Journey Home Chapter Seventeen

Simon Keller rose from a crouch and sniffed the air.  “You can smell ‘em,” he told the man at his side.  “Filthy savages.”

“You think they’re close?” Nicholas Barnes asked.

“Everywhere and nowhere,” Simon said.  “All around us, but not here.  Not yet.”

“Shouldn’t we go back to the inn?  You know Boone was lying.”

Simon shook his head.  “The Wild Wood Inn’s a civilized place in a civilized world.  What we gotta do needs doing in the wild.”

His deputy swallowed hard.  “You mean to kill ‘em?  That ain’t the law, Simon.”

“It’s the law out here,” he answered as he gripped his rifle; his knuckles going white as bone on the barrel.  “All the law there is.”

Nicholas was not about to stop at that.  “Killing Indians is one thing, Simon, but white men like Boone – ”

Simon pivoted and leaned in so they were nose to nose.  “Who’s gonna tell whether or not they was killed by us or by the Injuns,” he barked.  “Not the Injuns, they’ll be dead.  What you want, Nick?  Charity for the red man?  You won’t feel that way when you return home and find your wife and children wearing bloody caps where they used to have hair!  You decide now if you’re with me, or against me.  And if it’s against, then get out!”

There were several dozen men around them.  As Simon spoke the majority moved to back him up, planting their feet firmly in the ground their fathers had died for and deeded to them.  One or two lingered on the edge, uncertain, as if swayed by his deputy’s words.

Nicholas Barnes stood frozen; his face a mask of grief.  Then, his head began to shake.  “Simon, no.  No.  If you do this, you ain’t any better than that madman Hawk.  And no better than the Injun lover who killed your boy.”

Simon’s teeth were clamped so tight the pressure sent pain pounding through his head, like the thunder of a hundred horse’s hooves driving down a canyon.  His hold slipped on his rifle.  He was sweating hard and had begun to shake.

His words, however, were deathly calm.  “What did you say?”

“No man has a right to be judge, jury and executioner, Simon.”  Nicholas took a step back.  “I’m leaving.  And if anyone asks me what I know, I’ll tell them.  Take that as you want.”

There was blood in Simon’s mouth.  The taste of iron on his tongue.  He spit it out and then wiped his lips with the back of his hand.  “That your last word on it, Nick?”

The other man didn’t hesitate.  “Yeah.”

Simon spit again.  He shifted and looked down.  When he raised his head, it seemed as if the deputy’s hard wall of confidence had cracked his own.  “Well….  If that’s the way you feel.  Ain’t nothing I can do about it.”

Nicholas Barnes placed a hand on his shoulder.  “You and me, Simon, we known each other a long time.  Think it over.  You’ll see I’m right.”  He turned away then.  “I’ll be waiting at the jail for you with an official posse.  Let’s do this the right way.”

Simon watched his friend go, waiting to see if anyone else started after him.  When no one did, he dried his hand off and then lifted his rifle and took aim – and shot Nicholas Barnes in the back.

There was a collective gasp from the men behind him, though none spoke up to say what he had done was wrong. 

Simon Keller walked over to the man he had just shot.  He had been careful.  Barnes had been dead before he hit the ground.  As he stood over him, Simon reached into his kit.  He pulled out a strand of beads and dropped them beside the corpse.

“You…you shot him in the back,” one of the men finally managed to say.  “Why’d you do that?”

Simon met the man’s puzzled gaze; his own cold as the steel in his grip.

“What other way does an Indian kill?”

 ~ 

Adam hesitated just inside the lodge door.  Hawk was enjoying himself immensely.  He had walked him to the makeshift structure and left him saying, ‘Counselor, perhaps you would like some time alone with your client before the trial?’

Before the farce begins, he meant.

John Johnston rose to his feet.  He looked wary.  Of course, the federal agent had no way of knowing he was not simply another of the renegade Wyandot’s men.  They were gathering all around them by the dozen.  As the new day dawned, the crimson sun stood as a reminder of the way it was most likely to end.

In blood.

Before Johnston could speak, Adam held out his hand and introduced himself.  “My name is Adam Fox.  My father is George Fox, a friend of Mingo and Daniel Boone.  I’m here to help you.”

Johnston was tall – at least six inches taller than him – and Adam did not consider himself a short man.  The agent’s dark blond hair was matted from perspiration and decorated with the debris of confinement – dead leaves, moss and bits of straw.  He looked as if he had not slept in days, and there was fear as well as fatigue in his grey eyes.  Adam sensed it was not for Johnston himself, but for others he felt were his responsibility.

Perhaps even the very Indians who meant to kill him.

The agent stepped forward and took his hand.  His grip was firm and strong.  “I heard Hawk say you are a lawyer.  What game is he playing now?”

Adam shrugged.  “His own.  Perhaps only understood by him.”

“You are here to prosecute me?”

“I’m not very good at prosecution,”  Adam’s lips quirked with a smile.  “:I normally work for the defense.”

The other man laughed.  “That’s good.  We wouldn’t want you to be too expert at the job.”  John Johnston moved across the room and sat on the low bed covered with hides that was its only furnishing.  “He means to kill me in spite of anything you do.”

“Do you know why?”  Weary, Adam took a seat on the floor beside the other man.  He was doing a good job of ignoring his injuries, but knew – if he didn’t take care of himself soon – they would catch up to him.

“There’s more than one reason.  First of all, he planned to use me to make the Indians rise up against the white man.  He kidnapped my sons to force me to speak to them and compel them to do so.”  John looked down at his hands.  “I refused.  I placed my sons in God’s hands and refused.  I know they have been freed, but have no idea where the boys are – ”

“Stephen is safe,” he said.

“What?”  Johnston shot to his feet. “Safe?  How do you know?”

Adam glanced at the tent’s open door.  He pressed a finger to his lips.  Not that they couldn’t be overheard, but he didn’t want to attract the guard’s attention.  John Johnston nodded and, his excitement barely contained, returned to his seat.

“I saw him with my own eyes.  He’s hurt and fairly badly.  A fracture of his lower leg which went untended for some time, though his brother applied moss and a splint to it that helped offset infection.  Your daughters and wife are with him, in safety far from here.”
            John breathed a thankful sigh of relief.  “That would be Robinson.  That boy will be something great someday.  Was he hurt?”

Adam knew it would come to this.  “He wasn’t with Stephen.”

He watched the agent’s elation turn to fear.  “What?  Stephen would never leave him.  Hawk’s men, they didn’t….”

There was nothing to do but tell him the story as Stephen had told it – their escape, the men who had come after them; Robinson’s trip to the river and his fall.

For a long time the boy’s father said nothing.  When he moved at last, it was like a sick man shifting, unable to lie still.  “He’s…dead then,” he said.  “The Kentucky is a mighty river.  One small boy….”

Adam’s smile was gentle.  “I was a small boy who played on that river.  I tumbled in a time or two.  I’m still here.”

  Johnston’s gray eyes searched his face, looking for falsehood and false comfort.  Finding none, he relaxed.  After a moment, nodding, he said –  almost as if to remind himself, “He is in God’s hands.”

“As are we all,” Adam admitted.  “Mr. Johnston – ”

“John.”

“John, then.  We need to discuss your case.”

The agent’s smile was wry.  “I thought you were to prosecute me.”

“I am.  I’m here to ask some questions.  Will you answer them?”

Slightly amused, John nodded.  He spread his hands wide.  “Ask what you will.  I will answer.”

“Have you ever killed a native?”

That took him by surprise.  “Not that I know of.”

“Unintentionally?”

“Through my actions, you mean?  No.”

Adam thought a moment.  “Have you encouraged the natives in your charge to give up their ways?  Told the men to farm and not hunt?”

“Yes.  It is the only way they will survive.”

“You have sent their children to white schools?”

“I do it on my own property.  They attend the same school as my boys.”’

Adam knew what Hawk would do with that bit of knowledge.  “Have you encouraged them to be complicit with the United States Government?”

“I am the United States Government,” John countered sharply, his tone showing annoyance for the first time.

Adam shifted, trying his best to nod toward the door without really doing so, reminding the other man that they were being monitored and that his questions were intended for more than his ears.  This was a drama they must both take a part in. 

The agent’s shoulders relaxed.  Then he smiled sheepishly.

“Have you taken them onto that property and fed and clothed them, thereby rendering them dependent on that said government?”

“Yes.  And I would do it again.”

Adam glanced toward the guard.  Since he had begun droning out legal questions, the man’s interest had waned.  He had taken a step away and was speaking with another man.

“Have you undertaken to have the chiefs of these said tribes sign official contracts with the United States Government that were later not honored?”  As he finished the question, spoken at full voice, he dropped to a lower tone and added, “I don’t know how, but help is on its way.  Trust to it.”  Then he finished in a normal tone, “Answer me.”

John Johnston had paled.  His voice shook as he replied.  “Yes, damn it.  Yes.  But in honesty, believing that they would be honored.”

Adam opened his mouth to speak, intending to say he understood, but as he did a shadow was cast across them and the renegade Hawk stepped into the tent.

“I have heard enough, as have you, counselor.  The men are gathered.  Come, I would introduce you to them.”

“What of John?” Adam asked.

Hawk stepped between them, coming face to face with the white man.  “In one hour his trial will begin.”

 ~

            Daniel Boone crouched in tall grasses, observing the man who wanted nothing more than the kill his son.  Israel was beside him, watching too, and his daughter, Bekah.  Curious Dent had joined them.  The older man had moved off to scout the area and was due to return soon.  Bekah wore full paint now, and had become as formidable a warrior as Dan had ever seen, donning a finger-woven sash over her suit of men’s clothes and fitting herself out with a belt and half a dozen weapons.  They were watching Simon Keller and his men.  They had just seen the Boonesborough judge execute one of them.

            That action sort of ‘upped’ the stakes.

            “We should take them out, Pa.  Now, before they can cause more harm,” his son said.

            “Is’rul, you and Bekah might make half an army, but there’s still more than a dozen of them, and three of us.  Besides, we may need them in the end if Hawk has raised himself a full army.”

            “Fight with them?  Never!” Bekah spat.

            “The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” Dan replied.

            His son agreed.  “It’s said Hawk has at least two hundred.  Maybe more.  Even with White Wolf and the others –  if they make it – we fall pretty far short of that.”

            “We’ll just tail them for now.  Make sure they use those rifles where they’re needed.  With all those moccasins leadin’ north, it’s clear Hawk ain’t tryin’ to hide.”

            “He don’t think he needs to, Pa.  He thinks he’s anointed to save his people.  Just like Kamassa did all those years ago. 

“Only Hawk’s both savior and dominator,” Dan added.  “He don’t need no Preacher to speak for him.”

            “Where do you think Mingo is, Pa?  Here too?”

            Dan looked toward the trees.  He and Mingo’d come so far together, he couldn’t imagine them meeting their end apart.  “He’s here, son.  I warrant Danny is too.  I’ve got a feelin’ we were all drawn here to put a stop to this – one way or the other.”

            Israel’s hand came down on his shoulder.  The touch was electric.  “It sure is good, Pa, to be side by side again.”

            Dan’s eyes teared as he placed his hand over his son’s.  He nodded.  There weren’t any words.

            “They are moving,” Bekah said.  Her silence up until that time spoke of her discomfort.

            Dan rose up.  “Then so should we.”  He paused and then winced.  “Ouch!  These old bones aren’t what they once were.”

            Israel laughed as he took Ticklicker so his father could reach down and massage his aching calves.  “You ain’t old, Pa.  Like these mountains, like the trees, you’ll be forever young.”

            “Tell that to my bones,” Dan laughed as he took his rifle back.  Then he turned to Bekah.  “Since you’re all dressed up, let’s give you some place to go.”

            “Yeah.  Show the ‘old’ man here your trackin’ skills, Bekah,” Israel agreed with a grin.

            “Show me yours!” she answered with a scowl and took off into the trees so fast they lost sight of her before the sound of her voice died on the wind.

            Dan’s silvered brows shifted.  He raised one as he eyed his son.  “You know who she takes after, don’t you?”

            “Why do you think I named her Rebekah?” Israel laughed.

            “Leave a marker for Dent and then come on, son,” Dan said, hefting Ticklicker.  “I think you and me better start runnin’.”

 ~

             Adam did not want to be afraid, but he was.  He remembered the tales of the great Tecumseh and his brother, the Prophet, and of that fateful day when the Open Door gathered hundreds of warriors together, telling them that the Great Spirit had blessed them, that no bullet would penetrate their skin –  that no matter what the white man did, none of them would die.  Hawk’s promises were just as empty, but like Tenskwatawa he made them nonetheless, and the men who followed him believed in them as well.  And for that, most of them would die.

            But not before John Johnston, and probably him as well.

            The natives had gathered not far from where the Indian agent was being held, in a natural amphitheatre created by a great outcropping of red rock that fronted a field surrounded by trees.  In some ancient birth-pang the rock had divided, creating an open area with a stone floor and roof.  It was the perfect stage on which for Hawk to stand.  The rock wall behind him magnified his voice and carried his words over the crowd, so that even those far in the back could hear.  Adam stood at Hawk’s side, looking out over the sea of faces.  It was early afternoon and they stood fully revealed – the faces of his father’s race, of the People, whether they called themselves Shawanoese, Wendat, Lenape or Tsalagi.   Most were full-blood though a few, he believed, were of mixed heritage. 

Adam wondered briefly what particular savagery those men had been party to in order to have earned an invitation.

            There was one group in particular that troubled him.  They stood near the front in the company with others he knew to be trusted by Hawk.  By their garb he thought them some sort of Cherokee – Chickamauga perhaps.  Though, in truth, the presence of his father’s people here surprised him.  One, he presumed to be their war chief.  He was old; his body bent, his face battle-scarred.  The chief was surrounded by a company of young men, at least two dozen in number.  Among them was a giant who towered over the rest, and a man in an elegant dark blue suit who held himself apart.  The man’s skin was deep in tone, but still lighter than his comrades.  His hair was black, but had the ancient copper tones of their people in it.  They glinted in the late afternoon sun.  The man’s ebon eyes were keen and sharp as the eagle’s.             

And they were trained on him.

            Adam shifted uncomfortably.  If the man’s gaze had been a bow set with an arrow, he would have been dead.

            “My brothers!” Hawk called, raising his fists to the sky.  “The time is now!”

            An affirmative roar rose from the field.  The men’s shouts echoed off the rocky ledge above Adam’s head and then fell away as Hawk called for silence.

            “War is upon us.  Yet I know there are those among you who hesitate.  We have burned their houses, I hear you say.  We have killed the white man and his woman.  His children.  They fear us now.  They know we will not stop until we have won.  What is the need for war?”  Hawk paused to draw a breath.  “Some call for treating with the white man.  Some say there are those among them that can be trusted.  I say, none can be trusted!  Every treaty they have broken!  All are false!  All must die!”

            Adam continued to watch Hawk’s audience.  Who among them, he wondered, would dare to question him?  His fear had been that only those already convinced of Hawk’s plan would come to this place.  An unexpected ray of hope dawned with the renegade’s words.  But then Adam remembered, that was why he was here –  to convince the assembled warriors that Hawk was right by using John Johnston as an example; by destroying the Indian agent’s reputation.  And if he didn’t, his sister would die.

            Hawk was speaking again.

            “I have heard whispers among you about the man I hold, the federal Indian agent – the agent of our enemies!  He has walked among you and you trust him.  You say he is a good man.”  Hawk’s voice rose in pitch until it shook the stone above him.  “I say there is no such thing as a good white man!  He is as false as all the others.  His tongue speaks nothing but lies.”

            Unexpectedly, a voice shouted, “Prove it!”  After that there was a general chorus of agreement.

            As Hawk raised his hands, once again calling for silence, Adam’s gaze returned to the crowd.  Did he dare to hope that the ‘help’ his sister had spoken of was among them?  That one of the angry faces was actually that of a friend?  Involuntarily his eyes returned to the group of Cherokee.  He searched their ranks again, seeking something – some one he might recognize.  With a start, he realized one of them was missing.

            The man in the elegant blue suit was gone.

 ~

            On the other side of Hawk’s camp, close enough to hear but far enough away to remain safe, Mingo knelt with his son beside him.  In Danny’s arms was the smallest Johnston boy.  Robinson was exhausted, worn to the bone from lack of food and sleep.  Still, he had refused to give up.  The boy had walked all but the last half mile on his own, and even then his legs had given out before his will.  Danny had picked him up and carried him the last so many yards.  By the time they had stopped to take cover, Robinson had fallen into a restive sleep.

            The renegade Wyandot’s words were carried to them on the wind. 

            “What is Hawk up to, Father?  Why bother turning the men against Johnston?  Does he not already have his war, here, ready to begin?”

            “These men, Danny, though they are desperate and driven by rightful anger, they are not without conscience.  John Johnston has walked among them as a trusted friend.  Hawk must destroy this white man before he can pronounce all white men evil.”   

            “Why believe Hawk now, if they have not believed him before?”

            “I don’t know.  We need to get closer.”  Mingo looked down at the sleeping boy.  “We must find a safe haven for Robinson and leave him there.  With what we are likely to face….  There is no place for a child at our side.”

            Danny’s smile was affectionate.  “He won’t be happy.”

            “No,” Mingo said, brushing the dark hair back from the boy’s forehead, “but he will be alive.”

            They found a sycamore tree not far from the stream that flowed past the field where Hawk’s men stood.  Placing the boy in it, they left him buried under a blanket of dried leaves and moss sound asleep.

            As they walked away, his son kept looking back.  Mingo placed his hand on Danny’s shoulder.  “The Creator watches over small determined boys,” he said.

            “And aids them.”  Danny grinned.  “I seem to remember being left behind – and not staying put.”

            Mingo laughed.  “Sometimes that is in His plan as well.  For my part, I hope the boy sleeps until all is settled.  It may not go well for his father,” he ended, growing sober.  “I do not see how we can free him when we are two, and Hawk’s men are two hundred.”

            “God watches over determined old men as well, and those growing old,” Danny replied.  As his father nodded, he added, “Are you ready then?”

            Mingo clasped his son’s shoulder.  “Yes.  Let us only pray that Hawk is not.”

###

            Inside the makeshift lodge, John Johnston paced.  The hour was almost up and he knew the time was close when Hawk would parade him before the Indian nations, accusing and proving him guilty of deceiving them.  Everything he had accomplished in the last eighteen years could be undone in a single night.  Everything.  If Hawk managed to convince these men that he was dishonest, word would reach the tribes as quickly as an Indian runner, and any chance he had of helping them would be lost.  In the time since Adam Fox had left, John had done some soul-searching.  The lawyer’s pointed questions had made him think; made him look at his accomplishments through the natives’ eyes.  At times it must have seemed to them that his actions betrayed them, but everything he did was for their good.  If he had it his way they would not have been driven from their land.  They would have been encouraged to remain and become neighbors and friends.  But that was not to be.  To most men Indians were animals good only for killing or driving to another’s land.  If the tribes did not change, if they did not assimilate, soon there would not be a single Indian left.

            They had to be made to understand that.  They had to be!

            “John Johnston,” a voice pronounced, startling him.

            John turned to find a native standing just within the door of the lodge.  It startled him when he recognized the man who had aided him before; the one dressed as a white in the elegant suit of dark blue cloth.  The native’s aspect was cast in anger, and a righteous fire illuminated his pitch-black eyes.

            “I’m sorry I did not fly before,” John began.  “I could not let it come to war.  I felt a need to speak to the natives here….”

            The man glanced out the door.  As he turned back, he drew his knife.

            “You will not come before the People, John Johnston,” he said as he moved forward, “not if I have any say.”