He could find nothing of use. Everything was gone, even the tack and metal bolts holding the wagon frames together. The sight before them scared Mary, and she began to cry. “Don’t cry, Mary,” he said as he led Red off across the hills in the direction the wagons were heading.
In the late evening, the wind kicked up, and the weather began to change. Dark clouds and thunder sounded over the plains and moved in their direction. The wind brought something to Red and his ears worked back and forth as he pranced across the tall grass. “What’s wrong with you, boy?” Danny questioned Red softly, trying to calm the big stallion. Then a sound came to Danny and he realized something was approaching.
“Mary, something is coming! Get over here and get on this horse now!” Danny demanded.
“No, I am picking Mommy some flowers and you can’t make me!” Mary said pouting.
Danny raised his voice at Mary and said, “Get over here now! It might be Indians!”
That was the wrong thing to say. Mary ran over to Danny, holding tightly to her blanket, screaming at the top of her lungs.
“Be quiet, Mary! I can’t hear with you screaming that away!” Danny pleaded.
Red’s eyes rolled and he would not hold still for Danny to get his sister on him. “Be quiet, Mary! You are scaring Red!” Almost throwing Mary on Red’s back, he worked the big horse behind a boulder. He stepped upon it and jumped straddling the big horse. Reaching around Mary, he grabbed a handful of Red’s mane. The sound grew closer, and the ground shook as thunder rolled over the hill. Suddenly lightning and thunder lit up the evening sky. Just as the first bolt of lightning struck in the distance, a herd of horses stampeded over the hill coming right for them.
“Go, Red!” Danny said as he wheeled the horse and raced off ahead of the herd at full gallop. All at once, horses were all around them. Danny gave Red his head and held on for dear life. Mary held Danny’s arm. Her blanket streamed like a red flag behind them as they were swept away in a mass of horses racing across the hills.
C7 Not a Place to Visit
Elam thought the last snow of the year was gone when he left Buckley in a rush with a new hankering to be back in the wilderness. Civilization always gave him a lean feeling in his pouch, and his stay in the Buckley jail left him without a pack mule and no means to carry all his trapping supplies except on his back. That jail gave him a new-found desire to be back in the wild country. Out there, it wasn’t so easy to offend a fellow that looked like he just drank from a pickle jar.
Two weeks heading south found Elam in fresh snow. The snow did not last more than a day before the sun turned it to mud. Traipsing through soft wet grass with a heavy pack had a tendency to slow a man down. He stood looking up a tree at a dead man. Elam figured the fellow tied himself up in the trees so wolves wouldn’t eat him. Standing there scratching his chin, he decided this pilgrim had gutshot himself. He saw on the dead man’s coat a mighty big bloodstain covering his middle and his handgun was missing. He found the dead man’s horse first just a few yards back down the trail. The horse was saddled and ready to ride, but the varmints had eaten all but the bones and the saddle and bridle leather parts that were not appealing to them.
He had ridden that horse hard, trying to get to civilization before it keeled over dead. Elam thought he might as well go through the dead man’s pockets and see if there was a coin or two. After all, he didn’t need it anymore. Elam was figuring to cut him loose and bury him. However, he was afraid the rotten flesh wouldn’t hold together when it hit the ground, and he might have a mess on his hands. Elam resolved that the tree would be the right place for him. Besides that, the ground was frozen so he couldn’t bury him deep enough and the view would be much better in the tree than looking at the root side of grass for eternity.
John Morgan’s cabin was clean and tidy. All Elam found was a note pinned to the table telling how a pilgrim and her children had found his body under a fallen tree and had buried him out to the side of the cabin. He visited his grave and then left. Since Elam had lost his friend, leaving was the best that could be done. As he left, he remembered how John Morgan had started him thinking about his foolish way of living and was hoping to set with him a spell.
Back in the Buckley jail, he had given some thought regarding the stories from thousands of years ago. The one about Shushan, the palace and old Mordecai, was a story Elam could hear time and time again. Now that Esther must have been one fine looking woman. Well, the king thought a mighty lot of her. God must have prepared her for saving her people from the Amorite’s, without her even knowing He was a doing it.
Elam said to himself, ‘Too bad God doesn’t do that today. Why I reckon things would be a lot better iffin’ He did. Don’t think I ever got out of them Bible stories what John wanted me to, but I shore enjoyed the listenin’.’
Two weeks later, he was traveling long days. Elam was starting to think, ‘Lookin’ back sometimes can make a feller mighty sad, and that is how I am a-feelin’ travelin’ south. A feller doesn’t make many acquaintances he wants to keep when he is a-livin’ in the wilderness. So, when you find a good-un, you sure do some grievin’ when he is kilt. Two weeks after I found the man in the tree, I came to the cabin of a feller I had been a-hankerin’ to spend some time talkin’ to. I had only seen him just the one time whiles I wuz in the Buckley jail, but he got me to thinkin’ a lot deeper than I had been a-doin' so fer in my life. This trip, I wuz a-plannin’ on a-stayin’ a night or two and have some tasty vittles with John Morgan. I had me a passel of questions I wuz a-wantin’ to ask him, but that wuz not to be.’
Elam’s back was sore from this heavy pack. Now, something had his cackles all riled up. Here he was standing in a tree line in a hostile country. Across a stream in the direction he was traveling, Elam stood watching a deer testing the air. The deer’s daily travels were much like his, determined by what he smelled on the wind. He had not had fresh venison in more than a month, and the sight of that deer made his mouth water. Taking a few rabbits and the like with a snare-trap and bow had been Elam’s only means of meat for weeks. He was traveling south. Cooking small game caught in a snare kept a man his size mighty hungry, but he had to keep himself unnoticed in this hostile land. His stomach was craving for a chunk of deer meat or a buffalo hump cooked over an open fire. However, this wasn’t the time or the place for a big kill. Elam could just up and shoot that big buck with his bow, but most of the meat would go to waste. Also, with a bow he would not be sure of a kill at this distance.
Traveling through this wilderness, Elam dared not let the savage Indians know a white man to be crossing their fair lands. On his last visit, he found the Indians to be a murderous lot that he would not be anxious to meet up with again. The time in the wilderness would have been three months crossing the mountains and down into the southern country, not counting his stay in the Buckley jail. Elam just naturally had a wandering itch and just followed whatever trail he found himself on—looking for a summering place which wasn’t quite so cold all the time.
Elam kept thinking, ‘Now here I be back in a country that draws me like a buffler’ chip draws flies. Say what I might, I come a-knowin’ thar be a might of danger. But a-fore I start out across this open country before me, I’ll jest stand in this tree line lookin’ and a-listenin’ a might longer. Leanin’ this heavy pack back against a tree relieves the pressure on my achin’ back. I be a-knowin’ if I take it off, I’ll not be a-puttin’ it on again this day and it be too early to camp. This buffler robe is shore comin’ off! I’ll jest plop it right on top of this pack. Caint make it that much heavier.’ Easing back into the trees, Elam removed his buffalo robe and put it on top of his pack. Like a cat on the prowl, Elam returned to the tree line.
Standing still, he scanned the open country across the stream and longed to make his evening camp on the far side, but his instincts told him not to venture out in the open just yet. A fellow living in the wild country had to cultivate a rare sense of awareness, or he would not be livi
ng long. To be caught out in the open in Indian country was the worst of all situations. So here he stood not moving a hair or muscle for a long time just watching. Elam’s senses were warning him to be of care this day. What he was looking for very well could be watching him. He had a growing feeling there may be a good reason for his concern.
Being a Franklin from Tennessee and a long line of wilderness smart folks, they all had this unique intuition that just naturally set them apart from regular folk. Rain these past few days had caused him great concern, so he kept his heavy Sharps and repeater rifle secured to his pack in oil-soaked hides to keep them dry. Looking at the open ground across this river, Elam contemplated if he could get to the rifles quickly should the need arise while crossing open ground. He thought not. That left his only defenses, the long blades he had in his waistband and boot, along with the longbow he used as a walking stick. He thought, ‘I’ll just stand here a might longer a-fore makin’ my crossin’ fer thars still time a-fore dark fall to find a good hidin’ place on the far side of the flats.’
Behind him was a forest of magnificent pines and birch growing right up along the edge of this shallow river that flows over a bed of gravel and rock that’s more than forty feet across. Back in this forest, he was secure, but out on the flat land, it would be hard to escape. Elam was aware that this particular stream grew to twice its width in the spring runoff. It carries a mighty river down the canyon into the valley below. On his previous trip, he saw large chunks of snow, one big as a cabin, floating down this creek. The spring thaw would be starting soon.
Downstream there was a waterfall of which Elam had never seen the likes before. Below the falls, there laid a valley filled with beaver and plenty of wild game. He had wintered there last time he was in this area, but there were too many Indians to suit him and had to leave these parts in a big hurry for the north country. Trying to keep his hair was essential to him, and in his haste, he had to leave behind a mighty fine stack of pelts for those redskins to use freely.
The waterfall was something to behold. It would take Elam all day to find a way down the mountain to the pool at the bottom. The pool under the waterfall was full of fish that jumped right into a fellow’s frying pan. His hunger was driving him to consider a climb to the bottom, but again the Indians that lived there weren’t a friendly bunch. So, his destination was across the creek and the plateau of knee-deep grass into the rolling hills beyond. In those mountain valleys, there were some horses he was aiming to fetch for himself. On his last trip through this country, Elam spotted a herd of the best horseflesh he had ever seen. He thought about how to catch them ever since. Now with his courage up, he was back for the horses.
Suddenly the deer threw up his head and went silently across the prairie at a dead run. Without any hesitation, Elam jumped into the water and began to run down-stream, picking up speed as fast as he could under the heavy pack. The bloodcurdling scream of an Indian helped him increase speed as he splashed through the ankle-deep water. The sound of running feet in the forest to his left and war cry along both sides of the creek assured him they had him figured. Elam shuddered to think about what they had planned for him. His instinct was right, and if they caught him out in the middle of this wide stream at the very least, he would not be wearing his hair. They were leaving him no choice. He tried to escape in the deep foliage of the forest.
The thump of arrows struck his pack, which protected his backside and some stuck in the shallow creek bed. Suddenly the war cries intensified as they realized they had scored a great victory, and Elam had fallen into their trap.
Ahead, the roar of the falls became louder and the river spread into a vast area before the falls. Indians wearing war paint were coming out of the tree line on each bank splashing out to capture Elam against the falls. Their murderous scream and painted faces were a might upsetting. In front of him, a large flat boulder washed smooth from years of water coursing over its face, offered a ramp to gain speed and distance as he sailed over the falls into the wide-open spaces beyond. Elam filled his lungs and let out a war cry from the adrenalin rush. He left the skins with a scream of his own for sure, figuring it was the last audible sound he would make this side of the grave. At this particular moment, he was plum scared to death and he just wanted to let off one last bit of frustration. Thank the Lord, Elam didn’t have time to think of what he was doing, or else there would have been a different solution.
Suddenly everything became quiet as he pulled the cords loose that held the heavy pack securely in place and let it drift off to his side still bound to him by a rope that he slipped over his hand. If by the smallest chance he survived, he would dearly need those rifles and supplies. Arrows floated down with Elam as he descended in a wet hazy rain. Moving his arms and legs, he kept himself from turning upside down as he passed out of sight from above in the cloud of misty air.
Unknown to him, several warriors stood looking over the falls as best they could, amazed at the courage of the white man. After much excited talk in their dialect and several braves reenacting what they saw for the latecomers, a war cry echoed down the canyon walls. One thing a savage loved was courage. They sounded a war cry for the white warrior that had just perished on the rocks below.
Doubting there would be anything left the river didn’t wash away, they decided against the painful descent to the valley floor. Looking for what was floating in the river of the heavy pack was not something this lazy bunch wanted to put forth energy on because these Indians left all the hard work of life to the squaws.
This story would be told for years to come around campfires and passed on by those who witnessed this spectacle today. They would be forever grateful for the display of courage from this tall warrior with white skin.
Below the vaporous cloud, Elam’s pack hit the water a fraction of a second before he did. He was not sure if it disturbed the surface enough to help lessen the impact of his fall, but he landed feet first and sunk like an arrow straight down into the icy water.
On his way down, the water stripped him of his heavy buffalo robe and a pair of freshly made moccasins, items he dearly hated to lose. His fall was not interrupted by any large objects such as a boulder and suddenly he was working with all his strength to regain the surface surprised to be alive. In his belt, a sharp long blade knife was still intact in case he needed to cut himself free from the pack.
Suddenly, the rope on his wrist tightened, jerking him in a horizontal direction. He was being pulled along somewhere below the surface of the water at a fast pace. He knew his pack would float and would seek the surface, hopefully dragging him along behind it. The problem would be if he could not reach the surface, he would drown. Elam’s lungs were burning now and he was still in darkness not knowing which was up or down. Pulling at the rope, hand over hand, he raced along the line, hoping to emerge. Light suddenly appeared above him and hope gave him the extra strength to swim for the surface. Then just as his head broke the surface and fresh air filled his lungs, the rope drew tight. It was caught on an object below the water. He was pulled down by the current that was taking the pack downstream. Instantly he reached for the knife at his belt and found it had been knocked loose. He found no way to free himself from the strong current pulling the rope ever tighter and tighter around his left wrist as he descended. The slack left from his climb up the rope had been his demise. It had circled an object below the surface, which was now pulling him down. Unknown to Elam, a hand above the water line slashed the rope with a knife and instantly he was up on top gasping for air and thanking God for His kindness.
For several minutes Elam clung to a large rock and tasted the sweet air as a babe that was taking his first breath. He was genuinely amazed that he was still alive. To his astonishment, he saw his pack lying on the far bank sitting high and dry. The moccasins and rope coiled neatly atop, and his knives sticking in the loose sand alongside.
The night was falling and he shouldered his pack and made his way from the riverbank. He had not ve
ntured more than a mile when a light came to him through the trees. Praying it was not those pesky Indians, he made his way along a well-used path until he could see a fire built against a large boulder where many a fire had been built. Standing in the darkness, he saw venison roasting on a spit and his buffalo robe dripping wet hung out to dry for his finding. Whoever Elam’s benefactor might be, that person was keenly aware of his needs.
Days later, he again headed out of the river basin country. He had once again found signs of Indians and was hankering to be away from the river. This time Elam was headed for the mountain valleys where he would lose himself and a redskin would not find him so easily. He knew they preferred the river valley and he was glad to give it to them if it meant he would keep his hair.
A week later, Elam reached his destination, a vast stretch of mountains between which small valleys lay hidden for only the most observant to find. For the next week, he ventured out from his camp, looking for just the right place to make his headquarters for the remainder of the spring and summer. Elam was an observant man always looking for the presence of those pesky Indians. Seldom did he find anything resembling an Indian footprint. It worried him a mite that the Indians did not come into these hills--but was mighty grateful they didn’t.
Had those redskins seen the wild horses Elam had seen last time he was here, they would be all over this country looking for them. For days now, he had walked up and down these hills and explored every valley, never finding a single hoof print. But he was a patient man knowing what he saw and willing to work to find the horses.
One day Elam had ventured deep into some broken hills when the sky became as black as night. Unless he found shelter quickly, he knew he was in for a real soaking. He came to a plateau on the side of a sprawling mountain. Its surface cut by a wide, dry gulley where water had coursed down from the high ranges. The bottom was sandy with partially exposed rocks along its course. Instead of crossing, Elam walked along the gulley since he was walking in that direction. The rugged watercourse held his interest until he came to a large opening where the limestone surface of a great bowl had been worn smooth along the waterway. Smack dab in the middle of that bowl, a large hole like a cave’s mouth sank down and into the side of the mountain. The cave’s mouth fascinated Elam. He was standing there right next to the hole on the limestone surface. The bowl was large enough for a small town. Its outer edge was surrounded by a great grass plateau.
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