The Winds of Autumn

by Jim R. Woolard

  “Who? Sarah?”

  “No, the Water Princess,” he answered gleefully, grinning from ear to ear.

  By God, he was funnin’ me after all. “For crissake, Blake,” I spat out, dander on the rise, “she’ s askin’ Sarah home with her, nothin’ was ever said ’bout me.”

  Blake raised a quieting hand. “Calm down,” he urged, grin fading. “I’m only tryin’ ta spell out what’s plain as a braided tail on a horse.”

  I freed some breath and swallowed. “Such as?”

  Brother enjoyed his own sigh, then looked where the judge’s daughter sat chatting with Sarah. “That female’s the most woman we’ve ever stumbled across. She’s handsome enough ta set your blood boilin’, canny enough ta out-think the both of us, an’ brash enough ta scare stink off’n a skunk. All of which amounts ta nothin’ down the road, lest yuh happen ta love her, little brother. Well, do yuh?”

  It was my turn to stare at Hannah Ferrenden. She was describing something to Sarah that particular moment, hands flying about, feathered hat bobbing and weaving. Suddenly, Sister’s head whipped back and a hail of laughter burst from her throat. The ring of that joyous sound in my ears spurred me into admitting aloud, at least to the waiting Blake, what I’d known since awakening wounded and bloodied in Hannah Ferrenden’s arms on Salt Creek:

  “I love her.”

  “Well, thanks be I didn’t have to argue that outen yuh.” Blake’s head shook. “Yuh can be a trial some days, little brother. Now, let’s jaw ’bout what’s next for yuh.”

  “Next?”

  “Yeh, next,” Blake repeated. “’Less I’m barkin’ at the bottom of the wrong den tree, an’ I’m damn certain that ain’t likely, that girl ain’t gonna throw herself at your feet like Loraleen Oldham might would do. Nosiree, you’re gonna have ta win Hannah Ferrenden.”

  “An’ does the wise pursuer of fair maidens have any ready words as ta how this forthcoming battle might be won?”

  “Don’t get uppity with me, little brother, I’m dead serious here. Ain’t no sense latchin’ on ta a woman, handsome or not, yuh can’t hold. An’ the holdin’ starts like everythin’ else, at the very beginnin’. The first time you’re alone with a willin’ woman yuh truly crave, yuh gots ta love her till she begs for mercy. It’s that simple, believe me. Love her till she begs for mercy … an’ then don’t never stop.”

  He had me snared whole hog, but I didn’t care. “An if’n the lady ain’t so, how does one get her willin’ so he can commence that holdin’?”

  “That be the grand challenge,” Blake crowed, “for it ain’t never the same.” His hands flared outward and he shrugged his shoulders. “It could be anythin’ … wine … song … the charm of the snake … wild—”

  Wentsell’s arresting hiss squelched Blake’s litany of romantic inducements. We jumped to our feet with the quickness of veteran riflemen, shamefaced we’d been caught larking on the watch. I froze at attention, vowing I’d ply Blake with further inquiries about the “willin’” part at the very first opportunity, the sooner the better.

  It was a conversation we brothers would never have.

  Chapter 24

  Late Afternoon, September 20

  A gasping Tice Wentsell halted before us, legs spraddled, hairy paws gripping the barrel of the butted Brown Bess. Nobody had to guess a mad dash upcreek had depleted his wind: The sweat dripping from his jaw and the rapid rise and fall of his chest told all.

  “In a helluva hurry, ain’t yuh, Wentsell,” Lem observed.

  Head bowed, lungs pumping, the ranger nodded. “Never seen anythin’ like it afore. Nothin’ I done slowed ’em a quarter step.”

  “How many be there?”

  “Don’t rightly know … never laid eye on ’em … heard their signal, though. Three long blasts on a wing-bone whistle, gatherin’ ’em on our tracks. They’ll be sniffin’ our stink in an hour or less.”

  For all his griping and complaining, Lem, never one to doubt or despair when all was desperate, propped himself on an elbow, gaze rooted on Wentsell’s heaving frame. “Well, we kneel for the scalpin’ or has yuh one last trick in your clout?”

  Wentsell straightened and shouldered the Brown Bess. “No tricks, Sergeant. Nothin’ now but pick a spot where we can hold out till dark, then mayhap sneak away in the dead of night. No matter what, we’re in for a fight.”

  “I’m a fouled anchor on a fast ship. You leave me somewheres,” Lem suggested, “yuh’d likely get free an’ clear.”

  “There’ll be no leavin’ of anybody, Lemuel,” Hannah Ferrenden said sternly. “Any more of that nonsense, I’ll tie a knot in your tongue. Where to, Mister Wentsell?”

  “Slate Cove. High ground, heavy brush an’ thickets, water more’n one place, deer trails ever’ point of the compass. Full brigade could disappear in such country.”

  “How far?” Lem demanded, good eye squinting.

  “Two miles, no more.”

  “Stand on them crutches,” Blake ordered. “I’ll carry yuh I must.”

  “Don’t need no wet nurse,” Lem grumped, heaving himself upright without assistance. “Check my primin’, Sarah.”

  “Everybody check their pans,” Wentsell instructed, in command of his wind once more. He passed down the line. “Blake, yuh guard the rear with yuh brother. Shorten that strap, mistress, pouch an’ horn level with yuh waist. Sister Sarah, fight starts, yuh hand the sergeant his Lancaster an’ load for him. Remember now, come along right smart and tree whenever I tell yuh. Here we go!”

  The presence of a superior enemy in heated pursuit sprouted wings on our moccasins. We bolted upcreek lickety-split, Lem’s hickory poles thudding like unshod hooves on cobblestones. In our haste, we worried naught what sign we left: It was either gain a haven offering cover of some sorts and a field of fire, or the Shawnee would catch us in the open and destroy our tiny column piecemeal.

  The hills surrounding the valley heightened and pinched in on Sunfish Creek from the north, so much so Wentsell decided we must switch banks, and began searching for a ford that would accommodate the old salt. Within the next half mile, he found a suitable site. Buffalo, now rare as the King’s crown, had long ago shouldered young willows aside and with their repeated crossings pounded the bank bare at water’s edge. In midstream the Sunfish was just thigh-deep, no barrier whatsoever for the splashing Lem.

  Reaching the south bank, we followed the buffalo trace through scattered trees. The worn rut coursed upward on rising ground that crested atop a bowled swale. Seeking the quickest route to Slate Cove, we tramped the old buffalo road down into the bottom of the swale where a thin brook raced through slough grass and mossy rocks round and smooth as cannon balls. We were tiring, and Wentsell sacrificed one brief minute for us to flop belly down and partake lustily of the sparkling cold water. Refreshed, we rose at his sharp call and stepping from rock to rock, crossed the brook.

  The hoof-battered trace stretched ahead, lifting again to ascend the far slope of the swale. We were past the first row of trees, still spread out from crossing the brook, our minds guessing how close behind the enemy might be, when the Shawnee hit us from the front quarter.

  In the hairsbreadth twixt Wentsell’s warning scream of “Tree” and the blood-curdling screech of countless Redstick throats, my skin goosefleshed, my heart shuddered and my bladder threatened to loose its holdings. I swallowed my fright in one huge gulp and did as Wentsell commanded, lunging for the closest tree trunk as the Shawnee opened fire. My shoulder struck welcome bark with me somehow unhurt and I hung there, breath drawn, and brought my Lancaster to my chest, cocking it as the barrel rose above my head.

  With a lull in the Shawnee firing, I swept the Lancaster’s muzzle round that protecting trunk and followed slowly with my head, sighting before laying eye on a target. The Shawnee were advancing afoot behind the surprise of their initial volley. A hideously painted bronze body paused in the jaws of my sights, and I squeezed trigger with the gentle pressure one might tap a baby’s nose to
gain its attention.

  Without lingering to determine the success of the shot, I snapped my head behind the tree, lowered the Lancaster beside my left foot, wedged the barrel against my flank with my left arm, dropped a ball from my pouch in my palm, calmly poured powder from horn with my free hand till it covered the bullet and lastly, spilling hardly a grain, dumped ball and powder down the barrel. It was then I heard him—Blake, that is—shouting to me above the godawful din of yelling savages swooping down on us. “Help the mistress, brother! Look at your feet!”

  I looked, and in the middle of the rutted trace, Hannah Ferrenden was on hands and knees, blood staining the sleeve of her shirt, violet eyes staring past me up the slope, transfixed by the onrushing enemy. Cursing the need to abandon cover, I nonetheless went to her with no thought of my own safety: It was get her up and away or lose the woman I loved to a blow from a heathen hatchet.

  Lancaster barrel clamped in left hand, I went for her low and fast, crab-walking on my right hand and the toes of both feet with the harried scurry of the crawfish. It was no time or place for gentleness. I grabbed a handful of shirt at the middle of her back and scrambled sideways toward the nearest cover, dragging her after me, surprised she seemed lighter than air.

  Short of the beckoning trees, Wentsell loomed before me and blocked the path of two hatchet-wielding Shawnee so close upon us I heard their pants as well as war whoops. “Hold firm, lad!” As patient as if he had the whole afternoon, the fearless ranger stuffed powder and not one, but two balls into the smoothbore Brown Bess, tapped the butt solidly on the ground and, pan already primed, lifted musket to cheek. The large bore flintlock boomed and the feet were jerked from under both approaching savages, felled as if they’d run full blast into a ship’s cable in the dark of night.

  More firings elsewhere, some from the Shawnee position, two from near the brook where I’d last seen Lem and Blake. I shoved Hannah Ferrenden behind a not-so-large sycamore and spun around in a crouch, sensing the second wave of the Shawnee onslaught. Moccasined feet capping bare legs flung brown earth at the edge of my vision. When no ball ripped into me, I thmst upward with the Lancaster to ward off the coming blow. The blade of the descending war club wranged on my rifle barrel and the long-handled weapon, torn from copper fingers by the impact, nicked my hat crown as it sailed over my head.

  The Shawnee’s hurtling body slammed into my left side, bending me over. I loosed the Lancaster and toppled willingly under his weight, lifting my legs as I hit backside down, and his naked torso skidded across my upper chest, smearing my frock with paint, bear’s grease and sweat. Biting teeth snapped short of my ear and steely fingers clutched my windpipe. My clawing right hand found the handle of my hatchet and clinging fast to him with my other arm, I lifted it clear of my sash and chopped at his roached hair. His mouth yawned open and the iron grip on my throat slackened. There wasn’t an ounce of mercy in my soul. I was peering straight into his stunned, unseeing eyes when the second strike of my hatchet split his skull asunder.

  I abandoned the embedded hatchet, rolled onto my knees and felt for my Lancaster while looking all about, expecting another assault. Hannah Ferrenden was on her feet, plastered to the sycamore, Wentsell’s rifle, which she had somehow kept possession of all the while, aimed at the Shawnee point of attack. Across the rutted trace, Wentsell himself, though seemingly favoring his right side, sliced the topknot from a dead warrior and held the bloody trophy aloft, taunting the enemy with their own eerie “scalp halloo.” At the brook, Lem sat on his haunches reloading his rifle, a dead warrior at his feet, another stretched beside him with a boned knife sticking from his belly hole. Right of him a few paces, a kneeling Blake drew bead on a target back toward the center of the swale. I glanced that way just as swaying bushes closed behind bare copper shoulders wide as an ox yoke. A bitterly disappointed Blake cursed and lowered his long rifle.

  I looked all about a second time and sure enough the Shawnee were gone … and so was Sarah.

  Chapter 25

  Evening, September 20

  In the aftermath of the preceding bedlam, the sudden quiet was equally profound. Powder smoke hazed the still air. Not a solitary moan issued from any of the six Shawnee bodies littering the rutted trace. The gurgle of the brook became a roar in my ear.

  Much as I desired to see about Hannah Ferrenden’s wound, I stayed put on my knees till I seated the ball already in the barrel of Lancaster and primed the pan, then worked my hatchet from the skull of the slain Shawnee, flinching at the grate of the blade popping loose.

  The judge’s daughter had herself propped behind the sycamore, Wentsell’s rifle across her lap. She was peering into an opening she’d cut in the bloody sleeve of her doeskin shirt.

  “Hurt bad?”

  Her head tilted, black hair nestling against scaly bark, and she watched me with eyes clear and level. Pain flattened her lips but she uttered no complaint. There wasn’t enough quit in the woman to fill a charge cup. “Ain’t but a little gouge, the bleeding’s stopped for now. I screw my courage up, I’ll douse it with Wentsell’s whiskey.” She sighed and closed her eyes. “We don’t get free of this god-forsaken country, you’re gonna be killed yet saving me from certain death. Thank you, Blaine Tyler, again.”

  She was spent, drained by the excitement of the close-quarter fight and the shock of the Shawnee bullet, and never a man to beat his gums when silence sufficed, I squeezed her moccasined foot and went to check how Lem and Blake had fared.

  No worse for wear, the old salt remained on his haunches at brook’s edge. Blake, by some miracle also unscathed, tugged his knife from the dead Shawnee’s belly and wiped the blade on the deerskin leggin of his victim.

  “She was right there waitin’ ta reload for me,” Lem was saying. “Then yuh had ta drag that one off’n me. Soon as yuh took ta wrestlin with him, Three Feathers come runnin’ and leapin’ from the left. He didn’t give me an’ yuh a moment’s pause. It was Sarah he was after. He scooped her up, an’ with my rifle empty an’ only one leg, I couldn’t help her atall.”

  Blake sheathed his knife. “Then the ambush was just ta take her back from us.”

  “No question, bucko,” Wentsell agreed heartily. No stain of red was evident, but the ranger obviously favored ribs on his right side. He planted himself among the stones of the brook, musket cradled in his left arm, and bent carefully to wash the scalp he’d torn from a Shawnee skull.

  He swished his bloody trophy about in the shallow water, counting the Redstick dead aloud. “Bashed their snouts ta a fare-thee-well we did,” he boasted. “But they’ll come at us again, an’ afore we expect it. Eight of ’em an’ Three Feathers bit into us. I saw an even dozen on the Scioto. So, forgettin’ these six dead, we add Three Feathers an’ the two who skedaddled with him ta the three on our backtrail, they’s six of ’em all told alive an’ kickin’ somewheres.”

  Voice edged with anger at the new loss of Sarah, Blake asked sharply, “What now?”

  Wentsell ignored Brother’s brusque manner and slid the dripping scalp behind his sash belt. “Three Feathers got what he came for, but that don’t end nothin’. He’s gonna hunt us liken we would a maddened dog. He can’t abide we trailed him ta Paint Creek an’ snatched Sarah from under his heathen nose. He’s aware too we got the Water Princess away from Meek. That weren’t overall insult enough, he pinches us in as clever an ambush as I’ll ever lumber into an’ loses near his whole party stealin’ Sarah again. Sure as I’m bound ta burn in Hell, his back’ll stay humped till he lifts the hair off’n each of our heads.”

  Blake’s impatience increased with the ranger’s every word. “What’s next for us?” he demanded.

  I swallowed good and hard. Brother was bordering on outright rudeness with a long hunter whose temper was legion. Wentsell’s head turned a tad and he glared at Blake. He spoke slow as ever. “Be dark three-four hours. We need ta rest an’ gather ourselves for another fair bait of travel. Over east of Slate Cove on Dry Ridge, there be a sandst
one cave big enough ta hide us. It’ll be a chore climbin’ up there, we’ll have ta carry the sergeant some, but thataway he won’t leave scratches on the rock with his crutches neither. Night’ll fall afore the Shawnee can track us that far, so we can wink off an’ taken out after midnight, gainin’ us a lead on the red devils. Tomorrow, we’ll make for Brush Creek, lash up a raft, and float for the Ohio. That was my plan all along. That match the set of your sails, Mister Blake Tyler?”

  “We ain’t leavin’ Sarah behind,” Brother said as blunt as the blow of a fist, eyes the cold dull gray of winter sleet. His blatantly naked challenge of Wentsell’s authority spawned goose flesh on parts of me the Shawnee war screech hadn’t touched.

  Wentsell’s left arm lifted slightly, his right hand drifted forward with thumb extended, and in half a wink, the Brown Bess no longer filled the crook of his elbow: It lay across his forearm, barrel trained. on Blake’s breastbone, hammer at full cock. And with that incredibly smooth drawing down, Blake, Lancaster butted beside him, stood with both feet in the grave.

  I neither spoke nor moved, fearful any sound or act by Blake’s brother would be considered a threatening gesture by Wentsell and prompt the ranger to fire. The oily click of a second hammer snugging home made even Wentsell blink. “I’ve not had a bath or good wash in two days, my arm is hurting, and I’m in no mood to watch a man killed whose only sin is loving his sister. It’s your choice, Mr. Wentsell. As Lemuel is wont to say, ‘Dead be dead no matter where.’”

  It was touch and go for another quarter minute; then that crooked grin split Wentsell’s lips and my innards ceased trying to strangle each other. “I wouldn’t like it bandied about after I’m dead an’ buried I provoked any woman into shootin’ me with my own rifle. That would be right unseemly,” the ranger conceded, lowering the musket hammer to half cock.

  If Wentsell believed his concession closed the book on the whole sorry episode, he was mistaken, for Hannah Ferrenden had one last page to read. Her rifle barrel neither budged nor wavered. “We don’t, in truth, dare help Sarah?”