The Winds of Autumn

by Jim R. Woolard

  Every hunter excepting tavern loud-mouths and braggarts rightfully feared high wind and lightning. But more hunters died by not protecting their flintlocks and powder from dampness. Lose the advantage of the Lancaster’s superior shooting range, and we fought the Redsticks with hand weapons, the odds entirely in their favor since they outnumbered us seven to three. Believe you me, we ignored the weather long enough to secure deer bladders over rifle locks, fill barrel muzzles with carved wooden plugs and seat powder horn stoppers extra snug. “Foul your powder, lose your hair” was the watchword espoused by riflemen from Fort Pitt to Boonesburg and Harrodstown.

  Blake motioned Lem into the lead and we rode the length of Bald Knob, one eye on the woods out front, the other on the western horizon. Thunder echoed for miles through the valleys and lowlands. The horses stepped up the gait of their own accord, heads tossing, nostrils opening and closing. They rightfully feared the weather too. But being well trained, they’d hold under rein and give it their all, expect ing eventual shelter from the elements at the finish of their work. We Tylers were known for the care and attention we lavished on our horse stock. We asked nothing of them not demanded of ourselves.

  Passing from the bare expanse of Bald Knob into the beckoning trees was akin to parting a dark curtain. In a few hoofbeats, light shrank to a faint glimmer, then faded altogether as the storm ripped into us full bore. Thunder boomed and rolled end over end till our ears hurt. The wind raged and roared, tearing leaves and limbs from trees and raising banks of dust that peppered our faces and hands. Lightning flashed and sizzled the air, banging so close hair stood free of the skull and the horses under us shuddered with alarm. We rode bent forward, hats tugged even with brows, cheeks flush against horses’ manes, anything to prolong sight of the trail and cling to the crest of the ridgeline. Drift to either side and a fall of hundreds of feet snuffed your remaining years.

  Lightning struck forward on Blake’s left, and I saw him and Lem in an eerie burst of noonday brightness. Slabs of bark fell to the ground and fingers of flame flared in a tangle of brush in the same direction. We looped around the fire, glad for the light, sorry for the eye-smarting smoke.

  For the space of three long breaths the storm relented; then another round of thunder, lightning and roaring, gouging wind laid about us, and with all that renewed fury came the rain, torrents of water marching on the wind in dousing sheets, soaking us to the flesh before we could wrestle the wide collars of our frocks closed against the cold wet shock of it running down chest and backside. With the bare hide of our horses suddenly slick as greased hog bristle and eyesight shortened next to nothing, we had no choice but to dismount and lead the trembling animals.

  I roped the packhorses already tied in line to the gelding’s neck and stared through the water cascading from the brim of my hat, hung within a stride of the tail of Blake’s bay, as the white stockings on his rear legs beacons in the wet darkness of early night. We trusted Lem to find the most open path along the ridgeline. There was no turning back, no shortcut, no quicker line of travel down from Beauty Ridge than the Hunt Branch of Schultz Creek, our original destination. We plodded northward, soaked, chilled and miserable to the core.

  A horrendous slam of noise overwhelmed the blustering wind and slap of rain against men and horses. We heard whole trees crack, splinter and fall in thunderous crashings. It was a devil wind, far scarier at night when darkness cloaked the warning funnel and travelers had no sense of which direction to flee in. We wanted to run for protecting cover, but there was none. We could only hunker down, hold the horses’ heads and pray all the sand wasn’t in our end of the glass.

  Either we were lucky or the Lord heard our pleas.

  Whichever, the devil wind spun eastward, the sound of its devastating passage fading till the wind and rain slashing at us commanded our ears again. I heard Lem yell, “Move it out,” and we were under way once more.

  We felt safer the next stretch of hard going. The devil wind had missed us and while the rain continued in torrents, the lightning dwindled to occasional strikes and the wind eased somewhat. But as often happens, with the worst seemingly behind us, the truly tragic event of our trek across Beauty Ridge occurred the next mile.

  A fresh deadfall, trunk higher than Lem’s head, blocked the trail. After considering how best to proceed, Lem chose the high side round the top branches, and Blake followed without question. In the brief wink of distant lightning, the slope at the uprooted end of the fallen oak appeared plenty wide and level, easier for the strung-out pack animals, and with no more thought than that I swung the gelding in that direction.

  Everything went well till the gelding came abreast of the oak’s uprooted base. The broken stubs of protruding roots bothered him and he shied … and slipped. He changed leads to regain his footing, and his flailing front hooves landed on muddy loam. He slid downhill, lowering his head in that direction, and his right foreleg passed under a broken root. Completely unbalanced, the gelding tumbled into a full roll before I could make any move to help him. I’d enough awareness of mind to spare the packhorses a similar fate. In the nick of time, I sawed with my knife and parted the rope binding them to the gelding.

  The snapping of the gelding’s trapped foreleg was the most sickening, gutwrenching sound of all my twenty-plus years. His scream of pure agony froze in my mind for all eternity and nearly tore me in half. He came to rest belly first against an upright trunk and thrashed wildly with his three good legs, desperate to stand, squealing with pain.

  I knew what had to be done. Lord, how I hated the doing of it. I scrambled down behind his head and started talking to him. He ceased the thrashing to catch his wind and I placed a knee on his neck, masked his eyes with my hat and forced his head flat with the weight of my body. His training was such that even in his pain he trusted me momentarily, and I took full advantage, cutting his throat with one deep slice of my knife. His legs stiffened and jerked, and tears streaming, I patted his neck all the while, his blood warm and sticky on my fingers. I’d rather have killed myself.

  “Blaine … where yuh be, brother?”

  I hawked and spat and sleeved my eyes. “Right below yuh. Grab the lead of the packhorses and my rifle. Don’t come down. I’ll be up straightaway.”

  Blake was a black presence in the rainy night. His unseen hand grabbed my arm and steadied me. He thumped my shoulder with the barrel of my Lancaster.

  “Lost the gelding. Root broke his leg and I put him away,” I told him.

  There was a pause; then Blake sighed long and low. “Meanest chore in God’s kingdom. Glad it was you instead of me, no insult intended.”

  He squeezed my arm good and hard and yelled over his shoulder. “Hang tight, Lem. We ain’t growin’ moss under our feet.” Turning uphill, he coaxed the packhorses along the deadfall and round the top branches, where I should have gone.

  I trudged after him, spirits at rock bottom. My unthinking failure to abide by Lem’s judgment had killed the gelding and taught a harsh lesson. Lem had trapped and bunted and scouted with the best, from Boone to Wentsell, and Blake trusted him with the point in the worst of conditions. A wise man lost nothing relying on the experience of his elders: A fool ignored his elders, made snap decisions and endangered himself and his companions. Low as I felt then and there, I knew I’d not forget my mistake anytime soon; hopefully, not before my dying day.

  Lem’s outlook was more foul than mine, his temper at the end of its tether. Teeth chattering, one eye bugged wide, he set his jaw. “Injuns or no Injuns, we’re hightailin’ it for Sykes Cave and a fire. Otherwise, you two commence diggin’ a bury hole an’ I’ll oblige yuh by drowning right here ’thout even bendin’ a knee. Rains gonna last till dawn and enough’s enough, by damn.”

  “Why, you old bear-hound,” Blake joshed him, “I’m astonished at your lack of faith in me. I ain’t fond of drownin’ neither. Yuh still want the point or has your legs give out? We can always tie yuh on the mare.”

  Without a mom
ent’s delay, Lem huffed defiantly and set off down the ridgeline with renewed vigor. Blake was a master at goading Lem into what he would have done anyway. Nailing the shoe on the other hoof, I always allowed Lem knew what was being done to him. The two of them were best likened to a pair of trail-worn moccasins. They complemented each other and were both better men for the years they’d shared together.

  The thunder and lightning and high wind pursued the devil wind easterly. The final miles we hiked on Beauty Ridge amounted to a nightmare of never-ending rain showers, cold wind gusts, high ground soaked and gone to muddy slush, spent horseflesh and skin chafed raw by soggy trail garb. Wet moccasins squished at every step and leather leggins, soaked through, sagged heavy as iron. Without Paw’s jug to sip from when we stopped to blow the horses and rest weary legs, I doubted we’d have ever laid eyes on Sykes Cave, it was that chancy.

  Lem located the headwaters of the Hunt Branch from memory after a painstaking search, and we slid, staggered and inched downward along its narrow trough to where it joined Schultz Creek in the valley below. We turned east for roughly a mile, and from there Blake scouted downstream alone. In less than an hour he was back with the good word: The cave was empty and waiting high and dry just a few rods further along.

  Sykes Cave was in truth a yawning, flat-bottomed hole beneath a thick shelf of rock, overgrown on top and round the edges by scraggly willows and leafy fern. Nonetheless, it was high enough in front for a hearty fire and ran deep enough to stable our horses. It looked finer than the best wayside tavern when we stumbled inside, shed of the rain and chill winds at last, Lem assuring us he’d whip any other nocturnal beings there afore us—two- or four-legged —with bare knuckles and teeth. He was so grouchy by then I was glad nothing challenged him.

  No three Kentuckians ever fashioned a better camp. Lem started a fire with his tinderbox and flint. Blake stripped the packhorses and watered the stock one at a time at the creek while I cut cane along the bank for nighttime fodder. Each animal received a palm of meal, an armful of cane and a thorough going-over by firelight for bumps, bruises and any sign of lameness. Next we saw to our rifles. Then and only then, we stripped by the fire and ate our fill, flavoring huge bites with healthy slugs of Kentucky whiskey, laughing about how long and unforgivingly mean the entire day had been.

  We donned dry clothing and slept spoon fashion, feet first to the fire, locks of our Lancasters clasped between thighs. If any Shawnee lurked within twenty miles, we flat didn’t give a hoot. Though we were fretful and deeply worried about Sarah, we fell asleep still hopeful, certain that with better weather we’d have no trouble overtaking the Shawnee war party. But then the Lord seldom reveals ahead of time what he has in store for tomorrow, does he now?

  Chapter 7

  Dawn till Late Afternoon, September 12

  A nod past first light Lem jiggled my ear and whispered, “Horses.” I rolled upright and shook like a rousted hound. Blake was already gone on the scout, and with the fue gray ashes and Lem repacking supplies, nocake and cold bark tea constituted the morning fare, a far comedown from last night’s feast. I watered the stock and fed them fresh cane. Afterwards, I joined Lem and we shared tea from the boiling noggin.

  At dawn Blake returned, morning mist knee-high on him in the day’s earliest hour. Sarah was all we could think about and we rapped the peg with the mallet, forgoing the daybreak banter of previous camps.

  “Schultz be over its banks,” Lem observed.

  Between gulps of tea, Blake said, “We’ll backtrack and cross at the ford opposite Sherman Hollow. Other end of the hollow we can lay a sneak on Hanging Rock, maybe turn some trace of Three Feathers.”

  He looked out from the cave. “None too foggy an’ the clouds ain’t heavy. She’ll clear by noon. We gotta move with care every step. Them Injuns might be anywheres after the storm. They surely abandoned Tygart’s Creek sometime durin’ the night for higher ground.”

  Blake drained the last of the tea and tossed Lem the noggin. “There’s an old hollow sycamore downstream. We best fire these rifles ’fore we taken out.”

  The Lancasters proved their worth as always. Each one shot without a hint of misfire, the sycamore’s empty bole muffling the reports. We reloaded, pouching muzzle plugs and lock covers. We’d track at the ready from the start, prepared for anything and everything.

  The rising waters of Schultz Creek forced a circle southward, then a gradual sashay northwest toward the ford. Willows that had been high and dry yesterday poked from the foamy current. Lem had the point, with Blake in the middle. I brought up the rear afoot, packhorses in tow.

  A treeless swale lined with jumbled rock marked the ford’s near bank, and Lem guided us there without undue difficulty. The old sergeant decided how we’d make the crossing. “’Tain’t more’n shoulder deep. Blaine, you ride the mare. I’m smallest, so I’ll fork the empty packhorse and lead the second. Don’t fight the creek an’ wear out good horseflesh. These animals know the trick of swimmin’ with the current, an’ they’ll have us over there easy if’n we allow it.”

  Blake went first on the bay. Then the experienced mare stepped into the water without any fear. I hung tight to her mane with one hand, long rifle held high in the other. Roiling water filled my moccasins and soaked my legs. The mare proved a good swimmer, and we crossed without a hitch. On the far bank we paused, cuffed water from moccasins and leggins and set off again. I remained afoot at the rear without protest, downhearted over the death of the gelding. It would be many a moon before I’d forget that brown giant with the strength and steadiness of two horses; in seven years, he’d never once shirked the rein.

  The morning warmed rapidly. The sky cleared and the sun burnt away the lowland fog. Past the last of the canebrake fringing the Schultz, Blake and I dropped a fair piece behind Lem, drowsy and dulled by the heat, minds wandering from the dangers of the country we traveled. But trust Lem to end any dawdling on our part, which he did with an upthrown arm.

  Sherman Hollow, a narrow, high-walled ravine, connected the valleys of the Schultz and White Oak Creek. Lem sat his mare a long spit short of the ravine’s brush-covered opening, clenched fist frozen overhead to halt our advance. Blake dismounted and we waited with rifles primed, fully alert, eyes searching, ears listening.

  Lem wasn’t prone to false alarms and rash movement when on the scent. He remained astride, gaze drawing left to right a section at a time, sniffing the air, not about to stir till he was satisfied we faced no immediate threat of ambush. His arm slowly descended and he hunched forward and slid from the mare. We loosed a heap of held breath when he beckoned us forward.

  “Lookeehere, we done found our trace of Three Feathers.”

  He pointed at bare ground bordering a cluster of box elder. Water in two blurred hoofprints shimmered in the sunlight. On close inspection the edges of the prints were crusted and the water in them settled and clear: They were hours old.

  “We ain’t chasin’ anybody’s fool,” Lem opined. “They left Tygart’s at the Schultz, came thisaway on the north bank an’ made the hollow long ’fore we passed by over yonder last night. Takes a run of iron in a jasper, white or heathen, ta goad men at such a pace an’ cover that many miles. He’s streakin’ for the Ohio somethin’ fierce … almighty fierce.”

  Grave concern tightened Blake’s features. “How much of a lead has he?”

  “No sense lyin’ ta ourselves,” Lem said. “They beat the worst of the storm ta Hangin’ Rock an’ are likely approachin’ the Ohio while we stand here.”

  “Meanin’ what for Sarah?” I asked the both of them. “We’ve lost her for good?”

  Blake stared at the telltale footprints. “Not exactly. Weaker souls might head for home with hung heads. But that ain’t for us. We’re Tylers, an’ Tylers don’t never abandon their own, never minding how small the hope.”

  “Short of gettin’ us killed, what yuh nibblin’ at?” Lem inquired, head cocked sideways, good eye narrowed.

  Blake’s voic
e grew stern. “We plug on through the hollow, climb Baker Ridge, an’ Blaine can scour the Ohio with his glass. Might spy the Shawnee an’ Sarah, where they be. Nothin’ else, maybe we’ll learn which way they headed with her from there. Then we decide what’s next.”

  Lem glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. Blake was trying to catch smoke bare-handed and we knew it. But such was his determination to retrieve Sarah, it was swallow his scheme till the last ounce in the jug was gone or never hear the end of it.

  “Why, hell’s bells, I ain’t seen the Ohio for at least a full week, an’ Blaine not since 17 and 87, so we’ll mosey on over an’ see how much she’s changed in the meantime,” Lem conceded with a wink, drawing chuckles from Blake and me.

  Big Brother commanded the advance. “We ain’t but three miles from the river an’ we gotta pass some ground under these moccasins in a hurry. Narrow as the hollow be, Lem, we’ll take the point single file. Blaine, yuh hang behind a tad with the horses so we don’t bunch up. I don’t believe there’s a chance in Hades them Shawnee is fixin’ ta waylay us, but we ain’t gonna be caught with our breeches down. Any sign of attack we join in the middle and make a stand. Let’s be about it!”

  Wherever bordermen gathered, Sherman Hollow garnered curses and unkind remarks, and the steeply notched passageway deserved them. Only the prospect of saved hours and spared steps lured us into enduring its shoulder-wide bottom, heavy brush riddled with thorns and stickers, rock-strewn washes, downed trees and venomous snakes. The hollow was a prime spot for an Injun ambush, and reaching the northern opening without encountering Three Feathers and his war party gladdened us all.

  White Oak Creek wasn’t as wide nor as deep as the Schultz, and we forded without resting the horses. We again cuffed water from moccasins and leggins, Lem eyeing the last of Paw’s whiskey on the packhorse. He was powerful dry and longed for a few jolts.