The Frontiersman’s Daughter (10 page)

15

The snow continued, turning the fort to ice. Even Ransom grew restless, tired of playing on the cold common.

“Ain’t Pa ever gonna come back?” he asked.

“Soon,” Lael reassured him, beginning to wonder herself. She had a fierce hankering to see Susanna in her new home and hear if the rumors about her expecting a baby were true. Mostly she longed to escape fort walls, for her run-in with Hugh McClary dogged her like a black shadow.

Even Ma seemed to sense her restlessness. “Now’s as good a time as any to teach you how to spin flax,” she said, “since you’re done knitting those socks for Simon and your pa.”

“I’m no good at spinning, Ma,” she lamented. She took up another hank of yarn and remembered what Ransom had overheard hanging around the blacksmith’s shop. Simon was up on his four hundred again, and she’d heard that with the help of Neddy, his nearest neighbor, he was at work building a cabin.

Their cabin.

Come spring, would she be there? Come spring, what would he say to Pa?

But spring seemed years away. With the Canes buried but two weeks and Piper in seclusion in the Hayes’ blockhouse, time seemed to stand still, frozen into place by snow and the sameness of fort life. Even McClary’s unending chatter seemed ground down by fatigue. Not so many men came by Ma Horn’s cabin these days.

“I’d be obliged if you’d help me make some shoepacs,” Lael told her ma once she’d stopped her spinning.

Using strips of sturdy whang leather, they sewed high tops onto her moccasins and lined them with otter fur, creating snug shoepacs. Next she knitted herself stockings, and Ma made her a large linsey shawl, which she folded into a triangle and draped around her shoulders for warmth. A shapeless fur hat made from beaver pelts replaced her limp summer bonnet. At last, in a heavy dress dyed butternut brown, she could face the cold as often as she pleased.

But there was nowhere to go beyond the fort’s four walls. Fear kept them all inside, the fate of the Canes an ugly reminder of what likely awaited any who wandered.

Was this how Pa felt within the crowded, fetid fort that bore his name? There seemed no greater punishment, Lael reckoned, than to be confined to the company of a passel of people crammed together in close quarters. As each day dawned and ebbed, she longed for wide open spaces where she could draw an easy breath, but fear kept the fort gates locked tight.

Standing along a high wall, peering out a gun hole toward the frozen river, its surface a gunmetal gray, she pondered the fear that had shadowed her for fourteen years, just as it had most who’d ventured over the Cumberland into Kentucke. She wondered if it would dog her all her days. If Pa wrestled with fear, she never knew it. Perhaps that was why his name was chiseled above the front gates. Even the Indians made no secret of their admiration for him. Indeed, their respect ran so deep it extended to her, a cowardly, would-be woman.

Pa would not trade freedom for fear, so why should she? Her father’s blood ran in her veins. Might hers not contain a bit of boldness besides? Would she one day look back and regret a life of stepping carefully? Was it not a form of slavery?

Aye, she would rather die than sit here another day.

Quietly, so furtively as to be almost Indian-like, she unhobbled Pride and led him to the fort’s back gates. The sentry on watch simply stared at her.

“Please open the gate, sir. I wish to pass.”

She didn’t know his name, but he knew hers. Behind his brushy beard his brogue was thick with Ireland. “Miss Click, what would your father be sayin’ to that?”

She nearly smiled. “I think he’d ask what took me so long.”

For a fleeting moment she thought he would deny her. Then turning a wary eye past his post, he unbarred the massive gates and cracked them just enough to let her pass. Thanking him, she got up on Pride’s bare back, her fingers embedded in his thick mane, and rode out.

When the gates thudded shut behind her and the bolt slid into place, she had but one fleeting moment of terror. Dawn painted the sky with sepia light. She wanted no onlookers on this, her first foray into newfound freedom.

Heading east, she followed the sun. Pride seemed as exhilarated as she, kicking up snow and snorting wildly. Once she lost her shawl and went back for it, knotting it so that it would stay put about her shoulders. Strangely, she wasn’t cold. Beneath her fur hat, one plump straw-colored plait hung down her back to the horse’s belly.

Soon she stood in a clearing. A blackened cabin and a once proud cornfield had been reduced to soot and stubble, as if a great unruly beast had stomped the cabin and crushed it, then gobbled up the corn with a fiery breath. Only the chimney of gray river rock remained. All around her the grass was still scorched save for a gentle rise to the west where a stately maple shaded seven mounds of earth and rock. Gravesites. This was the work of the Shawnee.

At Cozy Creek she took some parched corn from her pocket, her fingers pausing to caress the blue beads. As she ate, she moved out of the dark woods into a clearing where the sun worked to thaw the winter ground. A joree bird wintering in the valley called to her.
To-wee . . . to-wee.
She whistled back, a shrill sound in the stillness.

As she rode she scarcely passed a single cabin belching smoke. Their own sat silent and shivering against the snowy ridge, giving her a twinge of homesickness. Some folks, like Uncle Neddy, stayed put in times of trouble, but most fled to the fort. She crested Hackberry Ridge and reluctantly rode down to the fort in time to help with supper.

“Mush again?” Ransom whined.

She served him anyway, weary of the sight herself. When would Pa return with fresh meat? Their store of salt was dwindling and she feared she was about to go stockade-crazy.

Swallowing a sigh, she removed the kettle from the fire and poured two cups of black bohea. Poking around in the cupboard produced no long-sweetening, and so they were left to choke down the bitter brew plain. The cabin was all too still. Ma had been quiet all evening and had not resumed her spinning, and Lael missed the familiar whirr of the wheel. She was prepared for some protest about her wandering beyond fort walls, and so it didn’t surprise her when her mother started in.

“I wondered how long it would be before you went the way of your father.” There was weary resignation in her words and a kind of bewilderment in her eyes. “Nothing on earth could tempt me beyond these walls, yet you seem drawn to it. I can’t stop your wanderin’, but I wonder what I’ll tell your pa when you don’t come back.”

“Tell him you just can’t pin a Click down,” Lael answered matter-of-factly, though she felt sudden sympathy for her mother sitting there hunkered down, so small and weary and worn. Was this what fear did?

As for herself, she felt alive, renewed, about to leap out of her chair. Tomorrow beckoned, promising untold pleasures and wonders.

Where would she go?

Oh, but it was a fine thing to be free. Standing atop Moccasin Knob, where eagles soared, the world was at her feet. Throwing her arms wide, Lael twirled around atop the knob like a toy top, spinning and whirling until dizziness slowed her. The snow had melted and the sun, as if emboldened by her antics, shone forth in a cloudless sky.

Heading west, she traversed Log Lick Trace, soon walking on unfamiliar ground, the going a muddy mess what with the sudden thaw. She could make more than twenty miles in a day on rough ground but knew Pa could go farther. She imagined meeting up with him and fancied seeing surprise and admiration in his keen blue eyes. But never anger.

The clear day beckoned her on, made her bold. At last she came to Muddy Creek, a place she’d been warned away from her whole life. Indian sign was nearly always to be found there. A crude cross on a low rise marked the site, a silent reminder of the massacre three years past that befell a party of settlers who had pushed too far into Indian territory.

Pausing with the sun at her back, she studied the scene and said a quick prayer for peace. Not six steps later she came across the first Indian sign. Instead of fleeing, she followed it clear to the mouth of the Red River where the footprints ended.

Retreating, she fairly ran back to the fort, dusk at her heels.

No longer did the sentries look long after her and shake their heads. She smiled at the stir she’d created. Wasn’t it a wonderment, some said, how Lael Click could wander unmolested in the very woods where they themselves would likely be hacked to pieces? Aye, the legend of her father seemed even to follow her.

16

Common sense told Lael it was time she began carrying a gun on her forays. Gathering the ginseng money she’d saved, she went to the fort sutler and exchanged her shillings for a flintlock rifle and a good supply of powder and shot. Ransom looked on with awe, as the rifle was taller than he.

For once Lael was glad the good Lord had made her a tall woman. The rifle was lighter than Pa’s own, the stock made of hard maple and blackened with soot. Best yet, she could ready it for immediate use, though learning to load it in good time proved a challenge. She’d watched Pa countless times measure a charge from his powder horn into the muzzle, then ramrod the bullet to the bottom of the bore. She recollected how easily he primed the lock with a little powder before closing the pan cover and cocking the lock, readying it in under a minute. He was the only man she knew who could reload on the run.

“I bet you can’t shoot that thing,” Ransom said sleepily, watching her from the loft.

The cabin was quiet save the two of them. Ma had gone visiting and now, left to themselves, they could say what they pleased.

“Pa showed me how when I turned twelve,” she said. “But I’ve hardly fired one.”

“I heard tell Jane McFee can stand up to a gun hole good as any man.”

“You heard right.” Truly, Jane McFee, now approaching sixty, had a man’s hand with a gun. Lael longed to be like her, though she didn’t know if she could shoot to kill.

“I reckon you could pick off a painter pretty quick.” Ransom scratched his head as if thinking. “Maybe a bear too.”

She took up a rag and began polishing the stock. An animal was the least of her concerns, but she didn’t say so.

Ransom rambled on. “You see Simon? He come in just today, but you was gone. He disbelieved me when I told him you were on one of your rambles.”

Simon? Here? Getting up, she stepped to the shutter and looked across the common to the Hayes’ blockhouse where a window was etched in yellow light. How did Simon and Piper Cane fare in the same cabin? she wondered. Piper hadn’t yet come out of seclusion. Ma Horn said she sat silent in a chair with nary a word to anyone. Lael pitied her plight. Would Simon amuse her, make her laugh? No matter. Simon was safe within fort walls, and she’d no doubt see him come morning.

At dawn the militia drilled then took a brief rest before again picking up their guns. A line of men snaked across the cold common, each bearing a rifle. At the end of the line stood Lael, at first merely curious about their marksmanship. She noted the various men, their different weapons and how each was handled. Simon, ahead of her, seemed oblivious to her presence.

Several men hooted when old Amos, the fort fiddler, rolled out a charred keg of whiskey. So this was the coveted prize, she surmised. Colonel Corey set up a target just outside the fort’s gates, facing the river. Here the riflemen could be heard and seen by any enemy. Yet at the first sign of trouble, the men could easily slip back into the fort.

“Now, watch this, little miss,” said the grizzled woodsman ahead of Lael. “Colonel Corey can put nineteen bullets out of twenty within an inch of a nail. Not a man can best ’im but your pa.”

Indeed, in addition to Colonel Corey’s fine manners, he was good with a gun. He hit the nail on the head nearly every time, finishing and taking his place behind her in line. When he saw her, his eyes registered surprised pleasure, and he swept off his hat, taking her cold, callused hand and bringing it lightly to his lips. She smiled a rare smile, revealing even white teeth, then placed her hand back into her pocket beside the blue beads.

“To what do we owe the pleasure of your company, Miss Click?”

“To your fine marksmanship, Colonel,” she said simply, untried at the art of flirtation.

“The noise of the guns does not annoy you?”

“Nay, I’m afraid I’ve been hearing them my whole life.”

His eyes fell on her rifle. “Would you care to try your weapon? I can assist you.”

“Aye, thank you kindly.”

His eyes lingered on her face—a tad overlong, she thought. Behind them now, Simon stewed, his face a study of anger and disbelief. Anger at the colonel’s attentions? Surprise at her presence?

The men no longer kept to single file. When it was her turn, they fanned out about her, clearly intrigued by her presence. Standing beside her, Colonel Corey made several suggestions. Listening carefully, her range about sixty yards, she cocked the lock, then fired. Her aim was a bit high.

“Try again,” said the colonel kindly. “My own men get three attempts.”

And so, feet splayed to steady herself, she reloaded and fired again. A hush fell over the men upon the discharge. The post shook as she hit the target dead center. Even Colonel Corey, schooled in deadpan, looked astonished. A cheer went up from the men, all save Simon. She flushed, aware of the recoil’s hearty kick and the ensuing smoke.

“Excellent. Now again,” the colonel encouraged.

She obliged, reloading in less than a minute. Drawing a steadying breath, she fired a final time. Again, she hit the target’s center. When the applause had died down, Colonel Corey said, “You seem to have your father’s unerring eye and arm. Please, join us for a drink.”

And so she did, but only a sip. The potent brew, relished by the men, burned her throat and befuddled her senses. Thanking the colonel, she soon departed to her own cabin, aware that many of the fort’s women were watching her. Even Piper Cane—could it be?—stood looking at her from an open blockhouse window.

“Ma says you’re gettin’ too big for your britches,” Ransom told her in the empty cabin.

“They may be big, but they ain’t bored.”

“Is it true you hit them targets dead on two out of three times? I reckon even Pa would be proud of that.”

“Eat your mush and hush.”

Already she was planning her next foray, this time with her rifle. The security of it would let her roam a bit farther, perhaps overnight somewhere. She had a notion to head toward Bullitt’s Lick but dared not give voice to this piece of rashness. Farther west, this isolated post led to the Falls of the Ohio and rarely passed a peaceful day. But with Pride and her rifle she would attempt it.

Still, Ma’s words rang a warning in her ears:
I wonder what I’ll tell your pa when you don’t come back
.

A knock, hard and loud, sounded at the door. Ransom opened it to reveal Simon, his head bent to get in the door frame. As if sensing a coming conflict, Ransom scampered squirrel-like past Simon’s legs out the door. Lael stood, her supper unfinished. In the stuffy air of the cabin she smelled liquor, so strong it seemed Simon had been pickled in it.

“I’ve come courtin’,” he announced, kicking the door shut with his boot.

She eyed him warily, thinking how Colonel Corey’s fine manners jarred sourly with this show of brutishness. “Well, you can leave your whiskey behind next time,” she chided.

Stepping deeper into the dimly lit room, he tripped over the leg of a rocking chair then clumsily righted himself.

Stifling a laugh, Lael put one hand over her mouth. “You shouldn’t be here, Simon. At least leave the door open. Folks’ll talk.”

His head came up. “Tongues are already waggin’ about your wild ways. Openin’ the door won’t stop ’em.” He sat down abruptly and ran a hand over the stubble of a two-day beard. “I ride in yesterday and all I hear is ‘Lael Click done this’ and ‘Lael Click done that.’ Your pa better come back soon and rein you in since your ma can’t. My pa says Colonel Corey is so besotted with you he commands his men to open the gates for you day and night.”

Lael moved to put more wood on the fire and opened the door nonetheless. Arms crossed, she said a trifle testily, “You’re just sore because I’m the better shot.”

His scowl intensified. “Beginner’s luck, is all.”

She poked at the fire with an iron rod. “How’s the cabin comin’?”

“Slow, what with the snow and all, but it’ll be done come spring. I ain’t changed my mind where you’re concerned, Lael Click. You’re raisin’ such a ruckus, I figure your pa’ll just plain give you to me to get shed of you himself.”

She laughed outright at this then sobered. “See any fresh Indian sign up your way?”

“Some horses were stole from Pogue’s place.”

“How’s Piper?”

“Poorly.”

Clearly, he was in no mood for sober conversation. Lael turned and there in the open doorway stood Ma Horn. From the look on her face as she surveyed Simon, Lael gathered she felt the same about him as did Pa. Without acknowledging him, she came into the room. Simon stood unsteadily and left with nary a word. Perhaps their dislike was mutual then.

“This here herb bundle’s for Neddy. I have a feelin’ he’s poorly,” she said, shutting the door. “Will you take it to him on your next ramble?”

“Aye, in the morning.” Gladness washed over her. Obviously, Ma Horn didn’t mind her going.

Her aged face creased with a knowing smile and she said, “Whenever I see you set out, I just say a little prayer. Just remember, won’t nothin’ ever befall you that the good Lord don’t allow.”

High up on Neddy’s homestead, Lael didn’t return to the fort until suppertime the second day. When she entered the cabin, both Ransom and Ma nearly fell on her, their relief was so great.

“I was about to call out the militia,” said Ma in scolding fashion.

“No need,” Lael said, depositing her saddlebags and rifle by the door. “I’ve just been to see Uncle Neddy.”

Her mother’s mouth dropped open.

She sashayed past, removing her heavy cloak and hat. “He’s just fine, in case you’re wonderin’. ”

Truly, Uncle Neddy had seemed pleased as punch to see her, weak as he was. They’d broken bread together and then, as evening set in, the fever took him, and Lael stayed to nurse him through the night. The boneset tea she’d brought seemed to help, and by noon the next day he was up and around again. When she left, he insisted she take a crock of long-sweetening for her trouble, which, she replied, had been no trouble at all.

She deposited the crock on the table in front of a stunned Ma. Neddy’s name had not been mentioned between them for years, and Lael, for one, was glad to break the silence. Without another word, she washed up and wearily climbed the loft ladder to bed.