Daniel Boone: Westward Trail

by Barrett Jr. Neal

  Stewart saw the fire before he did, a small touch of light some two hundred yards up the bill, hidden by the bank of the river. He raised a hand and reined in fast. “Oh, Jesus—what if we’d come up the other way and rode right into it?”

  Daniel looked past him. “We don’t know it’s Indians.”

  “You think it’s Findley?” Stewart forced a laugh. “You know goddamn well it ain’t!”

  “Reckon we’ll see.”

  “No, we won’t. We can just.…” Stewart stopped, and took a breath. “Yeah, we do, Dan’l. Sorry.”

  “Nothin’ to be sorry for.”

  “I guess there is.”

  “’Cause you’re still scared to death, John?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Good,” Daniel said shortly. “I sure don’t want no damn fool who ain’t scared guardin’ my back.”

  Stewart grinned, then looked past Daniel’s shoulder. A figure came out of the trees by the ridge and started down the steep path to the water. The man carried a kettle, and squatted to dip it in the stream. Daniel hefted his rifle. The man by the stream looked up and saw them, dropped the kettle and scurried up the hill.

  “Damn!” Stewart cried out. “He knows we’re here now.”

  Daniel laughed for the first time in nearly a month. “The cold’s gettin’ your eyes, John. That Injun looks a hell of a lot like my baby brother Squire!”

  By the time Daniel and John reached the creek, Squire had run back down the hill, tossed the kettle behind him and sprinted across the flat to drag Daniel off his horse. When they met, they hugged and wept with joy like children. For Daniel, finding his brother was like rediscovering his life, his home back over the mountains. Squire was a strong, solid link with Becky, the children, everything he had nearly lost forever.

  “I brought you plenty of salt, flour and ammunition, Daniel,” Squire announced. “And I got another surprise for you.”

  “I’m in need of a good surprise, Squire.”

  “I got some friends of yours waitin’ back at the camp—one of ’em name of Findley.” Squire’s broad grin disappeared as he saw the dark look that crossed his brother’s face.

  “Let’s get goin’ then,” Daniel grumbled.

  They were waiting at the campsite. Findley himself greeted Boone with the best smile he could muster. Cooley, Holden and Mooney stepped up to shake his hand. Daniel greeted each of them individually, but not one of the four could face him. Findley was the worst, shifting his feet and staring at the ground. He couldn’t turn away from Daniel, and yet could hardly stay where he was. Daniel and the old man were both relieved when Squire interrupted and led his brother back to the fire.

  By the time Findley came to him, Daniel was too weary to do anything but listen. Findley faced him, crossing his legs on the ground.

  “Goddamn, I’m sorry!” he blurted out, his face twisted in anguish. “I’m just as sorry as I can be, Dan’l. You got to know that!”

  “John, I reckon I do. There’s nothin’ you have to say you don’t want to.”

  “I got to, though.” Findley shook his head and bit his lip hard. “You know that, Dan’l. Stewart just told me what happened to you. Jesus!” He paused a moment. “I—wish I could’ve done somethin’ about the girl.”

  “I guess there wasn’t much you could do.”

  “There was somethin’. Oh, there was somethin’ I could’ve done, all right.”

  “I won’t judge another man’s actions,” Daniel said evenly. “If that’s what you want, John, I’m not goin’ to give it to you. I can’t.”

  “Yeah, I know that.” Findley cleared his throat and sat up straight. “Cooley, Holden and Mooney ain’t stayin’, Dan’l. You likely guessed that.”

  “I did.”

  “I told ’em I’d lead ’em back, startin’ in the mornin’, if it’s all right with you. I wouldn’t let them go ’fore now, not till we found you, Dan’l, or knew you wasn’t coming.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  Findley studied his hands. “It’s just—well, Dan’l, the truth is, the years are gainin’ on me an’ I got no more stomach for this sort o’ livin’. I truly don’t. You can see that, can’t you?”

  Daniel looked at the man’s hollow eyes and the deep, weary lines extending into the grizzled beard. He longed to reach out and comfort his old friend, to let him know he understood, but Boone knew it wouldn’t help. “I can see it, John. I truly can,” he said quietly, but taking the shame off Findley’s shoulders was something he couldn’t do. No one could do that.

  At dawn, the four men headed off south down the hollow, then due east for the Yadkin. Daniel stood by Squire and Stewart and watched till they were out of sight.

  “It wasn’t the old man’s fault,” said Stewart. “Not all of it, Dan’l. Cooley came to me, though none of the others would. He said Findley cursed ’em all, damn near threatened to kill ’em if they ran off without packin’ up the skins, but they was more scared of Injuns than Findley. Cooley flat out admitted it. Findley couldn’t handle it hisself an’ still get out with his own hide, so he just ran off with the rest. He told you that, I guess.”

  “No, he didn’t tell me,” replied Daniel. “I figured it, though.”

  Stewart looked relieved. “Well, you relieved him of the burden, then. That’s good.”

  Daniel gave him a puzzled look. “No, I didn’t, John. How could I? Findley’s a man, and a damn good one. It was his job to get those skins out, and he knew it. He don’t blame anyone but hisself, and that’s the way it oughta be.”

  “Sometimes, Daniel, you can be a mighty hard man.”

  “We all got our burdens to carry, John. Findley’s got his, I got mine.”

  Daniel’s burden stayed with him throughout the winter. He still woke at night sometimes, the stink of his own fear upon him. For a terrible moment he would see himself again staked out at Station Camp, with Flint’s grey eyes staring down at him and Billy Girt’s brand on his chest.

  But worst of all were the times he thought about the Indian girl. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t hold a picture of her for long. Every time he nearly had it right, the picture shattered like ice on a river. The dark doe eyes, the golden skin and the soft, black hair turned abruptly into that other thing.

  Sometimes the nightmares didn’t come at all. When they left him for a day or so, he let himself believe there would be a time when he would be free of them for good. Not free of her, though. He didn’t want that. All he wanted was an image of her whole in his mind again.

  He also thought a lot about the renegade. He didn’t want Henry Flint out of his mind, either. And though he knew it shamed every Quaker Boone who’d made it to Heaven, he fervently prayed that nothing would happen to Flint, that God would guard him well until he, Daniel Boone, could find him again.

  Chapter Eighteen

  For his new campsite, Daniel chose a spot to the north and west of the old one, far from the Warrior’s Path. It was on the bank of the great river he had come to know so well, a broad, coursing ribbon, big and bold enough to bear the name of Kentucky itself. Here, and in the tributary streams, beaver and otter were thick as gnats in the summer—a fat treasure of furs ripe for the taking.

  Daniel threw himself into his work with a will. If the Indians had emptied his purse, then by God, Kentucky would fill it up again! The land was rich enough to make a man’s fortune a thousand times over.

  Boone was more cautious now, ever conscious of how quickly tragedy could overtake them. He continually drilled the same prudence into his friends. They could ill afford another encounter with the Shawnees.

  Late in January, the winter skies turned a darker shade of grey and punished the land with a steady, chilling rain. When the clouds moved on after a long, dreary week, the great river and its tributaries were left swollen with cold, raging waters.

  “It’s drainin’ off some,” said Stewart, gazing out over the rapid current. “I’d best take the boat and check the traps.”
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  Boone looked at the frail canoe they had made and gauged it against the strength of the river. “I reckon it’ll do, all right. Take a care, though.”

  Stewart grinned and dragged the canoe to the bank, then stepped out into the water. “God A’mighty, that’s cold!” Daniel laughed, watching him dance about in the shallows.

  “You ain’t no beaver, John.”

  “I reckon not. Jesus!”

  Daniel held the craft steady while Stewart got in, then handed over the long rifle and pack. Stewart studied the river a moment, then paddled away from shore. The current caught him quickly and shot the craft like an arrow into the quick, muddy water. Stewart wisely let the current have its way, keeping the bow steadily downstream with a touch of his paddle. Daniel loped along the bank, watching till Stewart beached the craft on the other shore. He waved. Stewart waved back, then disappeared into the woods.

  Stewart didn’t return that evening, or the day after. Daniel wasn’t worried—camping overnight was nothing new. But one day stretched into another, and then a full week went by. There was no reason for Stewart to stay out this long, not in winter, not if he was just checking traps.

  The river had by now spent its wrath, and early in the morning Daniel crossed where it was shallow and picked up Stewart’s path. For three days he tracked in cold forest. Once, he found a dead fire and the initials “J.S.” on a tree. But the man himself was gone, swallowed up in the wilds.

  The loss shook Daniel’s spirit for a long time. A man would vanish at any moment in the wilderness. It had happened before, and it would happen again. It was a danger that Daniel and every man who dared tempt untamed country knowingly faced. But Stewart—Jesus, why him? Daniel asked himself painfully. They had been as close as two men could be. They had braved so much together, come out whole and alive, and now this. He kept his hopes up, thinking every day that Stewart might stalk grinning into camp with some wild, unlikely tale to explain his absence.

  He knew, though, that the man was gone. Clearly, Daniel thought, Kentucky wasn’t finished with him yet. Once again, the land had made him pay for what he took out of it.

  At last, the dim winter sun began to grow brighter and warm the earth. As always, his spirits lightened when the world turned green, and animal life stirred lazily in the ground, then burst out to mate and nest.

  On the first day of May, a year to the day since he had left the door of his cabin, Daniel helped Squire to load the pack horses, then bid his brother good-bye. There had been six of them in the beginning—later the number had grown to eight. Now, they were all gone, and he was alone.

  Maybe, he thought, that was the way it was supposed to be. Maybe the land wanted to have him alone, to tell him something it couldn’t say to the others. There was no real reason to stay. Not now. It was too late for beaver, and he had barely enough powder to hunt for meat. Still, he had never given a thought to going back. In fact, he found that he relished Squire’s going, eager to be rid of his last companion. Kentucky was his, now. It was a peculiar, almost mystical feeling, as though the land belonged to him, all of it. Now he didn’t have to share it with anyone.

  Great God A’mighty, he thought, as he shook his head to clear it. What kind of foolishness was that? Kentucky was as wide as the world, and he wanted it all to himself. And after his moccasins had found every inch of it, then what? He knew his hunger, knew his eyes devoured unexplored land like other men gobbled up food. There would be an end to Kentucky, a high hill that would look out on somewhere else he had never been. He knew it would happen, and it frightened him to think about it.

  He set off north, letting the land guide his steps. Turning west to follow a narrow branch of the Kentucky, he came upon a wide bend in the river that struck his fancy. There was a great stretch of SYCUMMU growing in a wide valley. Buffalo roamed the meadows, and deer darted through the woods. The land here would support settlers and livestock. Crops would spring up like weeds. By God, it was a spot especially made for Dick Henderson’s settlement, and he vowed to stand on that very piece of land one day and show it to his friend.

  Taking off north again, he discovered a new river that he named the Licking, and followed its course all the way up to the Ohio. There were Shawnees about, but he kept well out of sight. Sometimes he hid in canebrakes or caves along the river. More than once they found his fire, but never guessed he wasn’t another Indian. One evening, returning to camp, he discovered they had left a drawing scratched in the dirt, telling him where they were. He was proud of that, and laughed out loud.

  Several times he was certain that he had found traces of Henry Flint. He knew the man’s print as well as his own. Each time he followed a trail, though, it wandered off and vanished. Daniel gave the man credit—he was a woodsman, and a good one.

  Near the middle of summer Daniel ranged south again, nearly all the way back to where he and Squire had parted in the spring. Growing careless on familiar ground, he made a mistake that nearly cost him his life. Walking along a ridge above the river, he heard a noise behind him, and turned to see the face of Captain Will. One by one, braves appeared from the forest. There was no way back. The Indians had him cut off good, and there was nothing ahead but an awesome drop to the river. Captain Will raised his hand and whooped. The Shawnees poured down upon him. At first Daniel ran toward them a few yards, then turned and leaped as far as he could over the cliff. A great sugar maple reached up from the hollow and he stretched his arms to grab it. Limbs snapped beneath him, tumbling him through one layer of branches after another. Finally he stopped himself, nearly wrenching his arms out of their sockets, and made his way to the ground. Captain Will and his braves shouted and whooped from the ridge, and Daniel took time to wave before vanishing into the woods.

  As the weeks went by, he carefully hoarded his dwindling supply of shot and powder, often doing without meat and surviving on herbs and berries. Sometimes he saved ammunition by fishing and snaring small game. Only a fool could starve in a land like Kentucky—a man who hungered after meat pies and potatoes had no real business in the wilderness. But sometimes, even Daniel sorely missed salt and flour. Nevertheless, he could do without them. He had the whole world spread out before him. The land was his, every hill and tree and meadow.

  In early July, he came upon a group of hunters ranging down the Green River from the Ohio. The Shawnees, they said, were raising a little hell to the north, and Henry Flint, Black Knife, was right in the middle of it, making a bloody name for himself among the settlers. Daniel shared a meal with them, then went on his solitary way.

  In the last days of the month, he met Squire at the spot they had settled on, near the old site of Station Camp Creek. Squire brought fresh supplies and plenty of shot and powder. He also brought news from the Yadkin.

  “You got a new man-child at home, Daniel. Born just ’fore Christmas last year.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” Daniel exclaimed in delight. “What’d Becky call him?”

  “Daniel Morgan Boone. An’ he’s a good-lookin’ boy, too.”

  “Well, of course he’s good lookin’. He’s a Boone, ain’t he?”

  “And a Bryan, too,” Squire reminded him. “That don’t hurt any with looks.”

  “I can’t deny that,” said Daniel.

  At the end of the summer, Squire once more made the trek back to the Yadkin with skins, and was back with provisions by December. When the cold set in, the pair made camp and began ranging the rivers where they set their traps for beaver. The catch was enormous, better than the year before, better than Daniel had ever imagined.

  Finally, there would be money enough to satisfy every creditor who might crawl out of the woodwork—and then some, by God. He would ride home as he had dreamed, and when he again returned to Kentucky, he would have Dick Henderson and every family he could muster at his back.

  He thought about that lush green valley, and the great sycamores that spread their branches over the river. Becky would like that, he decided. She would like t
hat fine. And it wouldn’t be any few acres down in a hollow, either. The Boones would be landed folk. Every hill and valley they could see would be theirs for the asking.

  Winter passed quickly and spring returned to the land. In March of 1771, Daniel and Squire loaded up their treasures and started home. In the first few days of April, they passed once more through the high gap of the Cumberlands and started across the broad valley to the Warrior’s Path. In spite of all the wonders he had seen, the raw beauty of this wild and untamed country with its tall peaks and broad valleys and mighty rivers, still took his breath away.

  In Powell’s Valley, with the Cumberlands at their back and the familiar Clinch Mountains ahead, Daniel and Squire camped for the night. In the morning they would pass Martin’s Station, then turn southeast down the Watauga toward home.

  Just as Daniel was settling back with a piece of venison, he looked up suddenly and froze. Eight Cherokee braves stood at the edge of the clearing.

  Squire started to reach for his gun, but Daniel reached out a hand to stop him. Putting on his best smile, he stood and asked the Indians to join them for supper. The warriors looked him over, studied the camp, then stalked into the clearing. With the grin still stretching his mouth, Daniel caught Squire out of the corner of his eye.

  “Just smile, little brother,” he mumbled, “smile and watch ’em close.”

  The Indians squatted by the fire, tearing quick bites of venison with their teeth. Their dark eyes wandered over everything in camp. Daniel knew they had spotted the bundles of pelts. Wherever else their gazes rested, they soon returned to the furs.

  Finally, as the warriors belched appreciatively and stood to leave, their leader turned and spoke.

  “We thank you for the meal. We have nothing to give in return. I am sorrowed at this.”

  “The company of my Cherokee brothers is a fine gift,” said Boone.

  The Indian grunted. “Still, we should make notice of our meeting. It was a fine meal.” He made a big show of cocking his head and giving the matter thought. Suddenly he grinned. “Let us trade rifles, as a bond of friendship between us.”