Wentsell put his nose near to touching Lem’s. “Take this young’un an’ bear east through the night. Afore dawn, turn north at Chimney Rock, the high point hereabouts, an’ lay for ’em along the creek. There’s more’n one piece of tall bank proper for the task.” He paused and spat. “Meek stabled his horse of his own choosin’ an’ there’s no repentin’ the last gasp. Kill him an’ Stick Injun, yuh understand?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. “We’ll meet right here in three days. We ain’t here three days after that, head for Kentucky an’ deliver the judge’s daughter ta Abner an’ the boatmen at Limestone. Good luck!”
And with that, Wentsell was gone silently as he had arrived.
“Ain’t much for jawbonin’ or choices, be he now,” Lem remarked with a clucking laugh. He rocked to his feet. “Well, lad, there’s two of them and two of us, an’ we don’t fetch that gal like Tice ordered, we’ll wish Three Feathers was sharin’ our camp. Lively now. The miles be tough and the night half over.”
Lem took the point and we bore eastward into the trees. As he predicted, it was mean going from the start. The dense leaf canopy cloaked what few slivers of occasional moon light there was, leaving the forest floor a black hole to be negotiated anew with each carefully placed step. Without Lem’s unerring sense of direction, I would have circled back on myself again and again. The old sailor-turned-woodsman kept us on course, though he was more at home atop the high straight ridges of Kentucky than in Ohio country broken and scored by sharp ravines, stubbled with rock outcroppings and infested with briar patches that tore skin in jagged, bloody scratchings. Always heavy-footed and cross-gaited, I tagged behind him best I could, halfway scared I would lose track of him in the dark with the wind blowing like it was.
After we’d endured the moonless night, first light that gray morning matched the brightness of a freshly lit lanthorn. Lem cast about for a sentinel tree, and selected a tall oak on the spine of a hogback ridge whose northern flank had been ravaged by lightning and brush fires. I hoisted him on my shoulders, and he went upward through thick limbs hand over foot, seeking the exact whereabouts of Chimney Rock.
In hardly no time, Lem whistled for me to stand firm, and I lowered him to the ground. “She’s plumb ahead, brown an’ bald as a turkey egg. We can reach her in less’n an hour, Salt Creek in less’n three,” he reported, wind fluffing the tail of his pelt cap. With a wink from him, we set off again.
It was during our descent of the hogback’s northern flank that Lem hurt himself. His front foot slipped on loose stone and he stumbled, lurching sideways. Caught with his weight far forward and fearing he would tumble end over end clean to the bottom of the slope, Lem lunged violently backwards and fell where he was, rear leg curled beneath him. He landed with a solid thud, and his piercing grunt of pain carried above the wind.
I sat on my haunches and slid down beside him. His right leg was twisted and pinned under his left thigh. Lem lifted his head and sputtered, “Pry it from under me … ’fore I croak.”
I laid hold of the crotch of his breeches, raised his lower body and slowly straightened the twisted leg. “Is it broke?”
“Be better it was. My knee be sprung ta hell an’ gone,” Lem managed, wiping sudden sweat from his forehead. “Fetch me up ta the ridge. I can’t flop here the whole damn morning.”
I checked the fire-ravaged slope in both directions. Up was further than down, and below us narrow water trickled through broken rock and crowded weed. “Why not the other way? Some water mightn’t harm yuh.”
Lem grimaced and closed his eye. “I feel lower’n bull dung, all hurt an’ no whiskey. Tote away. It ain’t gonna get better anytime soon.”
Much as I hated the pain I provoked, I shucked the saddle pouch from my backside, boosted him in its place with his arms wrapped round my neck, and half-dragged, half carried him down the steep slope alongside the thin stream, a feat requiring most of an hour. I then returned for the vittles pouch and our rifles.
Lem insisted I check his rifle for damage before tending any of his other needs. The flint was snugly in place, the hammer and frizzen in working order, the barrel free of obstruction. Except for a few grains of powder lost from the pan and a slight gouge on the stock by his initials, the weapon was none the worse for his having dropped it, and I told him so.
“Good, yuh’ll want both rifles for the ambush,” he said, pillowing his head on the saddle pouch.
Worried as I was about his swollen leg, I could only stare at him. “Yuh want I should leave yuh hurt an’ off your feet with no gun?”
Unlike me, Lem thought beyond the moment and his own suffering. “My fallin’ don’t change nothin’, lad. It’s Hannah Ferrenden yuh need fret over, not me. We let Meek slip past us today, we may never make amends for what our Sarah done.”
“I’ve no quarrel with retakin’ that gal ta set things right best we can, but I can’t stalk a dead man in bright sunshine an’ yuh damn well know it, Lem. They’ll hear me a-comin’ half a hill over.”
“Not if’n yuh does exactly what I tell yuh,” he proclaimed, beckoning me closer. “Yuh got ta gain the creek on ’em, hide good an’ make a quiet stand ’thout movin’. Thataway, they’ll paddle right by yuh. They’ll all three be in the same canoe with the woman in the middle. Just lay fire on ’em an’ don’t be put off they return your first shot. Surprise an’ a second rifle ready for the grabbin’ will give yuh advantage enough, trust me. Yuh sight well, lad, an’ hold a steady barrel. Yuh won’t have no big troubles. Hell’s bells, yuh be a Tyler same as your brother, ain’t yuh now,” he challenged, eye glistening like a polished blade.
I couldn’t keep from grinning. The old soldier had cornered me into risking a bold, dangerous venture that might cost me my life as cleverly as Blake would have. “All right, I’ll make a pass at it. That gladden your heart, Sergeant Shakett?”
Lem’s return smile was wide and warm; then the pain gnawed at him once more. “There ain’t no time ta spare, so find me a lick of cover quick. I ain’t prepared ta bend the yardarm just yet.”
Far south, faint thunder rumbled. The lowering cloud cover was streaked with darkest gray the same direction. The bad weather long in arriving would be upon us by early afternoon at the latest. I peered about till I found what I sought. Downstream the bottom of the slope had caved in at the edge of the run, fashioning a shallow hole deep enough for protection from the approaching cloudburst. The hole wasn’t sized for two, but would shield smallish Lem nicely.
I got him sheltered in the fastest manner. I simply gathered him in my arms, bad knee supported by his good leg, and carried him. As before, the vittles pouch and our Lancasters required a second trip. “Leastways yuh won’t starve,” I said, kneeling at his side with the pouch.
He rested his shoulders against the wall of the hole. “Yuh best be on your way. ’Member not ta hurry the second shot. Now go make me proud of yuh.”
Swallowing the knot clogging my throat, I hefted both Lancasters and eased from under the roof of his hideaway. “I’ll be back, yuh ol’ buzzard,” I promised, butting one of the Lancasters and knuckling my forehead in a parting salute. I’ll fetch Hannah Ferrenden and gabby as you are maybe yuh can charm her into warmin’ your bed tonight.”
Lem’s clucking laugh trailed after me into the trees fringing the far hillside; then I was gone, bound for Salt Creek and a rendezvous with death.
Part 3
Rescue
Chapter 14
Noon, September 15
In the hour before the storm, the wind stopped and the deep forest stilled. No telling sound—not the beat of wing on air, the thump of hoof on mossy ground, the slap of fin on water—disturbed the silence. Amidst such utter quiet the whine of the skeeter seemed a shout. Every creature roundabout waited with drawn breath for the inevitable roll of thunder, crack of lightning and splash of rain.
I spent the beginning of that hushed hour belly down behind a rotting log in a stand of hackberry whose outer-most bra
nches overhung the high bank of Salt Creek. Lying in wait without hint of movement wasn’t easy, not given my increasing worry that Meek had already passed by upstream before my arrival. I was on the verge of standing to stretch muscle gone stiff and ouchy when a long bark canoe hove into sight from a bend downstream, dropping me on my belly again.
In the round eye of my spyglass, Stick Injun manned. the bow, paddling against the oncoming current with short, brisk strokes. The solitary reason for my lying in ambush slumped in the middle of the canoe, a boneless heap of towcloth shirt, macaroni hat covering her black hair. The loose sway of her hatted head suggested Hannah Ferrenden slept soundly after three days of harsh captivity. The burly Meek filled the stern and matched Stick Injun’s vigor with the paddle.
No matter the light that overcast morning was dull and gray. The Shawnee’s tan frock and Meek’s stained buck skins stood apart from the green water and surrounding trees. To the foolhardy and those ignorant of the fight, it might appear at first glance no great feat. The paddlers were perfect targets in the narrow trough of the creek, and I lurked unseen at close range with two flintlocks loaded and fully cocked. But the upper hand was really mine with just the first ball for once I fired, the sound of the shot and lingering powder smoke would fix my location for the enemy. Then, while I exchanged weapons, steadied myself and aimed again, the remaining foe would have the chance to arm himself and shoot at me. And that was the best of outcomes. Miss with either ball and the odds likely favored the enemy, both battle-hardened and treacherous as maddened wolves.
With the canoe hugging the near bank and the passengers seated one behind the other, my initial choice of targets was limited to Stick Injun in the bow. I replaced the spyglass with my Lancaster and braced the barrel on the rotting log. Though at thirty yards I couldn’t miss, I stayed my finger. Even if the Shawnee fell out of the line of fire, the muzzle blast would awaken the judge’s daughter and bring her upright, shielding Meek and denying me a second shot. Worse yet, she might catch the ball intended for him. It took but a few additional strokes of their paddles in the hushed stillness for me to realize I must hang fire till they drew abreast of my position. At that moment, not before and not after, I could bead Stick Injun or Meek in opposite ends of the canoe with the least risk of endangering their female captive.
The range shrank to twenty yards, and I decided I would kill Meek first. Struck with a .50-caliber bullet from the right front, the bulky traitor would undoubtedly keel over back left, swamping the canoe and throwing the other two into the shallow water. Hannah Ferrenden swam well, and unless the Injun runt grabbed her quick, she’d win either bank, leaving her former captor easy prey for my second shot … or so I hoped.
It was grim business, something a man preferred to do without. Regardless of Meek’s past sins, I’d take no pleasure in the killing of him. But neither would I shrink from the trigger pull. Wentsell had said it blunt and honest: Meek had stabled his horse of his own choosing and there was no forgiving, especially not for the boatmen slain without warning and their mates burned at the stake.
A whiff of breeze tickled hackberry leaves shrouding my slouch hat. I watched the enemy narrow the distance with much hard paddling, their eyes and ears bound to the creek by the demanding current. They drew abreast of my hiding place, and from scant yards away Stick Injun’s dangling earring passed my barrel. Next came that familiar peaked hat. Then the stark brown of Meek’s buckskin-clad chest walled up behind the yellow ivory of my front sight. I lowered the muzzle slightly, centered the thin shaft of yellow in the metal jaws of the rear sight, and with the gentle squeeze of a hand dispatched the King’s traitor to whatever judgment his Maker deemed fit.
The booming report startled birds into noisy flight. Meek’s stained frock puffed at the right nipple. He jerked sideways, grunted, and tipped forward on the baled gear separating him from Hannah Ferrenden, his sliding nose stopping inches from her feathered headpiece. The canoe wobbled, but didn’t swamp, and Stick Injun’s search ing gaze speared me before the thunderous blast echoed in the creek bottom. He paid his fallen comrade no heed, and lunged for the musket leaning in the point of the blow.
Furious with myself for wasting vital seconds when each could mean life or death, I tore my eyes from him, settled on my elbow, and switched my Lancaster with Lem’s. I rose on one knee and shoved Lem’s barrel across the deadfall, only to discover my target was fast disappearing, the swift current sweeping the bow of the broached canoe under the high bank fronting me. Long past being a stranger to the hunt and the fleeing buck, I pushed to my feet with no forethought and fastened my sights on Stick Injun’s scrawny breastbone.
He was mine—dead center, plumb certain. No cross wind. Full powder charge. Flint screwed tight and well edged, my finger tightening on the trigger, his Brown Bess musket not yet at his shoulder. Then—doubt not my word—a towcloth arm wrapped his dusky neck from behind, yanked with authority and toppled him backwards. Cursing Judge Ferrenden for not making his daughter wear skirts and know fear like ordinary females—or if that was asking too much, at least show enough brains for crissake not to foist herself on Injuns already dead—I forsook a now-uncertain target and blew an awesome hole in the sky.
I stepped away from the smoke of wasted powder, muttering new curses, and saw nothing except part of Meek’s body and green water. The canoe’s bow and middle had completely vanished under the tall bank. Then a strangled plea reached my ear. “Get down here and help me, damn you.”
The insult didn’t particularly please me. The urgency in her voice nonetheless doused my anger. She was, after all, no less a woman than Sister Sarah. I shed Lem’s rifle, drew my hatchet, and went over the rotting deadfall in one long jump. Figuring the moment was desperate, three lengthy strides later I departed the bank in a wild, blind leap, guessing where that treacherous Shawnee was, praying she had his attention attracted elsewhere.
She did. He was straight beneath me, stabbing at her with his wide-bladed knife while she scrambled for the stern, Meek’s paddle raised in defense of herself. I plummeted downward, one arm flailing air, hatchet ready for the fatal strike in the other.
He proved a warrior, Wolf Always Fighting, from birth twitch to the last. He sensed me flying at him from above, and recognizing he’d no time for turning about or even catching a glimpse of me, he let go of the knife and, without lifting the butt of the musket in his left hand from the floor of the canoe, triggered off a final defiant shot, firing on blind chance. A hundredth of a second before his .74-caliber bullet hit me in the pit of the left arm and ripped through flesh with the scalding heat of a white-hot poker, my hatchet cleaved him where neck joined shoulder and buried itself to the handle.
I landed short of his impaled body. My right foot holed the bow of the canoe and I came to rest astraddle the gunwale, left leg planted on the rocky bottom of Salt Creek in thigh-deep water. Blood spurted from Stick Injun and splattered the hatchet still locked in my fingers. I balanced on one foot, all the fight and spunk draining out of me like nails spilling from an overturned keg.
But the judge’s daughter wasn’t finished. In one last effort to atone for past wrongs done her, and probably sincerely believing she was helping, she swung Meek’s paddle backhanded from the stern of the canoe. It was my sorry misfortune I loosed the handle of the hatchet just then. The swinging paddle missed the falling Shawnee and the flat of the blade smashed me flush above the right ear.
The sharp rocks at water’s edge were soft as buzzard down when I fell against them. Dark numbness bearing no pain crept over me. I surrendered to it with the sudden haste of the thief fleeing in the night.
Chapter 15
Afternoon, September 15 till First Light, September 16
Awareness slowly seeped into my shot and bludgeoned frame. It was a confused and frightening awakening, far worse than others of recent days. I wasn’t atall sure where I might be … Hell … Heaven … or somewhere betwixt those two opposite destinations, condemned to wander lost
and adrift forever for shooting Simon Meek, traitorous bastard though he was, in cold blood.
My legs below the hip were sopping wet and cold. Savage pain, fierce enough it staggered my breath, danced from rib bone to rib bone under my left arm. At the topmost end of me, despite lesser pain above my right ear, the soft skin of naked angels surrounded and caressed my sweaty cheeks.
I drifted in and out, knowing all this and knowing nothing, convinced with each new awakening that everything would be fine soon as my legs warmed a mite and the pain eased a heap. Then I could float in the middle of nowhere and enjoy the smell and pleasure of the sweet-scented flesh cushioning my unshaven face.
Words nagged at the corner of my mind, the same words repeated again and again. “Don’t die. Oh, don’t die. Please don’t die!” I listened closely, surprised how easily I spoke without moving my tongue.
The pain worsened. I burrowed my head deeper into the surrounding softness. That helped ease the pain considerably till it dawned on me with lung-screaming clarity I was fast running out of wind. That wouldn’t do, so hurt or no hurt, I reared my head gasping for breath. My nose popped free, and with eyes suddenly open and staring, I beheld inside the yawning throat of her towcloth shirt the ample breast of Hannah Ferrenden. Lord, counting Loraleen Oldham, twice in one lifetime was once more than any single man had a right to expect, dead or not.
A hand lifted my chin, and violet eyes matched me stare for stare. Even with a bruised temple and slightly swollen lower lip, she was a remarkably handsome female. When she spoke, the earlier fear and uncertainty was gone from her voice. “You’ve made a fine mess of things, whoever you are, but I guess I should be thankful you were decent enough not to die on me, not yet anyway.”
Well, so much for the hero’s welcome. The firmness in her tone gave the distinct impression that if I disagreed with her, I might be left to fend for myself. Maybe it was unmanly; nevertheless, I took refuge in my pain and said nothing.
The Winds of Autumn Page 15