The Winds of Autumn

by Jim R. Woolard

  “Captain Tyler,” she prodded, “unless I’m to sleep alone, your lean-to’s not nearly the proper size.”

  I let action speak for me and relaid the base of the shelter. At the finish, roof slanting upward from back to front, the completed structure was half again the width of my shoulders and slightly deeper than I was tall. I covered the enclosed ground with fresh willow branches, hurrying now, for with the fall of night skeeters were on the fly.

  Dropping the last willow branch in place, I turned toward her, came to attention and with a deep bow from the waist and flourishing doff of slough hat, announcted grandly, “My lady, your bed awaits.”

  She laughed good and loud, rose from the log, blankets wrapped about her, and crawled atop my makeshift ticking. When she said, “You may join me, sire,” I followed, her slim hand guiding me down beside her. She burrowed against my chest and tugged a blanket end over our heads. “The hell with Tice Wentsell and his Shawnee, I walked too far to be denied a good sleep.”

  Expecting she’d had her final say of the day, I wrapped an arm around her and pulled her closer. Her head lifted and she kissed me on the neck. “Thank you for your patience with me. I promise long as we’re together, I’ll not cry in front of others and embarrass you unless it can’t be helped. Trust me, it won’t happen often.”

  With that, she slept and I couldn’t. I lay awake, smelling her hair and feeling the yielding softness of her from shoulder to hip, fully aware of how desperately I would miss Hannah Ferrenden the first night I didn’t have her to hold.

  Chapter 27

  Early Morning till Noon, September 22

  Well before first light, hollow thudding and bumping ensued twixt the lean-to and Brush Creek. Groggy with sleep, I lay without moving and strained to pinpoint the source of the continuing racket over the night chorus of katydids and bank frogs. A little intent listening and I decided, bears not being night foragers, someone with two legs was responsible. From there, allowing the clumsiest Shawnee wouldn’t trip and fall repeatedly in the same place on the worst of nights, it was no great achievement to fathom a white man was the culprit. And with Lem restricted to one leg and undoubtedly sawing the log, that left only Tice Wentsell, which of itself wasn’t any surprise since the ranger seemed to sleep less than a famished wolf.

  With the open face of the lean-to still pitch black, I might have bundled Hannah Ferrenden closer and winked off again had not a nagging question begged response: Why bang about with only clouded moonlight to see by? Why not wait till dawn so whatever he was about could be accomplished with less difficulty and with help from those asleep?

  The answer when I figured it jolted me fully awake: Wentsell was raft building, raft building in the dead of night, and that could mean nothing other than he knew or suspected the Shawnee would be upon us shortly after daylight, if not sooner.

  As entwined as I was with the lady sharing my bed, I couldn’t rise from the willow ticking without disturbing her. I called her name gently close by her ear. I needn’t have worried, for she came instantly awake in complete control of herself. She listened and poked her head out of the blanket, peered into the night and in the flicker of a candle asked, “Why’s Mister Wentsell working on the raft in the dark? Are the Shawnee near?’

  “I fear so,” I answered, slipping my arm from beneath her. I crawled backward from the lean-to, Lancaster firmly in my grasp. “If’n yuh must tend yourself, see ta it, then bring the sergeant here soon as yuh can. I’m not mistaken, an unpleasant morning awaits us all.”

  The night breeze so common to autumn along the Ohio shivered the bed warmth from my limbs. I quick-stepped to the lower side of the driftwood heap where Wentsell toiled at the edge of the creek winding vine rope around the wooden members of the raft. The carefully arranged logs shone like white bones in the moonlight. I counted those forming the passenger platform, their number and length confirming he was tying up a craft for no more than two of us at best.

  So keen was his night sense, he heard me over the clack and whine of night critters before he saw me or I could utter a sound. “I scouted the Shawnee after midnight on a hunch. They’re sleepin’ back a ways right now next ta a piggin-a-day spring under some bottom elms. I put ’nuff of a sneak on ’em I heard snorin’ while I tallied topknots. They’s five of ’em.”

  “An’ Sarah?”

  “Probably sent her after the pack train guarded by the missin’ heathen. That chance may present itself ta yuh brother after all,” he said, tying an end knot. “No matter for us, though.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “They’s still ’nuff of ’em we try raftin’ out of their reach together, they’ll follow along the bank an’ shoot us from ambush one at a time. Mad as they gots ta be ’bout that whippin’ we gave ’em, they ain’t gonna be fussy how they lift our hair.”

  His calculated thinking was beyond reproach or argument. “What happens now?” I asked.

  ‘The mistress an’ the sergeant’ll sail the creek soon as we finish the raft. Yuh an’ me are gonna go it afoot. We’ll lure the red devils into a merry chase till their tongues dry out, givin’ her an’ the sergeant time ta gain such a lead no one’ll catch ’em afore they reach the Ohio. An’ show Lemuel Shakett wide water, he’ll fetch the mistress safely ta Limestone or my maw didn’t name me Tice.”

  “And what happens if the lady refuses ta leave her man?”

  Though her approach had been too quiet for my ears, Wentsell had to have known she was listening all the while. I was just thankful the poor light concealed the red skin her daringly personal question provoked above the collar of my frock.

  Wentsell stiffened like a fighting rooster poising his beak, but held his tongue, gazing straight at me and nowhere else. My thinking, for once, was in step with his. The ranger was in the pay of her father, and if Hannah Ferrenden took vehement exception to his plan and attempted to wield the judge’s authority over him, she would only delay the departure of the raft, endangering her own life. He waited for me to intercede and avoid both the delay and an unnecessary argument that would change nothing. When I spoke, I left no doubt as to my sentiments:

  “The lady refuses ta sail, she’ll be bound hand an’ foot an’ thrown aboard.”

  Feisty as she was about anybody deciding anything for her, she wouldn’t like my support of Wentsell. But if it came to a rooster fight, she had the smallest beak. We were bigger than she, and fleeing any manhandling of her, the only place to run was the lap of the enemy. Breath exploded behind me.

  “Damn you, Blaine Tyler. You’re as one-headed as your brother.”

  Lem humped forward to her side. “Yeh, he be that, but ever’ now an again, it be his savin’ grace,” he said, leaning on a crutch. “My King’s raft finished yet, Wentsell? Them Shawnee won’t wait for daylight neither, will they?”

  Lem’s joshing but serious querry reinforced how fleeting time was for us all, and when Wentsell forcefully assumed command, there was no objection forthcoming from any quarter. “Mistress, collect the blankets and saddle pouch. Sergeant, cut lanyards for yuh Lancaster an’ the Bess. I’ll have need of my rifle from here out. Mister Tyler, I’d welcome help with the cross-members. Smartly now!”

  The two of us completed the raft and frog-jumped it half into the creek. Hannah Ferrenden went aboard and secured blankets and the Oldham pouch to the bottom of the stubby mast centering the log platform. Next she lashed Lem’s rifle and the musket, butts down, to the mast with the old salt’s lanyards freshly cut from the skirt of his frock. The ranger and me manning opposite ends, we floated the clumsy craft in the shallows along the bank, creek water covering our thighs. We held firm while the sergeant clambered aboard. I then steadied the craft alone and Wentsell passed both passengers the long steering poles he’d sorted from the driftwood pile. They were as ready for the descent of Brush Creek as we could have them.

  Before I loosed the raft, Hannah Ferrenden knelt in front of me in the peak of false dawn, I believed to say good-bye, and r
ealizing I might never again gaze upon those magnificent violet eyes, the flawless skin and her full lips, I freed a hand, palmed the back of her neck and with Tice Wentsell, Lemuel Shakett, the Lord and perhaps the whole Shawnee war party watching, who the hell cared they were there anyway, I pulled her to me and kissed her mouth with every ounce of strength and feeling in me. She leaned into the kiss with a sigh music to my ears, unconcerned she might emerge bruised and smarting. Wentsell’s sharply rendered “It’ll have ta wait” broke us apart, but that single clinging exchange gave me an unforgettable foretaste of how wild and wonderful she’d be if I ever had her alone and willing. She drew away, looked straight into the middle of me and said, “I’ll wait at the Ferrenden Yard on Limestone Creek. Don’t tarry, Blaine Tyler.”

  Heart in my throat, I lingered in the thigh-deep water till the raft rounded the nearest southward-bound bend of Brush Creek. There was no final wave or gesture from her. Lem’s crisp orders drifting to us, she was all ears and diligently plying her steering pole the last I saw of her.

  Wentsell rapped gravel with his rifle butt and I walked out of the creek. If I wanted to keep my hair. I couldn’t dwell like a love-crazed buck on Hannah Ferrenden and all she promised. Much as I preferred it otherwise, she was for another day at another time.

  “Help me with the floatin’ log, then strip bare, lad. The far bank’s where we must be when our feathered friends show, an’ that’ll be shortly I know my Injuns.”

  We were across the creek, dressed again and tucked away on the crest of the opposite swell at full daylight, Wentsell’s chosen hiding place a sinkhole overgrown with goldenrod and stinkweed. The lack of trees on the swell’s crest concerned me, for any untoward movement would be easily spotted against the open skyline behind us. My concern heightened when Wentsell observed our location was perfect for his purposes, and ordered me to bring forth my spyglass. “I stand an’ make my insult ta goad ’em good an’ proper, yuh hold the long eye on the rest. I’ll be watchin’ Three Feathers.”

  Clearing my throat, I asked, “What happens after they’re angry as wet hornets?”

  He laughed fit for the devil. “They start crossin’ the creek, I’ll tell yuh which direction ta burn a shuck. Yuh bad side holds out, an’ it better, they’ll never eyeball either of us again. Leastways, I hope not. They kill us quick, they’ll set off after the mistress an’ the raft.”

  His blunt assessment of the day ahead didn’t exactly send my spirits soaring, but I took some measure of comfort from the knowledge that if I kept my hair past nightfall, I would insure the escape of the woman I loved. If I didn’t, better men than me had died for causes of far lesser consequence.

  I scrunched lower, checked my priming for the dozenth time, and trained my glass where we’d been. With us distanced but fifty-odd yards from the creek, the slant of the lean-to and the uppermost logs of the driftwood heap, wood knots and all, were precise and detailed as the crown of my hat at ann’s reach. The breeze blowing from our rear swayed cattails and rippled sun-dappled water at bank’s edge. The sky was clouding over, the white galleons of yesterday bunching and knitting into solid masses. The scene in the round of my lens was so unthreatening and calm, I had to shake myself to remember we were in the land of the Shawnee.

  When the red enemy showed, they were the wolf pack attacking: low, slashing, silent and vicious. They weren’t there, then they were, four of them initially, clad in nothing but moccasins, clout, waist belt, shot pouch and weapons, glistening with bear’s grease, stark war paint rilled with sweat, muscled skin taut as smooth stone. They overran our cold camp, circled and sniffed every inch of ground in the space of a few guttural growls too faint for our ears. Their noses lifted, the pack looked as one down their own backtrail, and Three Feathers trotted forward to join them.

  Roached heads nodded and wrists danced, after which their oversized chieftain examined lean-to and driftwood pile, then walked to the far creek bank and stared downstream. At fresh words and sign from him, the pack gathered for the upcoming rush to overtake the raft.

  Weed stalks rustled and goldenrod bloom jerked. Wentsell lifted slowly to his feet as if he were growing out of the sinkhole. A Shawnee spied him and pointed our way. “Don’t even twitch,” he ordered. “They’re not ta know you’re with me just yet.”

  Red heathen and white enemy eyed each other from fifty yards, neither moving till a Shawnee broke and whooped. He was silenced by a raised fist on the part of Three Feathers, and the silent standoff resumed. I was beginning to squirm when Wentsell began shouting in the Injun tongue. His message, riding to them on the breeze, was short and agitated them greatly. I peeked over my shoulder, and Wentsell was holding his braided pigtail above his bare head, flipping its ribboned tip back and forth, teasing and defying the savages. That wasn’t enough. He spun around with his backside to them, lifted the rear of his frock, forced his breeches past his hips, and bending at the waist, revealed fully to them the naked moons of his arse.

  “Hop up an’ do ’em the same,” he commanded. “I want ta be damn sure they don’t think ’bout that raft for a whole day an’ night.”

  Not as practiced as he, I was somewhat clumsy and shy, but got the deed done to his satisfaction. “Give ’em a good gander now. They ain’t throwin’ them muskets to their shoulders, so yuh ain’t riskin’ your sitter none.”

  A heap of breeze assailed our exposed haunches before he determined enough was enough. “Haul up yuh breeches, we’ve set the hook deep an’ true. They’re draggin’ logs to the bank, an’ wood don’t burn in the water.”

  Calm as a horse buyer judging penned stallions, the ranger knelt at the front lip of the sinkhole and waited till the five Shawnee departed the far bank. “That tears it, they’re all after us. Come along, Mister Tyler.”

  We dropped down the rear slope of the swell, took out to the west, and followed the bottom of a dry ravine wide enough and open enough for Wentsell’s desired pace, quick and quicker. We went in a straight line with little regard for covering our tracks. He had some eventful destination in mind as usual, and I matched him stride for stride, my wind stronger and more enduring than I anticipated. My wound was no bother, unless I misstepped and jarred my whole body.

  We scaled the head of the ravine, a deer run providing good footing for the climb. At the summit, Wentsell doubled back on our trail, saying, “Injuns learn trackin’ from their first step. Yuh can slow ’em with any trick once, never twice.” Afterwards, he sought the hardest and barest portions of the higher ground, seeking to hide the evidence of our passage more each passing hour.

  We nooned on a rock promontory affording an unobstructed view around as well as back along the ridgeline we’d occupied the bulk of the morning. Wentsell listened with head hung and jaw slacked open so long without movement I thought him asleep. He gave it up eventually, admitting, “Can’t hear their signal whistles. They’re either well behind us or bein’ wily as hell. We won’t trust ta neither an’ plan accordingly.”

  He dug in his possible sack and fessed up a small wad of smoked jerk for each of us. “Peel off a layer an’ chew on it liken it’s the last bite of anythin’ forever. Ramsey Morgan lasted weeks on a single mornin’ an’ afternoon piece no matter the weather.”

  We chewed jerk and spelled our legs, me pondering where Sarah might be right then to the north of us, and Hannah Ferrenden the opposite direction on the raft. Worrying over two women made a man’s heart plumb heavy.

  Wentsell ceased chewing like a spinning top slowing a little each turn, flowed to his feet and crept to the edge of the promontory, peering at the ridgeline to the south of us. “Bring yuh glass, Mister Tyler.”

  His brown finger aimed at a clearing on the center line of the ridge. “Little far for me, but I swear deer was just startled from there. Have a look-see.”

  The clearing welled in my lens, a pool of green shade beneath an outcropping of layered, crumbling slate black as midnight. Empty. I scanned left and right, above and below. Again nothi
ng.

  Wentsell’s patience exceeded mine. “Don’t quit. Whatever spooked the deer should be comin’ along any moment.”

  I steadied my knees and gripped the metal telescope firm but loose so as not to waver, the way Lem taught it was held on a ship’s deck. The ranger’s patience was rewarded. A plucked copper skull, half painted black as the slate behind it, floated above the underbrush that grew around the bottom of the clearing. The skull was there for three strides of fast-moving moccasins, then gone. I waited for another sighting, and though I actually saw no more Shawnee, the bottom bushes swished back and forth, too abruptly, I believed, to declare the wind to blame.

  At my report, Wentsell took his seat again, chewed jerk and engaged in some serious ruminating twixt his ears. His knowing grin, when it came, was that of the Injun hater whose fondest wish was about to be realized. “This fine afternoon’s gonna turn fang-mean an’ blood-ugly. They’re makin’ a surround again. Two on each flank working ahead of us, one behind ta blow his whistle an’ herd us into their ambush.” He pouched the jerk in his cheek. “Well, Three Feathers, me bucko, Tice Wentsell don’t never repeat his sins.”

  His cross-eyes sought me. “We’ll flip the blanket on ’em. I’ll hunt down the two yonder from behind, then their fellows on the other flank so’s they can’t gather on us. If’n yuh stay right here, you’re only concern’s the one followin’ us. Yuh does for him, don’t wait for me, head off thataway,” he advised, pointing to the southeast. “You’ll barge straight into Brush Creek without fail, an’ next thing yuh’ll be at the Ohio. Any questions?”

  If I’d had any, he had no patience for answers. Way back when, Lem had fairly warned that when you trailed with Tice Wentsell, he drove the wagon. He swept his moccasins beneath him and signaled for me to lead off down the scant pathway continuing westward from the promontory.

  Soon as we entered the first tree growth, he cast about and weighed possible sites from which I might waylay the single Shawnee he believed was coming from behind us. He decided a shallow cup of ground fronted by a twisted patch of cedars and rhododendron offered not one, but two distinct advantages: The cup was deep enough to hide my bulk, and the straight line of my rifle barrel would blend into the maze of needle and limb growing before it. He knelt briefly where I was to wait and confirmed the field of fire was sufficient.