One day, while hunting with Stewart in the country east of camp, Daniel found a rich section of land where three rivers snaked down from the highlands and emptied their waters into a fourth. When Daniel put all the maps he had together, it looked likely that this great river ran clear across Kentucky.
“If it does,” said Stewart, “it comes south from the Ohio. That’s a far piece, Dan’l.”
Boone scratched his head and looked at the maps. Hell, there were so many empty spots a man could do near as well by guessing. “It could. Like you say, that’s quite a ways.” Stretching his legs, he wandered out of camp. Far off to the east was a faint grey blur on the horizon where the Endless Mountains began, and past them, North Carolina. He wondered how Becky was, and the children. Squire would be along soon with news of them.
Daniel searched the horizon a long time. It gave him a great sense of accomplishment to finally look at those mountains from the Kentucky side. It was now close to October and they had left the Yadkin on the first of May. As near as he could reckon, they had set up camp the seventh of June. Five months from home. They had put a lot behind them in that time.
If they could keep their scalps through the winter and get back to Salisbury with the cache of skins, he would pay back every debt he owed and then some. And he would walk into Dick Henderson’s office to tell him he had found the biggest damn country out there a man could ask for! The year 1769 would sure be one to remember—the year he had stopped being poor. Why, he could…. Something bothered him, something familiar in the look of those mountains.
Suddenly Daniel gave a loud, high whoop to the sky. John Stewart came tearing out of the brush, rifle at the ready.
“Goddamn, Dan’l—I thought the whole Shawnee nation was on us!”
Daniel grinned and pounded him on the back. “Hell, John, it just come to me what a fool I been. I knew for dead certain I’d looked at those mountains before, an’ now I know when. The Big Sandy’s got to be ’bout a hundred or so miles up north, and I stood right there like I am now.” He threw back his head and laughed. “If I ain’t wrong, I already been in Kentucky two years ago. Only I didn’t even know it!”
When the days grew crisp with the snap of autumn in the air, Daniel took off alone, following a stream far to the west of the Warrior’s Path. He was alone because it was a time of year he couldn’t bear to share with other folk. The whole world was spangled with red and gold and yellow. The chattering of squirrels and cawing of crows carried farther in the clean air. Every smell was sharp and clean. Sometimes he came on a broad meadow full of prime deer and, putting his rifle aside, sat down to watch them. If he died right then, he decided, he would have seen near everything worth seeing.
On the fourth morning of his journey, Daniel woke up to an acrid smell that was alien to the crisp air. Quickly wiping out every trace of his camp, he led his horse deep into a hollow and tied him there under a cropping of stone. Then he silently made his way back up the hill and started circling the place where he had slept.
The smell was clear enough. It was wood smoke, and close by. He thanked his luck he’d built no fire on his own the night before. If he had, he would scarcely have noticed the other.
It had to be Indians. Findley and Stewart were at least twenty or thirty miles distant. Was it the same party Findley had found? The sign wasn’t this far east, but Indians were traveling folk.
Two hundred yards to the south he found their trail. They were being careful enough; but it was hard to cover your tracks in the fall, ’less you could find some way to stay clear of the leaves.
There were four of them, Daniel guessed, maybe five. He stopped in a thick stand of maples and leaned against a tree, letting his eyes study the terrain ahead. The land dipped south and west, which likely meant water nearby. The camp would be there. Under a bluff, perhaps, or in a limestone cave near a stream.
Leaving the woods, he circled to the north and crossed the creek so that he could come in behind the wind. Bellying up slow, he came to the edge of the creek and parted the brush under a big oak. The Indians were just across the stream, camped against the step bank. They were Shawnees, and there were four of them. There was a low fire on the bank, near a stand of young trees. Tied to one of the trees was a naked Indian girl.
Chapter Eight
He knew he should just mind his own business, back out of there, scoot back to his horse real quiet and make tracks east.
Indians were always stealing someone else’s woman—that was the way they lived, and it wasn’t any concern of his. Still, he found it hard to take his eyes off the girl.
Damn, she was a pretty little thing! Tall, long-legged and slim as a willow. Black hair hung loose over her shoulders, framing taut little breasts, and her dark skin was as bright as new copper and as slick as an otter. Daniel guessed she was about seventeen. It was difficult to tell at this distance. But he could see by her beads that she wasn’t Shawnee. Cherokee, more likely, or Catawba.
Something else about the scene held him there, something more to do with the men than with the girl.
She’d likely been their captive for some time now, as she wasn’t kicking and screaming. Yet, it was clear they hadn’t touched her. When the Shawnees took a woman, they didn’t leave her looking like this one. By now, all of them should have had her a dozen times over, leaving her bruised and bloody, at worst with her nose sliced off, or her thighs cut to ribbons with a knife. There she was, though, naked and tied to a tree, as ripe a beauty as any man could ask for. What, he wondered, was holding the Shawnees back?
Even as he watched, the Indians below started stowing their gear away and carefully covering the fire pit. Boone knew he was going to try to help the girl. It didn’t make a damn bit of sense, but he was going to do it anyway.
He had two rifles, but so did the Shawnees. He could quickly down two of them, but the other two would be after him in a second. Still, they couldn’t be sure he was alone, which meant they wouldn’t come straight at him over the creek. What they would do was go to ground, one heading for the horses while the others circled around to catch him dodging through the woods, trying to reload on the run.
That’s what ought to happen, he told himself wryly. It damn sure better, too, because he had to get all of them. If one got away, he would dog Daniel’s heels clear back to the main camp.
Carefully, Daniel lined up both rifles on the edge of the bank. It was an easy shot, no more than thirty or forty yards. Squeeze off the first one, drop the rifle, grab up the second….
The muzzle roared. Echoes cracked down the hollow. Daniel saw the Shawnee stagger. Before he hit the ground he had the second rifle against his shoulder, a startled Indian’s face over the bead. He squeezed the trigger again. Fire flashed in the pan, then—nothing! Daniel groaned. Misfire! A goddamn misfire, and the Indians knew it too!
The Shawnees yelped with glee. All three came at him across the creek. One paused, fired into the brush. Daniel screamed. “Bright Fox is hit,” he shouted in Cherokee, “get to their horses!”
The Shawnees stopped and looked at each other, then one ran past the girl for the mounts. The other dodged into cover and scampered up the bank to flank him.
It took all the nerve he could muster to lay right where he was and reload. They’d figure he was well into the woods, trying to put distance at his heels. They’d come in fast, knowing he needed a good fifteen seconds to ready his weapon. Of course if he were wrong, they wouldn’t flank him at all—they’d catch him right where he was and split his skull.
He heard the first one scrambling in the brush to the left. Now where the hell was the other one? Daniel rammed home the ball and patch, charged the pan, and slammed the frizzen as softly as he could.
The Shawnee heard him, sprang up with a bloodcurdling yell and came at him. Daniel brought up the rifle and fired without aiming. The Shawnee’s face exploded, spattering dry leaves with blood. Without looking, Daniel turned and leaped over the bank into the creek, fell hard into sh
allow water, rolled and came to his feet. The girl screamed when she saw him. Too late Daniel realized she was staring wide-eyed over his shoulder. He turned, saw the second Shawnee on the bank above him downstream. Fire flashed in Daniel’s face, and pain knifed into his side as the bullet slammed him hard to the ground.
Lights danced before his eyes. He shook his head to clear it. The Shawnee splashed through the water, sun flashing off the knife in his fist. Daniel forced himself to his knees, grasped for the tomahawk and found it. The Indian kicked him in the face and sent him sprawling. Daniel felt his weapon fly, and heard it hit the bank. Then the brave was all over him. Daniel grabbed the Indian’s hand and forced the blade from his chest. Boone felt the brave trying to knee his groin and rolled away, sending them both tumbling into the creek.
The Shawnee got a mouthful of water and gagged. Daniel pulled himself free and clawed for the bank. The Indian was right behind him and he still held the knife. Boone was sure he was finished. Even if he could find the damn tomahawk, his strength was draining from him fast. He ran, stumbled and fell. The pain was numbing as his hand slapped down into the smoldering remnants of the campfire. The Indian grabbed his leg, spun him over and dropped down fast with the knife. Daniel dug his fingers into the bank and threw hot coals and sand in the warrior’s face. The Shawnee staggered back, dropped his knife and slapped his hand to his eyes. Daniel ignored the knife. He picked up the largest rock he could lift and brought it down hard on the Indian’s head.
Daniel sank to the ground, then brought himself up again quickly. Jesus God, there was another one still running loose! What was he going to do with that one?
The girl spoke to him in Cherokee. “He is gone. I heard him take the horses.”
“You sure?” Boone felt his stomach knot up.
“Yes, I am sure.”
“Hell, I better go see anyway.”
“You can see if you like,” she said calmly. “But he is gone.”
Daniel tried hard to keep his eyes on hers, but they kept dropping down to her body. The girl was even more breathtaking up close! He staggered around behind her, cut the leather thongs, then made his way back through the brush. The girl was right. The horses were gone. The Shawnee might try an ambush, but Boone didn’t think so. He’d be more likely to hang back and trail him. Somehow, Daniel would have to find the Indian and kill him, no matter what. Until he had done that, he couldn’t go back.
The girl had been busy in his absence. She had gone across the creek and gathered everything worth taking from the dead Shawnees. An assortment of knives and tomahawks was piled on the sand, and she was cleaning and reloading the rifles—Boone’s and the Indians’.
Daniel stared at her. She was still stark naked, sitting on the bank with a rifle pressed tightly between her legs, diligently scraping dirt off the hardwood stock.
“There was wet powder in the pan of the gun that didn’t go off,” she explained without looking up.
“I kinda figured,” replied Daniel. “Look, ah—you got any clothes or anything ’round here?”
The girl glanced up curiously. Eyes as big as a doe’s studied Daniel. The high planes of her cheeks curved down gracefully to a small, delicate chin and a questioning mouth. “It is important to get the weapons loaded first, is it not?” She looked thoughtfully at the spot of blood on the side of Daniel’s buckskin jacket. “When I finish with the guns, I will tend to that.”
“Oh, no you won’t,” he spoke crossly. “What we’ll do is get the hell out of here.” He walked over to her and started gathering up the weapons, but the pain made him gasp, and he went to his knees.
The girl sighed. “You see? It is as I said. First we must fix the wound.”
Boone picked himself up. “Goddamn it, quit tellin’ me what to do!”
The girl walked past him and found her buckskin dress. When she started squirming into it, he flushed and stared down the creek. Damnation, he thought, the way she went about it was more like taking clothes off than puttin’ them back on.
Daniel didn’t stop moving until they were deep into the forest. He pulled every trick he knew—doubling back, riding downstream and coming out on stone, starting false trails, that led nowhere. If that Shawnee was any good at tracking he would find them, but it would take him a while to do it.
Finally, Daniel grew so tired that when the girl told him to lie down and be still, he didn’t even argue. She tended the wound deftly and gently. The ball had gone in the flesh of his waist and come out again clean. He had lost a little blood, but some rest and food would fix that. Mostly, the wound was stiff, and his feet jarred it something awful when he walked.
“Bind it up,” he told the girl. “Tight.”
The girl looked puzzled. “Why? It does not need to be bound up tight.”
“It does,” Daniel said patiently, “if I’m goin’ to sit a horse.”
“Why would you want to do that?” But she saw the look in his eyes, clamped her lips shut and started to work. The binding made it hard to breathe, but held off the pain.
“What will we do now?” she asked him.
“Now we sit tight an’ wait till dark.”
“Then what?”
“Then we light a fire.”
The girl swept hair from her eyes and looked at him. “To cook? Is that wise?”
“You sure are full of questions, aren’t you?” The girl started to pout and Boone laughed. “No, you’re right. It ain’t wise. The fire’s not for cookin’. It’s to give that Shawnee out there somethin’ to look at.”
“Ah.…” The girl’s face brightened. “Wide Mouth is very wise.”
Boone raised a brow as she spoke the name the Cherokees had given him. “Now where’d you hear that?”
“I saw you two seasons ago, when you visited the camp of my people on the Nolichucky.”
“Well, sure.…” He’d made the trip many times that year. “Though I don’t recall you right off. If I’d seen you, I’m sure I wouldn’t have forgot.”
She blushed and lowered her head. “Wide Mouth only speaks from pity. In truth, he thinks I am so ugly he puts clothes on me quickly.”
Daniel laughed too loud. “Hey, come on now. You’re right pretty, and—the thing is, uh.…” She raised her head and smiled. She was close to him; her black eyes burned into him, and he could sense the strong, womanly smell of her. Daniel could feel himself growing aroused, and backed away from her quickly, pretending to fix the binding on his waist. The girl said nothing, but busied herself gathering sticks for the fire.
“You never told me your name,” Daniel finally said.
“It is Blue Duck.” She straightened up and looked at him. “Wide Mouth, may I ask a question? What do we do after we light the fire? Is that a question I should not ask?”
“No, you can ask it,” Boone told her. “We’re goin’ off a ways where I can rest up some. When it’s dark, I’m comin’ back up here to wait for that Shawnee.”
“I see,” Blue Duck nodded. “Thank you for telling me, Wide Mouth.” She turned away and began quietly gathering sticks again.
That night he slept restlessly. At first his dreams were pleasant. There was a quiet bubbling stream in the shadows of some thick-bodied oaks. A woman was there, laughing and clinging to him. Black hair flew over her shoulders and veiled her little-girl breasts. He held her to him, marveling at the silk of her skin next to his. When he suddenly entered her she gasped, then wrapped strong legs tightly about his back. Sometimes she was Rebecca, and sometimes the Indian girl, Blue Duck. It didn’t seem to matter.
Then his dream turned bad. The Shawnee with the red-painted face pounced on his chest and split him from belly to throat. In numb horror, Daniel watched his insides spill out onto the ground. As fast as he could pull his belly together, the Shawnee cut him open again.
Daniel sat up, a scream starting in his throat. The girl’s hand clasped gently over his mouth. He looked at her, then stared up at the sky. “My, God, I got to get up there!” H
e turned angrily on the girl. “Why the hell didn’t you wake me when I told you to!”
Blue Duck hung her head. “Wide Mouth, I tried to, very hard. But the fever was upon you and I could not. You struck at me and cried out. Still I tried to wake you, even though I feared the Shawnee would hear. I was afraid I could not wake you before he came down upon us.” She looked at him with fear in her eyes. A single tear coursed down her cheek.
“It’s all right,” Daniel told her. “Hell, it’s my fault, not yours. Damnation!” He slammed his fist into the ground. There was no use chasing after the Indian now. He’d either taken the bait, then left, or smelled a trap and stayed away. Whichever it was, it was too late to catch him now. The Shawnee would simply wait and pick up their trail.
Lightning flashed in the east, and thunder rumbled down through the hills. Daniel hoped it would rain hard. If it kept up all the way back, they might lose the Shawnee. But Daniel didn’t really believe that. The Shawnee had the debt of a blood-fight now. He’d stay on the trail no matter how long it took.
Billowing thunderheads rolled in quickly, turning the sky to black. Blue Duck huddled behind Boone, her head pressed close against his back. The rain pelted her hard, stinging all over like tiny stones, but she didn’t complain. Instead she wrapped her hands around him. He could not object to that. If she told him she was frightened of the thunder, or afraid she would fall off the horse, he would believe her.
She thought about the thing she had done. She was not sorry she had lied to him. Wide Mouth was hurt, more than he cared to admit, but he was brave, too, and if she had told him when the Shawnee was up there by the fire, Wide Mouth would have tried to kill the warrior. And he would have failed. He was a better man than the Shawnee, but he was hurt, and the Shawnee would have won. She could not let him die.
She wondered, as she clung tightly to him, how long it would be before he made love to her. Not long, she hoped. She would have to be very, careful. Wide Mouth would have to be certain it was his idea, and not hers….
Daniel Boone: Westward Trail Page 7