In response, Riley barked just once. But the bark was serious, a definite warning. Something wasn’t right.
“All right. I understand. Let’s go back now, I’ll keep a watch out,” she said softly, her own sense of danger beginning to needle her.
As calmly as she could manage, she started back toward the cabin. But Riley didn’t follow. She looked back for him. His stance was rigid, menacing, and he hadn’t moved an inch. What was he doing? He wasn’t old enough yet to intimidate anything, except maybe a rabbit or squirrel.
“Riley, come boy,” she urged and kept walking, more briskly now. Nervously, she took a quick glance over her shoulder when he didn’t obey.
“Riley, come, now!” she yelled.
He caught up with her. But this time, his tail wasn’t wagging. He whined and nudged her hand with his cold nose. Could he smell something? He raced up to the porch as if to encourage her to hurry. And she did.
Alarm erupted fully within her as she leapt onto the porch, some the water splashing on her boots. “Riley, inside.”
But, acting like a great brave watch-dog, Riley jumped off the porch and ran off, barking, toward the woods.
Her heart sank. But there was nothing she could do now.
She hurried inside, slamming and barring the door behind her. Immediately, she peered through one of the port-holes but noticed nothing unusual. Best be ready though in case there really was trouble out there.
She grasped the rifle, opened the pan, filled it with powder, closed the pan, poured powder down the barrel, placed the ball in the barrel, drew the rammer, and rammed the powder and projectile.
The nagging in the back of her mind refused to be stilled. Something or someone was out there. It was early morning and William said he wouldn’t be back until late in the day. She struggled with the uncertainty in her mind. Should she saddle her mare and try to find William? No, she would have to risk exposing herself until she got the horse saddled. Should she wait on the porch where she could see her surroundings better? No, someone could sneak up behind the cabin. Should she just stay barred up inside until William returned? Yes, that was definitely the safest plan.
She heard the nicker of a horse and the answering soft, low, breathy whinny of Ginger. She peeked through the front port-hole hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever it might be. But spotted nothing. Unfamiliar sounds, though, seeped in to haunt her.
In quick succession, she peered first through the side portal and finding nothing crossed the cabin and looked out the other side as well. Nothing. Then she went back to the front port-hole and put her face to the hole.
Kelly flinched and sucked in a breath. She retreated a step and then another, her heart pounding.
An Indian’s dark eyes stared back at her. He gave her a narrowed glinting glance. “No Boone woman!” His tone was hostile. The rest of his words were in his native tongue. He wasn’t alone. Other footsteps resounded on her porch and she could hear Riley barking and growling at the intruders to his territory.
Fear gripped her, but she mustered her courage, raised the rifle, and advanced toward the portal. This was her home and she would defend it!
The savage stepped back as she presented the long rifle through the opening. He quite openly studied her, and she him. His long sinewy arms gripped a tomahawk. His coarse hair hung straight, and the skin of his bare hairless chest was a reddish-brown. He seemed impervious to the cold. And to fear.
It was the closest she’d ever been to a native and her heart thumped wildly in her chest.
He let out a fierce high-pitched cry, clearly intended to scare her.
She found the alarming sound exceedingly unnerving, and it sent shivers up and down her spine. But she wouldn’t frighten that easily. She would be safe as long as they didn’t set fire to the cabin.
She was tempted to just fire the rifle but feared that killing one of the braves would cause the others to attack. Should she shoot anyway? The flintlock rifle held one shot. Then she would only have a second shot with the pistol. She would have to make both shots count and then quickly reload before they could break down her door with their tomahawks.
She took a deep breath to steady her nerves. She trained the rifle’s sights on the brave’s chest. She didn’t want to kill him; she just wanted him to leave. But if she had to kill, she would.
He swiftly darted away, out of her line of sight.
Then she heard something on the side of the cabin. She instantly swiveled her head in that direction. Another Indian peered into her cabin from that porthole, his dark eyes animated and glimmering. A quick look at the other side of the cabin revealed the agitated face of yet another brave! Dear God, how many of them were there?
She remembered what Captain Sam had said about how important it was to make Indians believe you are brave, even if you are scared witless. If you display fear, they are far more likely to attack. She put her face close to the portal, the rifle protruding well out in front of her, and ignored her rapidly beating heart. “Leave my cabin. Now!” she roared, making her words a command, spoken with as much authority as she could muster.
Then a dirty hand reached over from the side and grabbed for her rifle. Fingers tightened around the long barrel. Using all her strength, she struggled to hold on to it. The brave’s other hand gripped the rifle too and then both hands commenced pulling the rifle away from her. She could feel the precious weapon slipping away. “No!” she shouted and fought to hold onto it. She put both of her legs up against the wall beneath the portal. Using her legs and weight for leverage, she wrestled the rifle back inside but fell backward in the process.
“You bloody beast. You’ll not take my rifle,” she shouted as she scampered up.
Kelly quickly traded her rifle for her already loaded pistol. She put its shorter barrel against the portal, but not beyond it. She’d learned her lesson.
She looked out again and her heart froze. A brave cruelly seized Riley by the neck and held him out at arm’s length. She’d heard that natives often ate dogs. The thought made her want to retch. A sweat broke out on her face. She couldn’t shoot the Indian without risking hitting Riley.
Her pup growled and wiggled trying to free himself from the Indian. Annoyed, the brave smacked Riley’s face with the back of his hand.
“You forest demon, leave my dog alone,” she bellowed. Powerless to stop him, her rage made her grind her teeth together.
Riley took the blow and then lips curled back, bared his teeth and growled ferociously.
At that, the Indian delivered a wallop to the dog’s side. Riley yelped in pain.
Kelly screamed. “You bastard!” she yelled. She stomped her foot in frustration. She desperately wanted to help Riley, but exposing herself would mean risking her baby’s life.
The despicable brave yanked out a knife and his expression grew even more malicious.
“Oh, God. Oh, God! No!” Now she wanted to bawl, but held a hand against her mouth, holding her horror in. She resisted the urge to throw open the door and race outside.
What should she do? She had to save Riley. Her nerves twitched madly. Her mind raced. Trade. Trade them something. Sam said Indians typically honor trades. But what? Her eyes darted around. Her new shawl? She grabbed it and put her face to the window. “Trade? Trade for dog?” She held the garment up to the port-hole for him to see and then pointed to Riley. “Trade?” Would they understand the word? She prayed they would.
Then two other braves rode up. The muscled, shiny arms of one held the three large hams from the smokehouse. Another Indian carried a sizable bag loaded with apples from their orchard and one of her egg chickens—the one named Deuteronomy. Its neck hung limp and flopped with each step of the brave’s horse.
Thieves! If they were hungry, she would have given them food if they’d just asked. But stealing food, especially during winter, was wicked and the worst kind of pilfering.
Following behind the braves who’d stolen the food, another more impressive Indian, his sh
aven head bedecked in colorful feathers, rode into sight. But this one’s plunder was far more precious. Someone’s little girl. A crying blonde-haired child of about five years rode in front of the imposing Indian, her fair ivory complexion in stark contrast to his dark skin. Her tiny legs didn’t even reach to his knees. Dressed poorly, the child had to be nearly frozen.
The sight stunned and sickened Kelly. Her stomach clenched as if gripped by icy fingers. “Lord have mercy,” she whispered aloud. Now tears filled her eyes in earnest as her heart reached out to the bawling little girl. She desperately wanted to help her. But how? What could she possibly do? Frustration made her pound her fist against her hip.
Bitter anger rose up inside her, climbing above her fear and shock. Suddenly enraged, she banished her tears and sorrow and replaced them with determination and grit that felt like a solid rock inside of her.
Somehow, she would help this child, she vowed, clenching her jaw.
The Indian carrying the sobbing child barked some orders to the others. The one on the porch in front of her reached in and yanked her shawl out.
She jumped back, but let him take it. Would they release Riley? Would they kill him? She shuddered at the thought. If they hurt him, she would shoot the Indian that did it, she swore to herself. She couldn’t shoot the one holding the child for fear of hitting the little girl, but she would sure as hell kill the brave who harmed Riley.
Then the brave dangling Riley dropped him to the ground.
Thank God.
Riley sprung up and raced to her door, then turned and started snarling at the braves, now leaving with their pickings and someone’s precious daughter.
Kelly listened until she could no longer hear the little girl’s wretched heartbreaking cries.
Chapter 24
William rubbed his forehead. Since early that morning, he had diligently tackled the official paperwork and tiresome details included in his duties. His stack of new statutes needing to be read, warrants to file, lists of tax evaders and taxpayers, correspondence, and all the other administrative work his job required seemed never-ending. What he wanted to do was far different—pursue criminals and see that they received the appropriate punishment.
And what he really yearned to do was even more different—he wanted to jump on his horse, go home, sweep his wonderful new wife up into his arms, and carry her to bed. He gave a few moments thought to doing just that. But his steadfast sense of duty held him back. He needed to put in a full morning’s work before he went home again to satisfy his aching, seemingly insatiable, need for her.
He stood and went to the window to stretch his aching neck and tight shoulders. The sky remained the grey-blue color of early winter. He noticed though that the occasional intrepid rays of sunshine already melted the earlier frost.
Just outside the fort’s entrance, a group of men were talking excitedly, and gesturing wildly as they hurried inside the enclosure. “Looks like trouble,” he told Deputy Mitchell, who sat nearby cleaning his pistol. “You’re in charge ‘til I get back,” William said. “I have a feeling this may take a while.”
He grabbed his shot flask, powder horn, and weapons. As usual, his long knife already hung from his belt. He donned his tricorne and coat and hurried outside.
“Sheriff Wyllie,” one man yelled as he strode toward William. His voice sounded frantic and worried. “Please help.”
“What is it?” William called, lengthening his stride in the man’s direction.
“My daughter. Savages have stolen her!” the man cried.
“You’re Mister Merrill, are you not?” William asked.
The man, holding the reins of his winded mount, nodded. Anxiety etched the features of his face. His dark hair hung on his forehead in clumps that got in his eyes. When he swiped them away, William could see his pleading eyes.
“How old is your daughter Mister Merrill?” William asked, laying a calming hand on the man’s shoulder. William could feel the poor father trembling with worry.
“She’s just five. Please, we have to hurry. They stole her away this morning while I was hunting. My wife says they headed away from my place toward Whispering Hills, where Colonel Boone used to live. We visited there once with Boone and his family,” Merrill answered, his voice wavering and his expression grim.
William’s stomach clenched as though bony fingers just clamped around it. “That’s where my home is. My wife is there.” Immediately, dread and anger knotted inside him. They would need the militia. He turned and sprinted toward Colonel Byrd, with Merrill and several other men in tow. The Colonel, standing tall and shouting orders, was training his militia on the far side of the Fort’s inner courtyard. Good, the men had already been mustered. That would save valuable time. He needed to reach Kelly and the little girl before the Indians could harm them. Just thinking of the possibility threatened to shatter his nerves. Trying to keep his worry under control in front of the other men, he took several deep breaths as he hurried toward the militia.
“Colonel Byrd,” William yelled as he ran up to Byrd with Merrill trailing just behind him. “Urgent news.”
“What is it, Sheriff Wyllie?” Byrd asked.
“Mister Merrill, tell the Colonel what’s happened, while I saddle my horse,” William directed. “And don’t worry, we will get her back.”
He ran to the nearby stable, his own apprehension building inside him like a developing thunderstorm. After quickly saddling Smoke, he rode back out to the Colonel, and then nearly vaulted off his stallion. His chest felt like it would burst if they didn’t get going soon.
“What’s your plan Sheriff Wyllie?” Byrd asked immediately. “Twenty-one men await your orders. Since it’s your home that may be under attack, I will defer to you.”
He checked the powder in his weapons and then tightened the cinch on Smoke as he spoke. “I’ll leave at once with Merrill. You and your men follow us as soon as you can. Bring plenty of lead.”
“As you say,” Byrd said and then starting barking orders to the militia.
William and Merrill mounted and turned to leave, but stopped when a rider stormed through the Fort’s gate riding to beat the devil.
The rider brought his horse to a skidding halt in front of the Colonel, William, and the others.
“What news do you bring?” Byrd asked the man and everyone else gathered in around the fellow’s lathered horse.
“The Shawnee attacked Logan’s Fort in retaliation for Colonel Logan’s raid,” the rider answered, nearly out of breath.
The man appeared both anxious and weary. He must have ridden all night.
William was already alarmed. Stephen, Jane, and their daughters now lived not far from Fort Logan. Sam and Bear would have ridden through the settlement on their way to Stephen’s new home about ten miles north of the Cumberland River. And all three brothers often went into the settlement for supplies. He didn’t want to wait any longer to leave, but he had to know what else the man had to say.
“But Logan’s Raid was ten years ago!” the Colonel objected.
William had been studying Kentucky history lately, as well as Kentucky law. A decade ago, Logan and his militia attacked Shawnee villages along the Mad River while their warriors were away raiding settlements here in Kentucky.
“It was, Sir, but as you know, in retaliation for native attacks on settlers, Colonel Logan’s forces burned Shawnee villages and food supplies and killed a considerable number of Indians who were not warriors. One of Logan’s men killed Moluntha, one of their older chiefs. So we speculate the attack is in retribution and stems from the long-held hatred of Logan by natives from the Ohio Country.”
William remembered reading that the killing of Moluntha was in retribution for the Battle of Blue Licks. A hotheaded soldier angrily felled the old chief with a hatchet, and, as he tried to regain his feet, killed him with a second blow and scalped him. The Shawnee then sought revenge by increasing their attacks on the whites.
It was the same scenario, repla
yed over and over, back and forth, again and again, with only the details changing. The memory of a person wronged, no matter the color of their skin, is long.
“Colonel, we must leave now!” William urged. “Mister Merrill’s daughter is in grave danger and my wife may be as well.”
“Please Colonel Byrd, you and your militia must depart straightaway to help the settlement at Fort Logan,” the rider pleaded. “A large number of Indians attacked. The women milking the cattle had to run for their lives. The men protecting them fired back. Arrows hit two of the militiamen—killed one and wounded the other. Captain Logan knew someone had to help the wounded man or he would certainly be killed. He asked for volunteers to go rescue him. No one volunteered.”
William knew right then that Sam and Bear were not at Fort Logan. If there was danger involved, Sam always volunteered and Bear would only be a step behind him.
The rider, both he and his horse still breathing hard, continued to relate his story, trying William’s scant patience.
“Logan decided to go alone to rescue the man. He used a large bail of wool as a shield and rolled it in front of him to get to the man, picked him up, and ran back to the fort. Then we watched in horror as the Indians lifted the scalp of the dead man in full view of the fort, including his screaming wife. Then the natives surrounded the fort and started building fires all around us. I escaped to seek help using our hidden tunnel to the well house.”
“This is disturbing,” Merrill grumbled, “but I have my own Indian troubles. My daughter is stolen. Colonel Byrd, we need to be on our way now.”
“I agree,” William said, “let’s go.”
“My apologies, Sir,” Byrd said quickly, as he turned to William, “but my men and I will not be able to assist you. Given the uncertainty of the situation at Fort Logan, and the number of threatened settlers there, I feel I need to take the entire militia there. I’m sure you and Mr. Merrill will be able to prevail against a small band of natives.”
William didn’t object to pursuing the child’s kidnappers without the militia’s help, but it did concern him that Colonel Byrd was leaving Fort Boonesborough and the town virtually undefended. The last thing the town needed now was a serious Indian attack like the one at Fort Logan. Boonesborough was overflowing with farmers and others ill-equipped with either experience or weapons to defend against attack.
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