PROLOGUE
l828--Kentucky
His moccasins made no sound in the grass
along the edge of the meadow. At the far end, he turned and looked back at the
cabin, smoke trailing from the chimney. It was the place of his birth; the farm
in Kentucky
“What’s got into you, Charlie?” The voice seemed
unusually loud in the stillness of early morning.
Hell, what was there to worry over, anyways?
Wasn’t he almost a man? And as for Ma and Pa, why, he’d never seen anything his
pa couldn’t handle.
It was a day in late summer, and the grass
stood tall and ripe. Many times Charlie Dobbs had come this way; he knew the
best strategy. Chances were good that he would come upon deer within a mile or
so of home.
His stride was not that of a man setting
out to go a long distance. A hunter must step cautiously, be mindful of the direction
of the wind, and know the habits of the animals he stalks.
By noon Charlie had
covered several miles, and continued to work his way east along the foothills.
Slowly the skies began to gray and darken, giving promise of rain. He began to
pick up the pace, gauging time and distance to arrive at another likely area in
late afternoon.
It was nearly sundown when he came upon it.
Cautiously he skirted the willows along the creek. Nothing. It was strange,
unsettling, as though he was the only living thing in these hills. Nothing else
moved. Not game, not a bird—not even a squirrel.
The sun slipped slowly from sight, and dusk
began to soften the afternoon shadows. In a hollow by the stream, Charlie rolled
out his bed. He took out flint and materials for striking a fire, then set it
aside and sat quietly as darkness surrounded him. He wasn’t sure why, just a feeling.
Jerky from his pack would have to do for supper, since it did not have to be
cooked.
Satisfied, he stretched out. Yet sleep was
long in coming. The moon turned its face away -- even the stars hid their glow
-- and in the blackness he kept seeing his mother’s face, the worry in her
eyes. Again he heard her words of the previous morning as he prepared to leave.
“Charles? Did you hear? You pay heed to what
I say.”
Martha Dobbs stood by the stove, hands on
her hips. She was not a large woman, midway over five feet. In her faded dress,
she looked haggard and worn. Life had been hard, and though scarcely
thirty-seven, she appeared much older. Still, there was a sparkle to her eyes
that told of a woman not unhappy with her lot.
“Ma, I’m always careful. I’ve hunted by myself
many-a’time.”
“Don’t you sass your ma,” she said sternly.
“Seth, you tell him.”
Seth Dobbs looked up from a breakfast of
fried venison and potatoes, a rugged man with wavy, red hair.
“Boy, you Listen to what your ma’s saying,”
he said. “Roy Perkins was by yesterday, and he said Injuns hit several places
up along the Ohio
“But Pa, the Cherokees are our friends. I’ve
know’d ‘em all my life.”
“These wasn’t Cherokee, Son. Roy Shawnee
“I’ll be careful, Pa.
When at last Charlie slept, it was fitful.
Once he woke, thinking he heard noises. Indians? Had they located his camp and
now were sneaking up on him in the dark? For a long time he lay absolutely still,
listening. Sometime later he dozed off again, but it was not a restful sleep.
Dawn was still an hour away when next he
woke. Quietly he rolled his blanket, with his supplies and other gear stowed
inside. A quick wrap of the cord at either end, and it became a bundle that he
could sling over one shoulder. A couple of his ma’s biscuits, and he was ready.
Light of morning was beginning to give
shape to objects about him as he moved silently upstream. At the edge of a
large meadow, he paused, still in the cover of the timber. A likely place for
deer to linger at first light, but it was still a bit early. He would have to
wait for more light.
This was Charlie’s favorite time of day,
yet on this particular morning he found little satisfaction in it. The urge was
strong in him to turn around and head back. But why? He had seen nothing to
give cause for alarm. Besides, they needed meat.
Slowly, increasing light revealed the
hidden corners of the meadow. Nothing here, either. Charlie hesitated,
contemplating his next move.
A mile to the east was the Parker place, their
nearest neighbor. He’d best change directions, circle around to the north, then
back to the cabin. This decision brought some relief. At least he would be
headed in the general direction of home, rather than away from it.
Morning became afternoon, and a cool breeze
began to clear away the clouds. He moved through a silent world, always watchful.
Alertness was a thing learned early by one raised on the edge of the frontier.
His eyes probed each shadow, each thicket. Slowly his course bent west-ward,
and still no game. Finally he turned south toward home.
In late afternoon, he began to lengthen his
stride. Time to be heading home. It wasn’t far now, no more than a few miles,
and he wanted to get there before dark. He was going back empty-handed, but
that couldn’t be helped. It happened that way sometimes.
Suddenly Charlie froze. At first he could
see nothing, but there had been something, some wash of movement.
There. Coming toward him—an Indian. He
shrank back into the shadows and waited. Now he could see others, following the
first, walking single file. All were wearing paint.
Charlie moved deeper into the brush,
careful not to cause movement in the branches overhead. The Indians drew
closer, more than twenty in all, not of a tribe familiar to him. Their
direction would take them directly past where he stood.
Now the warriors were a dozen yards away,
and closing the distance. Charlie tried to shrink back against a large tree,
make his form blend with that of the trunk.
One by one the Indians passed by, only a
few feet from where Charlie stood. He looked away, in fear they would sense
someone watching. When he turned back, it was in time to see the last man
disappear into the forest. He could not see the man’s face, only that there
were scalps on his belt, one of them with red hair.
Charlie froze, struggling with the wave of
fear that came over him. These men had come from the south, from the direction
of the cabin.
Ma and Pa.
Finally, Charlie could stand it no longer.
He had to get there, to know. Wildly he ran, leaping over downed trees, ducking
beneath low-hanging limbs. One foot caught under a root, and he pitched forward
into the brush. Getting to his feet, he picked up his rifle and stumbled on—a mile,
then two. At last he dropped to the ground and lay gasping for breath.
Minutes passed. In control again, Charlie ran
on. For a short time it rained, but he was unaware. At last he slowed, for
ahead were the meadow and the cabin. He stopped and sniffed. Smoke.
Charlie checked the rifle, then moved
cautiously forward. Again he caught the smell of wood smoke, now heavy in the
air. Just a few more yards…
At last he could see it, the cabin—or what remained
of it. Only the stone fireplace and chimney was still intact; the rest was a burned-out
shell. Flames still danced along some of the logs.
Clouds of smoke billowed upward and swirled
around him as he approached. A still, gray form slumped against a wheel of the
wagon.
Charlie hurried closer, then stopped and
turned away, unable to face what he saw. Yet, something compelled him to look
again. He forced himself to go closer.
Seth Dobbs hung limply from rawhide cords
that bound him to the wheel. The anguish in his face told of how he had
suffered. It must have seemed a lifetime before death brought relief. Again
Charlie looked away, fighting to not give in to the nausea that came over him.
What about Ma?
“Ma!” he called. “Ma?”
Charlie ran to the remains of the cabin,
but she was not there. Then, momentarily the smoke cleared. Over by the corral—he
ran toward her. She had been run through with a lance. He dropped to his knees
and cradled her head in his lap.
She looked up at him, her eyes filled with
pain. Her voice came in a hoarse whisper.
“Charles, you…you go live with Uncle Josh…”
her voice trailed off.
“First I got to get you some help,” Charlie
said, his eyes filled with tears. “I’ll be right back, soon as I can saddle up
one of the horses.”
“No. They’s gone--everything. You get…get
away from this place…fast as you can. Don’t stop for nothing. I don’t want to live
anyways…after what they done.”
And life slipped away. Charlie lowered her
gently, then struggled to his feet.
A long time he stood, staring but not really
seeing. Then, at last, presence of mind began to return; he noticed the ground
around him. He studied the jumble of tracks, traced the movements of the
attackers to where they had split up. One group had gone off to the southeast,
taking the three horses with then. The others had traveled north on foot, no
doubt the ones that had passed Charlie earlier.
Night came on, a descending cloak that hid
the scene from his eyes. Yet the darkness did not matter. This was a sight that
would remain indelibly etched in his brain for as long as he lived.
Suddenly he felt alone. So very, very
alone.
