Thunder in the Valley Read online

  The flint in the jaws of the hammer snapped against the metal frizzen. Knife-bearer heard it. I saw it in his eyes. His face clouded as the firing charge ignited with a fooing noise. Then the main powder load went off in a deafening discharge.

  The rifle ball caught Knife-bearer square in the brisket and rocked him back on his heels. He clutched at the wound, swayed forward, and toppled at my feet in a slack heap, dead before he hit the snow. His long knife skidded off toward a gape mouth Zelda Shaw.

  Zelda sat in a puddle of mud and slushy snow, unaware she was half-naked, dazed by the mind-stopping abruptness with which her death-defying struggle had ended. She seemed near tears. Her eyes looked but saw nothing.

  When she started drawing knees under chin, I moved. I’d been through that myself. Once the tears started, a body couldn’t hardly not cry themselves out.

  I belted my tomahawk, stepped in front of her, and slapped her cheek. Anger sparked in her eyes, but she was back with me.

  “Get up and get your shirt on,” I ordered.

  “Go to hell,” she snarled, scrambling to her feet. “Who do you think you be, bossin’ me thataway?”

  She swelled her chest in defiance, realized her breasts were bare, and spun like a wooden top, frantically seeking her missing frock.

  I ignored her and reloaded the long rifle. It was quiet upriver, had been for a considerable spell. Somebody’d won that sharp skirmish, and I’d a hunch the black-faced Ottawa and his friends had mauled her brothers right proper. If I was right, the victors were headed back here at the very moment.

  Dressed again in loose buckskin frock with low crowned hat covering yellow-brown hair, Zelda looked a dead ringer for a flat-chested lad of small years. Little wonder she’d fooled the Ottawa war party.

  “Who you be?” Zelda demanded, hands on hips.

  I hesitated. How would she take learning her savior had caused her captivity? Not well, I sus pected.

  “Never mind about me. We got to get away from here without delay. The Injuns won’t take kindly the killing of one of their raiding party. They’ll be back and want our hair, never you doubt.”

  “Who’d those red devils race off after?” Zelda inquired. I didn’t answer that directly either. If she discovered Zed and Zeb had been under attack, Zelda wouldn’t budge a puny inch till she knew their fate and how they’d fared. The stiff set of her jaw told that much.

  “I don’t rightly know, and don’t give a hoot about finding out. And neither should you be concerned. It don’t matter to neither of us,” I lied.

  Heat flared in her eyes, her cheeks puffed. I was telling her what to think again and she didn’t like it.

  Some misgiving beset me. Zelda hadn’t made the slightest gesture of thanks for my having rescued her and everything I said garnered a rebellious glare. A testy, unarmed slip of a girl was a burden I’d not reckoned on.

  Before she could weigh in on me, I laid hold of her sleeve and shook her back and forth. “Listen close,” I commanded, nose in her face, a real trick, slight as she was. “I’m taken out of here. You grab anything that’s yours and come along if you want. Otherwise, stay here and before dark they’ll bury you and your spitfire mouth with that Injun over yonder.” I jabbed a finger at the body of Knife-bearer.

  She shook free. “Don’t you roughen me. I got no choice but to trail with you, so I will. My brothers will settle up with the likes of you later. I’ll get my pot.” She tossed me a withering scowl and walked away.

  Pot? What was this new nonsense?

  Zelda yanked an iron kettle from under a mangy hide. Well, least you cooked in it.

  Time was short. I wheeled and headed for the Muskingum. She didn’t follow right behind. She lingered at the fire, filling the pot with scraps of meat. She showed more brains than I’d given her credit for.

  I waited at the riverbank. She caught up and, without protesting, let me lower her over the snowbank down onto the ice. I took care she didn’t bang me with the loaded kettle. She swung that thing about mighty free. We started through the ice clutter, Zelda cursing every step at the weight she toted. I clamped my jaw shut.

  A Injun scalp “halloo” sounded behind us, a blood curdling call like no other, once heard never forgotten.

  I peered about. Beyond the camp fire at the edge of the woods, the Ottawa emerged from the trees with musket held high in triumph in one hand, and, in the other, what I knew without clearly seeing it had to be a bloody scalp, a Shaw scalp. Beside him, a painted warrior supported a second Injun, obviously side-wounded and hurting. Them Shaw boys hadn’t died easy.

  When no one answered his “halloo” and he saw Knife-bearer’s prone body, the Ottawa shrieked a war whoop and charged forward.

  “Run, girl! Run for your life!”

  I shoved Zelda in front and whacked her behind with my rifle barrel. Surprisingly enough, she uttered not a word and set off in a flat-heeled run, covering ground in a hurry, holding the kettle in both arms. I hustled after her. The closest place for a fighting stand with a field of fire was the knoll across the river.

  It went well till Zelda’s foot slipped and she fell, twisting an ankle. I pulled her up, squatted, and turned my back into her.

  “Get on! Hurry, girl!”

  She practically jumped aboard. Rightfully scared she was. She hung fast with her legs round my middle and a forearm round my neck, refusing to loose her pot.

  Saving the kettle added a heap to my burden. Out on the smooth ice she wrapped her arm ever tighter, shutting off my wind, all the while beating a tattoo on the back of my legs with the kettle.

  Cracking sounds beneath us. My scalp prickled. Would the smooth ice hold the weight of two? The cracks spread outward like a star bursting. I took three huge strides and plunged into the snowdrift at the foot of the bank.

  Safely on firm footing, I wallowed across the drift in lunges and up the knoll we went. There I pried Zelda’s arm free and knelt. “Off, girl! Find cover and hide!” She crawled aside, dragging her pot. Damn woman was determined about that kettle.

  I scanned the ice-bound river. They were after us, the black-faced Ottawa, claw necklace bouncing on his chest, and another warrior, the only other member of the war party alive and unhurt. They were still beyond the range of their muskets. But not a long rifle.

  I refused to panic, carefully checking the barrel for obstructions before repriming my piece. I braced the weapon against a scaly tree and drew a bead on the Ottawa. Him I feared most. I wanted no hand-to-hand battle with that muscled giant.

  They rushed onto the smooth ice side by side. Shooting downhill, I aimed a hair lower than normal and squeezed the trigger.

  Snap—foo—boom!

  The recoil lifted the barrel. I ducked under the haze of powder smoke, searching for my target. The same instant the ball hit the Ottawa and he stumbled and dropped his musket, the ice under both redskins gave way. A huge yawning hole opened. They sank slowly, the Ottawa unfeeling and uncaring, his companion flailing madly in hope of finding a purchase and sparing himself.

  I handed the long-rifle to Zelda and swept the ice hole with my spyglass. A brown arm appeared briefly, but the hand clawing at the ice stilled and slowly slipped from sight. Then nothing.

  A blow on the head bowled me over.

  “You, you bastard!” Zelda screamed, hovering over me with the kettle drawn back for another strike.

  Over the roar filling both ears, I asked, “Have you gone and lost your tree? You’re as loony as everyone says, aren’t you?” I rolled away from her.

  That last bit stumped her. “What do you mean, loony as everyone says? Answer me, damn you,” she cried, threatening with the kettle.

  “Settle down,” I shouted, getting on my knees. “What’d you hit me for?”

  “You’re Matthan Hannar, that’s why,” she said. “I knew I’d seen you before. But I didn’t know your name.”

  She dropped the kettle and picked up the long rifle.

  “See. Right here on the butt
plate, the letters—J.H. J.H. for Jeremiah Hannar, your uncle. I seen you at the fort with him. You be Matthan Hannar, double damn you. Every solitary man in long pants lit a shuck after you an’ left me at the mercy of those red devils, you bastard.”

  Her breath failed her. That, and only that, shut her mouth. She threw down the long rifle and commenced sobbing. Tears wet her bronze cheeks.

  I sat watching her, speechless.

  Zelda turned away, bawling loud enough they could hear her in Marietta. I settled against a tree. I was tired, she had the old knot on my skull throbbing bad as a toothache, and no one but me was left alive to hear her anyway. So, let her have her cry. She’ d earned it; I had to grant her that. I reloaded my rifle and waited for the finish.

  Her shoulders finally ceased their shaking. Zelda blew her nose on her sleeve and faced about. She didn’t lose a second. “Well, what now? You’re damn good at killin’ Injuns, I can’t fault you for that. But what about me? Do you have any grand plans for seein’ me home to my paw? Well, do you?”

  I kept my trap shut. Careful, Matthan, careful. Sticking a bare finger in a weasel den was less dangerous than talking with old Zebulon’s daughter.

  “Well, Matthan. We ain’t got the whole blessed day. It’ll be dark in a few hours and damn cold to boot.”

  I saw an opening and jumped in. “Hold your britches, girl. Let a man have an edgewise word.” I sucked in some wind.

  “We can’t get you home by dark for sure and we best make some tracks. Back up Johnathan Creek there’s a hollow sycamore big and tight as a cabin inside. Good smoke hole too. We’ll overnight in the tree, then see about tomorrow. What you say to that?”

  She thought on it, lips pursed. “What about Zed and Zeb?”

  “What about them?” I demanded, immediately aware I’d made a mistake sounding angry and anxious.

  “They be searchin’ for me, that’s what ’bout them. My brothers’ll never quit lookin’ long as they’re alive. I can count on ’em,” she said, hands back on hips, defiant as ever.

  I chose each word with deliberation. “I don’t doubt that. But if they find the camp and dead Injun over yonder, they’ll read sign and make out what happened. They won’t have any trouble telling you went off with someone, or got dragged off. They’ll come a-hunting right behind us. Meanwhile we can sleep out of the cold full as ticks on that meat you were smart enough to scavenge. What do you say?”

  She took her time answering. “All right. I said I’d trail with you an’ I’ll keep my word. We can always come back here and meet up with Zed and Zeb.” She lifted her brows and cocked her head sideways. “Just one big problem with your sweet plan, Matthan.”

  I should’ve known. “What’s that?” I reluctantly asked.

  “I can’t hardly walk. My foot’s swoll,” she announced.

  Before I could respond, she laughed and a sly, cunning smile revealed white teeth. “But since you’re two—three times bigger’n me, you’ll have to tote me like before, won’t you now?”

  Lord Almighty, spare me. Once a packhorse, always a packhorse in this woman’s feeble mind.

  “Get your pot. It’ll be dark ’fore we know it.”

  I at least made her limp over to me. I got her squared away on my backside, iron kettle firmly in her grasp.

  “Try not and choke me near to death this go-round, girl,” I suggested.

  She giggled. “It’s Zelda, not girl, Matthan. It not be a hard name atall.”

  Her heel drummed on my leg. “Giddyap, ol’ steed,” she yelled, laughing deep in her belly.

  I shook my head in disbelief. She was as changeable as Ohio weather. Her mood would switch again. Just wait till she learned about the upcoming rendezvous with Stillwagon. Worse yet, sooner or later, she had to know the truth about Zed and Zeb.

  Who said better a live dog than a dead lion? What hogwash. A lion could win the battle, save the fair maiden, and feel sorrier than a dog. Just ask me.

  Chapter 12

  Evening—January 17

  The march to the rendezvous tree went easily and without undue strain—for Zelda. My part in the long return across the ice of Johnathan Creek proved a hardier outing.

  I expected her to chatter endlessly, since she never seemed lost for words and expressed her feelings whenever she saw fit without reservation. But she merely sighed heavily a few times and settled on her back.

  The kettle appeared round my shoulder on the end of a skinny, buckskin clad arm. “Matthan,” Zelda purred, “carry this for me.”

  I kept walking, hearing nothing.

  She whanged me a lick on the elbow with the kettle. “Matthan, the damn thing be too heavy for me. An’ you’ll want to gnaw on a bone or two later, won’t you now.”

  I switched the long rifle to my left hand and lay hold of the pot. I was powerful hungry and my elbow smarted right handsomely. The next blow might connect with my crazy bone and raise real havoc. This woman wasn’t to be trifled with.

  She added insult to injury a quarter mile later. Without so much as a by-your-leave, the muffler unwound from about my neck. She jostled around and a hand slid under my right arm and extended one end of the muffler across my chest. Her free hand met its mate from the opposite side, the cloth band tightened, her hands fluttered, and a large knot appeared miraculously atop my left shoulder.

  To my astonishment, Zelda had tied herself securely in place. With another of those heavy sighs, she crossed her ankles in front of me and was soon breathing evenly on the back of my neck, sound asleep. Wherever I was headed, she seemed content to ride along, allowing me to bear the brunt of the work, of course.

  I laughed aloud. Matthan Hannar, the great hunter, went out to shoot something for the cooking fire and bagged something he had to carry home, pot and all, and feed besides. What a turnabout.

  I followed the icy flat of Johnathan Creek balancing the kettle and long rifle and Zelda, no small feat for legs fast tiring. As I wearied, my sleeping burden provoked more sobering thoughts. While scurrying to save Zelda from Knife-bearer I’d no time to contemplate what would transpire if I succeeded. In one brave swoop I’d shouldered the responsibility for the safety and well-being of a slip of a girl of womanly years with a saucy tongue, who, nevertheless, deserved a better fate than escaping from the hands of the redskins only to face an equally uncertain future with her own kind.

  Those who should have rescued her, the brothers, lay dead and scalped, chilling through. And while I’d freed her, I couldn’t take her home to Wolf Creek and her father without stretching a rope. What other hope might there be for her? A return trek home alone, unarmed, in this weather? No, that wouldn’t do, I couldn’t have that. Besides the dangers of the trip, what if she made it to the Shaw cabin and told what had happened on the Muskingum today? Lansford would be beside himself, and when he learned the Ottawa war party had been routed, suppose he and the Ballards and their like found enough back bone to swallow their usual fear of the Injuns and come after me. If they did and met up with Stillwagon or me, the snow would be stained with more blood.

  The selfishness wasn’t lost on me. My real true concern was my own skin. I’d saved Zelda once, but in spite of my shame at considering myself ahead of a woman in trouble, I wasn’t ready to put my life on the line with the Fort Frye mob over her, not yet anyway.

  Zelda would have to take her chances on a rendezvous with Stillwagon just like me. If I could keep him from abusing her—or killing her to keep her mouth shut—perhaps I could squire her out of the country, then send her packing for home at the first opportunity. Not an overly promising future for Zelda, no matter how rosy a blush I painted on it. Lord, what a mess everything in my life had become.

  “Matthan, be we near your tree?”

  “Not yet. Another mile or so.”

  Zelda dozed off again and that suited me fine. Maybe she would sleep the evening and night through and postpone till tomorrow any discussion of what lay ahead for both of us. Maybe . . .

  We ar
rived at the rendezvous tree before twilight ran its course. I shook Zelda awake. Without a word she untied the muffler knot, jumped down onto the creek bank, limped across the snow, and disappeared into the entryway hole. Some excited exclamation followed, then she reappeared wrapped in the buffalo robe.

  “Damn, warm at last,” she declared, swinging her head to and fro. “Matthan, where at is your wood pile?”

  I put the kettle down and leaned on the long rifle. “Gone. Ran out this morning ’fore I left on my hunt.” She looked at me in dismay. “You mean to stand there an’ say you went off to fill your belly without choppin’ the wood first. Be you stupid?”

  My ire boiled over. “Now, lookee here . . .” I stammered.

  “No, you lookee here,” she countered instantly. “I brought the meat you’d have left behind. If’n you want to eat an’ not die abed tonight, you better gather plenty, tall man.”

  Darkness was fast approaching and I was too tired to argue. Anyhow, she was right. In wintertime a wise backwoodser laid in his firewood before the hunt: you weren’t likely to starve in one night, but you could surely freeze to death.

  “Can you shoot as good as you run over at the mouth?”

  “Well enough for standing guard while the gathering be done,” Zelda answered.

  She held out a hand and I passed over the long rifle. I watched while she pulled the hammer to half cock and checked the priming. Her cunning smile flashed again. “I can always shoot you if the gather ain’t enough for two, can’t I now?”

  Enough of jabbering. I turned downstream.