The Winds of Autumn Page 3

  “Well, Obidiah was about ta end it all with that knife an’ not die of slow starvation when he laid a hand on his chest where be hurt the most … an’ lo and behold, guess what?” Lem paused deliberately. “He felt the ball that felled him, flattened out some but lodged tight under the big muscle near his armpit.”

  “He didn’t,” I said.

  “Yep, true ta the Lord, he did,” Lem declared emphatically. “What’d he do?’’ Blake prompted.

  Lem ignored our anticipation and interference in his storytelling and told the tale as if we hadn’t spoken. “Took the rest of the night an’ all next day, it did. He wriggled flat, sliced chest meat, tugged the cut open, an’ dug ta the bone with his blade, passin’ out more’n a dozen times till he finally wedged that ball free with the tip of the knife. He got that flattened ball into his mouth an’ over the last of daylight chewed it round. Never forget now, he weren’t even certain that coon would pass by that night, but he knowed it was his only chance ta ever see home again, so he paid no mind how his teeth took ta achin’, done his ball chewin’ an’ somehow scrunched about an’ loaded his rifle just ’fore dark. He cocked her right there so as not ta frighten Ol’ Father Coon later on.” Lem struck his knees with both palms. “An’ don’t you know, right after dark, down the deadfall the coon trundled an’ Obidiah shot him through the front quarters, killin’ him dead. An’ out from under the bushes Obidiah slid, gruntin’ an’ sweatin’ ever’ inch, an’ on his back he wormed across ta the carcass, slit the throat an’ drank that animal dry. He gummed down a raw leg after the suckin’ an’ then slept right there out in the open, too tuckered ta drag his kill ta cover.

  “Next mornin’, Caleb Warner found him there sound asleep. Thought he was dead, Caleb did, till Obidiah twitched an’ snored aloud. Warner was a great spy an’ scout, no better man ever trod the forest path, an’ he’d snuck back on the slim notion someone might be laid out an’ still drawin’ wind.”

  Lem swilled his final taste of rum and tabled the nearly empty jug. “An’ there be the real secret of soldier’n, Blake me bucko. Depend on your own self an’ you’ll have the best chance of seein’ fair Sarah an’ your brother here hale an’ hearty, an’ not end your days in a cold hole in some forgotten spot missin’ your hair!”

  By the last word of the yarn Lem’s shaggy head, good eye glinting like flint in the feeble candlelight, stuck out over the table inches from Blake’s equally sober face. Pushing rum haziness aside, my brother nodded slowly, taking the old soldier’s message to heart. Lem Shakett spoke from long experience only the unwise and foolish willingly ignored. “I’ll never forget Obidiah True, that you can trust,” Blake assured him as Lem settled back onto his rickety stool.

  Our favorite storyteller stifled a yawn and shoved the brown jug in front of Blake. “Good boy. Drain her dry and let’s call in the hounds.”

  “They’re not here … remember?” I forced around a tongue big and dry as a hickory post.

  “Oh, the hell with ’em,” Blake suggested loudly, and swallowed the last driblet of sweet liquor. With a glance at the sleeping Adam, he carefully set the empty jug on the table. “Listen ta that infernal wind howl. The rain’ll be a-poundin’ and the lightnin’ rippin’ here next and no red devil worth a fly on a horse’s behind will be nosin’ anywheres close about this night. Right, Lem?”

  I shook myself to attention and waited on Lem’s answer. Maybe it was the long ride home. Maybe it was the late hour and minds rendered dull by rum. Maybe it truly was the foul turn of weather raging beyond the door. Whatever, for better or worse, Lem’s earlier concern over the absence of the watchdogs went a glimmering: The Injun threat suddenly took second seat in the buggy to personal wants and whims. And I climbed in for the ride without a whimper of protest.

  Lem rose on shaky legs and smoothed pig-tailed hair with both hands. “Your wish is my command, future Colonel Tyler. It’s a seat at Emma’s Castle, then the blanket robe for me.”

  And there the night ended. Lem went armed to the necessary with Blake, and the two of them stumbled back through the door on a gust of wind that doused the Betty lamp on the work table. In total darkness we slept the numbed sleep of drunken sots, the last fearless slumber we enjoyed for many a night, for somewhere to the north moccasins bearing armed enemies padded silently south ward toward our dooryard … and miles upstream at the improvement beyond Turkey Neck, the Tyler watchdogs restlessly paced their locked enclosure, useless as teats on a stud horse.

  Chapter 3

  Early Morning, September 11

  The cabin shook … settled … shook again. My head was a thumping seed inside a bloated gourd. From somewhere miles away a voice babbled but made no sense whatsoever. I smacked dry lips and slept again.

  Not much later the cabin shook the hardest yet and a hand slapped my face. That strange voice called anew.

  “Blaine … Please, Blaine.”

  Through pain throbbing from forehead to nape of neck I realized I was being shaken, not the cabin, and it was Adam calling, pleading for me to awaken.

  Slowly my mind centered on what was happening. No sign of dawn light showed through from outside. Adam thus wanted me awake in the middle of the night, a blowing, stormy night. Being inside he had no reason to fear the storm. Something then was wrong: Something needed tending. And since I was closest to the door, Adam, a bright lad if nothing else, bad sought me first.

  I rolled into a sitting position, held rising bile down with clamped jaw and got a solid hold on my thumping skull with both hands. Damn Lem and his rum anyway.

  “What is it, Splinter?” I mumbled, biting my tongue while speaking. The sharp pain brought me around. I hurt godawful but I was fully awake.

  “Need I seek Paw?”

  I reached past his words in the dark and fastened hold of his elbow. “No, not yet, Splinter. What’s wrong?”

  Adam leaned nose-to-nose. “The horses are out. I heard snorting and hoofbeats and cracked the door and listened. They headed for Turkey Neck.”

  “Good boy. Good boy,” I whispered. “Just hold tight and let me ruminate a bit.”

  Paw disliked nothing more than failure to pen or barn the stock at night. Whether we had carelessly left a door ajar or the storm had started the horses milling and they had broken out on their own was of little consequence. Horseflesh was the backbone of the Tyler Plantation, and unless the animals were quickly gathered and returned home, some might be lost to injury, death or theft by roving Injuns, hampering our work for months. Somebody had to get a move on mighty fast.

  “Crawl over and wake Blake. Twist an ear if you must.” Adam turned and crept toward a snoring lump over beyond the table.

  If the horse stock was running free, and Adam’s ears could be trusted, Blake’s bay would lead them away at a goodly clip even in the dark. Under rein the bay never faltered or crossed his rider, but once on the loose he was hell to catch and dearly loved leading his companions deep into the woods. Though thanks to Adam we knew in which direction the horses had fled, Blake and I still faced a considerable hike. Brother’s early departure for Limestone seemed chancy at best.

  A sharp yelp of pain followed by muttered curses meant Adam had indeed twisted hard on Blake’s ear. The youngster crawled back across the puncheon floor. “He’ll meet yuh under the trot.”

  “Good. Leave Lem till daylight, then tell him where we’ve gone. We’ll find the horses and fetch the dogs home too. Lem can handle the chores. Lend a hand, you hear.”

  Without waiting for a reply I crawled a little myself, to the doorway, where my rifle leaned next to the jamb. I flattened, slid the unbarred door open a few inches, and looked and listened with utmost care. No matter not a solitary Redskin had been spotted during our three years at Tygart’s Creek: A cautionary soul kept his scalp many a year; dash forth alone in the midst of night very often and a hunter was likely to perish with but precious few memories.

  A stuttering breeze twirled dooryard dust. To my surprise and dismay t
he blustering storm had passed by to the north, gracing us with only thunder and lashing wind. A vague hint of fading moonlight shone through thinning clouds. The roofline of the barn was darker than the tall trees bordering the creek behind it. Blacker yet was the front entryway of the squat barn. I smothered a curse. We hadn’t securely latched the wide door after all.

  I heard Blake stirring, cracked the door just enough and slipped through low and quick and armed. At the corner of the sleeping cabin, under the roof of the dogtrot, I knelt and studied the yard once more. I took my time and had me a good long look-see.

  Nothing signaling any manner of untoward danger could be seen, heard or scented. At my soft whistle Blake joined me, flintlock at the ready. A swish of air toyed with the brim of his slouch hat. I went bareheaded as was my way.

  “No sign?” Blake inquired.

  “None. And none in Paw’s quarters neither.”

  “Thank the Lord. We’ll be off ’fore he knows what’s about. It’ll be easier catchin’ his hell with the horses in tow. Leaves yuh a smidgen of pride thataway.”

  I chuckled at Blake’s reasoning. He always shone the best light on the direst of situations, a habit that made him a right pleasant fellow to side with when things appeared a tad gloomy, which they did at the very moment.

  “Got your glass and jerk, brother?”

  I nodded yeah. Blake’s question confirmed that, as expected, though first light was not yet at hand, a brass spyglass hung from a hide thong round my neck and the wallet front of my frock held a ration of smoked beef jerk. Whenever we trailed together Blake did the tracking, which he had mastered with much practice, and I was counted upon for long eyes, vittles and an extra rifle.

  “Well, brother, we know the bay will run up-creek where he’s been before, straight through Turkey Neck for the improvement. With any luck atall we can head him at the Neck. If’n the rest follow him through an’ scatter, we’ll be gone a goodly while,” Blake predicted. “Let’s be about it.”

  We secured rope halters and lead rope from the empty barn, not bothering with saddles. We would travel light and bareback the riding stock home.

  Blake set off in long strides. We skirted the barn and pasture, angling away from Tygart’s Creek. The creek flowed south to north and dumped into the Ohio thirty miles downstream. Upstream four miles from the barn the creek swept out of the ragged narrows we called Turkey Neck and looped westward before curling around our way. Over time we had half worn a shortcut through the woods from the pasture to Turkey Neck. Give or take a twist left and right here and there, the woods path, best traversed afoot, halved the distance between the two points.

  At the outset our hike was uphill since departure from the Tyler plantation in most every direction called for an upward climb. Paw had deliberately located the cabin, barn and outbuildings on a wide bench surrounded by high ground. That way, everything harvested from the woods —logs, foundation stone, firewood—was rolled, sledded or lugged home downhill. Ridge dwellers were scorned at our table, and rightfully so.

  Beyond the crest of the surrounding hills the trees thickened on the southern slope. In the final hour of a night fit for a Tory heart, we wormed downward through the massive boles, moccasined feet alert for snags, rocks and sudden drops. My rum-head ached with each step. My knees were weak as poor tea. Sweat ran in chill rivulets under my frock. I cursed my weakness of last evening again and again.

  With first light the tall trunks lost their blackness and morning mist shown amongst them, fluffy and gray as sheared wool. We heard Tygart’s Creek before it could be seen. Without a word we slowed our pace and eased behind brush screening the near bank, staying in the first fringe of trees. Our line of march was true: Over left fifty odd yards the stream gurgled from a rocky slash in the woods, the lower outlet of Turkey Neck.

  “Damn,” Blake muttered.

  He knelt and pointed to the far bank, where an expanse of bare ground glistened with morning dew. I pulled my spyglass open and brought the lens to bear. A pattern of ridged scuffs scored the soft bank, hoof marks beyond a doubt. The bay and his companions had indeed not only made Turkey Neck, but gained a sizable lead on us too.

  Blake spat and frowned. “Fast as they moved, I’d swear someone hazed them a while,” he observed.

  “Boom.”

  The echo, from far downstream, rolled over us and jerked our heads about. “Boom. Boom. Boom.” Three more of the same in rapid succession.

  Blake’s eyes widened. “Holy Jesus,” he blurted out, “that’s musket fire. Injuns loosed the horses and tricked us away. What fools we are.” He rose and darted toward the shortcut. “Close your mouth and run, Blaine, ’fore we’re sorry forever.”

  I stood stock still, mind churning. What we pondered constantly, gabbed about at the table, during chores and into the wee hours, was finally here—an eyeball-to-eyeball fight with the Redsticks. Just a few miles back yonder my whole family was suddenly threatened with tomahawk, ball and knife; maybe worse, captivity and burning. The savages would spare the Tylers nothing, in that we trusted: We were the mortal enemy.

  The notion rampaging lnjuns might be harming Sarah, Adam or the twins roused my whole being and sent me flying in a head-down, knee-pumping run after Blake. Rum sickness be damned. Never was I more whetted, more desperate to get someplace.

  The desperation goading me stemmed from guilt, pure and simple. Blake and I were in a mighty touchy predicament. His words rang in my ears: “Before we’re sorry forever.”

  He was plumb on target. Our selfish desire to escape Paw’s wrath had made us both foolish and careless. Anyone with a lick of brains would have questioned how the horses escaped a barn Lem had most assuredly latched before our very eyes. Lord God, we had to make things right. We dared not fail, not if we expected to walk proud anywhere in Kentucky after this day.

  Within a half mile I got a fix on Blake’s dodging, weaving backside. His moccasins hardly touched the forest floor. Uphill or down his speed never slackened. He could run, my brother, like a buck deer.

  “Boom. Boom. Boom.” Another volley? A long pause, then, “Boom.” Though still well beyond eyesight range, the battle continued yonder. Everything was not yet lost.

  A rock cleft draining a shallow wash fronted Blake. He jumped, landed on balance and raced ahead. I leapt after him, caught a toe on the far rim, stumbled and went sprawling. Somehow I kept my flintlock high and safe, but the spyglass hit the ground, bounced and smashed me square on the mouth, splitting my lip. I scrambled upright, cursing mightily, shook the buzz out of my head, back handed blood, stuffed the spyglass inside my frock (where it should have been all the while) and took out again, stubbornly determined to catch Blake, who was disappearing from view.

  We ran for what seemed half a day without halting.

  By the bottom of the long south slope that crested above the barn a slow burn seared my throat. Sweat soaked my frock through. I drew wind every other stride and ignored faltering lower limbs. I was fading fast despite unflagging will. Even the strongest of bordermen could run just so long out of guilt and fear. Only the blurred shape of Blake, not running but treed, rifle leveled, peering intently beyond the crest, spurred me the final rod.

  No gun, friend or foe, had sounded the last mile. And why wasn’t Blake shooting? Were we, Lord forbid, too late? Would I perish from lack of breath without firing a single shot in defense of the family?

  First things first, though. Without orders I sank to both knees below and behind Blake’s position. I pumped large gulps of fresh wind into famished lungs, then cocked my flintlock and primed the pan. In a flash the spyglass was again dangling free round my neck. I paid the blood dripping from my lip no mind at all, ready for whatever Blake might demand.

  “Come, brother, I believe the bastards hightailed it.”

  I swelled with hope. Perhaps Paw and Lem had held sway, repulsed their attackers and saved the womenfolk and Adam.

  Blake plunged over the crest with me right on his heels. With m
y first glance at the dooryard the momentary hope I nursed died aborning. For at least one soul we were far too late on the scene.

  Paw was flopped belly down, face in the dirt, a few steps from the stone stoop. My glass revealed that a band of red circled his head, centered by protruding slivers of bone. His splayed arms and legs lay lifeless. He was gone to meet the Maker and I knowed it. Death had a forlorn look of its own, an awareness that would accompany me to the grave.

  We marched downhill, Blake in the van. Brother didn’t hesitate making his presence known; surprise was no advantage now. “Sarah … Adam . . Edna … Elsie … Sing out! Where yuh be?”

  No answer from any quarter.

  Blue-black smoke wafted from the rear entryway of the barn. Cattle had breached the pasture’s rail fence, bound for parts unknown. The main cabin door, battered and split asunder, hung in tatters. The dogtrot was empty. At the sleeping cabin the plank door was closed.

  Out yonder our breeding bull bellowed … but there was no mankind noise.

  I drew beside Blake at the pasture, flintlock loosely gripped, ready for a snap throw to the face. Where was everybody? Quieted by death? Hiding in the woods? Taken prisoner?

  We were approaching the dooryard corner of the smoking barn when the plank door of the sleeping cabin swung open and Lem stepped forth, rumpled and frockless, madder than a wet hornet. He pointed with a bent finger toward the tobacco patch and Tygart’s Creek.

  “There … There,” Lem shouted, raising his rifle and taking aim at something in the same direction.

  We stared out there, thoroughly puzzled. The tobacco patch and creek ford at the end of the lane were deserted. A flustered, over-wrought Lem lost his temper.

  “In the notch, yuh idjits. They’re in the notch.”

  Our eyes flew to the lightning-blasted peak of the ridge beyond and above the creek ford. They were there all right, a fair bunch of them. I grounded my rifle butt and trained my glass on the notch. Six—no—seven painted, breech-clouted raiders afoot and a pair of horses, one of which bore a rider. To a man they were beelining for their intended destination, the Ohio and their own country.