Winter Crossing

by James E Ferrell

  Now Elam had seen some sights, but this was one he had never seen the likes of before. He stood puzzled about it for some time. After a while, caution overcame his curiosity. He figured the rainwater would collect in the mountain streams and flow into the gully and spiral down into that hole, so he decided it was time he left for higher ground and look for a good, dry place to spend the night

  A quarter mile away, he climbed up on a high hill where he found an overhang. It accommodated him just as he wished, high and dry. With the storm rolling in, Elam quickly stored his pack and gathered as much firewood as he could drag under the overhang. Against the back wall, he used the same spot where many fires had glowed. Suddenly, he realized that the smoke from previous fires had not been so long ago. Dismissing it from his mind, Elam set to making a fire and spread his bedroll for the coming night.

  Before the rains came, he sat watching a lightning storm, the likes of which he had never seen. At this high altitude, the light show was magnificent. Sinking further into the overhang, Elam closed his eyes to the blinding light that crisscrossed the black sky.

  Then the rains came. Right up until dark, he heard the storms crossing the mountains, and the thunder shook the earth. This storm was the first rain of the spring season and it was a doozy. All the small lakes that Elam had seen were filling to the brim. That night he realized no Indian trouble would come in these mountains. About midnight, the runoff reached the funnel and without warning there was a roaring sound. It echoed among the mountains as if a beast the size of a house was making a ruckus. The water rush intensified as it circled the bowl and ran into the funnel opening. At first, Elam sat up and grabbed his rifle, thinking he was in the same cave with an enormous bear. He tried to figure what was out in the darkness making that awful noise and was prepared to shoot if it came charging up into his camp. Then slowly, he realized the horrible sound was water swirling around the funnel and rushing into the hole.

  Elam laid back down in his dry and cozy spot behind the fire, as a slow smile began to cover his face. Here he was in the heart of Indian country and he could live without much danger. Those Indians were a superstitious lot. Between the lightning wars in the heavens and the raging water noise echoing through the mountains, they would never come into these hills. He could build corrals and a cabin and live comfortably without worry while he broke the wild horses.

  The next week Elam went deeper into the hills roaming the vast maze of grasslands that rolled over hills and valleys. Spring came to this wilderness and everywhere there was new life. He took to hunting deer with his bow keeping the noise down. Gunshots in this country were loud, sounding like a clap of thunder that rolled over the hills in all directions.

  Elam’s years in the wilderness had made him as skilled as any Indian at living off the land. He was at one with nature, more at home than any place he had ever been. Only a vague memory of a mother who had died when he was twelve. He was the youngest of twelve brothers and sisters. They were all grown and gone before his mother died. As a boy, Elam went wandering through the Tennessee mountains coming and going as he pleased through that lonely country.

  A leather cord around his neck held a locket with his mother’s picture. Several books in his pack held writings that she had pinned. He had little learning and could not read or write, but these letters and books had been hers. Elam’s mother had written family names and such in the front of one of the volumes. These were the things he held of value aside from his weapons. One day when he was not ashamed, he would have someone read them to him.

  This day was a good one as he found himself a place of which all men dreamed. Elam was making his way through a forest of white birch. Suddenly, he broke from the forest and found himself standing on a mountain ledge overlooking a beautiful valley. The scene was breathtaking and he stood for a long time admiring the valley below.

  Standing where no white man had ever stood, Elam knew that this was his valley. There was a stream that ran across the valley floor and a stand of birch trees that were all the right size to build a cabin. It also had natural grasslands to graze the wild horses he would catch.

  Off the mountainside he went, excited at his find and wanting to explore every part of his valley. Beaver had built dams on the creek in several places making deep ponds that were teeming with fish. The beavers hissed at him as Elam invaded their kingdom, but he paid them no mind. He was looking around for the best place to build his cabin. It had to be a place he could defend and be able to watch his valley from all directions. Sooner or later, Indians would come to call. The best position to defend his new homestead turned out to be a rocky ledge above the stream for it offered the perfect place to build.

  For the next two weeks, Elam Franklin worked with a vengeance cutting and notching trees. By the third week, he finished the roof and chimney. Now, all was ready for him to move in. He sat on a bench leaning against the cabin wall admiring the first bed he could ever remember. Leather straps laced the framework. They were extra-long and wide to accommodate his long legs. Elam believed that bed was the last piece of furniture he would need. After getting the heavy bed where he wanted it, Elam went to the creek to spear a fish for supper. It was late evening. Across the mountains, he heard an echoing sound of low thunder. For a long time, he sat and listened. The sky was clear, and he began to wonder if it was thunder at all, or possibly the sounds of guns echoing up the canyon.

  The spring thunderstorm Elam had expected to roll across the valley never came and it gave him an uneasiness for he had heard the thunder the night before. The next morning before daylight, he was sitting on his front porch rocker relaxing from a good night’s sleep and drinking his first cup of coffee. Before him was a serenity he had longed for but had never found in all his wandering.

  His eyes drifted along with the swift-moving stream that flowed across his valley. In Elam’s mind, he saw himself fishing this stream daily for fresh fish and bathing each night in its clear life-giving water. He was at peace in this beautiful land, but that uneasy feeling from the night before flooded his thoughts again.

  ‘Sooner or later,’ he thought, ‘whatever wuz downriver will come to me.’ So being a Franklin, he just figured it would be best if he fetched it for himself. If it is thunder, he could rest easy. If it were gunshots, then there would be other folks in this wilderness that carried guns. He wanted to know if it was Indians or white men.

  Grumbling a little, Elam readied his pack and before the moonlight had vanished into first light, he left his cabin. He was heading downriver, careful not to move across open country. He occasionally stopped in the deep thicket to listen for what would follow if Indians were present.

  This river canyon ran for miles and miles before it exited these thundering hills. Any noise would be magnified along the sheer walls of rock as it rolled through the canyon and across Elam’s valleys. He made early camp and decided not to cook this night but eat jerky and the wild onions that grew all about the valleys. There was no problem with catching a good supper of fish. He just didn’t want his smoke or fire to be noticed downwind or from above him on the canyon rim.

  Early morning found Elam out of the high hill country on a big mountain prairie. Buffalo dotted the landscape and where there are buffalos, there are Indians. Staying with the river, he ventured out from the protection of the hills into a valley where the buffalo occasionally came to drink. He stayed below the level of the bank as it was a flat country where movement would be detected for miles. Knee-deep in the river’s edge, he made his way ever watchful for Indians. Suddenly alongside the river, Elam saw what had caused the noise the night before. The sight gave him a sick feeling, which he had never gotten used to.

  He knew at a glance--there was no one alive. The wagons still smoldered and bodies lay where they had fallen, stripped and mutilated. Everything of value was gone. Making sure there were no watchers, Elam exited the river and looked through the remaining things. With savages anything they do not think to be useful, they threw
away as they ransacked the wagons before setting them on fire.

  In the tall grass, he found a shovel and several iron rods that a tinker would have used in his trade, making knives and pots. A few metal and brass items were left, and he gathered everything together to be taken back with him. Iron and brass were a real treasure in the wilderness and he was a mite surprised the Indians had left them behind.

  The sides of the riverbanks indicated that from time to time, the river would over flood its banks. The next spring flood would carry away the wagons’ remains. Elam scanned the prairie as the early morning fog hung heavy across the valley. Taking the shovel, he dug graves in the soft, fertile soil and buried the bodies making sure not to make a mound, then replacing the sod on the graves just in case the Indians returned; not wanting a grave to indicate a white man had buried the dead in the heart of their country. Elam constructed no crosses to show the passing of these pilgrims through this land.

  Elam removed his leather hat and looked at the miles and miles of beauty that lay in every direction in the early morning. The birds sang and welcomed the new day with total disregard for the dismal scene that lay before them. He wondered, ‘How could such beautiful land be filled with such savagery?’

  The sun was high overhead and Elam was miles downstream from the safety of the foothills when he took up his pack and headed back upstream, making sure not to leave a footprint that the water did not wash away. He had almost reached the foothills when the sound of Indians talking and splashing in the stream ahead stopped him.

  Pushing in next to the bank, he eased himself closer to a bend in the river. Alarmed, he realized there were Indians above him moving along the bank. No doubt, they would soon discover him below them in the stream.

  The water had dug a deep hole where it made its turn against the outside bank. Looking around quickly, Elam spied a large rock protruding over the water, and with no other place to hide, he crossed the river and fought a strong current easing under the rock ledge.

  Pushing the heavy pack to the back of the overhang, he held to underwater roots to keep himself from being washed downstream with the swiftly moving current. From his hiding place, he could see around the bend where the stream widened into a deep pool. Before him, Indian braves and squaws played in the water.

  On the bank, several squaws worked at cleaning hides from fresh-killed buffalo, chattering in a dialect he recognized. Warriors stood on the bank and talked of the wagon train and a great red horse that flew above the burning wagons. Elam surmised the wagons had unknowingly camped in this valley where this savage tribe lived. For the next two hours, he watched the scene; there was nothing to do but wait and watch.

  Movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. Pushing further back, he turned his head to see the feet of a warrior standing on the opposite bank. The stream was about fifty feet wide at the point where the warrior stood, and Elam could see the fierce nature of the savage. He was a short, lean Indian with a red loincloth and hair braided with colorful bones. One side of his face was painted with red dye and the other a blue mixture of colors. He also wore a wide belt plaited from strips of leather and beads that held a tomahawk and long knife. He was a chilling sight. Elam’s heart skipped a beat when his gaze came to the Indian’s lance. Hanging from the lance were decorations of the scalps from many Indian warriors he had killed in battle. Among the scalps dangled a long blond braid of hair with a pink bow.

  The warrior walked away in the direction of the pool and the other warriors greeted him as a warrior of prominence. The morning sun had burned away the early morning fog. Scanning the far side of the riverbank, Elam saw columns of smoke that rose in the distance. Out in the valley, a vast Indian village stood. A few minutes later, the roll of distant thunder helped the Indians decide it was time to venture back to camp. Elam breathed a sigh of relief as he was finally able to make his way upstream back into the hills. He hoped for a thunderstorm to raise the river and then the Indians would assume the high water would have swept the bodies downstream. If not, they would surely know they had a white man living in their land.

  Departing the river, Elam made his way across the grasslands. His plan was to camp one night at the big rock before he made his way across the mountains to his cabin, just in case the Indians would track his footprints. Taking a small deer with his bow, Elam cleaned it by the stream before making his way across the tall grassland that led to the funnel. Before nightfall, he was under the overhang, roasting deer, waiting for lightning to come before the rain. This time as the thunder rolled and lightning flashed, he was hearing the sound of running horses. His heart leaped with joy as he left his cozy, dry place racing across the hills in the direction of the funnel.

  Lightening crashed around him and the air took on an eerie yellow haze. A strange sulfur smell permeated the night air and each time lightning struck, a ball of fire would seem to ignite in the air. As thunder shook the earth, he understood the fear the savages had for this land and knew he needed to be back under the big rock for his safety. Still, a distance from the funnel, Elam lay flat on a rock to lessen the chance of getting hit by lightning. From there, he strained his eyes, listening to the drumming of the horses’ hooves that seemed to be getting closer. Darkness closed in and he could only see when the lightning would illuminate the night sky for a fleeting moment.

  Unexpectedly, a vision was before him and then he was left again in darkness. Minutes later, lightning struck again, but the image was gone. Shaking his head, he turned and raced back to the overhang as the first drops of rain filled the air. The rain came so thick that he almost had to bow his head to catch a breath of air. Reaching the overhang, he stripped his wet clothing and hung them to dry. Without dry clothes to put on, he sat by the fire naked, eating the first good meal he had had in two days. The vision was still in his mind and he contemplated how it could be possible.

  Then came the monstrous sound of the water racing down the funnel and he knew the vision could not have been real. The rain was heavier than the last time. All night long, the sound echoed across the mountains and down the valleys long after the storms had passed.

  The sound of birds awoke him as the early dawn filtered through the opening under the overhang where he lay. Lying still a minute, Elam listened to sounds of the morning as he had done all of his life in the wilderness. Slowly awakening his senses to the morning sounds, he listened for any that were not of the wilderness. Setting a pot of coffee by the coals, Elam lay for a minute longer in his bedroll while adding sticks to rekindle the fire. His clothes had dried and he hurriedly dressed and prepared to leave.

  Elam Franklin was not a suspicious man, but the vision from the night before was too much for him to consider real. He would walk down to the funnel and see if there was an explanation for what he had seen. Then he would head home knowing a little more about his surroundings and the country he had taken as his home.

  Eating a good portion of the deer meat and drinking a pot of coffee, he doused the fire and left. He would have a full day walk to get back to his valley cabin. A few minutes later, Elam stood on the edge of the funnel and watched as water coursed down from the four streams that poured into it. The flow was not as strong now and the noise had changed from the roaring to a loud gurgling and popping sound. Looking at the scene, he dismissed the vision and headed home.

  Working his way around the funnel, he looked for any signs of the horses he had heard in the night, but there was no sign of their passing. Suddenly from the corner of his eye, he saw a movement and readied his bow. Then he heard a sound he knew well, the chomping of grass and the occasional stamping of a hoof to lose a fly. Elam eased himself up to the edge of the tree line and sat watching. Then his heart jumped with joy as the form of a horse grazing on the other side of the trees appeared. He had brought a rope and quickly untied it from the pack. He eased around the trees and saw the horse chomping the sweetgrass along a gully. The horse's head went up and he eyed Elam curiously then went back
to grazing. A wild horse would have never let a man get within roping distance of him. Elam stepped up to the horse, whispering and rubbing his hand along the smooth coat. He thought, ‘A might too small for me, but thar will be more in that herd, and you are a start.’ Slipping the rope over the horse’s head, he proceeded to lead her, but she moved with a limp.

  ‘So, this is why you let me catch you so easy. You have a sore foot!’ Elam thought. What he saw next amazed him all the more. The mare had iron shoes. She was shod, and one of her shoes was hanging on by a single hobnail.

  “Well, this is interestin’. Whar can you git a set of hosseshoes in the wilderness?” Elam asked.

  Removing the loose shoe Elam fashioned a halter and led the mare off across the hills headed for home. “I will remove the rest of the shoes when we git home, girl. Looks like you and I will have to do some explorin’. I will bring you back here in a few days and let you go. If I am right, you will lead me to your herd,” he said to the horse.

  Elam found his cabin as he had left it. He smiled to think he would get to sleep in the bed he had built. Putting his gear away and hobbling the horse, he turned her loose on the good grass of the valley. Taking his repeater rifle, he went to the stream. It was a bit cold, but lying back in the flow, he let the cool water run over his body. ‘This is as close to heaven as I will ever git,’ he thought.