The other folks looking after the stock were all right, but James could never think of much to say to them. Dick and James Mendenhall were younger than he and Henry. Henry said their folks came from the Clinch, but their pa wasn’t a woodsman—probably a storekeeper or something. James had figured as much right off. Both boys were nearly scared out of their wits to be camping out, and neither knew one end of a rifle from another.
Old Isaac Crabtree and Bob Drake were hired hands who kept pretty much to themselves. Crabtree was a scarred veteran of the frontiers, a man with rheumy eyes and curly white hair. Drake was a gaunt man with a hangdog look. If he spoke at all, James never heard him. James didn’t know what to make of the two Negroes, though. He had once seen some in Salisbury, but he had never talked to one. Henry called them Adam and Charles. He said they didn’t have last names.
“Why’s that?” James asked. “Everybody’s got more than one name—everybody I ever knew, anyway.”
Henry shrugged. “I don’t know. They just don’t.”
“Well, it looks like they ought to, don’t it?”
“Slaves ain’t like other folk,” Henry explained.
It wasn’t much of an answer, but James didn’t pursue it. He didn’t understand about slaves, anyhow. Henry said Adam and Charles had been around nearly as long as he could remember, and that they had come from a place called Africa.
“That’s why they’re black,” said Henry.
“Where’s Africa? I never even heard of it.”
“It’s up around Europe and England somewhere.”
“Oh. Is that where your pa got ’em?”
“Naw. He ain’t never been to Europe. He bought ’em in Virginia and brung ’em out here.”
James frowned at that. “Bought ’em? What do you mean, Henry?”
Henry laughed. “James, that’s how you get slaves. You find one you want, and you buy him.”
“From who?”
“From whoever owns him.”
James scratched his head. He was sure his friend wasn’t lying, but he couldn’t figure how you would just go out and buy someone. He decided to ask his father in the morning. Pa would know the answer, and he wouldn’t have to ask Henry, who was beginning to treat James like a five-year-old.
That night, right after they had all pulled their blankets about them and settled down to sleep, a wolf up the hill began to howl. The Mendenhall boys nearly jumped out of their skins and wanted to put more wood on the fire.
“Goddamn, just go back to sleep, boys,” grumbled Isaac Crabtree. “Them wolves ain’t goin’ to eat you.”
“They sound kinda close,” said Dick Mendenhall, who was trembling and growing pale.
“They are,” said Crabtree. “An’ that’s as close as they’re goin’ to get.” He sat up and rubbed the stubble on his chin. “If those wolves bother you, you’re sure goin’ to have a time of it when you get to Kentucky. They ain’t near as dangerous as them hollow-bellied bufflers.”
“What’s that?” asked one of the boys.
Crabtree raised a brow. “You never heard of ’em? Lord God, I thought everybody had. They’re just like your ordinary buffler, ’cept they got these big hollow bellies. When they get riled up or somethin’ they stand ’round breathin’ real hard till their bellies are pumped clean full of air, and that’s when they get dangerous.”
“How come?” asked young Dick.
“Well,” Crabtree explained, “if they get enough air in their bellies, they can just float off the ground and drift ’round the countryside. No harm in that, of course, ’less one of ’em happens to fart. Then he falls just like a rock an’ crushes the hell out of some towheaded chile who happens to be sleepin’ ’round a fire.”
Everyone in camp roared as Crabtree finished his tale. The Mendenhall boys turned beet-red and James felt sorry for them. He was sure they would have dreams about flying buffalo the rest of the night.
James himself had a dream that night. He was riding beside his father through the pines and out of the valley at the bottom of Wallen’s Ridge, when his father grinned and pointed up ahead. James looked up and saw a great wall of naked white granite reaching up and into the sky.
“That’s it, boy,” said Pa, “the Cumberland Gap. And you and me are goin’ to be the first ones through.”
James stared, struck by the majestic sweep of that great rift in the mountains. He had never imagined it would be so high! Why it just kept rising, stretching up through the clouds, and no matter how far you craned your neck, it never seemed to.
James sat up straight. His heart pounded hard against his chest. He turned, peering keenly through the murky grey dawn to find the source of the sound. Suddenly James froze, eyes wide with horror. Standing at the edge of the clearing were four Shawnee braves wearing loincloths and war paint.
“Henry!” James bellowed, reaching for his rifle. Then a sound like a whole nest of wasps buzzed in his ears. Pain slammed him fiat on his back. He gaped at the arrow in his thigh. God, it hurt awful! The Shawnees, brandishing their tomahawks, yelled and ripped through the camp. Out of the corner of his eye, James saw Henry sprawled beside him, two arrows in his hip. One of the Mendenhall boys screamed. He saw the other lying still, his face white and his eyes wide open. When James tried to sit up, one of the Indians turned and kicked him in the chest.
“Goddamn you!” he shouted. The Indian grinned and kicked him again. He couldn’t see Crabtree or Drake. Maybe they had gotten away. The cattle were crashing in a panic through the brush.
“Oh, Jesus Lord, no!” the voice cried out.
James turned around and saw Charles, terror in his face, breaking for the woods. A big Indian stepped right in front of him and cleaved his head in two with a tomahawk. James choked and vomited.
“James, you all right?” Henry called weakly.
“I guess so. God, what are we goin’ to do, Henry!”
A Shawnee squatted down beside him. The Indian was so close, James could see the fine coat of sweat on his bare skull, smell the rancid grease in his dark scalp lock, and see the wet sheen of war paint streaking his broad features. The Indian jerked up his knife and slashed it across James’ chest again and again.
James screamed.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Rebecca knew. She knew the moment the rider came plunging out of the trees, shouting for Daniel. She saw Daniel’s face when the man told him, saw his features go slack, then twist in a terrible mask of pain. Her heart felt as if it had been touched by a cold hand. Then Daniel’s eyes met hers, and she was running across the camp and moving blindly into his arms.
“Oh, God, Daniel—oh, dear God, don’t tell me, please don’t tell me!”
Daniel drew her to him and held her. “He’s gone, Becky.”
“No, no!”
“James is dead,” he said woodenly. “He’s dead and already in heaven, Becky. Our boy is gone.”
Rebecca pulled her head back and looked at him. “I want to see him. I want to see him, Daniel.”
“You can’t Becky. Not the way he is.”
“I will, Dan. I will see my son!” Tears scalded her cheeks and clouded her eyes.
“No.” He pulled her gently away. Squire was running toward him. Others from the column followed. “I’ll see to him now. I’ll see to our boy. I promise you.”
Becky began to protest, then saw his eyes shut coldly against the world. He wouldn’t hear her now, wouldn’t know what she was saying. He turned and left her, and she looked back to her gathered children, pale and frightened. God in heaven, what am I going to say? What am I going to tell them?
Daniel waited till they had herded the women and children down to the creek, set the pack horses in a circle around them, and posted guards. The killings were only a few hours old; the Shawnees might still be about. They might be part of a larger war party that planned to hit them later. He wanted to assemble the three detachments together to marshal their strength. Squire told him firmly that he would handle that hi
mself, that Daniel wasn’t to worry about it now.
Halfway back to Wallen’s Ridge, Daniel met David Gass, a man from Russell’s party, coming up to meet him. Gass stood his horse on the narrow path, blocking Boone’s way.
“Dan’l,” he said grimly, “how much did the runner tell you?”
“That they were killed, Dave, that’s all.”
Gass set his jaw and stood his ground. “I want you to know before you see him. He ain’t just killed. I’m trying to say that there ain’t much left of him. Someone had to tell you.”
Somehow, Daniel had already known what was waiting for him. He closed his eyes a moment. “I’m grateful to you, Dave.”
Gass nodded, pulled his mount aside and followed Daniel down the path.
The warning had been meant to steel Daniel against what he would see, but nothing anyone could have said could have prepared him for the sight that awaited him. His whole life seemed to shatter and fall apart in an instant. His legs began to buckle, but he caught himself and forced himself to stand firm.
Jesus God, James, he thought, you look like you’ve never been alive.… Not ever….
The pain had lasted a long time. There was no use putting that aside. The two boys had suffered horribly. The Indians had kept them alive, in pain, as long as they could. Their scalps were gone. All of their fingernails had been pulled out one at a time. There was nothing left of their faces. Every inch of their bodies had been cut and gouged and most of their blood had soaked into the soil.
Daniel’s mind roiled: James cried out, screamed and begged to die…. He called for me to come and help him, I know that for certain…. I’m sorry, son…. God, I’m sorry I couldn’t get here…!
When Daniel stood up from touching his son’s cold face, he met Will Russell’s eyes and went to him. The two men silently held each other for a long moment. They knew instinctively that if they spoke, or looked at each other for too long, the strength that kept them standing would leave them.
The men buried James and Henry together, wrapping them tight in a fine linen sheet Rebecca had sent with Daniel. They dug the grave deep, set the bodies in gently and placed the soil back tight. They offered to finish the rest without Boone and Russell, but the two men shook their heads and waited. Neither turned away until a high mound of stone was set atop the grave to keep out the wolves.
There were other bodies to bury, but Daniel didn’t wait to watch. He heard part of the story from Gass, and the rest later. Dave told him that the Mendenhall boys, Drake, and Charles, the Negro slave, had been killed outright. Isaac Crabtree had been hit in the back with an arrow, but fled into the brush, finally staggering into Russell’s camp with the news.
“We found this,” said David, and showed him the war club the Shawnees had left at the massacre.
Daniel nodded. “It’s a challenge—their idea of spittin’ in your face an’ darin’ you to spit back.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen ’em before.”
“David, they’ll likely be back. I’d be obliged if you’d help Squire get everyone together as quick as you can. Russell ain’t up to it, an’ I guess I ain’t either, but it’s gotta be done. We’re naked as we can be, spread out like this.”
“I’ll do it, then.” Gass looked at Boone and frowned. “Dan’l where you goin’ now? Or do I already know?”
Daniel gazed past him into the trees. “Where’d you be goin’ if you were in my shoes, Dave?”
Gass nodded and watched him disappear into the brush.
Boone followed the tracks down the creek, with the flank of Wallen’s Ridge at his back. The livestock had trampled all over the place, obliterating the trail in spots, but he picked it up again quickly at the edge of the woods. There were four of them, running quickly to the west. After a few minutes he found where they had left their horses. He followed the tracks a short way to be certain, but he knew where they were going—across the valley to the Cumberlands. There were others waiting there, Daniel was certain of that. He hoped Gass and Squire were organizing defenses quickly. If the three detachments weren’t forted up in one place by nightfall, the settlers wouldn’t stand a chance.
Daniel stopped. Something lay in the path just before him. He walked over, stared at it and sank to his knees. The Indians had been riding fast and dropped some of their booty. There was a small sack of salt and jerky, and a rifle. Daniel picked up the weapon and ran his hand over the familiar stock. His arms shook uncontrollably, and his eyes clouded. For a long time he lay there in the forest, grasping the cold wood to his cheek, letting the pain and the tears rack his body.
Squire, Gass and the others had run themselves ragged, but by nightfall they had rounded up the frightened members of the party into a single defensible position. It hadn’t been easy. In spite of their fears, many of the families were hell-bent on chasing through the woods after a lost pig or a milk cow. It was all the veteran woodsmen could do to convince them that a porker wasn’t worth their scalps.
When Daniel returned to camp, he learned that Adam, the second slave, had escaped unharmed, hiding the whole time in the thick brush by the creek. He had lain there and watched in terror, witnessing the massacre from only a few yards away, wondering when the Shawnees would sniff him out. When it was over, he had bolted for the woods and gotten lost. Nearly the whole day passed before some men from the Clinch brought him in.
When Daniel returned to camp, he immediately sought out his wife.
“Are the children all right?” Daniel asked her. “Lord, I reckon it was terrible hard on ’em, ’specially the young ones.”
“No, not the young ones. It was bad for them, Daniel, but they don’t truly understand what happened. It’s Jemima and Susannah who took it worst. They’re old enough to know. And Israel.” Becky sobbed and leaned against him. “Oh, Lord, Daniel, they loved each other so. Poor Israel! He’s just shrunk back and gotten smaller all day, like he was dryin’ up inside.”
“I know.” Daniel held her close and looked past the fire at the dark shapes of his children under their blankets.
“I talked to Mary Russell some,” said Becky. “She’s doin’ all right. Same as me, I guess.” She looked up at Daniel, and the tears welled in her dark eyes. “She and Will’s got other children like we do, and that’s a blessin’. But there’s never children to spare, Daniel. I’ve lost one, and now I feel like I’ve lost ’em all!” She buried her head in his shoulder and let her tears flow freely.
“It’ll be better, someday,” he assured her. “Better than this, Becky. I promise. It won’t hurt as much.” He said it because it was the thing to say, but he knew it wasn’t so. With James gone, it would never be the same, not ever.
Just before midnight, Michael Stoner, the Pennsylvania Dutchman, edged up to him and shook him awake. Stoner held up a hand and motioned him away from Becky. “They are out there, Dan’l, the Shawnees. Gass and another man have seen them.”
“How many, you think? Any way to tell?”
Stoner set his jaw. “There is no way to say, Boone. Enough, I imagine, ja?”
“Yeah, enough.”
Daniel followed him quietly down to the edge of the encampment. Squire, Gass, Russell and the others were waiting. The place had been well chosen. The sheer rock cliff bowed out over their backs and sheltered the women and children. A rough cropping of waist-high stone made a natural wall in front, an obstacle to every approach to the camp.
“You seen ’em?” asked Daniel.
“I did,” grunted Squire. “And they been practicin’ owl talk ’bout the last ten minutes.”
“They’re trying to spook us,” said Daniel. “Draw a little fire.” He turned to Stoner. “Pass the word on down the line, Michael. We’ll shoot in two volleys. Everybody keep their heads and let ’em come in close. If we don’t start shootin’, they’ll have to make their play.” Stoner nodded and melted into the shadows.
“Nothin’ personal,” Squire spoke softly, “but if there’s any farmers up on the line, I’d like to
get ’em off, Daniel, ’fore they start shootin’ at trees, or somethin’.”
“Good idea,” put in Russell. “I’ll send a man around. Tell ’em we need men back close with the women.”
“They won’t believe that.”
“Don’t give a damn if they don’t,” Russell shot back fiercely. “Dan’s right. I want those devils to get in close!”
Lying quiet against the cold stone boulders, Daniel listened to the sound of a hundred owls talking at once. The Indians were moving all over the place, trying to swell their number. If they really had that many braves, Daniel knew they wouldn’t be playing games. They would be right here on top of them.
It happened quickly.
War cries split the night, and the Shawnees were upon them. Daniel smiled grimly and raised his son’s rifle to his shoulder.
“Fine. Just fine, you savages,” he murmured under his breath.
They had waited for the Indians and forced them in close. Now they were no more than fifteen yards away.
There were more than he had guessed, maybe forty or fifty. But they made good targets against the dark, and the men beading down on their chests remained cool-headed, firing and reloading quickly, methodically while the second volley thundered. It was over before it started. The surviving Indians melted away into the woods.
Stoner jammed a rod down his barrel with a satisfied grin. “That was fast and easy, Dan’l. They will not come back, I think.”
“They won’t. They’ll keep us up all night, likely, but they won’t come back.”
At full light, Daniel and five others snaked down the hill to check the night’s damage. There were no dead Indians, but there was plenty of blood on the ground.
“We got some,” Will Russell said darkly. “They dragged ’em off in the night.”
“Yeah, that’s what they did,” said Daniel. Leaving Russell and Stoner to study the high ground, he wandered off alone past the creek. There were plenty of clear tracks in the wet soil. Going down on his hands and knees, he studied the ground a long time.
Daniel Boone: Westward Trail Page 16