Daniel Boone: Westward Trail

by Barrett Jr. Neal

  “When’s Daniel coming back?” he asked shortly. “I think he ought to be here.”

  Stoner clamped his teeth. “I don’t know, sir. Soon.”

  “Buffalo hunting, hmmmph!” Henderson gave the Dutchman a dark look and stomped off.

  He decided a bigger, better fort was the first order of business. He found a site he liked a short walk up the river and paced it off. At a general meeting, his settlers applauded in hearty agreement with his plan, then wandered off to stake out their acres.

  Henderson was furious. Damnation, they were aping Boone’s men to the letter—more interested in property than saving their own scalps! And that was another thing. Boone’s men had taken all the choice lots near the fort. And not one had paid heed to the amount of land he had been granted!

  Even his partners seemed to have no understanding of the situation. Luttrell, at least, saw the need for greater protection, but Nat Hart was totally indifferent. He was off to the west somewhere, staking off God-knew-how-many acres of his own plantation.

  As the days passed, one new family after another drifted into Fort Boone. Some had come through the gap; others had been simply wandering about and decided they liked Fort Boone better than Harrodsburg. When Henderson told them he owned all the land here, most of them looked at him as if he had lost his senses. They had never heard of Dick Henderson or The Transylvania Company, and didn’t want to. They could find their own piece of land without any help from outsiders.

  Jesus God, what was happening to him! This wasn’t his plan at all! A fine estate on a large tract, purebred horses in the stables and vast croplands as far as he could see. That was the idea. The people who bought his land would have smaller tracts, and he would look after their interests like a responsible landowner should. They would bring him their problems, show him respect. And when it came time to choose a governor for the fourteenth colony of Kentucky, they would elect Dick Henderson.

  Christ, not only did these bumpkins not know who he was, they didn’t give a damn, either!

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Halfway down the slope, Daniel found a perch that gave him a clear view of the encampment. He was tempted to edge in closer but thought better of it. The Indians had sentries about, no doubt their sharpest-eyed young braves. He had spotted a few already, which meant there were plenty more he couldn’t see.

  He sat quietly under the cropping of stone, knees hunched under his chin. The sun moved past the river, hung straight overhead awhile, then angled over the ridge. Long shadows inched down the slope.

  Daniel kept his watch, even after darkness filled the valley and fires glowed on the river. The long day’s vigil had told him much. There were four chiefs in camp, two more important than the others. One was Cornstalk, the Shawnee who had been so badly beaten on the Kanawha. Now that was bad news, for sure. Even in defeat, Cornstalk was a powerful man among his people. If he was breaking the peace, every Shawnee north of the Ohio would ride down on Kentucky.

  Many meetings had taken place during the day-long, serious talks that sometimes erupted into shouting matches. More than once, voices in the harsh Shawnee tongue reached Boone across the river.

  During all these talks, Daniel carefully watched the animated figure of Henry Flint. Flint never stayed in his own camp long. He spent the day visiting one chief after the other, sometimes coming back to the same spot over and over.

  He’s trying to sell something, Daniel decided. The man’s goin’ round like a peddler with his pots.

  Still, he admitted ruefully, Black Knife had a great deal of status among the Shawnees. They respected him and listened to what he said.

  Near midnight, when the fires on the Licking burned low, Daniel moved quietly up the slope and down the far side of the ridge to his horse. He led the mount to a trickling stream, let him chew grass awhile, then walked him back to the limestone cliff and curled up to sleep. Before dawn, he was up again, crawling down the slope to his perch.

  Just as the sun came up, a band of twenty warriors thundered into camp from the south, yelping and shouting gleefully. Trotting their ponies about the morning fires, they shook their rifles and lances in the air.

  Daniel sat up straight and concern narrowed his eyes. Now what the hell was that all about? Maybe they had hit the fort and wiped it out. Or maybe they had found Henderson before he could make it to Otter Creek. For a moment, Boone thought about going for his horse and rushing back south to see for himself. But that, he decided, wouldn’t help. He couldn’t change whatever had happened.

  In a few moments, he learned why the warriors were so excited. Another large party rode into camp and stayed a hundred yards to the east of the first group. A chill touched Daniel’s spine.

  Cherokees! By God, they’re Cherokees, not Shawnees! We just made a treaty with them and the savages are already back in Kentucky!

  A chief, with five lesser warriors at his heels, got off his horse and walked toward the camp. Cornstalk, with five of his own braves, marched solemnly out to meet him. The sun was in Daniel’s eyes, but he recognized the Cherokee immediately. It was Hanging Maw.

  He knew the man and disliked him. He was a renegade Cherokee, a full-blood who scorned his own people and honored no man’s law but his own. In his way, he was as brutal and callous as Flint. Daniel didn’t like the picture at all.

  Cornstalk and Hanging Maw met until noon. The other Shawnee chiefs were on hand, and so was Flint.

  When the meeting ended, Flint stalked back to his camp, mounted up and rode off, trailing an extra horse behind him.

  It was a risk, but Daniel knew he had to take it. Even if a sentry saw him creeping up the slope, he couldn’t let Black Knife get away.

  Flint made it easy for him by staying close to the river. Boone picked up his tracks less than a half hour later and took up the trail a mile behind. The renegade was riding easy, using no tricks to hide his trail. He was on his own ground, among friends, and wasn’t at all worried about trackers.

  In midafternoon, Flint left the river and turned abruptly southwest. Daniel tried to anticipate what his quarry would do. The land opened up here, offering little cover. Flint, of course, would grow more cautious, and it would be almost impossible to track him up close. What was he up to? Daniel wondered. What would he find in the southwest? It struck him, suddenly, that the answer was crystal clear, and he grinned. The path would lead him straight to Otter Creek and the fort. They were hunting each other, both keenly aware of the other man’s shadow on his path. Daniel knew he had been watched before, and Flint likely felt the same. He was headed for the fort to sniff out his enemy. Only this time, the foe was at his heels.

  For nearly an hour, Daniel kept well to Flint’s rear, letting the low, rolling hills come between them, never daring to move in close. Finally, when he was convinced the man would keep to his course, Daniel turned due south and kicked his horse into a run. He crossed the northern spur of the Warrior’s Path, made a wide loop west, then turned northeast again. Pulling up in a dense copse of maples, he tied his horse, sat down cross-legged and waited.

  The sun warmed his shoulders and the back of his neck. He moved his head now and then, so the birds would get used to him. The next time he stood up, he didn’t want a startled flock taking to the air.

  He didn’t have to wait long. Less than an hour after Boone had crouched in the woods, Flint’s horse walked past the curve of the hill. Daniel stood. He had checked his rifle a dozen times. Now he checked it again. Flint was less than fifty yards away. Setting the rifle against his shoulder, Boone let the bead slide to the center of Flint’s chest. It would be easy that way. Too easy, Daniel decided. It couldn’t end this way with Flint. He didn’t deserve a clean death. Letting his breath whistle through his teeth, he lowered the rifle a hair and fired.

  Flint’s horse stumbled once and folded, a bullet in his head. The spare horse bolted and ran. Flint thought fast. There was no cover nearby, only the grove of maples from whence the shot had come. Rolling free
of his horse, he grabbed his rifle and dropped behind the animal’s bulk.

  “Flint? It’s me, Boone,” Daniel called.

  For a heartbeat, Flint said nothing. Finally, a voice called from behind the dead horse. “Guess I’m not surprised.”

  “It’s time to set things straight, Flint. Put down the rifle and come on out.”

  Flint laughed. “And get my head shot off?”

  “I don’t want you that way,” said Daniel. “If I did, that would’ve been your head, not your horse’s.”

  “Then suppose I just stay right here? You sure ain’t walkin’ out to get me.”

  “I will, ’fore the sun’s down. When I do, you better take your best shot. You won’t get two.”

  Daniel watched the horse. After a long moment, the half-breed’s gaunt frame rose up straight. Glaring coldly toward the trees, he tossed his rifle away. “All right, goddamn you. Let’s do it.”

  Daniel stepped out of the trees, his own rifle steady. “Now the little hand pistol,” he said quietly. Flint hesitated, then jerked the weapon out of his belt and dropped it. Daniel kept walking until they were only a few yards apart. Flint didn’t move. He stood tense and ready, his good eye narrowed to a slit. Daniel laid his rifle on the grass. Before he straightened, Flint was on him like a wolf. Just as a tomahawk whipped past his head, Daniel jerked back, rolled, and let his own blade slice the renegade’s thigh.

  Flint cursed, backed off. He had the tomahawk in one hand, a knife in the other. Daniel held his own blade high. “This knife knows you, Flint,” he said gently. “It knows you and wants you bad. That’s her hair wrapped ’round the hilt. Her daddy made this blade for you and no other.”

  Flint’s one eye widened, then he spit out a laugh. “Hell. You sure carry a grudge, Boone. Little piece of Cherokee ass an’ you make a big.…”

  Daniel came in fast. Flint’s blade ripped through his shirt and raised blood on his chest. Daniel groaned, then staggered back. Flint’s smile turned into a snarl as he moved in for the finish. Too late he saw Daniel wasn’t hurt. He had been suckered in good. Daniel’s blade sang, slashing three times over Flint’s belly and down between his legs.

  Flint screamed, dropped the tomahawk and grabbed his vitals. Blood coursed down his leg and his face went pale with fear. “Bastard!” he yelled hoarsely. “Goddamn bastard, you ruint me!”

  “Not yet,” said Daniel. Hefting the knife, he walked slowly toward Flint. Flint stumbled away, his teeth grinding from his pain and shock. Daniel stalked him patiently, waiting, watching the man’s eye. Cold sweat peppered the renegade’s face. He feinted, drew Daniel in and cut his face. Daniel wiped blood off his cheek and came in again. Flint back off, frantically carving the air with his knife. Boone ducked, stepped inside, wove his way under the man’s weapon. When the moment came, he struck fast, going for Flint’s groin once more. The blade flashed once, twice, and Flint, giving a ragged cry, dropped to his knees and clutched himself. Daniel stood back and watched. The renegade thrashed about on the ground, his mouth stretched open in agony. He glared up at Boone. “Finish me. Finish me, you bastard!”

  “You can finish yourself, Flint.”

  Deep in the thick of the forest, Daniel kept the fire banked low. The low flames flickered off Flint’s naked body, staked in the narrow clearing. Flint groaned, opened his eye and shook his head. Searching about the clearing he found Daniel. “Boone, what’d you do to me?” he said weakly. “Goddamn, I hurt somethin’ awful!”

  Daniel smiled down at him. “I put a hot blade to your wounds, boy. Saved your life, I guess. You’d likely have bled to death.”

  Flint stared at him. “What for? Why’d you bother?”

  “‘Cause I want you to live,” Daniel said simply. “You’re no good to me dead.”

  Flint winced. “You’re not makin’ sense.”

  “Yeah, I am. You’ll see.”

  Flint gasped for breath and bit his lip. “I’m ruint good, ain’t I? You cut me up down there.”

  “Yeah, you’re ruint. Reckon you can still pee some though, so I wouldn’t get too discouraged.”

  Flint choked back a cry. “Hell, kill me, Boone, but don’t leave me like this!”

  Daniel got up, found a thick piece of buckskin and brought it back to the fire. Flint eyed him warily. “What’s that for?”

  “Don’t want any of your friends to hear us. Wouldn’t be too good an idea, would it?” Flint started to speak but Daniel squatted down and bound the gag tightly over his mouth. Daniel stood over the moaning, thrashing renegade. “I never done this to anyone,” he said evenly. “I wouldn’t do it to a dog like you ’less I had to. It ain’t for me or her or even for my boy. I’d just plain kill you for all that.”

  Daniel sat down and straddled the man’s chest. Flint groaned under his gag, and Boone hit him solidly across the jaw. Then Boone hefted Flint over his own horse, and mounted the other.

  Riding north all night, he reached the bend of the Licking just before dawn. Where a grove of willows masked the water a few miles downstream from the Shawnee encampment, Daniel stopped and eased himself out of the saddle. Walking back to the other horse, he bent to test the rawhide that bound Flint to the mount. Flint was naked on his back, legs tied about the horse’s neck, arms stretched under the haunches. Daniel had run another line under the horse’s belly, from the cord that bound Flint’s hands to those that held his legs, binding Flint solid. Flint stared at him wide-eyed, straining against the gag.

  “Now you can do one of two things,” Boone said quietly. “You can thrash ’round some an’ slip under this feller’s belly and get your brains kicked out. Or you can lay real still, an’ you’ll make it just fine. I don’t give a damn which, long as you get there.”

  He patted the horse’s head gently, loosened the rope that held it, and gave it an easy pat on the rump. The horse blew air, then trotted slowly up the riverbank. In a few hours, it would smell the other horses and walk into the Indian camp.

  The job hadn’t bothered his conscience nearly as much as he had figured it would. Flint had at least been unconscious. It wasn’t the same as cutting a man when he could feel it. That was Flint’s game, not his.

  He had carved his initials carefully into the man’s chest, going deep and broad enough to scar, staunching the blood as he went. Then he had searched the woods with a brand and found some violets that would make a good dye. Mixing the substance with clay and gunpowder, he had then worked the stuff deeply into the wounds and washed Flint’s chest. The wounds would heal, but they would leave a thick ridge of scar tissue that would never go away. Even if Flint could stand to wash the mix out, some of it would stick and color the scar.

  Indians were fierce about their honor and pride. When they saw Flint and what Daniel had done to him, Flint’s voice wouldn’t ring quite as strong in their councils. That, and the fact that Boone had ruined his manhood, wouldn’t leave Black Knife with much. Daniel hadn’t even bothered to scalp him. He had just cut off his scalplock at the skull. The Indians would see the shame of that, too. And when Black Knife stood to exhort them into attacking the settlers, they would remember the letters that flamed on his chest and the ruin that lay between his legs. They would remember, and they would think long about it.

  He slept half the day on the trail south, far from the Licking River and when he awoke it was late afternoon. Leading his horse down the rough hollow, he bent to splash water on his face. When he looked up, Captain Will was sitting his horse on the far bank, watching him quietly.

  Daniel jerked up and Will raised a hand. “I do not come to fight, Wide Mouth.”

  “It’s been awhile, Will.”

  “It has, Boone.” He was silent a long moment, dark, somber eyes squarely meeting Daniel’s. “You have settled your grievance with Black Knife.”

  “I guess. It was a long time coming.”

  Will nodded thoughtfully. “Still, all is not finished, Boone. If it does not come now, it will come sometime. Cornstalk would have p
eace, but I do not think he will get it. Black Fish and the others will have their way.”

  Daniel raised a brow. “Was Black Fish at the council?”

  Captain Will nodded. “Black Fish and the Cherokees.” Will spit emphatically on the ground. “I do not like doing business with Cherokees.” He smiled thinly at Boone. “What you did to the half-breed will make a fine story. Do not steal too many horses, Boone.” He nodded, turned his mount away, then stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Maybe we will meet in a good fight. There will be honor in it.”

  “There will for sure,” said Daniel.

  Epilogue

  The Dream: September 1775

  Rebecca walked up from the river, following the well-worn path back to the fort. Stopping a moment, she set down the pails and wiped sore hands on her skirt. With so many folks moving in, it was getting harder every day to get drinkable water close to the settlement. Daniel had warned her not to wander far, but what could you do? People were settling all along the river in the choicest spots, and she wasn’t about to fetch up water that had God-knew-what in it.

  Hefting the pails again, she rounded the bend and came out of the trees in sight of the fort. Ducks waddled down to the water, quacking and scolding. A boy drove his milk cows under the walls, bells clanging dully. Becky waved to Stoner, who was down the river.

  The fort still didn’t look like much. The blockhouses were complete now, but there were still large holes in the walls that sorely needed filling. The two big gate doors were lying outside, still unfinished, and there were a hundred other smaller items that needed tending. Still, she decided, the place was turning into a town. More women and children coming in had made the difference. There was wash on the line and the sound of babies crying—things that made the place feel more like a town than a camp.