket Josiah had lent him for the trip, Daniel felt well armed.
Soon they turned in, lying close, but not too close, to the dying fire, and Daniel stretched out, shielding his eyes from the light with his arms. He was full of a new content. In what a short time he had progressed from a penniless, unwanted lad to one with responsibility, pay, and friends. There was still danger, of course, and there were times, every day, when his breath stood still at some untoward sound or the half-seen flight of a bird in the woods—anything which might have been an Indian. But he was always able to reassure himself, and the knowledge that he was with others who were brave and dependable soon restored his confidence.
Well, not all of them, he amended the thought. Not Timothy. For Timothy, to Daniel’s distress, was with them again. Daniel knew that Josiah had not intended to engage the man again. He had paid him off at Cincinnati and had promptly looked for someone else to take his place. But there had been no one. This was the time when the contractors for the Legion were eager to get anyone they could, and pack-horse drivers were not to be found. Mr. Gregg had had to hire Timothy again.
He had not given him command of a string, however. Timothy had been told to stay at the head of Henry’s string, for Henry had more to handle on this trip than any of the others. It was surprising how quick and efficient the quiet, scholarly Henry could be. Daniel doubted if Timothy was much help to him.
As if thought of the man had conjured him up, Daniel saw Timothy rise stealthily from his place near the fire. He gave a hurried look around, but Daniel’s face was hidden by his arm. With a tread that was surprisingly silent for one of his bulk, Timothy had started to move away from the others when Daniel said, quite loudly, “Something the matter, Timothy?”
The man stopped short with a smothered curse. Josiah and Ben sat up at once, and Henry, who slept with his rifle in the crook of his arm, was not far behind them.
“Where you goin’, Timothy?” Josiah asked.
Timothy stamped his foot. “Got a cramp in my leg,” he answered in a surly voice. “Near drivin’ me crazy, so I thought I'd git up and see if walkin’ around would help.”
It was a plain lie, to Daniel, for he had seen with what sure stealth Timothy had risen and moved, but he said nothing, for Josiah’s doubt was obvious. He said dryly, “I think it’ll get better if you stay here with us, Timothy. Might be you’d git an Indian arrow or a bullet in it that would be worse’n a cramp.”
Timothy came back to the circle, limping heavily, and after he had crouched down by the fire he rubbed his leg for a while. Then, grunting with repressed anger, he lay down again.
Daniel went to sleep almost at once. He knew, without another word having been said, that he need not keep watch, that Josiah and the others would now be sleeping lightly in case Timothy tried to leave the circle again. And he knew, too, that Josiah was remembering what Daniel had told him about Timothy’s other excursion at night into the woods. It was no coincidence that it should have happened again at their encampment outside Fort St. Clair.
The next day, too, he saw that Josiah and Ben took turns keeping close to Timothy, so that he had no chance to make a move of any kind without being seen. There would be no opportunity today to cut the rope of any of the pack-horses.
They made such good time that they had a longer rest at midday than usual. They sat together talking, and Amos and Daniel listened to the older men eagerly, for the talk turned, as always, upon the coming campaign.
“Seems like Gen’l Wayne could ha’ licked the Indians last fall, ‘stead of spendin’ all his time buildin’ Fort Greeneville,” Simon said, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of cold venison. “Why, when he and the Legion left Hobson’s Choice last October, everybody thought sure he’d be up in Indian country in no time, with these wide roads and all. And what does he do? He stops where the wide road ends and builds another fort, and sets there all winter—except for buildin’ Fort Recovery. All spring, too. An’ he’s still there!”
Everyone looked surprised, for Simon, slow and dull-witted as a rule, seldom opened his mouth for more than a sentence or two. It was apparent that this was something he had been thinking about for some time.
Henry said patiently, “But don’t you see, Simon, he’s done the wisest thing possible? What did General Harmar do? And General St. Clair? They marched north in the fall—both of them—and met the Indians and got beaten. The reasons weren’t simple, but some of the reasons were that they did not have good roads for the army and supplies, and they did not have the support of stout forts upon the way, and they did not have an army that had been drilled and drilled until it was able to stand up against the enemy.”
“Hmp!” said Timothy, with his mouth full. “Wayne’s got the roads, and the forts, and the drilled army, but he ain’t beat the Indians yet, neither!”
“Well, he will,” Josiah said positively. “If ever I was certain-sure of anythin’, it’s that! He will!”
“That’s only talk,” Timothy protested. “Has he made any move to fight those Indians yet? Not he! He’s gone on buildin’ roads and forts, and drillin’ the daylights out’n the men, and that’s all.”
“It will pay off in the end,” Henry said. “He’s wise to put so many spies to good use, and he’s wise to want everything ready and right on his side before he risks his men in a fight. That way, he’s almost sure to win. There won’t be any happenstance about it when he marches agai
nst the Indians.”
“I could wish there wasn’t so much talk about trouble amongst his officers,” Josiah said with a frown. “From the stories I hear, you’d think they was all scratchin’ each others’ eyes out, except when they’re all tryin’ to scratch out Gen’l Wayne’s. That’s a thing I don’t like.”
“General Scott is coming up from Kentucky with volunteers. He’s a friend of Wayne’s.”
“Yeah, but they’re militia. Might be they’re not dependable in a pinch,” Timothy sneered.
Simon bristled a little, and tucked his chin in, to glare at Timothy. “They’re Kentucky militia,” he said slowly, “an’ that means they’re the best fighters Wayne’ll git.”
“Time to move on,” Ben said quickly. Daniel was sure he said it to avert a real argument.
Fort Greeneville was crowded, even more crowded than it had been before. Amos and Daniel wandered through the huge enclosure, staring at the soldiers’ huts, at the washerwomen working near the spring, at the busy blacksmith’s forge, at the fine house where the general was quartered. Soldiers were having bayonet practice at one end of the parade ground, dragoons were currying their horses, cook-fires were lighted. It was like a city in miniature.
A swarthy man rode through the gate and over to the general’s house. Daniel clutched at Amos. “That’s an Indian!” he cried. “And he’s a-goin’—”
A soldier nearby turned to grin at them. “Sure, that’s an Indian. He’s a Chickasaw named Jemmy Underwood, and he’s one of Captain Gibson’s spies, over to Fort Recovery. We’ve got Indians workin’ with us as well as ag’in us. I reckon Jemmy’s here with dispatches for Old Toney.”
Daniel’s fear subsided somewhat. He said, “Last time we were here, Cap’n Wells and his men had brought in an Indian. Only it wasn’t an Indian, really.”
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