I let him go. Sticking with Uncle Jeremiah’s teachings, I made ready in case the gunshot’s echoing roll attracted hostile Injun attention. I scampered upright behind the elms, greased linen patch and metal pick from the box in the stock of the flintlock gripped between my teeth.
I measured with powder horn and charge cup, and with gun resting butt first on the ground, poured the precise charge of French black down the barrel. Next down the barrel, swathed in the greased linen patch and powered by a thrust of the hickory ramrod, went a ball from my shot pouch. I tamped patch and ball home and reseated the ramrod inside the thimbles and groove under the barrel with a slight snick of noise.
A flick of the wrist swept the butt of the rifle off the ground and balanced the weapon in my left hand with the lock at belly level. An off-hand tug set the hammer at half cock and exposed the firing pan. The tail of my hunting frock served as a handy rag for wiping clean the pan, the flint held by the jaws of the hammer, and the frizzen. A jab and twist of the metal pick reamed clean the touchhole in the bottom of the pan. Priming the pan with more powder completed the reloading, and off I went after the whitetail.
I disdained the open meadow, circled the shoulder of that eastern hill, and trotted northward along the bottom of a dry ravine. At the point I figured the buck entered the trees on the far hillside I started climbing. My luck held true. I topped the hill and over left of me, short of the crest, lay the buck, glazed eyes wide open, blood pooled ’neath his scarred neck.
I gutted and skinned him hastily, dressed the quarters and bundled them in the hide. Something had alerted that wild dead creature— some unnatural sound—and that festered in my craw. Being a fair distance from home and probably the only white man out and about for miles, I felt lonely and exposed even with close-by trees and brush masking my presence. The safety of the cabin and the compan-ionship of Stepfather and Jeremiah seemed all at once of paramount importance.
I abandoned the rest of the carcass and back-tracked for Wolf Creek. Early on I stuck behind good cover, checked my back trail, and moved at a slow, careful pace. But as a boy is prone when the winter sun warms his homeward-bound backside, my stride lengthened and the worry faded the farther I walked and the more I dreamily relived the morning hunt. How I fairly wanted to burst out and whistle a tune. I marched past the creek bend short of our cabin as carelessly as a love-befuddled stag in the rut.
And there stood the Ballard brothers, Timothy and Joseph, one on either side of the footpath, rifles leveled and centered on my breast-bone.
“Freeze right thar,” Timothy ordered.
I done as I was told. Let me tell you, those Ballards never were anything much to look at, what with their sparse black beards, long noses, beady gray eyes, and flesh white as milk. On top of that their hats drooped with age, animal blood stained their greatcoats, and their leather boots were badly worn at sole and heel. They smelt of wood smoke and manure and appeared duller than opossums in a motherly way. Some joked on them. But not I. Uncle Jeremiah’d admonished me once these two boys enjoyed a lick of dirty work long as the pay followed right after in gold coin. Little, if anything, was beneath them.
“Matthan,” Timothy said, “us’ens won’t harm you lest you get contrary. Now Joseph is goin’ round behin’ you an’ lay holt on that thar rifle…. You understan’?”
I nodded my head.
“You put that rifle butt agin the groun’ an’ keep lookin’ me right in the face. You look anywheres elst an’ I’ll blow a hole in your brisket…. You understan’?”
I nodded again.
“What about his knife an’ tomahawk?” queried Joseph.
“Pitch ’em,” Timothy responded.
I stood quietly while they disarmed me.
Timothy shifted his feet. He fixed me with a gaze cold as dead ashes and said slowly, “Now, Matthan, we all gonna head down fur the edge of your clearin’. I’ll be in front an’ Joseph straight behin’…. You understan’?”
He drew still another nod from me.
“Now, Matthan, donna get your pride up over this an’ try somethin’ stupid. Donna fret ’cause we tracked an’ taken you so easy. And donna try warnin’ your step-paw. If’n you give out with a peep or taken a misstep, Joseph’s gonna blow your backbone in two…. You understan’?”
I studied on his words—no fool this one. Nevertheless, I allowed as how once we were in single file and moving, the deer meat shielding my back might stop a shot from Joseph’s gun and give me the opportunity to pounce on Timothy. But Timothy, studying on how I was right big for a lad of ten and nine years, thought right with me. He smiled a yellow-toothed smile.
“Best drop the pack before we leave out of here, Matthan. We wouldn’ want anythin’ twixt your backside an’ a bullit, would we now?”
Respect for Timothy growing by the instant, I slid the straps from my shoulders and let the bundle of deer meat tumble into the dirt at my heels. The two of them had me in a box without a lid. I could only silently curse myself for letting them put me there without a struggle.
“Leave us go. Big people be awaitin’,” snapped Timothy.
Don’t miss….
BLOOD AT DAWN
Jim R. Woolard’s classic frontier epic of a young man raised to survive any battle he might encounter in a wild, savage, untamed land …
Young Ethan Downer may not look old enough to shave, but he was raised by his father to survive a harsh, unsettled land crawling with enemies eager to spill his blood. When Ethan joins General St. Clair’s troops on a hard march toward Ohio’s Wabash River, his hard won lessons will be put to the test like never before …
On a cold dawn in 1791, St. Clair’s exhausted army awakes to find itself surrounded by a well-planned Indian ambush. As the battle wages fiercely, the outcome is clear—there is no hope for survival. It’s a slaughter on a monumental level and only a desparate, futile plan might save a few lives. And Ethan Downer is unafraid to ride straight into the jaws of the enemy, guns blazing.
Available whereever ebooks are sold.
Jim R. Woolard is an acclaimed writer and historian. His novels, including Riding with Morgan, Riding for the Flag, Cold Moon, and Feathered Tide, portray life on the American frontier in all its harsh beauty and danger. Thunder in the Valley was awarded the Medicine Pipe for Best First Novel and the Spur Award for Best Original Paper back novel by the Western Writers of America.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
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Copyright © 1996 by Jim R. Woolard
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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First Electronic Edition: July 2017
eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0162-7
eISBN-10: 1-5161-0162-6
The Winds of Autumn Page 31