Pemmican Man (eBook)

CHAPTER ONE

On The Road

I stopped just short of the road in the thick tag alders that grew along the road and listened for the sound of anyone approaching. Hearing nothing, I stepped onto the dirt road and headed north being careful not to leave any trace of my passing on the bare dirt that appeared between the rocks and grass. I was worried that someone could come along and recognize me, Bartholomew from the still. Of corse, people really knew me as Bart, only my mother Anne called me Bartholomew and then only when I had done something wrong.

Coming to a low swampy area I spotted some wild onions growing next to the road and pulled them up with the roots attached. I tasted the stalks and found them to be strong onions. Good!, I thought these things should disguise any scent from my moccasins. I rubbed them all over my moccasins and the rest of my clothes as well, hoping to disguise my scent from both man and beast. I continued hiking along and my spirits picked up while the sun warmed me. I occasionally caught myself whistling “ Yankee Doodle” or some other tune until I realized that I might be giving myself away. So I stopped, although it was difficult for me to restrain my naturally cheerful personality.

I tripped along all that day, thinking warm thoughts of Tom, Martha and especially Mary. It was so good of them to take me in like that. It warmed my heart just to know that people like that existed and were interested in helping me. And I was making good time. Before the sun set completely, I spotted a low area off to the left of the trail. Being careful to refresh the wild onion scent on my moccasins from plants growing there to cover my scent, I pushed through the tag alder, the moose maple and brush in a zigzag fashion so as to leave no straight line trail. I made sure that I left no footprints through the brush as I pushed through.

About a quarter mile back from the road I came upon the expected pond, in this case a beaver pond with the stick-built lodge sitting right smack dab in the middle of the pond. I worked my way around to the far side of the pond to be distant enough from the road so any noise I made camping there could not be heard and anyone coming from the direction of the road would be clearly visible to me from across the pond.

I chose an elevated area behind a towering white pine for my camp site. Looking around I scraped through the pine needled surface so no loose or dry vegetation would start burning there. Below the surface I saw evidence of a camp fire from many years ago, probably by Indians hunting in this area. In the same spot where the ashes were, I started a small fire from dead branches I found either still attached to a tree or lying about. Then I ate some moose pemmican with hot tea made over the fire. The moose pemmican tasted a little sweet as compared with the usual method of making it from bison but there weren’t any bison in Pennsylvania where I was coming from. I was glad to have food to eat on this trip. It was a clear night so I was able to watch the stars as they appeared one at a time. I knew the polar star, which gave me the true north direction, as well as the constellation Orion, plus the evening star Venus and the Milky Way. It would be nice to know more about the heavens, I thought, as I fell asleep in my blankets.

I woke up suddenly to a thrashing about, jumped up and grabbed my musket, which I kept next to me, loaded and ready for action. I swung it around ready to fire at anything. False alarm! It was only a fat rabbit with his leg trapped in my snare desperately trying to get out. Killing the rabbit with a fast and merciful blow to its head and then skinning it took me but minutes while the fire I had rekindled took hold. Roast rabbit for breakfast and wild plants I picked nearby for hot tea. Not a bad start to the day, I thought. Then the sun climbed to a point where my little camp and I were warmed by the bright rays of a clear October morning.

Packing up my small kit and caboodle I retraced my steps to the wagon road and turned north with the sun on the right side of my face and a spring to my step. I had to restrain myself from whistling again, although once in a while when I could see both far to the rear and to the front on a straight stretch of road I allowed myself to whistle.

I was on such a long straight stretch whistling “Dixie” when I heard a sound, a sound that did not come naturally from the forest that I was finely attuned to, but a different sound. I looked back and saw a dog and then the head of a horse coming around a bend far behind the dog. I ducked into the forest just as a mounted rider came into view, traveling fast, and with another dog following along. I pushed through some dogwood, went around a huge granite boulder and a gray outcrop set back from the road. There I had a partial view of the road from between the pines and aspens. A chestnut horse came trotting into view and there sitting high in the saddle was Sheriff Jack Scott with a long barreled revolver holstered to his buckskin trousers. He had a sagging wide brimmed hat that had seen better days and a store-bought shirt. There was a bedroll tied on behind him together with his rain slicker. He also had his usual unpleasant expression on a face that had never learned to smile. I felt certain that it was me that this nasty sheriff was looking for and I had no intention of being captured.

The dogs started barking and running back and forth, alerting on my scent but also a little confused by the wild onion scent. I checked my musket and felt for my large bone-handled knife which was hanging from my belt to make sure they were ready. My powder was dry and I waited quietly knowing that if I made the slightest sound the dogs would pick it up. To my relief, one of the hounds started down the road, heading north again and the other started to follow, but just as it passed my trail into the woods, it stopped and headed toward my position. My heart stopped. The hound followed right up to where I was waiting and then leaped over a branch toward me with his jaws wide open, baring his long sharp teeth. I leaned back and fired the old musket totally by reflex. Blam! The musket roared and a cloud of black smoke poured forth. Scott yelled for his hounds, but only one returned to him on his big chestnut gelding, the other lay dying in a pool of blood under me as I jumped up and away from the bloody hound. Scott drew one of his big revolvers and urged his now startled horse up the slope and through the brush toward me. I started to reload the old musket and just had it primed and ready to fire when Scott came up to me where we could clearly see each other.

“Okay there young fella, put down that old musket or I’ll drop you right there in your tracks and let old Yellar have you for dinner,” growled Scott.

The other hound, the one with a yellowish coat, had by now come around and was to my right while Scott and the chestnut were right in front of me. I lifted the musket and aimed it straight at Scott as steady as a rock and said:

“Keep on riding and leave me alone or I’ll shoot you and I mean right now.” I tried to sound like I wasn’t scared even though I was.

Meanwhile “Old Yellar” was sneaking around behind me as though he was being directed by Jack Scott through some mental telepathy. Now Old Yellar started some deep, heavy growling with his teeth bared and inching up on me.

Scott yelled: “Give it up boy. I’m just going to bring you back home to your folks, if you drop the gun and go quietly I’ll overlook the fact that you done killed my best hound dog.”

Just then Old Yellar leaped at me. I jumped. My old flintlock went off with the usual cloud of black smoke. Jack Scott hollered in pain and jumped off his horse. I fell to the ground with Old Yellar on top of me with his jaw and big teeth locked on my left fore arm. Then the two of us rolled over onto the rocks and grass with both of us tumbling downhill as I struggled to pull my knife. I finally got the knife out of its leather sheath, and with all the strength that I could muster I buried the blade into Old Yellar’s side as deep as the hilt on the huge knife would allow. After a while he let go of my arm and yelped about with the hilt made of antler bone sticking out of his side like a handle. Just then Jack Scott strode over and swung his big revolver at my head knocking me flat onto the ground. When I came to, for I must have been knocked out although I don’t remember being out, it was quiet except for old Yellar’s moaning, the big chestnut munching on some grass and a gray jay giving out a loud warning call to any birds or animals within hearing.

I came to with a terrible headache. I couldn’t move my hands or arms. After a few minutes I discovered that my hands were tied behind my back. Once I was able to painfully open my eyes I saw Jack Scott standing a few feet away tying a fresh rag onto his bleeding left arm.

“It’s just lucky for you that you only nicked my arm or I’d kill you right now and save myself the trouble of hauling you all the way back to your old man. But I don’t think he’s going to be happy with you either so that’s something for me to look forward to-when he gives you the thrashing of your life!”

I lay there face up with my arms tied behind me. They hurt from the weight of my body on them. Taking a deep breath and trying to relax, I looked up at the blue sky and the green tree tops waving in the light breeze. A small dot sailed into my view from the north as it...