Hunter's Moon

by Jay Heavner

  John sucked on his pipe. In the red glow from its bowl, he could see Washington was looking at him. He nodded his head. “Yes, I’ve heard the same stories and may know something about it.” He said no more, and the two men sat in silence, puffing their pipes. The smoke did an excellent job keeping gnats and mosquitoes away. A whippoorwill cried in the darkness and was answered by another far away. John remembered how the ghostly noise frightened him when he first came to the New World. Only after learning the haunting sound came from a small bird, did his fears left him. The birds continued to call and answer until a wolf howled in the distance. Perhaps tonight, a pack would take down one of the few remaining elk or wapiti as the Shawnee called them. He had not heard one bellowing for many moons.

  The night grew chilly, and the two men went inside for the night. John showed Washington a straw tick on the floor where he could sleep. Jenny had prepared for their guest. He could sleep in the crowded, warm cabin and not the barn. Soon the burning embers in the fireplace were the only thing providing light in the one-room filled with snoring people of all sizes.

  Early the next morning at dawn, all hands were called to prepare the breakfast, including the visiting Washington. John left to attend to the horses in the nearby barn. When he returned, the food was waiting. All ate a morning meal of eggs, salted ham, bread, and strong coffee. The latter was a luxury few on the frontier could afford. After the meal, John let Jenny and the kids do the cleanup, and he took Washington to the barn. He pointed to a saddlebag on Washington’s horse. He said, “I did a little inquiring after all had gone to bed last night. You will find some of what you need for the coming endeavors in the saddlebags. I believe you know what to do with it.”

  Washington opened the bag, carefully stuck in his hand, and pulled out several coins, gold coins. He looked at John and smiled. “You’ve always been able to come through for me. Thank you, and a nation still unborn thanks you. And as I said, I can keep a secret.” He put his index finger to his closed lips.

  Washington climbed onto his horse and was soon off down the slope. At the bottom, he turned and waved. John waved back as did the children on the porch of the cabin. It was then; he noticed Jenny standing behind him. He grimaced and asked, “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Long enough,” she said. “John, I’ve known you weren’t going for ginseng up in Pennsylvania years ago. At first, I thought you may have another woman or more somewhere, as do some of the long hunters. They’re no better than sailors with a girl in every port. But it just didn’t add up, and when Boone with his Quaker upbringings showed up with you, I knew I could trust you, though I still wasn’t sure what you were doing till some years later. John, I’ve suspected your gold stash for years now. I knew this farm did not provide for all we had, and you were getting money from somewhere. I listened to your conversation with Washington last night, and it all came together.”

  “Jenny, you’d make a good spy. I’m kind of glad you know. Let it be our little secret together.”

  “Okay, and I have a secret for you. In about six months there will be the pitter-patter of little feet around the house again, and I’m not talking of a new dog.” She smiled and let the news sink in.

  “Jenny, that’s wonderful. It looks like I have another reason to stay and guard the home front.”

  And he did, though no Indians attacked the little growing community around Ashby’s old Fort. Fighting with the Indians would be further west along the Ohio and with the bloody British far to the east along the Atlantic. Just the same, John was ready, but other things required his attention during these troubled times.

  Chapter 13

  1780 in the Indian Village of Chillicothe, Shawnee territory, present-day Ohio

  Old Chief Bimino of the Delaware tribe sat warming himself by the fire that spring day. His eyes were clouded, and his body feeble, but his mind was still clear. Age had not affected it like it had his sight and muscles. The visit from the three white men had stirred memories he would have just as soon forgotten. The world would continue on with or without his presence, and men would continue to be greedy and lust for more. They would breed, fight, kill others, and die either from their battles or old age, and then the cycle would continue over and over again.

  He hated those who had pushed his tribe west to Ohio from its homelands to the east on the Susquehanna River. His tribe, the Leni Lenape, or the Delaware as the whites called them, and the Shawnee had been forced out by both the stronger native Iroquois Nation and the English. They both wanted what was best for them, and the Delaware and Shawnee tribes were in the way. The two tribes would eventually find refuge here to the west of the Ohio River. This was the way of the world. His tribe had many, many years ago conquered and killed off another tribe and taken their land as their own. Today, all the old man wanted was to live and die in peace and maybe have a little vengeance to those who had wronged him.

  He hated the Englishmen in Pennsylvania who had wanted more and more land from them. Especially he hated William Penn’s sons involved in the “Walking Purchase.” The Indians should have known better than to trust the forked-tongue white men. They agreed the Delaware would give up the land a walking man could travel in a day and a half and no more. This man did not walk like a normal man, but “walked” with the speed of a deer pursued by wolves. He did not stop to eat or rest and had left their best warriors, witnesses to the treaty, in his dust. Some whites, he had found he could trust over time, but others only gained your trust to cheat and steal from you. How did one tell the difference? It had been better to hate and kill them all.

  He was tired and would soon sleep with his father. The young braves would have to adapt to the white’s ways or fight them to the death. The whites were too strong.

  The English forced the Delaware from the east, and Bimino, known to the whites as Killbuck, had lived among the English settlers in western Pennsylvania and the valleys of the South Branch of the Potomac River in Virginia during the 1740s and 1750s. His tribe knew the area as Wappacomo. A Mr. Peter Casey hired him to track down a runaway slave for a fee. When it came time to collect, the two men quarreled over the payment, and Casey knocked Killbuck down with his cane. How he wished to kill him from that day forward, but never had been able. Casey always managed to slip away. Just the same, many other whites would die from the knowledge he gleaned while living among them. Later, they would find shelter and protection with the Shawnee tribe across the Ohio River.

  The French were traders in goods the Indians wanted and needed and did not seem to crave the land as did the English. Like Killbuck, they hated the English, but could they be a powerful enough ally to drive the English back into the sea? He had believed so and thrown his support to them. Many whites had paid in blood for their deeds against him and his people. Killbuck and his warriors had killed the father of one of the men who visited with him. When he heard the names of his visitors, Vincent Williams, Benjamin Peter Casey, and John Phares, he had been surprised, though he had not shown it. It was funny how they wanted to dig up old war stories that had been buried, but yet seek his help in keeping peace with the Americans on the western frontier. They whiskey brought as a gift warmed his body and loosened his tongue. They said they wanted to know it all. Tell them the history of his tribe and the whites, but Killbuck knew some details should be dealt with carefully.

  “I will start my story with the man known as Washington,” Killbuck said. “He was a young fool when he attacked the French party when Jumon was killed. I hear he has learned much over the past years of warfare and is now fighting his old allies, the British. If you want me to persuade my people not to join the British in their fight against the Americans, I cannot. I am blind, old, and feeble, and the young braves no longer listen to me.”

  “I fought the whites in many battles. One, you called the ‘Battle of the Trough’ near the corn planting grounds of Old Fields. We killed many that day. One group of warriors battled your father, Mr. Williams. He was a brave m
an.” Killbuck thought it best to omit the part about Mr. Williams killing five warriors before he died, and the Indians quartered his body and left his head on a pike.

  “Mr. Ben Casey, I have no quarrel with you, but I would kill your father, Peter, today if I could. He refused to pay me for my retrieving a runaway slave and hit me with his cane. You can pay me his debt of 8 shillings, and all will be forgiven,” but Killbuck did not expect to be paid despite his offer.

  “General Braddock died near the forks of the Ohio, and we thought victory was ours if we continued to push the British and Colonials back to the eastern sea. We did for two years running, but a few settlers held on.”

  “And Mr. Phares, many times during the war when you were Washington’s messenger, we wanted to kill you, but you managed to slip away. I congratulate you on keeping your scalp. Many wanted to take it. You were at the battle on the Cacapon River near Fort Edwards. You remember, we killed the commander Mercer and wounded Daniel Morgan, but you escaped untouched.”

  John Phares thought of the letters he carried to Governor Dinwiddie and the Virginia Assembly from Colonel Washington, pleading for help in countering the savage’s attacks on the frontier. Little did they understand the situation, and aid was long in coming and nowhere adequate.

  Killbuck continued, “After a long and hard winter, we came again for battle in the year you know as 1758. We attacked the stockade called Fort Upper Tract destroying it, killed many, and took prisoners. The next day, we went over the mountains and trapped the whites in their round stockade they called Fort Seybert. A few fought bravely, but a foolish old man opened the gate when we promised no harm to those inside. We kept our promise, just like the whites taught us to trust theirs. We killed all we had no use for with the tomahawk, about 20, and carried off the rest with some items of value. And then we burned the fort. The settlers had much gold coin we placed in a pot and made them carry. It had little value to us, but the French treasured it greatly, and we could trade it for much goods. But it is heavy. We feared pursuit, and it slowed us down. We buried it among rocks and hoped to go back later to retrieve it, but could not. Forbes victory at the forks of the Ohio River would knock the fight out of our allies, the French.”

  Killbuck took another long swig from the whiskey bottle, swallowed, and began speaking again after a short pause. “A young white boy named Nicholas was with me in a canoe as we crossed a great river, and I saw him eyeing some distant ducks. I asked, is your eyesight good?

  “He answered quickly, ‘About as good as common.’

  “My next question scared him, ‘Did you shoot my two men from the fort?’ He trembled, and I order him to speak. The boy was brave, and I liked that, but I did not let him see this at first.

  “’Yes,’ he said, ‘and I know I hit them.’

  “How did you know you hit them? What evidence did you have of this?” I asked.

  “’The one I shot in the head, and I saw his head feathers floating in the stream water, and the other screamed out in pain when I shot him in the hip,’ the boy said.

  “Both men died,” said Killbuck.

  “’And I would have killed you, too, if the old man who let you in the fort had not pushed my gun barrel way as I tried to fire on you,’” the boy continued.

  A cruel smile came to Killbuck’s ugly face. “You are a brave boy. You did right in shooting as you did. We were your enemy. The tribe will adopt you, and you will become one of us. Then you will use that gun to kill the whites who will be your enemy.”

  “We traveled on to the village at Chillicothe. Later that year, we learned of British General Forbes’s victory over the French at the forks of the Ohio. A short-lived peace came to the land and Nicholas, and numerous other captured white children were returned. Many did not want to go but were forced to do so. Some escaped and returned to us.”

  He paused, “I am out of whiskey, but I have one more thing to tell, I think will interest you.” He stopped talking and waited. The three men looked at each other puzzled until John realized what Killbuck wanted. He pulled a bottle of whiskey from his haversack and placed it in the Indian’s hand.

  Killbuck smiled slightly. He took a drink, swallowed, and his smile became thoughtful. He spoke, “I have found a few things to be true in my life. One is that a man who says he’s never been scared is either a liar or has never done anything or been anywhere. Two, gold and trouble usually come as a pair. When gold comes into a man’s thinking, common sense goes away. Gold is a hard -found thing and even harder to keep. A man usually finds it when he is not looking.”

  The three men looked at each other surprised and puzzled. John shifted uneasily.

  “We had a young woman here in the village who was captured from the Cherokee,” Killbuck said. “She spoke English and Cherokee already and quickly learned our language and also French. She was unusually smart. She was sold to a French trader who later took her as his wife.

  “At that time, my sight and hearing were still very good. The Indians from several tribes returned to camp with booty from raids. The warriors traded their gold coins for bottles of whiskey, and the Frenchman was pleased with this deal. The braves did not know the value of what they had and sold much too cheap. That seems the way it has always been between the whites and Indians. One gold piece was on a necklace he gave to the woman. I overheard the Frenchman tell her he believed it part of Braddock’s lost gold payroll, and he wanted it for his own. I think gold is a curse and that is why I tell you this. I think many more white men will die seeking it, more than all tribes of the Indians could ever kill. Happy hunting.” He paused for effect. “ Now, I am tired, and I wish you to go before the whiskey makes me forget I am old and blind and wish to kill you.”

  The three men knew it was best to say nothing. They quickly rose and walked from the campfire where Killbuck sat drinking the whiskey. Killbuck was right. Gold and trouble came as a pair. Gold clouded a man’s thinking. Killbuck knew he had opened a Pandora’s box, and the three men had better beware. They would not be the last to deal with this snare.

  Chapter 14

  June 1975

  It was only after Tom had become a father himself, that he fully appreciated all his dad had done for him. Tom’s mother died young from cancer, and his dad became both mother and father to him. Life on the hard-scrabble farm had never been easy. It seemed no matter how hard you worked; there was never enough money, so Tom’s dad did what many men in his situation had to do; they drove a school bus for the county to supplement their income. Tom should have gone to school in Ridgeley or Wiley Ford, but his father hadn’t wanted him standing alone along WV Route 28 waiting for a bus. He rode his dad’s bus to the Short Gap School and later to Fort Ashby High. No questions had been asked about the correct school district for him when he started, and once in, the subject never came up.

  Tom often wondered why his dad never remarried. He guessed he had been too busy with the farm, his work and raising Tom, and maybe the right woman had never come along. He’d never heard his dad say an unkind word about his mother, who Tom could hardly remember. He’d been so young when she died. She must have been some woman.

  His dad had done a great job raising him. It was not that Tom was perfect by any means, but his dad just seemed to know what needed to be done. Tom had been pretty hard-headed and stubborn as a kid. It was only later he understood his dad’s lament, “Guess you’re blessed with children just like you.” His dad had been like him and sometimes had to learn the hard way, too.

  Tom’s dad fixed up his old pickup truck with a camper on the back. When he had time, his dad would take him to places usually within 150 miles distance of home. They’d been to the nation’s capital several times and nearby national and state parks, but what they enjoyed most was camping, fishing, and canoeing. For canoeing, they floated on nearby rivers and creeks. The North Branch of the Potomac at that time was too polluted with industrial discharge, acid mine drainage, and sewage for recreation. A great job of cleanup was bei
ng done now, and hopefully soon, it would be clean enough to use, but in the 1950s and 60s, tributaries of the South Branch were usually the place to go. Patterson Creek was small but close. They made certain there was ample water before they would go as there wasn’t always. They floated from the Route 46 Bridge all the way to the low water bridge near the little town of Patterson Creek. The stretch from Fort Ashby to the low water bridge was especially fun on a hot summer’s day, but portage was required around the old rock dam’s remains and the ford where the creek ran wide and low.

  They canoed and camped the South Branch from Moorefield to Millison’s Mill near Springfield. The first time Tom had ever seen marijuana was along that stretch. His dad told him what the curious tall Christmas tree-shaped weed was. The US Navy had planted it as a source of hemp for rope during WW II. They were concerned the Japanese would cut off the supply from Southeast Asia, mainly the Philippians. He heard some people had tried to smoke it and get high, but only succeeded in burning their lungs and throats from the smoke. Whether you could get high on it or not, the law looked at it as illegal drugs and would arrest you for possession. Tom and his dad just looked at the tall, dark weed, but never picked.

  The trip through the Trough was something Tom would never forget. Tom’s dad rented a canoe from the Trough General Store, south of Romney. They parked behind the store, and the business owner, a kindly young man, transported them and the canoe to the put-in place north of Moorefield, WV. The water was clear and cool that morning. He warned them about a rock ledge in the river they needed to avoid about 500 feet before the high railroad bridge. The ledge had swamped many a canoe, and they were grateful for the advice. Once past the bridge, civilization ended except for the railroad on the left-hand side that was not often visible. The river ran through a 1,000 foot deep cleft between two steep mountains. Long, deep pools with some minor rapids between them made for a leisurely float if you were careful. Some massive rocks nearly rose to the surface, and you better miss them. In the deep pools, Tom and his dad would occasionally see huge fish darting for cover in the dark water as they passed.