Daniel Boone: Westward Trail

by Barrett Jr. Neal

  The next day at noon, they crossed the Kentucky River and found James Harrod’s settlement. Daniel was amazed to see how much they had done in so little time. A few crude cabins were already built and others nearly finished. Tracts of land had been plotted, parceled out, and fenced in all up and down the river.

  “Real nice,” he told Stoner. “I wonder where the hell everybody went?”

  A note nailed to a tree at the river’s landing gave the answer. “Company attacked by Shawnees. Two men killed. We are going down the river.” Hastily scribbled in another hand at the bottom was this: We have followed.” It was signed in a name Boone couldn’t read.

  “Well, what you make of that?” asked Stoner. “Harrod’s people have gone, but who is this other?”

  “Some of the folks we’re lookin’ for, maybe.”

  “Maybe. I don’t know who else it could be.”

  Daniel squinted his deep blue eyes and looked out over the river. “What I figure is, some of the surveyors was workin’ out of Harrod’s place. When they came back and saw what happened, they took off. Guess we better go see.”

  That night Boone and Stoner camped well away from the settlement, then rode on to the falls of the Ohio the next morning, but they found no signs that anyone had passed that way. The pair turned back and began the slow and dangerous task of ranging up and down the great river, searching out the dozens of streams that fed its flow, and the hundreds of smaller creeks that wormed through the surrounding wooded hollows. It was a nerve-racking business, even for experienced woodsmen. Three times Daniel and Stoner saw Shawnee and Mingo war parties searching the same streams.

  Once the two of them followed a fresh Indian trail for miles before it suddenly dawned on them that the Indians were also following their sign—the tracks they had made themselves less than an hour before. Both parties were going around in a circle, after each other. The red hairs on Daniel’s nape bristled at the thought.

  “This here’s not much fun anymore,” he told Stoner. “I stopped feelin’ lucky ’bout ten minutes ago.”

  Stoner’s mouth was grimly set. “Dan’l, I think you are wrong by maybe nine minutes. Let’s get the hell out of here now.”

  They stopped worrying about how close the Shawnees were. They were damn sure close enough. Crashing through the trees, they rode away from the river as fast as they could.

  Three days later, circling back to the river from the north, Boone and Stoner splashed through a wide creek and found seven of the lost surveyors huddled along a limestone bluff. Daniel knew he and Stoner had been damn lucky these men had been too terrified to raise their rifles. If one of the party had kept his courage, they would both be dead.

  When the party saw two whites on horseback, they threw up their hats and ran shouting glory to salvation across the stream. Stoner ordered them to keep their voices down, or he would personally scalp every last one of them.

  Daniel glanced distastefully at the pale, haunted faces. He had to feel sorry for them, no matter how much he disliked them. They had been through plenty of trials and were frightened to death. “How the hell did you get down here?” he asked a man named Douglas. “When did you leave Harrod’s place?”

  The man looked at him blankly. “Why, we haven’t been near Harrod’s. We was way east of there.”

  Daniel looked at Stoner. “Damnation, we still got another bunch out there somewhere.”

  The men explained how they had been going about their business, making their way from one site to another in canoes on the Kentucky River to save traveling overland. The Indians had fired on them from the bank, killing one of their number and wounding their leader, Hancock Taylor.

  “He died,” said Douglas, “’bout two days later. We left the damn boats and took off into the forest.” He looked lamely at Boone. “I don’t guess that was a good idea.”

  “It wasn’t,” Boone said flatly. “Not any time ’cept this one. If you’d kept to the river, they’d have had you sure.”

  Daniel considered giving up on the others, and Stoner agreed. They had best take what they had and make tracks for the Cumberland. As it was, they were long overdue for getting their hair lifted.

  “We been lucky,” said Stoner, “just damn lucky.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  In the months Boone and Stoner had been gone, war had come to Castle’s Woods and the whole Clinch Valley. Chief Logan had not forgiven Daniel Greathouse’s atrocities. War parties ranged up and down the river, taking an eye for an eye and then some. Rumor had it that Logan gave special honors to warriors who brought in white women swollen with child.

  “Goddamn it,” Will Russell raged, “you know good and well Tahgahjute likely never said any such thing! Not that it makes any difference if he did. The settlers believe it, and that’s what counts.”

  Daniel followed Russell’s gaze past the porch of his cabin. Two more families were gathered before the stockade, ready to head back East. Teams and wagons were piled high with household goods and howling children. A milk cow and a train of pack horses were strung along behind.

  “That’s the fifth family in two days,” scowled Russell. He shook his head at Boone. “They got about a fifty-fifty chance of making it on their own. There’s nobody to watch out for ’em ’cept their own menfolk. We can’t spare anyone from here. They’re leavin’ the only protection they got, but they won’t believe it from me.”

  “Can’t make folks do what they don’t want to,” replied Daniel.

  Frustrated and angry, Russell sat down and looked at his friend. “You think we can hold out here, Dan’l?”

  “Sure we can. We can fort up like we done before. We’ll see it through if enough people stay to man the walls.”

  “They’ll stay.” Russell gave him an easy grin. “A lot of people here believe in you, Dan’l.”

  Daniel frowned. “What have I got to do with it?”

  “Major Campbell’s ordered me to present you with a lieutenant’s commission in the Virginia Militia. He wants you to command the defense at Moore’s Fort. It’s where Logan’s hittin’ hardest.”

  Daniel looked thoughtful. “I’ll take up a gun, Will, you know that, but I don’t know about runnin’ the damn fort.”

  “I do,” Russell said firmly. He leaned across the table on his hands. “Look, I’m not goin’ to make a big speech, but I want you to hear this. For now, politics doesn’t hit us as hard out here as it does back East, but it’s soon goin’ to. It’s goin’ on right now in Boston and New York and a dozen other places. There’s a powder keg burnin’ back there, and it’s goin’ to go off one of these days. The damn King’s pushed folks too far with laws and taxes, and I don’t have to tell you what’s likely to happen.”

  “No, I reckon you don’t.”

  “All right.” Russell nodded and let out a breath. “When it happens, we’re goin’ to be left on our own out here. Maybe we’ll have British troops and Indians against us outside these walls.”

  Daniel raised a brow.

  “You think it couldn’t happen?” Will asked fiercely.

  “I know there’s goin’ to be trouble.”

  “You’re damn right there is. This year or the next. Daniel, our little piece of militia ain’t goin’ to make much difference if it comes to an all-out fight with the British, but maybe it’s better than nothin’. We’re goin’ to be all alone out here one day soon, with no help from the colonies back East.”

  “Hell,” said Daniel. “We’ve always been alone out here.”

  Daniel knew Russell was right. An organized militia might serve the frontier well in times of trouble, but frontiersmen didn’t take much to soldiering. They were independent cusses, and used to taking care of themselves. They didn’t put much stock in carrying out orders, even if the orders came from Lieutenant Dan Boone.

  Daniel knew he was in for a difficult time even before he started. The hastily formed Moore’s Fort detachment was at best a ragtag collection of farmers, hunters and trappers. At wor
st, it was an unruly mob, more interested in fighting each other than the Indians.

  Twenty families, including his own, moved into the fort with all their belongings. Daniel set up a guard roster and led regular patrols of the surrounding countryside, a practice, he learned, no one else had thought of. The other Forts stayed shut tight, with families and militia packed inside. Two weeks after he received his commission as lieutenant, the people at Blackmore’s Fort and Russell’s Fort demanded Daniel be promoted to Captain and put in charge of all three forts. When Dave Gass told him, Daniel threw back his head and laughed.

  “Hell, Dave, it don’t take much to rise up in this man’s army, does it? If one of Becky’s pigs bit Logan in the ass, they’d make him a goddamn colonel!”

  “Maybe not,” mused Gass. “Maybe only a major.”

  “You are right,” chimed in Stoner. “I say Becky’s pig is no better soldier than Preston, and he is a colonel, too. The pig will have to rise on his own merits, ja? This is fair, I think.”

  Daniel now had fifty-six militiamen under his command, hardly enough for three forts spread miles apart up and down the valley. And, in spite of everything Daniel could do, they would never be more than Sunday soldiers.

  “I don’t think I’m cut out to be a military man,” Daniel told Becky. He sat back on the bed and ran a hand over his brow. “Lord God, I spent an hour tellin’ some fool why you’re supposed to stay awake when you’re standin’ guard.” He stared wide-eyed at Becky. “Now wouldn’t you think a feller’d know why?”

  Rebecca sat down beside him. “Now they can’t all be Captain Boones,” she teased. “Don’t expect that.”

  Daniel muttered to himself and pulled her to him. “We ain’t had much time together, have we? I’m sorry, Becky. I’m not even sure where I am from one day to the next.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, ’bout that.” Becky stuck her tongue in her cheek and looked at the ceiling. “You must have been home some since you got back. I think there’s another Boone gettin’ ready to make an appearance.”

  “Huh?” Daniel sat up straight. “Becky—oh, Becky are you sure? A new little ’un?” He took her in his arms and joyously held her.

  Rebecca laughed against his shoulder and pushed him back to see his eyes. “I don’t know why you’re all that surprised, Dan Boone. All you got to do is look at me and …” she snapped her fingers in his face, “l’m with child just like that.”

  “It takes more’n just lookin’, Becky.”

  “Oh? What you think’s causin’ it?”

  “You got a minute?”

  “I better have more than that.”

  Daniel kissed her pale, slender throat. “You ever get less than you wanted, lady?”

  “My, my, you sure are gettin’ cocky since your promotion, Captain Boone.” She pulled her dress off and faced him. “I don’t have to salute, or anythin’, do I?” She looked down and her dark eyes flashed. “My Lord, Dan, looks like you’re the one doin’ the salutin’!”

  In late September, Will Russell rode into Moore’s Fort with Major Campbell and Colonel Preston. Daniel thought Campbell a dependable man, but he had little use for Preston, whom everyone knew had sent the surveyors into Kentucky at Lord Dunmore’s direction. In public, Dunmore had always decried promoters and speculators who lusted after Indian lands. In private, however, he had his own finger in the pie and was determined to grab all he could. Some people in Virginia even believed Dunmore was doing his best to encourage war with the Indians.

  When Campbell and Preston mounted up to leave, Russell hung back a moment. “They were impressed, Dan. You’re doin’ a first-rate job here, and they know it.” Will looked over his shoulder. “And thanks for the other thing, too.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Not hittin’ Preston in the teeth. I appreciate it.”

  “Just don’t count on me again, Russ, if you bring that son of a bitch back here,” Daniel said darkly.

  Russell grinned. “I never press my luck with a friend.”

  “Give my best to Mary.”

  “I’ll do that.” Russell moved up close, and spoke under his breath. “Hold out a little longer,” he said quietly. “Looks like somethin’s brewin’ up on the Kanawha. I got a feelin’ all this fuss ain’t gonna last much longer.”

  Daniel wanted to know more, but Russell would say nothing.

  If the fighting was easing up some, Daniel decided the Shawnees and Mingos hadn’t heard about it. Dave Gass found him after supper and asked him to step outside. Daniel followed his friend to the far wall of the fort, where Mike Stoner was waiting in the shadows.

  “I thought you should know,” reported Stoner. “I took scouts down to Russell’s Fort. On the way back, we met with a war party. No one is hurt bad—a boy got hit in the leg is all.” Stoner paused and looked down at his feet. “I think I saw Flint, Dan’l. There were six, maybe seven Shawnees and this tall man in buckskin who is not all Indian. He has a patch over his eye.”

  Daniel clenched his jaw.

  “I didn’t know if we ought to tell you about him or not,” Gass muttered. “Still—well, you got a right, I guess.”

  “Yeah, I guess I do,” Daniel said quietly. “My thanks to you both.” Nodding, he turned and walked back to his cabin.

  “I ain’t sure we done right,” said Gass. “He wouldn’t have ever known a thing, Mike.”

  Stoner leaned on his rifle. “He would know, David. No one has to tell him about Henry Flint, I think.”

  Gass shivered. “You’re gettin’ spooky now, Dutchman. All I say is, if ol’ Dan’l leaves this fort, one of us is damn sure goin’ with him.”

  “Fine. You don’t want to miss him, you better sit right here by the gate, ja?”

  Rebecca found the length of thread she was after and started back for her cabin. Instead of heading straight across the yard, she turned off abruptly and walked toward the gate. Pausing a moment, she remembered the children were by themselves. Good Lord, she told herself, they can sure do without you a minute, Rebecca Boone. Isn’t going to hurt you or them to have a moment to yourself. The warm October sun felt good on her shoulders, a welcome relief after the damp confines of the cabin.

  It’d sure be good to breathe your own air again, she thought. The war wasn’t a month old, and it seemed like they had been shut up forever. There were twenty families crammed in under the walls, and there just wasn’t enough space to go around. She wondered if the cabin at Castle’s Woods had been burnt to the ground like so many others had. She shook the thought away. Like Daniel said, you could always fell another tree, and build another.

  Rebecca stopped and stared past the gate outside. Why, damn you all! she thought furiously. The men were just lolling about on the grass, rifles cast carelessly aside. Daniel’s out of sight one minute and the whole place falls apart. If the Shawnees caught them like that…. Coarse laughter caught her attention, and she walked a step further. Lord! They were swimming in the creek, splashing about like they hadn’t a care in the world!

  Appalled, Becky turned stiffly and walked back to the compound. There, she gathered some of the other women together.

  “Rebecca, you sure this is all right?” Marcy Williams ,said nervously. She was a slight, frizzy-haired woman who reminded Becky of a squirrel.

  “Just do it,” Mrs. Wailer said grimly. “Becky’s right, Marcy. Those men are shameful, just shameful.”

  “They ain’t goin’ to like it,” said Marcy.

  “Don’t have to like it,” Rebecca snapped. “Now, we got ’em done? Fine.”

  Becky inspected the rifles and handed one to each woman. The weapons were loaded with light charges, just like the Shawnees used. With a few whoops and hollers thrown in, the women ought to sound like right respectable Indians.

  Becky led her troopers to the far wall of the fort. “All right. Ready? Fire!” The weapons discharged in a ragged volley. The women cupped their hands and tried hard to sound like Indians.

  “All right, th
at’s enough. Let’s go!” Following Rebecca’s command, the women ran from the far wall to the front of the fort and quickly slammed the gate closed. Howls erupted from the men outside. Peering through chinks in the wall, the women saw the surprised militiamen running in circles, yelling at each other for help. A few remembered to pick up their rifles, but most of them lie and beat frantically on the gate. Some, Becky noted with pleasure, dove in the creek fully clothed and started paddling for the other shore.

  When the gates were opened, nearly everyone in the fort lined up to laugh at the ashen-faced men. A big, bearish fellow, dripping wet, stalked in and scowled at Rebecca.

  “By God,” he said, shaking a fist in her direction, “you ought to be whipped for a trick like that, woman!”

  “By God,” Rebecca replied evenly, raising her rifle to her shoulder, “you ought to try it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Near the second week of October, a rider burst through the gate of Moore’s Fort bearing news that set the haggard settlers cheering. A few days before, on the tenth of the month, General Andrew Lewis had soundly whipped Chief Cornstalk at Point Pleasant on the Kanawha River. The war was over.

  The rider who brought the news had witnessed the battle and was eager to tell his story. Cornstalk had amassed more Shawnees than a man could count, and Lewis had met him with more than a thousand colonial troopers. “The Injuns came at us in the mornin’,” recounted the rider. “We fought ’em with rifles and bayonets the whole day long and into the afternoon ’fore they run off. I don’t know how many was killed. We lost plenty of good boys and so did the redskins. Cornstalk wanted to keep on fightin’, using women and kids to go at it till every Injun was dead, only his men wouldn’t have it. They forced ol’ Cornstalk hisself to come and make peace.”

  Daniel studied the man carefully. “Peace is a big word, friend. Is that really what we got here, or do we just quit fightin’ awhile?” Some of the men who were crowded around nodded at the question.