Jon Mckay 6c72k

Other books by Larry Layman

Tom Livengood

Paxton McAllister

Jesse Buxton

Tyler James

Buck Moline

Lema

Jose Baca

Brewster Daggit

JON MCKAY

L. L. Layman

Jon McKay

Copyright © 2016 Larry Layman.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-0190-1 (sc) ISBN: 978-1-5320-0191-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016911193

iUniverse rev. date: 07/13/2016

Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Acknowledgements

In my by gone years as a novel writing police officer I often times gave thanks to the dregs, thieves, and crooks who gave incite to my stories; then to the quiet warm comfort of my parked squad car and the supervisors who looked the other way as I wrote my stories. But now, many years retired, I have only my wife to thank for allowing me time to slip away from the ever present honey-do projects and once again put pen to hand.

As I have yet to master word perfect. I want to thank my son Jesse for turning chicken scratches into typed words and daughter Mackenzie for help organizing this story.

Of course, once again, my good friend, retired architect, Mike Goodale rose to the occasion and produced his wonderful cover art.

And as always, thank you Tim.

For Ron Theobald

It seems like a lifetime ago when Ron and I walked into the front door of the Peoria Police Department together, both brand new rookies. We became the best of friends and stayed that way throughout our careers, then our retirements, and now, hopefully beyond. Ron died yesterday, February 4, 2016.

Chapter 1

The smoke I could see and smell as I crested the rise above our croft. What had once been the home of my family for generations was no more. Only the charred rock walls stood. Our livestock was gone, all of them, even the stock we didn’t steal. As I broke into a run, I could see two people watching the fire; it was my older brother James and our mother. He was consoling her, holding her, but doing little to control her wailing. “James!” I yelled, “Mother!”. He looked but she continued weeping into his huge chest. James, now over 18, was a big man, almost as big as our father, Irwin McDonagle. Our father, we had buried on the knoll with his kin not three weeks prior. “What happened, when, who?” I gasped, though I well knew the answers. This was the time of the burnings. “Charles”, he answered, “they came at dawn, more than a dozen men rode with the Factor. Little enough I could do, with mother here to protect.” “Patrick Sellar?” I asked, my hand clutching hard the sheathed dirk at my side. “Aye” “And who rode with him?” “Only two I knew by name, McIntosh and Henry Watts. The others were but pikers and hired men”. James led our mother to the bench that overlooked our family plot. Our father’s new rock covered grave was but a few feet away. The wood plank used for a marker simply said, “Irwin McDonagle, 1767 to 1821.” The three of us sat in silence for quite some time. James and mother faced the knoll and father, I faced

the opposite and watched the fire smolder. “Luckily we saw them coming as we were returning home. We ducked down above the ridge as they first searched the home, stole what they wanted, then set their fires. I counted at least a dozen men, all mounted, little we could do but just watch.” Finally I conceded, “James, if I had been here, we could have fought them off.” “Perhaps, but they would have just waited and picked a better time.” “That better time will come,” said James, “They want what treasure we have and our lives to make sure they can keep it. They no doubt search for us now” So true, these were the burnings and they were both common and predictable. The Countess of Sutherland and Marquis of Stafford were in collusion now, united, taking croft after croft adding them to their estates. It appeared their quest for land and wealth had no limit but oceans themselves. Our Scottish highland homes were to be no more. Thousands had already been forced from their lands, then forced to flee for their lives. Our croft and that of Margaret McKay had not been troubled. We were ed as all feared our father, James and I included. Ole Irwin was the meanest son of a bitch in the valley. He was of the old clan as was Margaret McKay and a few of the other families not yet molested. Picts they were and a more devilish fearsome people ever existed. Even after twenty generations of inter-marriage, these families held to their old ways, especially our father. Ole Irwin took what he wanted from whomever, gave little back, save the sharp iron of his blade, be it in the face to face of day or in your bed at night. No mercy was ever shown. Irwin was a crofter by birth, Pict by heritage and choice, pirate by profession. When he came home, he saw to business, prodded his sons, patted his wife, and went back to sea. We saw him every year or two for a few months but each time he had new scars, less parts, but more coin. All of which was hidden in the stones of our smoldering home. “Did they get the money, James?” I asked.

“No but they looked around some and stole all of our weaponry, everything, before they torched the place.” We both knew our farmstead would have been seized years earlier but the Sutherlands and Staffords feared Irwin would have slit their throats while they slept. A fear well founded in fact, he would have. Margaret McKay was Irwin’s special friend. She lived more than two days journey to the south. I had never been to her home. What they shared beyond their friendship, Pict heritage, and secret language, we never knew or asked. James and I knew some of the old tongue, enough to get by, but we more commonly conversed in Gaelic with neighbors and friends, then English around our mother. Perhaps the greatest treasure acquired by Ole Irwin was our mother, his wife, Louise Thomas. Some said he enslaved her during a pirate raid at sea, some, those that feared his wrath, swore it was true love. James and I thought it prudent not to ask, just grateful we were for their union. Life is life, no matter where it comes from. I had no love for my father, he often said a man must earn his way in life, seize what he can and hold tight to it. In our world, he gave no love. He had some merit however, he taught James and I to work hard from can see to can’t, steal with the best, and fight with the worst using all manner of weaponry; be it dirk, epee, broad sword, musket, pistol, bludgeon, fist, feet, nail or teeth. He had but one goal, win, or for to lose is to die. A month prior, he returned from the sea, scarred aplenty. He was missing a chunk from his left hand, most of it from the thumb down. Festered the wound was, red, swollen, and rank. Ole Irwin was sick with fever, he lived but six days. We buried him in the family plot with just the poorest of a service. The victor gave his normal short sermon, the one reserved for the hopeless causes. He prayed for the old man, then flat lied to my mother saying she would be with him again someday in heaven. Our mother broke down in tears, she knew it was a damn lie for sure. His death was all the invitation the Sutherlands needed. With no Irwin, all they had to do was separate a seventeen and eighteen year old, deal with the remaining one who would be busy with protecting the old woman.

As we sat the bench, James broke the silence this time, “Where were you, Charles?” He asked. “You know”, I answered hoping he would not pursue the matter. “Christine?” he asked. I didn’t answer. Christine was a looker, no doubt about it. She was beyond handsome of feature, she was downright beautiful in all regards. What she saw in me was a wonder, I was little to look at, unless one looked long and hard, mostly matted dark auburn hair, dark eyes and leather skin all accustomed to the wind, sun, and rain. I had never spent time primping in the mirror. I was who I was and that was enough for me. Yet she had sent a messenger, one sworn to secrecy, indicating she wanted to meet me the previous night at the Old Town Inn just south of Lairg on the Dornock Firth road. We had met there often over the past few months. The innkeeper took our coin and said not a word, at least to my thinking. Our relationship had been slow in developing but once she showed me what God loves, there was no keeping me away. That girl just loved to show me over and over and over. I guess I was just about the most well shown seventeen year old in all of Scotland. Had I not been in her company, I might have been home to help protect our croft. At least two McDonagles could cause damage to many. Although not near as mean as Ole Irwin, we had learned well from our father. We could fight. Last night, Christine held me long and tight. We talked of many things; love, life, and fun times. “Charles” she said, “You know you are the man for me, but my family will have none of it without a birthright of merit or a significant fortune at hand.” “I will make my fortune”, I braggadociously replied, “You’ll see, I will be a man of means. A gentleman you will be proud of”. “I doubt you not, you will probably succeed in some financial endeavor, but

Charles, you a gentleman, gentry; surely you jest.” With her comments, she cut me deep, but with the next I was back in the clouds. “It is the wild lustful man next to me that makes my breast swell. You have my heart, but my father will never give you my hand.” “You’ll see,” I lied. After all, she was right, what man would give his daughter to the son of Ole Irwin, the pirate? I wouldn’t, why should he? My feelings had been hurt and I went quiet in thought. How I wanted to hold this woman next to me every night for the rest of my life. Christine, quick to detect the obvious, began to refocus my attention to what God loves and she kept my undivided attention well past the crowing of the cocks. Sitting on the bench still with James and our still crying mother, the thought crossed my mind. Had I been purposefully lured away, a question James was in no doubt asking himself. After all, Christine Osterly had blood connection to the Sutherlands. She was a niece to the countess, her sister’s daughter. The Osterly’s lived well, their monies coming from the system of rents received for living on confiscated crofts. They had no involvement as far as I could tell, but they profited. Christine, the love of my life, certainly had no participation. She could not have purposely lured me away. She would not. She loved me and I her. I mentally defended her over and over. She loved me. She loved me naught, mentally I was playing the little girl daisy petal plucking game. Every time I came to the “She loves me naught”, I ed seeing her with Donk Sellar again. He was the man I saw her walking with in Lairg the day Christine and I met. Donk, the youngest son of Patrick Sellar, was a big man, broad of shoulder, thick of chest. There was power in his arms. Donk had been a bully of sorts for as long as I could , but he had never caused me a problem. His father was the land removal agent for the Sutherlands, a man who knew where his bread was buttered. He burned croft after croft, but of course he had a small army behind him. He too caused me no problem; that was until Irwin’s death. Ole Irwin had been feared by seemingly everyone but our mother. He walked wide of her, never did he raise his voice in her presence. Never did he return from the sea without gifts aplenty. He lavished her with coin, jewel, and fabric,

but her favorite gifts were the books he brought home. Ole Irwin could not read a word, never tried far as I saw, nor did he encourage education, but when he was at sea, our mother had our noses in those books, now all ashes covering the charred stone floor of our home. “Charles,” James said, adjusting his sword, “We seem to be at a crossroad. One of us needs to escort mother back to London and get her set up. Scotland will never be safe for her again.” “She has family there,” I added, prodding him to continue with his thinking. “True enough, the Thomas’ will surely look after her”. “Listen here, “mother was interjecting, “It is impolite to talk in the third person when that person is present. Boys, I have already grieved over both your father’s death and our home. My tears here on the bench were for my sons.” “Us?” I queried, “We are fine; we need no tears.” “Not yet, but one or both of you will certainly perish in some fool hardy act of revenge, an act which will not rebuild our home or secure us a place here in the Sutherlands. Revenge was your father’s way, the Pict way.” Neither of us said a word, we just kept seated and staring, James and mother at the grave plots, me at the embers. “Sons”, she began again, “True it is that we must leave. We must retrieve our monies from under the stones and flee south, London makes sense. And, we must go now, lest these brigands return.” “Mother”, James said, but that was all he got out. She was up and moving toward the smoldering shell of our house. Both of us knew there was treasure in the house but we never saw Ole Irwin open his vault. We watched as she went to the fireplace, slid the andiron from its base horizontally, pulled the wall plate and slick as a whistle the plate and its securing stone came out revealing a cavity beneath. She reached in and pulled out a hot smoky leather pouch. She flipped it hand to hand to keep from burning herself, then to James who caught it, continuing the hand to hand flip.

“Let’s go,” she ordered, “time to move on”. I followed as she and James took to the path to Lairg. It was going to be a long walk. We were not burdened with a heavy load. All we had, we easily carried. James carried a smoldering leather bag full of coin and his sheathed sword. He held the treasure in his left hand, our mother’s hand he held with his right. Me, I had naught and my dirk nestled in its sheath on my belt, not much for my years of labor. Our walk was but a quarter mile up the hill to the crest of the rise. As we ed over and dipped down below the horizon we heard the pounding of horse hooves from the rear. They had returned to the croft, all twelve of them. So intent they were on the smoking ruins we were overlooked as we were cresting the knoll. Within seconds we were out of sight. James and mother continued on, quickening their pace. I crouched down to watch the men search the now burned ruins. One man, the tallest of the lot, pointed to the removed andiron. I saw him kneel and reach within. There was much yelling then all heads turned and began to scan the area searching no doubt for us. Patrick Sellar it was, I was certain. The tall man, began yelling instructions as the band split into four three man parties, each going different directions from the croft. Each group had taken one of the distinctive paths that led away. One group was taking the path we were on and they were coming fast. Downhill I ran overtaking James and mother within 100 yards. “They are after us, right behind me!” “Quick” I yelled, “Behind those rocks to the right, quickly, get down low!” The rocks, not but a cluster of three or four would not hide a rabbit from a fox but it was all we had on the stark barren path. Trees had long since been burnt for fuel.

No time did we have to ponder the thousand year exploitation of kindling for the hearths, our only hope was an initial surprise as the horsemen would surely see us as they galloped by. I knew we would have to fight as did James who had drawn the old sword he always carried. Me, that dirk was already clutched tightly in my right hand, blade forward edge up as Ole Irwin had always instructed. No time did we have to plan, it was but a moment before they had over took us. Surprise and attack were our only options and I took both rushing the first horse and rider. The rider, Henry Watts, tried to block my charge with the barrel of his musket in his right hand, he whacked my face hard but my knife was sunk deep in already in his stomach, my left had circled around his body. My momentum took me over the back of his horse allowing my weight and gravity to dislodge Watts from his mount. Hard we went to the ground, rolled once and I was up and ready knife in hand. Watts wailed in his disemboweled agonies unable to rise. This wailing man on the ground was the first I had ever killed and surprisingly to me, I gave it no thought. There was no remorse, no regret, no nothing, just no emotion; and I was looking for another target. The second horse had stopped hard upon my rush, reared up and threw his rider. I saw no more until I looked back to see James standing over the man drawing his sword from his chest. The third rider veered to the north drawing up 40 yards out. It was Donk Sellar and was pointing his musket at me. The only cover I could get was grabbing the reins of the second horse and spinning him broadside between Donk and myself. I heard two shots at near the same time, the ball of the first whacking hard the saddle of my moving fortress, the second shot had come from James; he had fired a pistol retrieved from the man now prone at his feet. He had also scored a hit on a horse, Donk’s. Donk wheeled his hurt mount and whipped him hard. Within seconds he was headed over the hill back towards our smoldering croft. Donk’s horse was apparently not hurt too bad, but his tail just hung low without purpose. If the shots had not been heard by the other nine, Donk would for sure be rallying them. Turning I saw mother walking back up the path with the first horse.

“James”, she said, “Grab the purse and get up on that horse. Charles, you help me up behind him. More will be coming” Holding still the reins of Henry’s horse, I relieved Watts of his shoulder belt and its sword and pistol. I put the belt over my own shoulder, attached were reloads aplenty for both the pistol and the musket that I also picked up. Watts, still alive, may have wanted to protest but he was preoccupied holding his entrails between his now bloody fingers. James was quickly astride his mount, mother I hoisted up behind him. I was just as quickly mounted on Watts’ horse, no worse for the wear, the shot had not penetrated the saddle. “To the coast boys”, mother directed and James put his heels to that horse and off they went. Well I knew that the two rider horse would easily wear out and be overtaken. I put the heels to Watts’ horse only I went the other direction. It was Donk I wanted. “Charles” James yelled. I ignored him and prodded my mount faster, back up the path. If I didn’t get Donk, at least I might buy James and our mother time. Looking over my shoulder again, I saw James and mother disappear around the base of the knoll. “Good luck, James,” was all I said to myself. I thought I could hear him say the same to himself.

Chapter 2

Donk had a couple of hundred yards on me as I came to the vantage that looked down on the croft. Coming from all three directions were the others, they had apparently heard the shots. I stood my ground on the rise making sure they could see me. Donk was doing the talking and pointing up the path, as he turned, he saw me. I heard, “There he is!” plain as day. They came as a pack at a gallop. Still, I stood my ground measuring the distance and time. At 70 yards I brought the musket up and leveled it on the man in front. At 50 yards, I fired. At 45 yards, I saw his hands go up, he never lived to see 40 yards. I threw the musket and put the boots to Watts’ horse. Whether it could out run the mob, I didn’t know. What I did know was the terrain. I knew every trail, creek, rock, rise or fall for at least ten miles in all directions. It had been my home. I took the path towards the McKay croft. It narrowed between the rocks, horse could only go single file, no faster that the first horse. Riders could not push too fast upon the horse ahead. If one stumbled they would all go down. I had gained ground as we came down on the flat. They were now a full 100 yards behind. Watts’ horse was a good one, he still had plenty left and loved to run. All out we raced to Stout Creek. The creek ran high this time of year, some places were well over my head. The ford was still a quarter mile south but I hit the shallows above my favorite fishing spot. The water ran cold and fast but only stirrup high. I was across and running again before the mob hit the water. Looking over my shoulder I saw two had gone wide and were in deep water. One was trying to swim, it was Patrick Sellar, bobbing in the water. Donk had turned back to help, as did the rest. If the old man, his father, were to drown, they would all be without funds.

Luck was with me and I slowed the Watts’ horse to a decent lope. I had gained more distance, well over two hundred yards now, but old man Sellar was mounted again and riding with a cold wet vengeance. The rest were following. Through the hills I rode often times I was out of sight, my pursuers were beginning to lag. Often times I cut off the paths, gaining more distance as the mob would have to slow and find the tracks of my mount, but find them they did. They kept coming and so went the day. I had one particular, a cut between two crags on one of the paths that led to our croft. James and I had played highwayman the as young boys. It was a place of perfect ambush. Horses could not scale the escarpment, even as low as it was. The top side could be reached by a mounted rider through a rocky wash a half mile ahead. On foot the crag could be scaled but once atop a man would be horseless. I made my way to the “ambush point”, at least that’s what we called the place as kids. As I rode I ed the hours James and I spent above the trail pretending to be pirates like Ole Irwin. We could have been little more than 5 or 6 years old, sent by our mother for bundles of faggots for the hearth. There has been wood for the easy taking above the point as few would have scaled the rocks for firewood. We often did but it was a long trek home. It was coming onto a cold damp dusk as I made my way downhill from my tied mount to the crag. My wait was short as nine mounted men walked their horses up the path. The lead man was studying the ground for tracks as he rode. I could see but the first three as the line of mob was stringed out in single file. It was upon this man that I leveled Watts’ pistol. The distance was no more than 20 feet almost straight down. Careful was my aim. Careful was my shot. I fired and the saddle emptied. Now there were eight, and all eight began firing their weapons uphill into the now darkening hillside. I knew they couldn’t see me but a few shots came dreadfully close. I had bought James and mother time and Sellars had paid a price in men. As I mounted, I thought first of ing my family at the coast, it would be the prudent thing to do yet once seated in that saddle I headed for the Sellar estate. “Charles”, I said to myself, “Irwin would have made them pay more than blood. His was the old way.” As darkness was upon me and chance of pursuit was almost nonexistent, I

travelled first back to our croft and picked up the musket I had dropped, then the pistol and musket from the first man I had shot. I knew Sellars would probably deduce who had retrieved the weaponry but I thought he would send subordinates with wagons for the bodies. It would be morning before anyone would make notice. The dead man had a few coins in his pockets, these became mine, little though they were, it was all I had. Christine and I had spent the last of my own coin the previous night. Christine, there she was again, at the forefront of my mind’s eye. Long was the cold damp ride, my thoughts of her, of her smooth warm flesh, her amorousness, her wanton lusts for life. Life with her would be wonderful if it weren’t but for Donk. Try as I might every evoked vision of Christine clothed or not included Donk. My path to the Sellar estate was not one of direct route, those trails would be taken by Patrick, Donk and their sextet of riders. They would be returning to a warm hearth, hardy meal, and a nights rest before resuming their search for me and or my family. With that I knew I had to keep their search focused on me, James and mother, although at the coast, might need more time to secure age or to hide should none be available. James would not return to help, his attention would be to mother. Theirs was a bond unlike no others. Riding alone on the moor gives one time for thought. It had seemed mother had favored James but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I just couldn’t verbalize, it was just a feeling I’ve always had. He was older, he was the first born. Yet, growing up it seemed we developed about the same. He was bigger, stronger, but never really the leader, I could always outrun him and was quicker to react, much, much quicker to mischief. James hair was brown, almost black, while mine was a lighter brown almost a red tint sort of like my father’s. James’ shoulders were broad and stout as were his abdominals and legs. James was a massive moving tree stump. Mine were broad yet lean of body but well-muscled as were all who toiled for life on the stark moor. We were brothers but we were different. On went my thoughts, back and forth, Christine and family, to the task at hand. Foremost I needed to keep the Sellars focus on me and not to get myself killed. More time had to be bought, time for family to escape.

I headed for the sound of a crowing cock and there found a croft coming to life with the new day’s dawn. Several children were about gathering eggs, doing their morning routine. The man forking hay to his enclosed livestock paid me attention aplenty, greeting me with that fork in hand. “Not many travelers about at this hour boy,“ was his greeting, not hostile but wary for sure. “It has been a long night’s ride and I’ve a long way to go, just looking for something to eat”. “I suspect you are returning Henry Watts’ horse?” Here it was, to lie or not to lie. I chose not to. “No sir, I am not, Henry has no further need of this mount. He and I had words. I continue to speak, he does not.” “Are you Charles McDonagle?” he asked. “I am.” “I knew Henry Watts, never liked him or his ways.” “I heard he was riding north with Patrick and his lot. Ole Irwin was dead is what they were saying.” ‘Word travels fast.” “Yes, it does. I will not turn a hungry man away, especially kin to Ole Irwin. But if you would take your meal on the trot it will be most appreciated. I have my family to consider and without me the children will certainly perish. You are no doubt a wanted man.” “I am and I would, these are hard times.” He turned to the oldest girl now at his side, “Have your mother prepare a riding meal for a friend.” With that, the girl was gone and back in thrice with a cloth wrapped meal.

“I thank you,” I said handing the girl a coin. “We will not be taking money from a friend,” said the man. “Then take it from a most grateful friend who may not have use of it by days end.” Was my reply. The father nodded at the girl who waited not a second longer, running to the house to show off her prize. “And thank you again,” I said the man. “Go with purpose,” was his reply. “I know the ways of Irwin, may you be as ruthless in your quest.” He said it in the old tongue.

Chapter 3

It was but a few more miles to the Sellar estate. Early morning had long since ed. My hunger had been abated by the crofter’s wife, a fine meal it was; hard boiled eggs, a chunk of cold mutton, slab of bread and two apples. My thirst had twice been quenched in fast flowing brooks, drink fortified with the flask of wine I found in Watts’ saddle bag. It was a fine highland valley I travelled through. Always I marveled at its beauty having traversed it many times in the past. This trip as all the others I rode a seldom used mountainside trail, not much more than a cow path, if that. All my previous trips to the Sellar Estate had been for the purpose of procurement. I came in the dark and left well before dawn, each time stealing something of value. They had so much, we had so little, at least comparatively. Truth be known I didn’t like the Sellars and just enjoyed the late night challenges. What I took would rarely even be missed, maybe a cow or two, a horse or seven, linen off the line, just what presented opportunity. My father, Ole Irwin, had warned me many a time, ride wary in the Sutherlands. I always did, then and today. To have been caught would have been a hanging offense. I never took big items home. There was a man north of Dornock Firth near Golspie who paid coins most generously and asked no questions. Lately I had used the coin to court and woo Christine, money well spent. Odd how the mind works, I was behind a rock fence looking down at the Sellar Estate. Rage and revenge, the driving forces, self-preservation, a fleeting thought and what come forefront in my thinking was coin and Christine. That old ditty rang loud and clear in my weary mind. It was about the old man on his death bed reminiscing about his life. “Yes,” he said, “I made a fortune in my life, spent most on liquor and women, wasted the rest.” Here I was, a few coin from a dead man in my purse, my home a smoldering ruin, my family in flight, the love of my life now a question for sure, no prospects, no future. What lay before me was another man’s dream, his accomplishments. It was what I wanted, what all men wanted; a fine home, wealth, crops in a field, livestock, security, and respect.

Patrick Sellars had all this, but he had taken most from others, he burned out crofters and seized their properties adding to his own, but hadn’t all men. Had not the Saxons taken, the Normans, the English? From all I knew of history, men had taken from others to their own advantage. As Sellars had taken, so had my father, so had I. There was something else I wanted, something more valuable yet I knew not what it was. It may have been Christine as she kept popping up in my thinking, her warm body next to mine, the elation I felt. I truly missed her and it had only been two days. Gradually, I mentally returned to the task at hand, my purpose. It was Irwin who stirred within me again. Sellars had taken from us, we would take from him. It was simply an eye for an eye. He had our croft burnt to the ground, so be it. I watched the estate from the wall, Watts, what I now called the exhausted horse, now ground tied over a decent graze, eating and dozing, well out of sight. There was hustle and bustle below. I saw a wagon hitched and two men took the seat. Patrick Sellar was everywhere talking, pointing, giving orders. Two mounted men ed the waggoneers, both I recognized from the previous day, they were however on different horses. The foursome left the estate together, most probably, a body recovery assignment. The two riders were to provide direction as they would know where the unfortunate lay. There were other men saddling, all preparing for a ride. Each was well armed, I counted nine. Then they were ed by Donk, which made ten. I saw them split as they rode off, one group headed towards our home, the other toward Donath Firth, these were the searchers. Patrick Sellars had stayed behind, with what I guessed was another 5 or 6 pikers. There were others about, the care takers, herders, and other various laborers. These men were at their daily toil. The estate itself consisted of a high stone manor house, two stories, with a shingled roof. The house had two fireplaces, one at each end. It had glass windows and huge oak doors. Behind the house was a huge stone privy that actually matched the manor. It too had a fireplace. What splendor I thought, a heated outhouse was an amazement. Further back was a small town with a main street. There was a barracks building where the pikers

lived, stables, barns, smoke houses, and dozens of hovels for the workers and their families. Everyone worked, everyone was doing something, women and children included. The house was a fortress, al stones tightly meshed together, for lack of a better description, it was just beautiful. The only weak point was an exterior cellar door to the rear. Next to the cellar door were stacked cords of fire wood. To my side of the manor house was the stone well with a roofed top and derrick. An assortment of buckets were neatly placed ready for filling. The dogs which had been my bane during previous nights’ visits of procurement were gone, possible kenneled for the day, but more probably just lazing about under a wagon somewhere. With all the daily activity about the estate the presence of me would cause no alarm. I saw to the change of both muskets and my pistols. Four shots were at the ready. The muskets were placed at the crest of my parapet. In the now empty wine flask I dumped a goodly pile of gunpowder from the reloads. Once ready I simply walked down the hill to the well, picked up two buckets and walked to the rear house. There was kindling in a small barrel near the cellar door. I filled both buckets with kindling, carried them to the door, opened it, and stepped down. Just inside the door was yet another stack of firewood. I laid my kindling, dumped my powder on it, and fired one of my pistols right into it. There was a large flash and then flame. I hurried out shutting the cellar door and walked away. The shot had caused alarm as people were coming out of the house, Patrick among them. He yelled at me, “Hey you!” I stopped, turned, and leveled my pistol at him, the shot was quick but not true, taking him high to the right. He spun and went down, the others, mostly women and children either stood dumbfounded or fled back around the corner of the house. For me, it was feet do your stuff. I ran as fast as I could back to the parapet and grabbed the musket and waited, my bead on the well. Several men came into the double from the town, none armed. There was confusion among them. Patrick had not been killed but he was badly hurt. He was helped up and taken

around the front of the house out of sight. A man ran back towards the back buildings, he was yelling, “to arms, to arms!” Still, I waited. I could see the cellar door and a wisp of smoke was whiffing up between the wood slats, then more and more. The yard began to fill with people, mostly men but there were women too and a few children. The men had come armed; musket, pistol, fork and scythe. Then someone yelled, “Fire”, fire at the house!” The cellar door was jerked open and out roared the flame. “Buckets, get buckets!” Then they came to the well and there were only two left. People began running back to the town for buckets and help. The fire was growing. Two men began to lower the buckets into the well. That was my cue, I fired the first musket and the ball whacked hard against the well stone. Both men jumped back and ran. People were coming back from the town with plenty of buckets to help with the fire. Once more, men went to the well, again my shot drove them back. Then Patrick himself being aided by a woman holding bandaging to his shoulder and a man to help him walk was in the thick of the confused mass giving orders. Again men tried for the well. I had had time to reload a musket and once again drove them back. I heard Patrick again above the yelling and confusion, “There he is, on the hill, get him, kill that son of a bitch!” Right off, I knew it was me he was referring to, and a good judge of character he was. I left one musket on the ground, grabbed the other and Watts, the somewhat rested of a horse, hot footed me out of there. The last I saw of the Sellar Manor was a plume of smoke and soaring flame. There would be no saving it, or me if I were caught. Charles McDonagle was a wanted man.

Chapter 4

It was a long run to London, especially for a fugitive on a stolen horse with just a few coins in a stolen purse. By days end there would be a bounty on my head. In these hard times, there would be searchers aplenty. I kept Watts to a Canter, just an easy lope to the northeast staying to the ancient trails, a few of which I knew having pushed stolen livestock through them in the past. It was a full three days to Golspie by these back trails, hopefully Sellars did not have a tracker. If he did, he would work for his money, as by the late afternoon I was using every trick I could think of to cause delay or confusion. Generally speaking, I would mix my track with others if they were fresh, turn off on trails heading to the west, then catch a stream back to the eat, resume travel and then do it again. Few were the travelers but I did meet a few, none I knew. All were bound for the coast with goods to trade or their possessions to flee. I made inquiry about men riding, saying I was trying to catch up, groups of that I had been left behind. I don’t think I was believed, all three wagons I met were more concerned about possible riders ahead than me. These were indeed hard times and what they had others would want. At the last wagon I was strangely asked directions to Donath Firth. I gave them and was rewarded with bread and cheese. Well after dark, I found a stream, entered the horse, waded east a half mile or so, exited on some flat rock, rode well away from the sounds of the running waters and made myself a cold camp. There would be no fire this night, nor would there be until I knew I was safe. I did not know where my pursuers might be. The bread and cheese was not enough but it was well received. Watts was tied on some good grass. I curled up under some brush and slept, trusting to the horse to give alarm. A cold miserable night it was laying out on the ground. A warm bed is what I wanted, a warm bed with Christine in it would have been better. Throughout the darkness I thought much of her, I wondered if I had bought James and mother enough time, but mostly I considered my options few these were. Flee Scotland was the only alternative, flee or die.

My plan was simple. Go to Golspie, sell the horse and saddle, then use the money to buy age to London then find James and mother, pretty basic, terribly simple. Occasionally my thinking became demented as dumb ideas came to mind like taking Christine with me, or going to London, make my fortune then return for her, the concurring hero. Then a really stupid thought arose, just kill Donk, eliminate the competition and live happily ever after. When I woke for the last time, sanity had returned. It was flee Scotland. That plan was much reinforced with the sound of dogs in the distance. Sellars had trackers, trackers and dogs; and they were close. I was saddled and riding in just no time at all. From the sound of the dogs, my pursuers were just leaving the stream heading up the draw, what I had estimated a half mile the night before. I started out at a walk, then into a mile eating canter along the base of a mountain range. No time was there to delay, but foolish it would have been to gallop. I needed to save Watts’ wind and strength for the big run. Only a fool would think he could outsmart the noses of those dogs especially with a tracker to keep them to the task. Fast was my pace, I was closing in on Golspie much sooner than anticipated. All my previous trips had been at a cows pace as that was only as fast as they would walk. More and more crofts were ed, some burnt, some not. Those left standing now paid rent to Sellars and his lot, or were perhaps related, kin of some lineage. None were to be trusted, I kept to the trail. I needed to get to Golspie with an unlathered horse. A sweaty horse would indicate a need. The old man who bought was far from stupid. The greater the need, the lower the price and I needed coin aplenty for age if I could even find a ship. Before me the trail narrowed then before me was a brush fence, obviously placed to keep travelers either in or out. I unmounted at the ready, musket in hand. No one was around, with the horse tied off and musket leaning on a rock I began removing the brush. I needed to get to the other side, Golspie couldn’t be more than a few miles away. Hard I went to my labors. I was almost finished, turned my head back and saw first Watts was gone as was my musket. On a second look I saw the horse 30 yards back up the path with a man in the saddle, my musket leveled at me. “Nice horse,” he said. The man was maybe thirty, bearded, short and dirty, his feet dangled above the

stirrups. “Yup, damn nice horse,” he said again. I could sense he was going to fire and flattened myself in the brush, rolling but once, and then with pistol already in hand I fired. He fired in the same instant. We both missed. Then he was gone, he had Watts at a gallop headed back from wince we had come. Over the heavy clomp of hooves, I could hear dogs in the distance. Glad I was I had saved Watts for the big run. That dirty horse stealing highlander was going to need all that horse could give. I walked on toward the coast, reloading that spent pistol as I did. Off in the distance I could hear shots, lots of them. The Sellars gang was on the chase. I wished the highlander luck and miles. It was near dusk when I arrived at Fishtown a few miles south of Golspie. At a small tavern, with last of my coin, I bought a meal of mutton stew and a tankard of frothy ale. My only comment to myself was the absence of carrot and onion; and the lack of meat. A group of drunken sailors were spending their earnings on watered scotch and ale. They gave me the eye, all nine of them as one of them wore a patch over one of his. The fine seamen were up to no good and looking for a fight. I was considering giving them one but decided discretion was the better part of valor. I ate quickly and left, walking down to the wharf. Dark now was the night. Anchored off was a two mast sloop. The sailors’ dingy was tied up to the wharf piers. No one was around. I slipped the mooring lines and soon was adrift. With my back to the oars I was southbound from Fishtown, London bound. What was it, two or three hundred miles, I surely didn’t know. I had never been past Fort George on the southern point of Murray Firth. I was physically exhausted after the long night’s row. Realization was upon me, rowing to London without food or water was not an option. The town of Dornock was less than a mile off. I put to shore. There was no beach, no put in cove. I just let the waves put the skiff against the rocks, I thought it prudent to abandon the stolen skiff before I got there. I judged a jump with the wave and leaped to the barnacle crusted rock. Besides, were the Sellars men about, a man in a dingy would be an easy mark. I caught my footing and climbed up the face to a point where I could walk. Injuries I had, cuts to my hands and knees from

the sharp barnacles that edged the waters. As Ole Irwin said many a time, looking at childhood injuries, it’s a long way from the heart bag. The barnacle cuts were little more than a distraction. In Dornock, I was known by most, we traveled there many a time. Charles the younger they called me. James was called Little Irwin. The young hangabouts rarely trifled with us having felt our wrath many a time. At the wharf I made inquiry and learned that James and mother had secured age and left south for London yesterday aboard a coast runner. There were no other runners or ships in port nor were any expected for another week when a runner might dock, naturally the weather was always a factor. More importantly, I learned that some Sellar pikers had made similar inquiry that very morning, not just an hour prior. I was indeed a wanted man, a man with a price on his head. Travel with caution was the harbor masters warning. He had been friends with Ole Irwin, I had naught to fear from him, but there were others in need of coin. Cap Askew was his name. I was provided with a breakfast, salve for my still bleeding hands and knees, a warm cape, and a bonny farewell. “Go now, Charles the younger, Keep clear of the town, the traveled roads and all peoples. Just the price on your head alone would set even your friends just fine for years to come. You might find age or a sailing job at Fort George.” With that and a handshake I walked away from the wharf and into the buck brush behind the stacked barrels and boxes along the road. I disappeared into the rarely walked landscape. From where I walked west along Donath Firth, I could see the road and those who ed. I looked for another boat to borrow. I had to cross the firth then Murray Firth before I could get to Fort George. It would be 3 or 4 days of constant walking to go the land route. Two days or less if one could cross the firths. I was for the most part hidden. Around noon I heard horses coming, dropped down and took notice of the riders not but 200 feet away. There were four men, three obviously Sellar pikers and a one eyed sailor riding Watts. The poor horse had four owners in three days, two of which were now dead. His present rider was looking to make it three of four. Who would have thought the sailor having lost his dingy, would be so enraged. Or, maybe, he just wanted a share of the bounty.

Another hour later I spotted what I sought, a boat tied on the flat. The craft was a 20’ fisher with a single mast. It was low tide, but later when the tied returned the boat would be riding high. All I had to do was sit back, well hidden and wait, wait I did, wait and sleep. It was dusk when I awoke, full dark before the craft bobbed like a cork on the blue returning tide. Being no fool I stripped naked, bundled my trap into my newly acquired cape, tied it with my belt, and then entered the cold, cold waters. I waded out to the boat, the water neck high before I reached her. I flopped my bundle across the gunnel onto a seat, then with considerable effort crawled in after. Damn, I was cold, numbed to the bone. The stiff sea breeze initially enhanced the depth of my chill, but as I dried myself with the cape and dressed I gradually warmed up. Once I located the oars and locked them in place, I untied the mooring line from the floating barrel. Then it was my back to the oars, I rowed and rowed out into the firth at least half a mile from shore. With no liking of the labors I gave consideration to the sail. Having never sailed the mechanics were somewhat a mystery, especially in the dark. But with the help of some moor light I hauled the single sail aloft. I saw how the bottom pole spread the sail into a triangle. There was a tiller at the rear seat which I took. There with the tiller in my left hand and a rope from the end bottom of the sail in the right, I gradually got the feel of the boat. I was moving across the firth at a much faster pace. As I traveled I learned a few tricks and could alter speed and direction. If I wasn’t alone and hungry, I’d be having the time of my life. Two hours later I declared myself a pirate. “Argh,” I said aloud. “Argh, shiver me timbers,” If only Irwin could see me now.

Chapter 5

Morning came with a sun and a bright cloudless day. A most unusual Scottish break of day. Generally days started off cold, wet and miserable but sometimes they were really colder, wetter, and unbearable. This day the weather held, sunny all day it was. The south point of Dornock Firth was to my right, and I was well out into the channel, southbound and hungry. The wind was from the southwest. I set my sail to accommodate the wind and lashed the tiller. With the light of day and some practice as a sailor I was able to move about and access what was aboard. I found no food but there was a keg of ale, a partial keg of water with a cup attached on a long string and a small whale oil stove. As this was a fishing boat, there were several nets along with an assortment of hooks and line. A few of the lines had the ends of spoons attached. Tied to the spoons were fish hooks. I had never used spoon hooks but having nothing to lose but the pain in my stomach, I tied several to the stern and let them trail in the water maybe twenty or thirty foot back. I had some water first, it was fresh but tasted of fish. The ale tasted of ale, and I was glad of it. At least if I perished at sea, I would perish drunk and happy. That was just a fleeting thought as a great thrashing aft changed my thinking. I had a fish on and a big one, bigger than any I’d ever caught. Ten minutes or more, the fish and I tugged on the same line, at times I thought he would win his freedom, but he tired and I got him to the boat. Then with the use of a gaff that was handy to the stern, I hauled the monster aboard. I had no idea what fish it was. I only knew it was long, lean, with vicious snapping teeth and he wasn’t happy about me or the gaff still impaled in his flopping body. Blood and fish skin covered the rear of the boat. I watched him from front of the boat until he finally died. Then quickly I pulled the other spoons in. I did not want another such monster in the boat. After some effort with the stove, I got a fire going. Using my dirk, I filleted a big chunk off one side of the fish and put it in the only pot onboard. To the pot I poured some ale, then put the pot to the fire. What eventually came out of the boiling ale was a hot fish chowder. It wasn’t really good, but to a hungry man at

sea, good is a relative thing. I cut off another filet and did it again, washing it down with ale that tasted like ale. All day I sailed south towards Murray Firth and Fort George. With the setting sun I caught a glimpse of Crowarty Point and altered course taking the boat up the firth in darkness. I saw the lights of Crowarty but stayed far north. Not familiar with tides and current I gambled and ties off loosely to a dead fall that lay half in and out of the firth. I spent the night aboard, alone except for my dreams of Christine. What was it now, four or five nights, it seemed like a life time. Morning came as it was supposed to, cold, damp, and miserable. Luck, however, was with me as there was an outgoing tide behind me. I set my sail into the wind, once past Crowarty Point, I altered course and headed south again. I had no idea how far it was to Fort George, so fearing starvation at sea again, I put out my spoons. All day on the cold damp sea I sailed, with no luck with the spoons. The seas grew rough but the boat held course. All I had was ale that tasted like ale and water that didn’t. I kept the shoreline in sight and moved right along. Twice I saw other sails but they paid me no mind. Late afternoon, I saw flags over Fort George and sailed to them. It was almost dark as I sailed into the harbor. Off to the right, I saw smaller boats tied off along a pier. I sailed right up like I had done it all my life. I tied up, stepped off and just walked away. What I wanted was something to eat, a nights rest, and age to London. I could not sell the boat for fear someone would know I was not the rightful owner, but I had an extra pistol to barter with. There was an old man on the dock smoking a pipe. He had the look of an old seaman, at least he wore a big hat, skin slicker and high boots. “Fine little boat you have got there boy,” he said. “Yes she is,” I replied, “quite a little sail boat.” “She yours?” he queried. “No, I just borrowed her,” I lied. “Where’d you learn to sail?” “Here and there, never gave learning no thought, it just comes I guess.”

“Well that was about the finest mooring I ever saw” “Just luck,” I replied. “Call it what you will, I watched you come in. Where are ya from?” The old man wanted to talk and seemed harmless enough. “From up north, a small croft west of Fishtown.” “Walk wary, Charles the younger,” he said in the old tongue. “They search for you.” I had found a friend. “You know me?” “Yes, I’ve been waiting.” “You knew I would come here?” “Well, weren’t sure where you would show but we of the old ways are bound by tradition to care for our own; and you being the son of Irwin are special.” “Special?” “Yes, we all owe our lines and fortunes to Irwin. Come with me, wear my slicker and hat.” We changed the apparel, the old man took my cape, I his slicker and hat. He led me through the stone paved streets to a small cottage with a candle burning within. “We will be safe here,” he said. He rapped twice, then once. A slot opened, an eye filled the hole then disappeared and the slot closed. Then the door opened. Two women were within the warm room. An old lady had opened the door, the other woman sat the plank table. The lady at the table was younger, perhaps in her mid-thirties, very attractive and finely dressed. “Come,” she said, “sit and rest yourself,” motioning to a seat across from her.

“Mary, would you bring Charles a meal, he must be hungry.” “Yes, mum,” was the reply. The lady was of some bearing, it was obvious, as Mary went quickly to her tasks. “Harley, will you us?” Harley took the seat next to the lady. “You must be confused,” the lady began. “Let us start with introductions. The gentleman who brought you here, Harley Mctavishson, is an old mariner, a good friend of mine. Mary is his wife, this is their home, both were very good friends of Irwin. Harley sailed often with Irwin. I am Margaret McKay.” “I’ve heard of you,” I said, “My father had often mentioned your name. He said you were of the old ways.” “That I am, and so much more.” Mary brought a meal and placed it before me, an absolute feast, big slabs of ham and bread, with a vegetable and beef soup. Then a tankard of hot tea. “I hope you will find your meal acceptable. Excuse us, we supped earlier, we weren’t sure you would show.” “You knew I would be coming?” “Yes, but we were not sure when.” “Actually I have a sense others don’t believe, but I can sometimes tell the future.” “I don’t understand how I figure into your concerns. I’m not more than the son of a pirate. There must be scores of such men.” “Not just any pirate, you are the son of Irwin, Charles the younger.” I was even more confused. “Your father was much to many. He had a love for the sea, for pirating, and for life, but he gave more than he ever took.”

“I am now and will forever be indebted to the man, a debt I may never be able to repay.” I was looking at her, it was like looking at myself. There was something about her eyes. “Eat,” she said, “Replenish yourself, you have a long trip ahead. Although you fight well, Sellars has too many eyes, too many pikers. To stay will be your death.” “Yes,” I replied, “I have met them up close and personal. Lucky I was to make it this far, they seem to be everywhere.” “I understand Sellars now sleeps with his servants.” “He does,” I added. “And he has lost use of his right arm, it hangs useless from his shoulder.” “I missed,” was all I said. “No, he will you, the son of Irwin, who avenged the burning of the McDonagle croft. Forever as long as he lives, he will wipe his arse with the same hand that feeds his face.” The woman was indeed vengeful, and most descriptive. “You are indeed the son of Irwin, a man of the old ways.” “You said there was much more,” the woman had my undivided attention. “I did, but just finish your meal. You must leave this very night.” “Harley, might we indulge in a glass of your scotch?” “Certainly, my lady,” he returned with two glasses of scotch. “ me at the hearth Charles, it is much warmer there in the rockers.”

Chapter 6

The fire was indeed warm and the two rockers were a comfort, but strangely there was a comfort from Margaret McKay. There was a warmth from her that I could not explain. “Your vengeance on Sellars, rash and foolhardy though it was, shows the bravado of your father. He was such a man, and you are much like him.” “I gave no thought to it other than I needed to buy time for James and mother to escape. To London they went, at least that was their thinking.” “Yes, she has family there,” said Margaret. “Louise was a very nice lady. Wellread as I trust are you.” “Yes, she was, and as she read, she taught James and me to read. We had an extensive library of books, all manner of readings, most of which I learned from. The world is a much bigger place. All I have seen is just a small piece of the highland, not much more than a damp walk from our croft.” “Yes, it is Charles, and it is your destiny. You must go build a new life for yourself.” I said nothing, pondering now her gift, her ability to see the future. “I know what it is you seek,” she said, “You seek a home and security, you seek a way of life that provides for you and yours.” “I do.” “But you seek even more. Have you a woman in mind, Charles?” “Well I do have a special lady.” “Christine Osterly?” “You know of her?”

“I do and so much more. She may be the one, the heart and its cravings are beyond my power of foresight. What you seek is the warmth to life that love brings. Be wary, my son, to choose poorly has been the bane of many.” “Son?” “Yes, you are mine, a gift from Irwin to me, in a time when such was not permitted. At my request, I gave up my lover and my son to keep what fortunes my family had. Irwin brought Louise up from London to wet nurse you along with a child they had together there. He was such a scoundrel but I loved him all them more. Strange are the ways of the heart. Who is to say? I watched you from afar, those books you read came from me. I could not give you love but I could give you knowledge.” “Louise gave you nurturing and motherly love, your father gave you skills to be your own man and indirectly knowledge and the ability to learn came from me.” I was dumbfounded and just looked at her. I knew not what to say. “Now you must leave Charles, they search for you and are leaving nothing unturned. I have secured for you a seaman position aboard a ship that leaves with the tide, midnight I suspect. Captain Decker is a decent merchant sailor but don’t let that fool you, he’s an old pirate at heart. Though not of our ways, he was a friend to Irwin. Now before you leave, I want you to know two more things. First I loved you when you were born, and I love you now. Second, I have funds secured in the bank of Glasgow for the education of your children, you if you need it, but Irwin made me promise to give you none until you have succeeded on your own merits. He said something foolish about easy come, easy go. The s you seek are under three names; mine, Irwin’s, and yours or whatever name you assume. Your request for your funds must however be in the old tongue. You or your heir must also present this key which will open the chest which rests safely in the vault. She opened her hand and produced a metal necklace with a heavy key affixed, moved in close and dropped it over my head then said, “Now give your mother a hug and kiss goodbye.” I had a feeling of warmth that I never knew. “Go with god,” were her parting words, she used the old tongue.

Chapter 7

As we parted, Harley leading the way, I was given a gunny he had grabbed off of the front porch to the cottage. “Seafarer garb and footwear that you’ll need in your new station. The gunny is my own. I’ll be having no need of it. I had it made to my own design. If you unlace the side s, you will see it rolls out into a fine hammock. There are eye hooks front and aft that can be adjusted for below deck beams, they are never the same.” “Thank you,” I said. “Where will I be going?” “Can’t say, generally, Captain Decker’s next port of call depends on the wind and coin to be had but where ever he sails, I can assure you that it will be away from Scotland.” We walked through the dark streets down to the wharf. Moored under the guns of Fort George was a three mast ship. “There she lies lad, the Black Lady. She don’t look like much but she’s a dream to handle, a converter whaler she is. That boat will take rough seas like a wood toy in a bath tub. Smack her hard and she’ll pop right back.” There were lanterns lit and much activity aboard. Men were busy with their tasks. Captain Decker met us at the plank. “Captain,” said Harley, “This is the lad we talked about. He’s green as new grass but he’s ox strong and willing to learn.” “He’ll do Harley, give your lady my best. We be leaving now. I’ll see you next year, lord willing and the wind be lively.” He looked me over missing little. “I see he’s wearing your slicker and hat, he must be special to you.” “He’s special to my lady which makes him special to both of us.”

“So be it.” I turned to Harley extending my hand, “Thank you very much, sir. I’m in your debt.” “You are most welcome lad.” As we shook hands he filled my hand with a heavy leather purse. “My lady felt such a transfer might spoil the parting. Use it wisely boy, it’s a long road to Glasgow.” I turned, stashed the purse in my belt and walked up the plank after Decker. “Oh kid,” yelled Harley. “I’ll return that skiff back to Creech. Her master will be missing her.” I just waved. “Boat-swain Johnson,” Captain Decker yelled, “Johnson!” A man came at a run. He was young, small, and odiferous. “Aye, Captain,” Said the repeating Boat-swain. Decker was pointing at me. “He be your new seaman, green as a lady’s vomit. He’s young, stow his haversack and put him to work. His name is …” He paused. “McKay,” I replied without a thought, “John McKay.” “McKay, it is,” Decker gave me an inquisitive eye but said nothing as he went aft to the stern and rang a bell. “To the mooring lines ya swabbies, men to the mast. Raise the foresail, raise the spanker, we’ve a westerly breeze lads, we’ll let the wind push this black bitch off the wharf.” Not ten minutes later, with my gear stowed, my pistols and their belt were hidden with I clothing in the bag, I was beside Johnson doing as directed. I had a lot to learn. I was a sailor at sea.

Chapter 8

All night we were busy with the lines, hauling sails every which way. Lucky I was to have spent two days sailing that stolen skiff, at least I understood the basics. A larger boat moves principally the same way, everything is just bigger. Of course those everythings had a nautical name to learn, and naturally in the dark, those nauticals were harder to visualize, but I did as directed. With the dawning, seven of us were given leave to eat and sleep. The other seven crewmen stayed on station. We were on duty in six hour shifts unless otherwise directed. The captain’s order was the law, to question or disobey was a capital offense. As Johnson explained, “It’s a long swim back.” It was a long swim to anywhere, I saw nothing but water and horizon in all directions. Easterly was our heading, at least the bow was pointed at the rising sun. Scotland was aft and five hours behind us. I set the deck with Johnson eating a breakfast of dried meats and some hot mash, its derivation a mystery. It wasn’t good but it wasn’t that bad either. Johnson said to eat what there was whenever you had the chance, to sleep when allowed,, keep your mouth shut, and to do what you’re told. Seemed like good advice. In the light of the day I could actually see the ship I was in. According to Johnson it was an older Balener, a whaler converted into a mercantile. It was a full 120’ stern to bow, almost 30’ port to starboard. I had noted cannons on deck, four port, four starboard, one on the bow, and one on the stern. When I had stowed the haversack I noticed cannons along the walls of the deck below, each roped down at a covered window opening. With all the armament you would think we were pirates. “Jon, we are opportunists, merchants trying to make a living, merchants who intend to keep what we have aboard, but Captain Decker is not opposed to grabbing what someone else might have. We do as directed, and get a percent of the take, legal or otherwise. Your take is a percent of half, Decker keeps fifty percent of everything.”

When we had washed down the meal with a tankard of grog, we went below to sleep. The hold was full of boxes and barrels, I had no idea what was within, atop were bales of wool. Everything was lashed down. Johnson pulled down his gear from an overhead bag and unrolled its contents between two upright beams. He hooked his hammock to metal eyes that were protruding from the beams. “Use that beam over there, hook one end to where mine’s hooked and the other to your beam.” I rolled out Harley’s bag, seeing how it became a hammock. Within the bag were items of clothing, mostly canvas pants and wool sweaters. There were other odds and ends in a separate bag that I did not open as other men were coming below hooking up. I hooked my hammock as directed and climbed in using my slicker as a blanket. Sleep was slow in coming but not for the others. The snores and farts almost drowned out the constant wash of the waves against the ship. Finally I dozed off, not pleased at all with the smells, that were waffling heavily above the hammocks. At the clanging of the bell, we rose from our own repose, stowed our belongings in their haversacks hanging them high off the floor. Johnson said, “Hang them high or you’ll be unfolding rats on our next repose.” I watched what others did and copied their practices. I saw several cats wondering about and deduced their purpose. Crated were several goats and at least a dozen chickens. “Are we delivering livestock?” I asked Johnson. “Hell no, they be dinner.” He replied. “Who cooks?” “Decker’s got a whore up in his quarters who does the cook’n. She ain’t bad at one chore, don’t know about the other.” At the second clanging we were topside relieving our counterparts. On deck with me were six others’ Captain Decker, the quartermaster, McAndrewson, the boatswain, Johnson, and two seamen, one a Swede Pauli and the other a black they called, Dirty Joe. None were hostile to me, teaching what they could when time allowed. They worked together doing as directed by Johnson, McAndrewson, or Decker himself. Only a rank above could counterman an

order. As we worked, we talked, what was most apparent was the lack of ample hands for a ship of this size. McAndrewson, Master Andy, said that were the ship fully staffed, the splits would be less. The less men, the more coin. No one complained, they just worked harder. “Besides if more men are needed, we just call up the other shift of men.” He said, then walked off to some other task. Dirty Joe and Pauli, Big Bob and I did most of the climbing, in fact we did almost everything under supervision of odiferous Johnson. It all worked out. I learned my nautical knots, but more importantly when to use them and why. The Balener had two main masts, a fore and a main, both had shrouds. There was a smaller mast aft, they called it a mizzen and two smaller sails hung from it. The spanker hung there. If winds, or Decker, dictated more sail, there were three additional job sails off the bow spirit. It wasn’t too hard to figure out once you saw it done. On occasion, I saw Decker’s whore, Mattie they called her. She certainly had attributes to hold the eye, a big woman of breast and butt; not clean of either body or language. All she did was remind me of how fortunate I was to have had Christine. Little time was there however to ponder her absence or my abstinence, we were at task from bell to bell. I found the provided canvass pants were more conducive to the sea. They shed the water and broke the relentless wind. The sweaters kept me warm, that hat and slicker kept me dry. On the afternoon of the fourth day, I was below deck when I heard the bell, “Land ho, report ya sleeping swabbies!” We wrapped up our gear, went to the deck, and were assigned duties by the captain who had assumed the wheel. “Unfurl the fore jibs, start breaking her down boys, we are two hours from port, lots to do.” “Where are we,” I asked McAndrewson, as he walked by. “Amsterdam, our first port of call.” “What’s in Amsterdam?”

“Money for the making, women for the taking.”

Chapter 9

Once docked, I thought we would be going ashore, but I was sadly mistaken. Only Captain Decker and McAndrewson walked up the plank. They were going to a place called the Commerce House at least that is what Johnson said. Mister Cunningham, the sailing master from the other shift was left in charge. “Okay lads, let’s be at the derrick.” Labor we did, setting the derrick to the main mast. It fit neatly to big swivel brackets already affixed to the mast and hung out over the main hatch. Ropes and pulleys were attached, we used it to open the hatch and set it aside. I just did as told. Once everything was in place, I saw how it worked. Items below deck were to be attached to the lift lines. The leverage derricks, pulleys, muscle, and sweat would be used to bring up the heavy cargo from the hold. Another derrick on shore would pick up items from the deck and swing them to the dock. It was Decker’s job to buy, sell, or trade what we had for what we might move elsewhere. I was getting the picture. The idea was to come out ahead with each transaction. Bring them what they want, take what someone else doesn’t have, just business; buy low, sell high. With our work finished, Cunningham gave us break, time to lounge and watch the bustle of the harbor. There were at least a dozen similar merchant sailing ships at various docks, at least that many anchored out. Fifty or more smaller crafts were docked or anchored out. Literally hundreds of workers and lookers went up and down the stone roadway along the docks. Wagons pulled by all manner of beasts used the road. Beyond the road was a massive city with huge buildings. It was a sight to behold. Never had I seen so many people in one place. I took no comfort in what I saw. Yes, there was curiosity, perhaps a touch of excitement, but for the life of me I could not imagine why so many people would want to live together. My past four days aboard a ship with sixteen had been a challenge, before me were thousands, maybe tens of thousands. I stood the rail in

absolute amazement. “It’s one of the better ports,” said Pauli, who had ed me at the rail. Pauli was older than me by five or six years, taller, blonder and obviously more experienced. “That’s a lot of people up there,” I replied. “And beyond those that you see are women that you don’t, more than enough to please your fancy.” “Why is it we stand the rail?” I asked. “If we were allowed our liberty, who would be here to transfer the goods and do the labor. Once liberty is granted, a captain never knows who or when his crew might return. Some don’t ever come back, most return broke and are there by forced to sail to the next port.” “Have you ever not made the return?” He started laughing, “More than thrice, once I was forced to swim after the ship. After 100 yards the captain felt some pity and threw a line. Glad I was to be aboard, I was near drown. I took my lashes with almost a smile, god that bitch was worth every one of them.” I took pause, thinking of my love back home and our rendezvous at the Old town Inn south of Lairg on the Dornock Firth. I wished her with me to walk the streets of this great city, to see the sights and taste both the foods and pleasures. I’d take lashes for her that was for sure. “Have you a favorite?” I asked. “Me? Nay, never, any port in a storm is fine with me.” Pauli was smiling just watching the going ons. “They are all good Jon, just some’s better than others!” Me, I intended to make my fortune, make my own way in the world, then return for my bonnie lass a hero, a man of means, a man who would build his own castle, have his own estate. What would it take? Six months? A year? Who was to say? Yet as these thoughts went through my mind, the words of Pauli rang loud and clear.

“Any port in a storm.”

Chapter 10

The hour was late, the ship dark sans a few whale oil lamps when captain Decker and Master Andy returned to the plank. Andy carried a cooked leg of beef over his shoulder and a dozen loaves of bread tied together in his other hand. Decker had a quarter barrel of what turned out to be red wine. “Ring the bell Cunningham,” he said, “We’ve brought back dinner.” With the sound of the bell, came the crew. We sat a deck and enjoyed the late meal and wine. I was taken back at how fast the leg was consumed, each man hacking off slabs and laying them over the bread. To Johnson I made comment about the generosity of the captain. “Generous my arse,” he said low, “the price of the beef and bread comes out of the take. It is considered a trip expense.” “Eat up,” said the captain, “then get some sleep, we unload at first light. Listen for the bell. Master McAndrewson, have a man stand the deck, change him out each hour. There may be thieves or scallywags about.” With that he and Mattie walked to his cabin. “Johnson, you take the first watch, see to the order,” Master Andy said as he headed for his sling, “and see to it the man has a charged musket in his hands.” Johnson went to a large chest near the wheel, opened it and produced a musket. He checked its charge under the lamp, then gave out the order of watch, I was next, followed by Pauli, Big Bob, and Dirty Joe, then the others from the other shift; Sam, Angus, Little Jim and Pig Face. I had always wondered how the name had been acquired but was too polite to ask. The last three smiled in relief as they could do mathematics. The sun would be up before they would have to serve. The disgruntled were those who would have disruptive repose. I saw no need to sleep for but an hour and stood watch with Johnson, watching

carefully the hourglass as the sands fell. We talked as two men alone with nothing better to do will. I mostly just listened and learned. Although small and odiferous, Johnson knew the sea, his ship, and ports by call. We were on a route taken many times before, a big circle. Our next stop was Le Hague, then Nantes, Bordeaux, Lisbon, Gibraltar, some port in Africa, the Canary Islands, then across the big ocean to New York. We apparently traded, sold, and bought with the purpose of taking a full cargo of merchandise to the states. From state to state, the Black Lady returned to London, then up the coast to Scotland. He had done it three times. The sands were running low when I asked, “Johnson, just what do you have to do to be a boatswain, I mean besides learn the sea and tasks aboard.” “Well, it helps to be the Captain’s nephew,” he laughed as he went below to his hammock. “Call Pauli in an hour.” I turned over the glass, the sands now almost depleted. Quiet went my hour, as I watched the sands and the ships. Men occasionally walked, some stumbled, and a few were even carried along the dock roadway, all seeking a berth somewhere on some unknown ship. There were eyes aplenty that scanned our docks for something to grab. None tried when they saw an armed sentry. They might have tried but knowing a musket shot would bring a swarm of angry men from their sleep kept even the most sotten at length. While standing my watch, I thought much of Christine. I wondered if she was missing me as much as I was her. I like every night considered and dismissed her possibly playing a part in the burning of our croft. She just wasn’t that kind of girl. I thought too of James and now I guess, Louise. I hoped they made their way to London, according to Johnson, I might be able to them in what I guessed was a few months or so. He never said just how far we had to go. Mentally, I calculated the miles traveled, we make on average four or five knots per hour. That was just over one hundred miles per day. Why we could be back in no time, I mean, how far could it be to the Americas? Pauli was hard to wake but he did and I handed him the musket. He took his post and I took my sling. I rose at the bell, for the most part rested. I had almost become accustomed to sleeping in a hammock. My back still hurt in the mornings but not near so bad. Mattie had a breakfast ready which most lingered

over, none too anxious for the tasks ahead. The captain and Master Andy came up from the hold with papers in hand. “Okay, ya lazy bilge rats, let’s be at it. It’s time to get our wares outta the hold. Boswain Johnson, take your charges to the hold, Sam, your crew works the derrick.” I could see the men on the dock setting up their derrick. Andy came below with his papers and designated what was to be moved. First came the bales of wool each heavier than all of us together could lift. Second were barrels of scotch whiskey. Ropes, pulleys, and sweat moved each into position. Each had to be properly placed in the sling, then hoisted on to the deck, then switched to the dock derrick. Our labors took the entire day. The next day the process was reversed. As new cargo replaced what had been removed. I had no idea what was in most of the barrels or crates and by that days end, I could care less. Brutal was the work. I was drenched in my own sweat. Odiferous Johnson was beyond stinky. That night I slept the sleep of the dead until I was woke for my watch. I made my hour but it would be a lie not say my eye lids fell a time or seven. With the morning’s bell, we stood the deck with no breakfast. The captain had coin a plenty on a small table. There were twenty stacks of coin, all equal. He called each man’s name and gave him his due. “Master McAndrewson,” he called. Decker handed him five stacks. “Mister Cunningham” Decker handed him three stacks. “Boatswain Johnson” Decker handed him two stacks. “Boatswain Sam” Decker gave him two stacks. That left one stack of coin for the rest of us. As I took mine, I felt a strange gratification. In my hand was the first honest money I had ever earned. “Now you can have leave, I will mind the Black Lady,” said the captain, “High tide is mid-morning tomorrow; we sail with the outgoing tide.” Who stays, I wondered as I crossed over to the dock. Looking back I saw it was Dirty Joe lighting his pipe. Pauli was beside me, “No worries Jon, Dirty Joe almost never goes ashore, when

he does, he usually gets beat up. Folks don’t much care for blacks in their whore houses. They say it’s bad for business. Joe just stays back and counts his money.” “Does he have a lot,” I asked? “Most say he’s got more than Decker stashed in his haversack. Says he’s going to buy his life back when he has enough.” “Isn’t he afraid someone will steal it?” “No, to steal or even search through another man’s bag is a hanging offense. No questions, no trial, he’s flat hung from the yards. Thieves we might all be but not from each other.” Pauli began walking away from the ship. “Come with me, I’ll show you the town.” I, having no other sense of direction, walked with him. I was going to see why thousands of people chose to live together. Already I was not pleased as we shouldered our way through the masses. Amsterdam, here I come. What a time we had. We ate foods I had never seen before, something called chocolate was by far the best. We drank ourselves stupid and naturally partook if the flesh, Pauli seemed insatiable in his lusts. I indulged myself with the affections of a young pretty harlot. She did her best to earn her coin, but even as I kept telling myself, “Any port in a storm,” I ed his was second adage. Some are just better than others. I wished I was with Christine. Late in the day, while Pauli was taking his third, I just walked through a few shops looking at all the items for sale. Just about anything could be had for a price. What caught my eye were the books. I found a nautical world atlas. It was a book full of maps with ocean currents and shipping lanes. Another, a novel called, Robinson Caruso, caught my eye. I bought both and had them put in a water proof bag, along with some more chocolates. We were still in town when the street lights were being lit. “Pauli,” I said, “I’ve had enough. I’m going back to the Black Lady and get some sleep.”

“If you do, the Captain will make you stand a watch.” “So be it, I’m tired, half drunk and in no mood to continue.” “Well party pooper,” he said, “I’m buying me a bottle and an all-night lady, see you in the morning.” “You’re a better man than me,” was all I said as I took my leave. Dirty Joe was on watch, musket at the ready when I started down the plank. We were at low tide and the ship leaned to the starboard. “It’s me Joe, Jon.” “Come aboard McKay.” “Had you a time, did ya?” “I surely did, so many people and crowded. A body couldn’t move for bumping into someone else.” “I bet you did some bumping.” “Ya, but not like that Pauli, he’s a bumping fool.” I replied, I think he’s bumping his fourth right now.” “You wish me to stand a watch?” I asked. “Naw sir, I rested most of the day away, I’m good for a while. Sides, three others beat you back, I’ll snag one of them first. Capt. D said I should pick out the soberest. Get ya self some sleep.” “Thanks,” I replied as I went below. Even with the lisp of the boat at low tide, my hammock hung true. I had a couple more chocolates then worked my way into the sack. Tired as I was, sleep came slowly, so much had I seen this day. As I mused I heard a scuffle on deck and hit the ladder on the fly. As my head cleared the hatch, I saw a man bashing Joe with the musket. Hard was the whack to Dirty Joe’s noggin. There were three of them plain as day on the deck and they were coming at me. The musket swung

hard and caught me good across the arm and shoulder. He rolled me quick but I came up quick and clobbered him hard with my left to his jaw. The other two were trying to stick me with knives. I moved my feet left, then right keeping one man behind the other, my own knife was already in hand. As we moved the man I faced feinted and jobbed, feinted and jobbed again. I did not allow him another feint, moving in and driving my blade deep into his chest. He went down, and the third man stepping over the second gave me just time to kick the now rising first man in the head, dropping him again. The third came at a rush, his hand high, he was driving the knife down when a shot stopped him dead in his tracks. Dirty Joe was standing there with a smoking musket in his hands. The first man was trying to get up but Joe bashed him really hard in the head with the musket butt. The shot had woke our crew, few though they were, who all came to the deck with some manner of weapon in hand. “What happened Joe?” Asked the near naked Decker. “Three come hard in the dark, never saw em until it was too late. Jon McKay up and whipped one and stabbed another. I got the third.” Late was the night and the shot must have been far too common as no one came to investigate. “Over the starboard with em men, let them sleep with the fish,” was all Decker said. Three splashes later Dirty Joe and I went below, another took watch. “Thank ya’ll,” said Joe, “You is some fightin boy, ya sir, you’ll do.” He went to his sling, I to mine. My arm and shoulder hurt but neither was broke. Dirty Joe had never made a complaint but I had seen blood on his face. Sleep came slow, but eventually came. The next thing I heard was a far off yell, “To arms, to arms.” Then I heard it again, but much closer, “To arms!” I rolled from my hammock and climbed the ladder up onto the deck, greeted by a new day and many of our crew assembling to form a defense from some unknown threat. I heard it again and saw it was Johnson running up the dock road towards the still moored Black Lady. We saw no pursuit or danger. Johnson

hit the plank on the fly and nearly went in the drink. He was panting, gasping for air pointing to the direction from which he ran. We looked up to see a naked man running towards us, it was Pauli, and he was picking up and dropping his feet for all he was worth. Behind him there was at least 10 men and one half naked woman, all intent on Pauli. All manner of weaponry was to hand, and they were gaining. Luck was with Pauli as he still had 10 yards on the hornets’ nest of trouble behind him when he hit the plank, but that luck just disappeared just as fast Pauli tripped and off the plank, better the ship, dock and sail under the cold black brackish waters. Enraged the mob was for sure, especially the bare breasted red head. She was screaming the loudest, but unfortunately for them our crew, mostly assembled now on deck blocked access to the Black Lady. Foolish this horde had been to bring club and rod to what was now a gun fight. Muskets retrieved from the deck box upon Johnson’s alarm were held to the ready by four of five of the crew. Pauli swam to the other side of the boat, cold I was sure was the water. With yelling, insults, dares, and threats going, I went to the starboard rail. I threw down a line for him to hang on to. Not wanting to miss a thing I left him hanging and returned to listen. Apparently, Pauli had somehow offended the bare breasted red head and those at the dock were avenging relatives. Decker finally made it known that if they did not disperse his men would be forced to shoot. The group started back stepping and gradually moved off, but not before chucking some rocks, Johnson taking one hard to his knee. It dropped him like a sack of turnips. Johnson was left to his agonies and attention was given to the cold naked Pauli still hanging the line. We hauled him up and over the rail. He was a color between red and blue, shivering head to toe. As we looked at him, his only remark was, “Honest, I didn’t know she was married.” I had never seen the crew laugh so hard, even Mattie, who had brought a blanket to cover Pauli. And they were still laughing when we set sail for Le Hague. Between Amsterdam and Le Hague was given instruction in the art of cannonade. I was taught how to load, aim, and fire the cannons. In the hours of drill, my job was the loading, but the other jobs – mostly aiming were also given. I was told that if a man falls, every man should be able to step in or up, whichever the case.

Decker wanted me drilled in hand to hand, sword, knife, and pistol. Not ten minutes later three men were down and bleeding. Dirty Joe who was watching turned to the Captain and simply said, “I told you so.” Le Hague, Nantes, Bordeaux were all pretty much the same. We traded, bought and sold, then unloaded, loaded and stacked. Heavy and hard were always our labors. Then when our work was done, liberty was granted, the time limited by tide and weather. What was different were two things. First Pauli, by choice, stayed with the ship and Dirty Joe sometimes went to town. Secondly, with my atlas, I was able to see on the map, where we were going and with a bit of mathematics determine how far it was to the next port. I never missed the times by more than a few hours. I did not avail myself of the pleasures and sights ashore but kept my spending within reason. I did purchase books of interest. My lusts were for the most part in check; Christine still always on my mind. Our lay over in Lisbon was more than a week, the weather was terrible, the seas were too dangerous to leave port. Our time ashore in Lisbon was well spent. The senoritas were beyond compare; that was if one wasn’t occasionally thinking more than of Christine. I tried hard to focus on the tasks at hand. It wasn’t too difficult, Pauli now recovered from his reformations had ed me. Gibraltar was but a quick stop, Decker found little he wanted and few buyers for what he had to sell. That same day, we departed the Mediterranean Sea and were back in the Atlantic, southbound to Rabat, Morocco. Rabat was different. Once docked, Decker had me arm myself and accompany McAndrewson and him to what he called the Commerce House. The Commerce House was a stone enclosure without roof. Within were treasures of Africa in long lines of piled merchandise and the goods were being guarded. Fierce looking tribesmen with long ungainly muskets stood the walls. Most wore long robes, black and white in color. All had their heads covered with some sort of towel. Many had their faces covered too. Hot was the sun, still the air, yet these men seemed unaffected by the heat. “Moors,” said McAndrewson, “A fierce some bunch, Moors and Berbers but damn if I could tell you which is which.” “That they are,” I agreed as I made a scan of the walls. “How are we to fight

should things go south?” I asked. “Fight? Hell,” laughed Master Andy, “You are here to be the obvious one to shoot. As you can see neither the Captain nor I carry weapons. If the bastards shoot, to a man they will all shoot you first, we are no threat. Our only hope of escape is they will all have to reload as we run for the boat.” I was far from happy as I rechecked the walls, every eye seemed to meet mine. “Not a worry, Jon,” he laughed, “I was only joking.” I was not pleased with his poorly timed humor. In fact, I wasn’t sure if he was a filthy liar or not, but Decker was certainly a rotten son of a bitch. We walked the lines of merchandise picking out this and that’s, pieces of carved ivory, woven rugs with intricate design, exotic animal skins, strange lamps, and all sorts of knick knacks. Then we started haggling over large slabs of salt. A dozen of these were set aside. When we were finished the two merchants accompanied us back to the ship. At least a dozen of the moors followed behind, their weapons at the ready. Once at the Black Lady, I noted all the crew lounging the deck, weapons close to hand. There was a man polishing the small swivel gun on the bow, another leaned against the stern swivel, both men were smoking big cigars. The Captain and Master Andy took the merchants below to the hold. More than an hour they were below as the crew lounged and the moors stood the dock. Tense was the air. Then all returned to the deck, there was a hand shake and the merchants departed with their guards. “Crew one below, crew two hold the deck eyes to the dock. Be ready boys, we are not out of here yet.” A trade had been made. It took some time to amass our merchandise and get it to the deck. Mostly it was bales of Scottish wool, all but two bales were hauled above deck. Tobacco and sugar, coffee and opium were the other commodities to go ashore. When we finished, we were instructed to finish our lounging until the moors returned. Late was the day when the merchants returned, followed by a line of blacks carrying wares. The Moors carried nothing but their muskets. “Slaves,” said Dirty Joe, “Men with no pride.”

It was near dark before the exchanges were finished. With each item checked off, our men secured them in the hold. Once the transactions were complete, there was no waste of time. “To the main sails, ye worthless cur,” Decker bellowed. “Pull that plank. Ready the mooring lines.” We were slow on the drift as we moved away from the dockage, but far out from shore like we were, we were able to just peel away. “Now give me every piece of canvas we got,” yelled Decker from the wheel. I looked over at Johnson as we climbed the ratlines on the main. “Now we run, Jon,” he said looking back to the harbor. “The night and wind are with us. It won’t be no time and you’ll see the sails of the corsairs. Those bastards always try to take it all back and then some. It’s just the way they live. Once the trades are made its over and it’s every man for himself again. I hate coming here.” “Why do we come then?” “They got the best stuff, this is the money hole.”

Chapter 11

Dark was the night, more than an hour since I had seen several sail tips on the horizon. I had been assigned duty aft, Decker still had the wheel, southwest our bearing. “You did well, Jon,” he said off hand. “Those Moors took notice.” “So did I, they were a mean lot.” “I picked you as I have chosen in the past, I want to live; I pick the best. We have many capable men aboard but no one such as you.” “Me?” “Yes you Jon McKay. The nut never falls far from the tree. My instructions from your mother were simple, Charles the Younger, is to be listed in my log as lost at sea. I and I alone know who you were. The log will reflect the loss of one man this night to the Moors that are behind us.” “They will catch us?” I asked. “They can out run us, but in the dark we will be hard to find. We set a course for the Canary’s, as that is where we catch the westerly winds and current. They know this. When the British patrol with their warships, we are little troubled, but I have seen no patrols. It’s about time to take a Northerly course. I’ve done it before, I hope their memory has waned.” “To the sails,” he yelled out. “We are hard to the starboard.” We ran a full three hours North by Northwest, then changed our track to South by Southwest. As I judged from my lamp light atlas, we might come up on the Canary Islands from the West. Johnson, Pauli, Dirty Joe and I had the watch, Master Andy held the wheel. All eyes were to the sea. Just blackness was there to see, that and the silver spray of

the waves against the hull. All voices were kept low, no lights were now allowed above or below the deck. All men went armed as trouble would come quick from the night. “Listen for the grappling hooks,” Johnson warned. “They will want to board the lady and take her man to man. Stupid it would be to sink us, a ship on the bottom leaves no booty. A crippled ship can’t be sailed. No mates, they will come aboard, but not until they have the odds. “How many men to a ship do you expect?” asked Pauli. “I’ve seen as many as a dozen, but there might be more.” “Count them up boys, three corsairs have us out manned three to one.” “I saw six sails,” I added. “Yup, I counted six too,” added Dirty Joe. To compound our worries, the seas began to roll and the winds increased. Then came the rain, a hard driving rain. “Keep the powder dry,” was the order. Then we had to drop the sail, heavy as we were, the lack of sail would slow our progress, but to leave her rigged with full canvas could snap the yards or lines. Much work there was to do, all hands involved, yet our eyes were steady into the darkness watching for the corsairs, which were surely in as much trouble. Most of the night we fought the wind and rain, most unusual weather for our latitude, at least according to Johnson, but with the dawning off our port side the rains stopped and the winds abated. We were not out of peril as off in the distance were the sail tips, five of them. At least one of their vessels had not survived the storm. Exhausted though we were, two full days now without rest, the orders came fast, furious. “More canvas,” yelled the Captain. “Load the cannons, get the torches ready, muskets to their posts,” on and on were the preparations, we were in for a fight. The corsairs had changed their course. They were now set to intercept us, not an hour off once the sails were set.

Decker yelled, “Below deck with Crew One. Open those hatches and roll out the cannons. Make ready those guns!” We had not enough crew to handle all our cannons but I then ed the drills. One man was a loader, the other two moved up and down the line, aiming and firing. It was the loaders job to try and keep up, the others, to make the shot count. On deck, where I was stationed the drill applied but we had also musket duty, repelling if necessary and if we failed the inevitable, hand to hand. Should that occur we would be assisted by those below. Our situation looked grim at best. The corsairs were just several hundred yards alee and coming hard. At one hundred yards the corsairs split, three moved aft. Then one went to the port side, up wind, two fell in behind the stern, two strayed starboard. They were like wolves closing in for the kill. “Fire at will,” yelled the Captain. Four cannon roared, all misses. Our shot went over the corsair, they were within range and they now knew it too. I saw the ship roll back to get out of range. “Joe,” I yelled, “Same trajectory on the next gun, she’ll walk right into our shot.” Joe was the gunner, I was the torch man, Pauli the loader. “Aye,” he said, “That just might work.” There was but a slight adjustment. “Now,” he yelled! I torched off the gun. The cannon bellowed fire, smoke, and ball. I could actually watch the cannon ball as it zipped across the rolling seas. It crashed true right through the hull of the corsair. Wood flew and men went down. She was out of the fight and taking on water fast. The second corsair on the port side pulled off to assist. That left us three, two astern, one starboard. Pauli kept with his reloading. Dirty Joe and I went to help the other guns. We fired plenty but no hits were scored and the corsairs pulled off.

“They are waiting for night fall to get in closer,” said Decker. “They are down to four ships and can’t afford to lose another.” All day we were followed by three corsairs, late in the day the fourth ship reed the chase. They held back, just out of cannon range, one stern, one port, and two starboard. They were wolves on the hunt. We ate and rested in rotation, men always keeping watch, we neither gained nor lost distance. Night was coming soon. And with the black darkness of the night, they came all in a rush, a coordinated attack, four boats swifter than our own closed in. They weren’t there, then they were. Forty yards distance and their musket fire raked our deck. Our cannons had some effect, taking a starboard corsair through the bow just below the water line but before even one cannon could be reloaded the second starboard corsair was throwing grappling hooks to the rail. Shots were fired as we attempted to cut the lines with our axes. Sam was down, I caught him out of the corner of my eye as he fell to the deck. Another man grabbed the ax. A swivel gun roared from our port side, it had been loaded with shot and pellet. The deck of a corsair was raked with projectiles that took their toll. A cannon below deck blasted a huge hole in her hull, she was sinking, but another corsair filled the gap between that ship and our own. Hooks filled the sky, many taking hold on the rail and the lines were being pulled tight. To the rail I went, my musket ready. I shot the first head I saw as a man started to climb over. His headless body disappeared, replaced by one left and one right. Drawing my pistols, I shot the closest, someone else shot the second. I shot a third. Their ship sat lower in the water, their musket men could not get a shot at us, unless we stood the rail. Now sword in hand, I stuck and hacked man after man as they poured over the rail. Pauli to my right got bowled back, three men had him pinned to the floor; one was stabbing him. Out of the darkness came Mollie pistol in hand. She shot one of the men. Decker stuck another. The third went down but I did not see what happened as men just kept coming. Dirty Joe and I held the deck moving ever closer to the rail hacking anything that moved. It seemed there was no end to the attackers. I hacked, whacked, and kicked. No count could I make, it was just one after another. Then there were

others beside me, Master Andy, Cunningham, and some others. The attack broke as quickly as it started. They were gone, at least from our decks. Looking over the port rail, I saw that the three remaining corsairs were bunched together. The first had been used as a boarding platform, the other two were lashed to it. There had to be at least thirty men aboard three vessels. “Cut the grappling lines,” ordered Decker as he looked over the rail. Then down he went, a musket shot to the chest. Mollie was grabbing him before he hit the deck. I cut the remaining lines with the sword, many a rifle ball hitting all too close. Our ship had lost the wind during the fight and we were on a drift as were the corsairs. They were at a scramble to reset more than their sails. The distance was not thirty yards when we had the port cannons all reloaded. The last those men ed was the roar of the cannon and the respective ensuing smashing of their craft and bodies to smithereens. The cannons didn’t kill them all, I could see men clinging to parts of the boats, others swimming for something to hold them afloat. A few of our crew shot those they could see with musket fire, but I thought it’d be better to let them agonize a drift in the sea. Master McAnderewson took the helm, straightened us out with the wind. “Johnson,” he yelled, “Johnson!” There was no response. He was among the dead on the lower deck. Three moor lay with him. Johnson had died closing the cannon port holes, something overlooked during the battle. “Boatswain McKay,” he yelled, “McKay!” “Sir,” I yelled back. “Adjust those main sails, three pegs aft.”

Chapter 12

“Boatswain McKay,” Master McAnderewson yelled. “Sir,” I replied walking to the wheel. It had been three days since the battle, our crew greatly diminished. Sam, Pauli, Johnson, and two others had all perished. Decker lingered abed, too stubborn to die. “Captain wants to see us,” he said leading the way to his berth. Decker was still alive, there was little that could be done for him. He was lying in his bed, ashen, blood seeping from his lips and nostrils. “Bring me the log,” he whispered to Mattie, “A pen and ink.” Between the bloody hacks, he told McAndrewson he was now Captain. He said he knew McAndrewson could not read or write a lick. “Captain,” he whispered, “McKay is a good man, he is literate. Let him keep your log and stand your side as you sell our wears in New York. Give my shares to Mattie here, she’s earned it. The ship’s yours Captain, treat her well, it’s a darn good living in these times.” Mattie returned with the log and pen, handing them to me. “You know what to do with it lad,” Decker said. He coughed, this time a big chunk of blood just hung off his lip. Mattie quickly wiped it off. “And next year, skip Rabat, they will be laying for you. That will be all gentleman.” We left, Mattie reing us just a few minutes later. “He’s gone,” she said as she returned to their berth. Later that night, pen in hand, I made entries for the past four days in the journal. I documented the trades in Rabat, the run, and the fight. I listed the dead; Pauli Iverson, Sam O’Donnell, Robert Smith, Elmer Johnson, and Captain Halverson Decker, and I substituted Charles McDonagle, for Peter Gunth. I didn’t think Pete would mind. We replenished in the Canary Islands and took on three hands who had over the

months missed ships’ departures, one displaced moor and a sheep herder who had the look of wanderlust on him. Four were experienced, the herder was a good learner after he recovered from initial sea sickness. I put the moor and herder together with Dirty Joe, the others went to crew one. Mattie elected to travel on with us, glad we were; she could cook and was a hand when needed. It took her a full week of grieving before she invited Captain McAndrewson to her berth for purposes of consolement. He apparently did a good job as he never left. As Pauli had always said, “Any port in a storm.” We caught the current and wind just south of the Canary Islands and set our bearing westerly. Before us was a long run, thirty days if we were lucky. Eternity if things went awry. Hard was the work, but there were times we’d go for an entire shift, not touching a sail. During those long stretches, I often found time to read the books I had purchased. It was Dirty Joe who first sat beside me as I read. “Never learned,” he said, “Is it a pleasure?” “That it is.” “What story is it you have there?” “Robinson Crusoe,” I replied. “It’s about a sailor marooned on an island.” One thing led to another and I just started over and read it aloud. By weeks end our entire crew and some of the other sat the deck and listened as I read the story. At chapters end or when there was work to do, the men went and did their tasks talking about the story and what they would’ve done were they marooned or attacked. We read all four of my books over the remainder of the trip. They ach had their favorites, some men fancied Beowulf, other talked about Ulysses and the Trojan Wars. All were captivated and talking, even Dirty Joe. “Ya sir, Bo Jon, that’s what I intend to do, go home and claim my Penelope.” “Your Penelope?” “Ya sir, that’s my wife’s name.”

Chapter 13

Thirty days later we sailed into New York harbor. I had thought of Christine no more than six thousand times during the trip, or so it seemed. I still missed her, but I was having trouble visualizing her face, little trouble did I have with her other attributes. The piers in New York were different. You anchored out until they came for you. Two long boats with ten men each threw their lines to the bow. Then they put their backs to those oars and slowly moved our ship into position, then hooked a long time to the bow that extended to a wench on the dock. Then men cranked us in, we tied off to ship rings along the side of the dock. It was slick is all I could say. It took us most of two full days of labor to unload everything from the Black Lady to carts or wagons along the dock. Straight ahead of our dock was a large warehouse. All our cargo was taken inside. Every crate was opened and the contents displayed, textiles a plenty we had, that and tea. The African stuff was catching eyes. The different wines were spread by vintage, as was the Scotch Whiskeys. The opium was tested and weighed. The harness sets were spread out. We had much more, apparently collected in London. A poster tacked to a lamp post along the dock caught my eye. Wanted for murder in Scotland, Charles McDonagle. Reward paid, with proof of death. On and on it read with my description and details of reparations. Nonchalant as I could, I pulled the poster and pocketed it. Then I noticed how futile my gesture had been. All the posts for as far as I could see had similar posters. Glad I was, Charles McDonagle was dead at sea. After we were unloaded, the ship was taken from the dock and moored out in the harbor, permitting dock access to the next. We had to use the ship’s boat to ferry ourselves back and forth. That night we posted our own guards inside the warehouse, they had two of their own. They trusted us as much as we trusted them. That next day McAndrewson and I took our ledger books and went to the warehouse. There must have been at least ten buyers walking up and down the aisles of our merchandise. I saw in the ledger the prices or trades made for each item. Rabat had not yet been added but I ed most of those.

“I will start the bidding as we walk the rows,” said Captain Andy. “You find the item in the books, figure the trade value we made or the price we paid. We want 50% more than we paid, when that price is reached, I will try to get more. If they don’t reach the 50%, I’ll add to it or move on. Keep your nose in the ledger lad, this goes fast. Captain Decker could do this in his head, or at least I thought so.” “I’ll try,” I said. “Do we have a signal, if I get stumped?” “No, don’t get stumped,” he said, and he meant it. Decker had kept a decent ledger and after a few minutes, I got the hang of it. Captain Andy and I began to sell. We sold and sold. I thought my thumb was going to fall off, but by mid-day we had disposed of it all. Later when I could put pen to paper and do what calculations I could manage, we had made 85% on the original investment. That night we were paid cash money, mostly British pounds with Yankee dollars thrown in to make the difference. The men were anxious for their cuts and liberty. Most disgruntled they were when told it would be midmorning before we were ready with their cut. We calculated well into the night before the shares were computed. As typical the crew was paid their shares in the morning, them granted their liberty. All who wished to sign on for the trip back to London, made their pledge to return in three days for reloading of goods for the trip back. All but two pledged, Dirty Joe and myself. The crew paid us no never mind as their excitement over their full pockets and three days ashore in New York was their only focus. My share was a goodly amount, boatswain pay, twice what I had previously made. McAndrewson did as instructed by Decker and gave Mattie Decker’s share, a fortune by my standards. Captain Andy took his five shares and now Mattie, as they had become more than a ing port in a storm. McAndrewson had fared well. I had made considerations aplenty crossing the Atlantic. I wanted my own place in the world, to be a man of means, to have lands and respect. I wanted Christine to be proud, I wanted her to want me above all others, yet to accomplish my goals I couldn’t do in Scotland, nor England for that matter. The Sellars had ears everywhere and the means to eventually be the instrument of my demise. His long arm had even reached the state ahead of us. He was mad, really mad. Perhaps if someone was to see the log he would call his dogs off, think as I could, I couldn’t come up with a plan without tipping off McAndrewson. Well I knew two people can’t keep a secret, at least one of the two could not read.

My atlas had served its purpose not only as we cruised the coast of Europe but I was able to get a crow’s nest picture of America. I saw the entire east coast was well settled, there were countless towns listed. I noted that as one traveled west towns were fewer. There was a long river dividing the country, it was called the Mississippi, from that river to the Pacific, the country was virtually unoccupied. Few were the towns visited. The fewer the towns, the fewer the people, the less chance of exposure. Perhaps I could escape the Sellars and the fewer people the lower price of land. What I could do to myself was yet a mystery. I had some coin but how far would it go, a few months, maybe a year. Who knew what the cost of living in this new land was. All I had learned thus far was that our wears sold well, especially the liquor. These people apparently loved to imbibe. “What be ya plan Bo Jon?” Dirty Joe had ed me on the dock as I sat a crate wondering which way to go. “I’m not sure, to see America I guess. You?” “I’ve got more than enough to buy my Penelope back. I aim to get her and make a home somewhere, a place where a man can be free.” “Good luck be with you Joe.” “And you,” he said. We shook hands and parted. He walked south along the docks, I walked north, pulling a few wanted posters as opportunity allowed.

Chapter 14

Lodging for the night was secured in what was called a hotel, a nicer room I had never seen. Across the street was an eatery. As I sat within and pondered my next few days move, I listened to the men talking at the next table. They were talking about the big dig, a project they were involved in at a place called the Erie Canal. It was obvious they were looking for help, Mics and mules is what they called the wanted. Said they couldn’t get enough of them. From their talk, they got paid per head procured, mule or otherwise. I was well into my meal, beef and beans, when the lady came by to pour another cup of tea. “Will there be anything else,” she asked. “Have you a glass of scotch,” I asked. “Most certainly, sir,” she replied returning quickly with a three finger glass of golden brown scotch whiskey. I could smell the aroma of the fermented barley. It tasted like home, but the waitress hadn’t looked much like Christine. Irrespective, both were to my liking. “Excuse me,” said one of the men at the ading table. “From your choice of drink and garb, I can assume you are a sailor recent ashore from the motherland.” “That I might be,” I said. “As I too enjoy the essence of Scotch, might I you? My friends here drink only American bourbon or French brandy, neither fit for proper implications.” “Certainly,” I said, glad for any company. “Robert Watson,” he said taking a seat. “Jon McKay,” I replied. Nice enough fellow, older maybe 45 or 50, said he was from Glasgow and had

been in the states all of ten years now. His hope was to make enough money to return and live out his days. “What is it you do?” I asked. “I’m a procurement agent for the Erie Canal Project. I saw you yesterday at the warehouse. You forced me to pay almost twice the value for harnesses.” “Sorry.” “No need, business is business. Those harnesses are badly needed up north, I might have paid twice what I did.” “Wish I knew.” “Bet you did.” We laughed and sipped our scotch. “Looking for work, are you?” He asked. “As a matter of fact, my days at sea were not particularly pleasant. Something on solid ground might better suit me.” “I like you,” he said, “you’ll do. If you wish employment and can stand working with ignorant mics, present my card to a man named Old Joe Whalen in Albany.” He gave me a small card that his signature was on. “Old Joe Whalen,” I said? “Yes, Old Joe. Be sure to tell him Watson sent you, that way I can get paid.” He went back to his friends, I to my room at the hotel. Seemed easy enough, go to Albany, see Old Joe, and go to work. Under the candlelight I found Albany in the atlas. It was more than 150 miles up the Hudson River. Maybe I would think this over. I gave it the full measure of consideration, maybe a full minute before I fell asleep in that unbelievably soft bed. If I dreamed of Christine more than once I didn’t . Sometimes once is enough. At breakfast in the same restaurant being waited on by the same pretty lady. I

had occasion to be seated with a stout old man with whiskers covering only the sides of his cheeks. We exchanged pleasantries and talked of this and that. I moved the conversation to the Erie Canal and learned much. What was being built was a canal all the way across the state of New York, almost 400 miles connecting New York City to the untamed west beyond. “Yes sir,” he said, “When that canal is opened, commerce will flourish for sure. The resources of the west are limitless and we want them. The canal will connect to the Great Lakes. Ships and barges will be able to move product both ways at a fraction of the cost. Once it’s done a multitude of people will move west and the country will grow, then maybe double or triple. The men that go first are the men that will prosper.” He had my attention. I was a man in search of prosperity. From what I had thus far seen of New York City while walking the docks, my haversack slung over my shoulders, did not surprise me. Men are men where ever you go, some are decent enough, and others are just plain mean. New York had plenty of the latter, groups of never-do-wells walked in packs looking for easy victims. These groups, I avoided, no trouble did I want. I only sought a means of travel to Albany. One hundred and fifty miles was not a walk I looked forward to. Coaches were expensive as were horses and tack. I would need cash. At a bank, I exchanged what British Pounds I had for American coin. Walking along, I saw the harness I had sold the previous day being loaded into a long boat. I knew from the conversation the previous night the harness was going to Albany. The quantity of leather filled the boat. There was another long boat tied off to it, oars at the ready. Almost a dozen men, bags in hand were lined up. I heard a man at the head of the line say, “We need ten men, a dollar a day plus meals. The first ten step up.” He was recruiting and I stepped in line. I calculated I was number ten. The man took the name of each and directed them to have a seat and stow their bag. A man stepped in line behind me, apparently he was poor at math or somehow had lost a finger. When my turn came, the man asked my name. “Jon McKay.” “Hey,” said the man behind me, “I was next.” He shoved me hard and pushed me past the name taker. I lost my balance and fell to the planks.

“Murphy O’Kelly,” he said. “Ah, um” the name taker said, obviously concerned as O’Kelly was a huge man. He went well over 6’ and 200lbs, with forearms the size of small logs. “O’Kelly,” the ticket taker said, not watching me, only his pad. I came up quick, O’Kelly saw he had a fight coming and smiled. I said not a word, I just walked straight at him and clobbered him hard to his cheek. He didn’t go down but I had hurt him, worse I had made him mad. That made two of us. He regained his composure and punched out hard where my head had been. Only a quick move left had saved me. I hit him again this time hard to his kidney, the blow spun him to the left. He came around with a right fist so big so fast I thought I was a goner but it only glanced off the top of my head as I ducked. He had opened himself and I moved in smashing him hard, no target in mind other than that hulking body. I didn’t count the hits I made but I was scoring and doing damage. He wasn’t just taking, he was giving plenty on his own, but I was too mad to be hurt. We were toe to toe with no give, blood and snot flying, when I saw a chin. It was just there and I hit it as hard as I could with my right. O’Kelly buckled to his knees, but he didn’t fall. He was balanced, head down, like he was praying. Perhaps he was praying, I didn’t kick him in the head. His prayers fell on deaf ears as I booted him right in the head, the force of which flopped him on his back. Murphy O’Kelly moved not a muscle, but I did as I stepped up to the most shaken name taker. “Jon McKay,” I said, gasping for breath. “Have a seat, stow your bag,” was all he said. I’m not so sure that winning a seat and an oar was such a prize. O’Kelly had hurt me bad, but I rowed my way through the pain. Upstream we went. That Hudson was a mighty big river most affected by the out running tide water, but with our backs to the oars and unison we made good progress towing that harness up stream. The man at the tiller was in charge and saw to the direction and timing. Lucky we were to have no slackers. As I rowed, I was sure there were eighteen eyes upon me. For the first few hours there was no conversation at all, then gradually men began to talk and laugh. Most of them were obviously Irish, I didn’t think the rest wished they were. Who was to say?

By days end, we were out of the tide water running the river slack making good time, straying out of the main current. Five Yankee dollars later, I was walking the river bank streets of Albany looking for Old Joe. I got a half dozen shrugged shoulders before a god ugly woman pointed up a street and simply said, “First tavern on the right, second stool.” As my eyes adjusted to the dimly lit interior of the bar I saw but two people, a bartender polishing a glass and a man on the second stool. He was old, maybe seventy and heavier than he should be by an equal number. Before him was a glass of something brown in color. “Old Joe Whalen,” I asked. “Aye,” he replied, but not particularly interested. “Robert Watson sent me,” I said, presenting his card. “Bobby sent you, did he?” He was looking me up and down. “And a Kiltie to boot.” His focus went to my left eye, still swollen near shut, black and blue they said. “Yes he did, said you might find me employment.” “That I can, but not as a fighter.” He laughed. “What’s the other guy look like?” “I don’t know, he never got up.” “You drink?” He asked. “On occasion.” “Well, you just got a job, is that occasion enough?” “Yes sir,” I said. “Most just call me Old Joe, what will you have?” “Scotch,” I said. “Ralph,” he said to the bartender, “A glass of Scotch for our new friend here.” “What are you called?” He asked.

“Jon McKay.” The bartender dropped the glass, which broke on the floor. He took a good look at me, said nothing but retrieved another glass and bottle of scotch. He poured a full three fingers, then left. I heard a door slam. “Wonder what got into him.” Old Joe was rubbing his chin. “I don’t know.” But I was doing plenty of wondering myself. The scotch was good and Old Joe a talker, but we got down to business. I would be going first to a place called Herkimer by wagon the next day. I would be assistant to the teamster. He was hauling harness. It was a small world, I had travelled with the same harness from to some place called Herkimer. As I gave thought, the door to the tavern opened and in walked four Irish toughs, each with a club of sorts in hand. “You!” Said one of them, “Murphy O’Kelly was our friend.” He raised his club and came right at me, the other three right behind him. Little could I do, so from under my coat, out of my waist band, I pulled one of my pistols and I shot the man. Before he hit the floor, my second pistol was in my other hand. “Who’s next?” I yelled, hoping they were poor at addition as I had only one shot left and there were three of them. Apparently they were, they gathered the man from the floor and carried him back out the door. “You better be going lad,” said Old Joe, “there sure enough will be a constable or seven coming along shortly. He had it coming, you had no choice and I will give that in a statement when they arrive. I’ll just sit right here with my scotch until they get here.” “Guess I’ll look elsewhere for employment.” “Hell no, the job is yours, you be on the Duanesburg Road tomorrow morning. You will see a wagon full harness come by. The driver’s name is Dennis Nash, he will be watching for you.” I started to leave, “back door,” he said, “and Jon you watch that damn Nash, he’ll talk your ear off.” With that, I was gone. In an alley I changed clothes covering myself with slicker and hat. I just walked away and wasn’t challenged.

Spotting Nash on the Duanesburg was no problem, I heard him coming before I saw him. He was talking to the mules pulling the wagon just as if they were people. He caught his breath as I stepped onto the road. “You McKay?” “You Nash?” Those were the last two words I could fit into conversation for the next three days. The man never shut up. As I considered my situation, I wondered what solace a jail cell in Albany might have offered. What I did learn from Nash was that goods and materials were hauled by wagon from site to site along the canal. The canal itself was basically just a series of rivers with locks and long digs between them. The bank side trees and brush were cut back to build trails for horse and mule teams that pulled the barges on long ropes. The workers to and from the canal often rode as teamster helpers and were transferred teamster to teamster. Nash’s route was only three days trek to Duanesburg. I would continue on with another teamster or the same wagon. They had it worked out. The trip to Duanesburg was the longest three days of my life. Jesus Priest, the man never stopped talking. If there was anything at all redeeming in the ride it was Nash’s bottles of bourbon whiskey. He offered it and I drank it. It sure wasn’t scotch but it wasn’t bad either. It wasn’t bad at all. In Herkimer, I reported to the job foreman and was assigned to a lock building crew. For two months, I worked the same mule and slip bucket, digging and digging. Hard was the labor, but the pay was a dollar ten cents a day and a pint of whiskey. Some men just got a dollar and a quart of whiskey, their choice. So tired were we at days end, there was little strength left for anything but sleep. We lived in six man tents that did little for the cold and rain. Never trusting my tent mates, I fashioned a money beet and wore my coins around my waist at all times. When I had opportunity I took smaller value coin and exchanged them for coin of greater value keeping my money belt as light as possible. As I grew accustomed to the micks, I quit carrying my pistols and left them with my duffel. Always though, I had my blade close at hand. Word travels and it was known that Jon McKay had whipped big Murphy O’Kelly. Nothing was said to me but I was given a level of status and men walked clear of me.

The seasons changed, cold came the winter, colder than I have ever imagined possible. The ground froze and the snow blew. Little could be done. Men left and went and went back east I assumed to spend their coin or be with their families. They just wanted to be warm. I found employment with a farmer outside of Utica. “Dollar a week,” he said, “all that plus a warm bed and all you can eat.” Having no better offers or prospects, I took the job. I didn’t tell him I would have worked just for the warm bed and meals. His name was James Schuyler, his wife was Elaine. He was 50 or so, short and stout. She was 40 or so, shorter but not as stout. Their farm wasn’t much, just a few cows, hogs, chickens, and his two horses. Thomas pointed out a tree line to the west, my place goes from that tree line to that creek bottom to that hill, though those trees and back to the road. It wasn’t much, but it was his. It was more than I had. The horse had two rooms, a main room and a bedroom to the rear, each had a fire place. “You sleep there,” he said pointing to a pallet on the floor near the main room fireplace. It looked warm to me and that was all I cared about. Thomas had chronic back problems ergo my employment. I was shown my daily tasks, then set at them. When I got them finished, it was off to the wood yards. The sale of fire wood augmented his income. I cut and split every day, cold or not. The nots were seldom. December and January moved painfully slow, but the pallet was warm and the food outstanding. Elaine could cook with the best of them, the Schuylers ate well. I thought much of what it would be like to sit down every day at my own table with such wonderful food. I wondered if Christine could cook. Elaine serve fried chicken on Sundays, she even made pies, cakes, and cookies. They drank coffee all day long. I acquired a taste for it, much it was to my liking. Thomas made his own whiskey, he had a still behind his barn. I helped him make a few batches, the least I could do, as I had drank several others. It’s all in the aging, he said. Good oak barrels and time. What we had thus far drank was made three years prior. What they did not have were books, neither was a reader. They had a bible, but it was in German and did me little good. Late February there was a thaw. The snow melted and the farm turned to mud. Then Thomas got sick, ague, they called it. A week later he died. Elaine had me bury him out back near what she called the garden. It was no easy hole to dig as the ground was still froze, but a few neighbors came by with picks and shovels and we eventually hacked our way through. Thomas was laid to rest in that cold

ground with nothing but a blanket wrapped around him. The neighbors came and sang some songs, the preacher prayed, Elaine cried. Thomas was a decent man. I had told Thomas and Elaine I would stay on until the canal started up in March. I kept my pledge and returned to my labors and warm pallet. With the first weeks of March, came a deluge from the sky blinding rain with thunder and lightning. Hard blew the wind, the rain came in sheets of solid water, thunder rocked the house with flashes of lightning that turned the darkness into day. As I laid in my pallet wishing for a lull, I felt the covers move on their own. I felt weight next to me, then a warmth. She might have been older, shorter, and just a touch stout but the woman had a need and she found it. There was a voice in my mind’s ear, a voice of a good friend now floating somewhere on the bottom of the ocean. “Jon,” whispered the voice, “any port in a storm.” The third day of March, twelve dollars richer and a smile still on my face I reported back to the Herkimer dig. I was one of the first, the ground was still frozen. “McKay,” said Sullivan, the foreman, “we have a new assignment for you further up the line. You are being promoted to a foreman’s job.” “Me?” “You can read and write, can’t you? I saw you with your nose in books last fall.” “Yes sir, I can.” “Grab the next teamster going west and hitch a ride. Report to the canal manager in Palmyra. It’s one hundred miles west, pays two dollars a day. Ask for Robert Short, he asked me to send anyone but a damn mick. He can’t find a sole that can do paperwork and see that the work gets done. I wrote back, told him I had the perfect man, Jon McKay.” A week later, I and my sore butt, arrived in Palmyra at the job site. That wagon seat was hard oak and the road rough. Lucky I was, however, that the drivers were quieter than Nash. At least my ears didn’t hurt. Asking around I was able to locate Robert Short. He was not short, he was tall, maybe 6’3” or taller, but he had no bulk, no muscle at all. The man was but a skinny walking bean. I was given a crew of mostly Irish laborers, a few blacks, with a few Chinese thrown in. I could see right off they were hard cases, men the other foremen did not want. These were malingers; men that needed prodding.

These men would work with the right impedance or they would have been fired. Marginal employees, Short had called them. Our assignment was to dredge out a feeder canal that came in from the north. Work had already been started the previous fall then discontinued during the winter. The horses and mules were already on site, the hostellers had them hitched and ready. The slip buckets were down in the ditch. “Ok, you six on the ships,” I said to a group standing to my left. “You six grab the shovels from the others.” No one moved. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me.” They as a group just chuckled. I looked them over, the biggest man in the slip group was a head taller than me and had me by twenty or thirty pounds. My previous twelve weeks had been with an axe, saw, fork and shovel, hard labor it was. I knew I hadn’t softened over the winter lull. I walked over to the big man who was expecting some verbal pleading. What he got was a straight punch to the nose. Down he went, flat on his back, blood gushing from his nostrils. He rolled over and tried to get up but I kicked him hard in the ribs and down he went again. “You are fired,” was all I said. As I turned back, the other eleven were at task. I sent for another man to fill out the crew. Lo and behold up walked Murphy O’Kelly. He looked at the blood soaked man, rags to his face trying to stop the bleeding, then back to me. “On a slip Murphy.” “Yes sir, Mister McKay.”

Chapter 15

So went three seasons of labor, we accomplished much, earned our money, and believe it or not, we laughed. I worked my crews hard, all of them, the canal managers taking notice. To their chagrin, I worked my men only ten hours a day but accomplished as much as the twelve hour shifts which were more common. Nothing was said. The men were reasonably happy making seemingly more for less. It was at the late fall break up when they came. Four men, all mounted and armed rode into the tents. Few were the crew left, most had gone east for the winter lay off. A meaner bunch I had never seen, big hard men with the look of the highland upon them. Men with a purpose for sure. Robert Short walking across the grounds walked up to them, “Can I help y’all?” He asked. “Looking for Jon McKay,” said a rider. It was a voice from the past, Albert McIntosh, a Sellar man. Even before Short could answer, McIntosh spotted me and put the boots to his horse. “There he is,” he yelled! I was caught flat footed with no escape, four horsemen had me surrounded, all with pistols leveled. “What is this,” yelled Short trying to intervene. “This man is wanted for murder,” replied McIntosh, “and we are taking him back.” “Back where? Let’s see your warrant,” Demanded Short. The man closest to him cracked a pistol barrel across Short’s skull, down he went. “There’s your warrant,” McIntosh laughed! Half a dozen men stood the tent line watching. “Get me a rope,” McIntosh ordered at the men. One of them did as told and produced a length of line. As he walked up with the

rope, he had a grin. It was Murphy. O’Kelly handed the rope to McIntosh with one hand then as Albert reached for the rope O’Kelly grabbed his arm and yanked him from the saddle to the ground. I heard a shot but wasn’t hit. I grabbed a horse’s chin strap, twisted hard slipping under the deck. The horse bewildered by the shot and sudden action followed his chin strap down, lost its balance and fell to the ground, his rider going with him, feet still in the stirrups. A third horse had reared up on its back feet, his rider had lost his pistol trying to grab the pommel to remain on. I jerked him from his horse and drove my knife now in hand deep in his chest. I looked up to see the fourth man being drug from his horse by the remaining crew. Within seconds, he was down and being kicked. McIntosh was being beat sound by O’Kelly who was set astride him steady whacking his face with powerful repetitive lefts and rights. The second man was still pinned under his thrashing horse, one leg had to be broke, he was screaming in agony. I stuck him too with my blade, the leg would hurt him no more. O’Kelly somehow sensed McIntosh wasn’t moving, I sensed he never would. No man could have survived those blows. No man did. It was over. Not a minute ed, five men lay on the ground; Robert Short, McIntosh, and three pikers. Three were dead dying. Short was moving, but just barely as was the piker who had been near kicked to death. Broken ribs he had. Murphy stood up, his iron hands were covered in blood as was his chest. “One of those bastards shot me,” he said. “I think it was the one pinned under that horse.” The horse had finally regained his footing, its rider hung limp alongside the animal, his foot still in the stirrup. Upon examination it was determined Murphy’s wound had come from an angle and the ball had ripped a hole deep across his chest muscles. Missing were both nipples. The piker with the broken ribs was stood up and stripped on his weapons. The crew pushed and shoved him in front of me. I thought first to kill him outright, but with senseless bravado I just gave him a message. “You go back and tell Sellars to not send boys to do a man’s job. Now go.” The man started for his horse. “Who said you were riding out of here, walk with your tail hanging and walk wary, as I might change my mind.” It was a long walk to the Sutherlands. I realized that there was someone who had gained much by reporting my new name and location. I thought and thought, then it came to me, I knew. It was Maggie. That sea whore was the only one who could have known. The bitch could read. I had time, but I knew my career as a canal builder was over. Eventually there would be others coming. It was time to move on. I loaded

my gear up behind the saddle of the best horse of the four. It was a big brown stallion, he had chest and power. “Murphy, I owe you my life,” I said in parting. “And I you,” he said, “you whipped me fair and square and as I have seen today, you could have killed me as easy as look at me.” The bodies still laid the ground, Short still looking at them most perplexed. “Where you going,” Murphy asked? “I don’t know,” I said honestly, as I did not have a clue. I rode south. As I rode south, I kept to the well-traveled roads as these had the most to offer as to food and accommodations. I didn’t fear the immediate pursuit, it might take a year or more for the piker to deliver my message and a response organized if ever it developed. Yet belted were my pistols, charged and at the ready. The horse was a good one, he had a liking for the road, and the saddle was comfortable. I had no complaints. The old slicker and hat broke the wind. The well-worn wool sweaters kept me warm. Much I had learned during the past two years. I was now an accomplished sailor, I had seen some of the ports of Europe and Africa, I learned the value of trade and commerce, I could build a canal, manage men, shovel manure, and make whiskey. So much I had learned yet I still had no plan to success. Money I had, not a fortune, but I had cash to invest. The only things I knew for sure about America was it was growing and they liked to imbibe. I was but a man in search of a vision, a vision that didn’t include Christine, I needed to focus my thoughts to that which would bring the other. Don’t get the cart before the horse, I told myself over and over. Weeks I traveled, buying a bed and meal where I could, going without, when I had to. Somewhere I had turned west, the sign said Coshocton, Ohio, population 12. And it was starting to rain. The town consisted of one large building and two small houses. There were two oxen drawn wagons in front, one a large freighter. Two teams of four pulled each wagon. One bull ox was tethered to the rear of the freighter. The freight was heavy with barrels and crates. I did not know what was in the other as it was covered by a tarp over big rings of some sort. It appeared they had a big tent on wheels, a mobile home of some sort. With the horse tied to the rail, my bag over my shoulder, I stepped inside. The inside was lit, it was a general store, tavern,

and eatery combination. The smells all blended into a unique homey aroma. Men were seated at a long table, a bench to each side. There was a counter to the right, constructed of long planks resting on wood barrels. On shelving and pegs around the room were items to sell. The men were eating, four of them. A woman was ladling stew onto their plates, a second helping it seemed. “Can I help you?” said a man, stepping to the back of the counter. “Yes, I’m in need of a place out of the rain for me and my horse, then perhaps a meal. “I tired traveler, are ya?” “That I am.” “We are serving beef stew, you can put your horse in the barn, first stall inside the door is open and you are welcome to throw your blanket anywhere in here you find space. The price is a quarter for the horse, quarter for the meal and quarter for the floor.” “I’ll see to the horse and be right back.” Inside the barn, I found the stall easy enough. I unsaddled, unbridled, and put the horse in with plenty of fresh hay. I returned inside, left my slicker and hat on a peg by the door, my duffel on the floor and ed the foursome at the table. They were nice enough fellows. “I’m Robert Manning’ this is my son James, my nephew Zane, and my good friend Louis,” he making table acquaintances. “Jon McKay,” I said, “pleased to meet you.” “And I’m Sarah,” said the lady as she ladled stew onto my plate. “Spoons are in the basket on the table. I’ll be right back with biscuits. Coffee?” “Please.” A fine meal it was, just fine and the conversation was of great interest. “Bound for the western mountains, we are. We’ve a business venture we are trying to piece together,” said Robert, “going to build a town where there never has been one, a place where those that follow can stop, replenish their stores, or perhaps us.”

“Will people come,” I asked. “They surely will, it’s damn crowded this side of the Mississippi River. Most land has already been bought or claimed, what hasn’t, isn’t worth spit.” “Do you know the place you seek, as I understand it, the west is a wilderness with wild beasts and savage Indians, or so I’m told?” “It is, we aim to bring civilization to it.” “All four of you?” “Well three of us, Zane here is a halfwit, born stupid is all. He just does as he’s told. My brother insisted I take him along, the family had done for him what they could but Zane was too much a mental drain on them. I said, hell why not.” On and on we talked over first hot coffee then cold whiskey. I couldn’t help but notice you travel armed friend,” he said. “Yes, I am new to this land from Scotland. A man can’t be too careful.” “Can you shoot it?” “I hit what I aim at.” “Good, good.” “Can you fight?” “When the need be, I can hold my own.” The others found a place on the floor and were sleeping. “You know what we need for this trip is an outrider.” “Outrider?” “Ya know, a scout of sorts. Someone to go ahead of the wagons and find ways around the ravines and through the trees. Someone to shoot us some fresh meat. Most importantly, someone to spot those savages so we are not caught unawares. Interested?”

“How far you going?” “About a thousand miles past the Mississippi.” “You have a map?” “Hell yes I do, my oldest brother drew it himself. We went west with Lewis and Clark, then went back once more with a trapping company. Yes sir, he found the prettiest valley on God’s earth. It’s all marked out there for us. And he found something else, he found some gold. It was just lying right there on the ground.” “Gold?” “Yep, gold just for the picking up. Oh those people will come and the men already there, and set up will make the fortune he seeks.” “What is in it for me?” “Your share is twenty percent of the profit make, less my initial out lay.” “What’s the time frame you figure?” “A couple of years, give or take.” “What’s the catch?” “Like all ventures, you have to survive.” “A thousand mile, you say?” “Yes sir, it’s farther out there than it is from here to New York City and back.” I thought for but a second, “Gold you say? When do we leave?” “Tomorrow we move on.” Sellars would have one hell of a time finding me again. The downside was how would I ever be able to return for my Christine? First things first, I told myself as I spread out my hammock. Tied off to the two center posts, climbed in high, warm, and dry. Sleep came easy. I was going to some place called the Shining Mountains, gold just for the stooping over. At least, I now had my bearings. I’d

make my fortunes first.

Chapter 16

Slow and cold, then slower and colder were our travels across Ohio, Indiana, then Illinois. Miserable was the trip on the animals and ourselves. Shelter we found on occasion, in barns, houses or inns, few there were. Good lands we crossed, at least what I imagined as the snow generally covered most. Never did we make a full ten miles distance in a day but our progress was steady. We crossed the frozen Mississippi in mid-February, perhaps the scariest day of my life. The ice cracked and popped as the oxen pulled our wagons across. In St. Louis, the last civilized town in the west, we spent over a month waiting for the spring thaw. I saw several of the same wanted posters I had seen in New York hanging inside saloon doors. I took what I saw. They still listed my name as Charles. At least I was ahead of them. After spending a few days talking with a group of mountain men, who were wintering in a nearby tavern, I learned that my pistols were becoming obsolete. Percussion caps were the way to go, more dependable they said. There was no pan powder to protect from the weather. Then there was the issue of knock down power. The bigger the caliber, the deader the injun. I traded my two nock pistols for two percussion cap pistols and with coin a plenty added a percussion cap Hawken Rifle, all of the same .50 caliber. I bought 1000 caps, a keg of powder and a keg of balls. “You going to war?” The man asked. “Ya just never know.” March 3rd, the snow mostly melted, we left St. Louis, northwest, along the south bank of the Missouri. What started out as a mud soaked road soon became a mud mired lane. It was April before we found solid ground. No problems did we have, none except, the toil of travels. After replenishing supplies in St Joseph, we headed west onto the prairie, fair and crisp blew the wind. The colors were amazing as the prairie came to life. Waves of green grass and flowering vegetation flowed now with the wind. In all our travels, I heard few words from Louis, he was just a quiet man who had little to say. The boy, James just jabbered. He reminded me of a teamster I knew back in Albany. The idiot, Zane, was just that. I never heard him utter a single word. Robert and I often talked. He

had planned well, the wagons were full of tools with which to build and dig. He had seed to plant and he had a still. “Yes sir,” he said, “they might not need a thing we have to sell but we will get all they have for decent whiskey. Mark my words. This country’s very blood flows heavy with good brown whiskey. It is the coin of the realm.” We were a week west of St Joseph when I saw my first Indians, three men on horseback traveling north. I kept low in the ravine and watch them until they disappeared from sight. They were rough looking men, bare from the waist down, some sort of fur over their shoulders. Strange looking they were, their hair stood straight up in a long line brow to nape. All carried a bow with a quiver of arrows over their shoulders. I reported the sighting to Manning. He had his rifles checked and put at the ready. The next day I spotted a party of seven similar in dress to the first three. They also traveled north and eventually disappeared. On we plodded with our oxen and wagons another week without a sighting. Late in the day, I came upon a herd of shaggy beasts, buffalo I suspected. I rode close, then eased up to a ridge not forty yards away and shot one with the Hawken. Down she went. I cut off what meat I could carry and took it back to the wagons. We ate well that night and several others. A full three weeks west of St Joseph, we stopped at a stream for the night. The animals were put to graze and camp was made. “We are in need of meat for the pot,” said Manning. “Have a hunt around and see what’s to be had.” “Yes, sir.” I mounted up and headed upstream, eyes scanning the trees along the creek for dinner. A mile north I saw a buck. I dismounted and began my stalk through the trees. I found the animal head down and drinking not thirty yards my distance. I took aim and was squeezing off my shot when I heard another shot to the south. Then another and another. We were under attack. It took a bit to get back to my horse and head south. I noted no other shots and cautiously kept in the trees along the creek. Careful I was, I knew there was danger but now a half mile off there was still little assistance I could give. At a quarter mile, my horse’s head suddenly looked left and he snorted. Tied at the base of an overhang were seven horses, all spotted multi colored animals

with skin saddles. I saw no one around, apparently seven men had attacked the wagons. They had crossed right behind me as I hunted north along the stream. I approached cautiously rifle at the ready. On the ground was a woman, an Indian, and she was both bound and gagged. She was may be thirty, who could tell, and obviously a prisoner. As I approached she saw me and squirmed all the more to free herself. There was terror in her eyes, especially when she saw that dirk appear in my hand. The woman stiffened and stared at me, prepared to die she was. I cut her leg restraints first, then rolled her over and cut the leathers that bound her wrists, making a motion to my lips for silence. Once she was freed, I had done all I could for her. I mounted up and headed for the wagons. Two of the three shots I heard had scored hits, one savage was down, a wound he had through the body. The other five were so busy going through the wagons, they did not see me approach. I was no more than twenty yards when I shot the closest man, the hit to the body literally removed him from the wagon. I put the boots to the brown and charged the wagons. The Hawken was still in my hand and I bashed a warrior so I ed him. He went down but came up. I shot him with a pistol, dropped it then drew and shot a third as he was leaping towards me from the wagon. The blast caught him in the air, he hit the ground dead or dying. I left the horse on the fly and another wrestling him to the ground. He was a big man but he was slippery, I clubbed him with the pistol butt, four or five times, rolled up and came up to see yet another coming down with some sort of club or axe. He hit me in the shoulder, the blow drove me back. He came again and I went at him. We smashed together and went to the ground, both of us yelling, screaming, kicking and hitting. I was calling him every curse word I knew. He still had his axe but at close quarters he could not get a swing in. Somehow that dirk found its way into my hand and I drove it deep where he lived over and over. I stuck that still screaming bastard until his screams were muffled by his own blood. When I got up, I was covered in blood, gasping for air. Around me was a scene of carnage. My friends were all dead, their scalps now just bloody gone. They all had arrows in them along with other wounds. Seven of those strange haired warriors had attacked, caught my friends unaware, some of whom were not all out of the fight, three shots had been gotten off and two had scored. I rechecked the savages, four were obviously dead, two were maybes and one was only wounded. I re-killed all three. What a bloody mess our camp was and darkness was coming on, that and rain. I laid my friends side by side on the ground, then drug the dead savages to a pile, I didn’t even know why, I just

piled up seven stinking warriors. It took most of the night to hitch the oxen to the wagons. I tied off the second team to the back of the covered wagon and the horse to the back of it with the bull. I gave thought to where I was going, St Joseph or west? With dawn, just over the horizon, I had made my decisions. I had come this far, what did I have to lose? Either direction I could not out run pursuit, I’d just go on. Anyway, the rain had stopped. I was walking up to the lead ox, Sweet Mary, when I looked back to the rear of my wagons. Behind me was the Indian woman that I had freed. She was on a horse with six others tethered in a line behind her. “Hut,” I said to Mary, “Hut, hut.” We were moving west again. The woman followed but held her distance. Apparently she had nowhere else to go, we had something in common. I moved the animals hard that day, it was distance I wanted, I stopped late in the afternoon next to another stream. My teams were all spent. It seemed we had gone up hill all day yet the prairie looked flat. I unhitched and put the animals out to graze. As I returned to the wagons I noted the woman had moved up, tagged her horses on the grass near the stream and was piling up firewood. She was still fearful of me and kept her distance as if she were going to run, but I did nothing to cause her alarm. I started a fire, got beans and some salt pork for the pot. Then I got water and put the coffee pot to the fire. It took a few hours for the beans and pork to cook, but the coffee was ready and I got two cups. In her’s I added some sugar before filling the cups. I handed the sugared cup to her then sat next to the fire with my own. I didn’t know if she enjoyed it, but her eyes warmed a bit. She sat the other side of the fire. I talked to her as I would anyone at the fire, not knowing if she understood a word. After a while she began talking and I damn well didn’t understand a single word. “Jon,” I said patting my chest, “Jon.” “Jon,” she said pointing at me. I nodded. She said some gibberish and pointed at her own chest. I tried to repeat it which caused her to laugh. That was the ice breaker, me and Miss Gibberish were headed west. She wasn’t bad company and traveled with me four or five days, always looking to the north. It was with great excitement on her part when she rode her horse up to me as I walked along side Sweet Mary. She was pointing to the north. There was a big rock out on the plain just lying there

without rhyme or reason. Miss Gibberish just went into incessant jabbering and pointing. There was water ahead, just a small creek with few trees, not knowing what lay ahead I called a halt to Sweet Mary and went through my nightly toils with the animals. When I finished I returned to the wagons to find the fire made and two rabbits roasting. I had no idea how she had killed them. The coffee was on the fire. It was as pleasant an evening as I thus far had enjoyed since this trek began. Miss Gibberish continued her gibberish often times pointing north. Our evening was disrupted by rain and I took shelter in the wagon. She apparently also found the rain not to her pleasing as she ed me inside. Later, much later I thought again of Pauli, he used to say, “They were all good, just some are better than others.” Miss Gibberish was better than most. I rolled over early to find a void on the pallet. She was gone as was the horse she chose to ride. She, however, left me with six mares, one of which was in heat as she had broken free during the night and was standing now for the brown. I told myself, oh well, but it wasn’t what I was thinking. Grass was all I could see and I was for the first time truly alone, and not since yesterday had I even thought of Christine. I was missing Miss Gibberish. On we went west, me and my oxen, day after day, the same routine. One morning I woke to see a haze on the western horizon I had not seen the night before. By my late afternoon’s camp the haze had grown. Three more days the haze grew and took definition. I could see them, the Shining Mountains were out there, and so were at least a dozen Indians all horseback and walking steady at me, not five hundred yards out. As fast as I could I prepared my rifles and pistols, as well as those no longer needed by my friends. Even if I made every shift count, I would come up short. I knew I was in a fix and they were coming now at a gallop yipping and yelling some war cry. Hunkered down in the wagon I took careful aim and at fifty yards I let that Hawken talk. Down went one, a solid hit to the chest. I grabbed a second rifle and leveled again now at twenty five yards and fired. I scored another hit as the man left his horse totally limp. I had another musket in hand and fired at a third who was leaping from his horse up into the wagon. It was a head shot and a dead man. Arrows were flying everywhere thunking into wagon wood or zipping through the canvas. I grabbed a pistol and shot a fourth as he was coming through the back of the wagon, arrows still coming through the canvas, one sticking me right in the forearm. At the rear I peered out looking for a target, the warriors had bunched for another assault, but they weren’t looking at me. They were looking north. I took aim, it was a long shot with a pistol but I

fired hitting still another. The attack broke and they fled south, at least eight of them. Then out of the corner of my eye I saw even more Indians, maybe a dozen yelling and screaming. I had but one pistol left and leveled it picking a target but none of the riders even looked at me, they were after the eight. “You, the wagon,” I heard. I looked out and a white man dressed head to toe in fur was walking his horse up to the wagon. “Friend, I be, hold your fire.” He looked over my wagons and the dead lying about. “Yup, looks like we got here just in time, TalksAlot said you would kill every Indian in the west all by yourself if we didn’t hurry. Damn, if she wasn’t telling the truth.” “TalksAlot?” “Ya, she sent us to help you, you got any coffee? I haven’t had real coffee in more than a coon’s age.” “I got coffee,” I said, “Let’s make a fire.” Over coffee I learned that Pierre “Pee” Le Petite lived with the Sioux to the north a hundred miles or more. He had a wife and kids with them. TalksAlot was the favorite wife of the chief. She had been captured by the Pawnee and taken south. “They had searched but lost their trail. She came home telling stories of a giant warrior who had rescued her and killed all seven of the Pawnee. The chief wanted to send you horses as payment but she said you had their whole remuda. It was at TalksAlot’s incessant verbal insistence he send warriors to escort you to where ever the hell you are going. And what the hell are you doing out here alone?” I told him my story leaving much out, only my friends and I were going west into the mountains to seek our fortune. He knew they had all been killed. “Tell me, why did you pile those dead Indians?” “Don’t have a clue. I just threw one on another and kept going.” “Powerful medicine is all I can say.”

Those Sioux wanted to ride all the way to just see the pile. “If the Pawnee ever find the pile, they will take notice. It will forever be a boundary, superstitious bunch they are. Looks like you stumbled into a mess of Blackfeet, they are way south; usually they are a few hundred miles north. Who is to say, these tribes just move around killing each other, been doing it since the beginning of time. It’s all they know; kill, rape and eat, all of them, even that bunch I live with.” “Why do you stay?” “Because, that bitch is all I ever wanted or will.” “Wish you the same lad, it makes life worth living.” I did it again, force of habit now. As I cleaned my camp of bodies, I just piled them up. Pee said it was powerful medicine, I hoped it would help. Le Petite wasn’t much help with the piling, the oxen, or chores but he stood by as I got ready to move out, mostly he drank coffee. Late morning the Sioux returned and ed us as we moved west. Those mountains looked close but I knew I had days yet to go. That next day, “Pee” and half the warriors went back, the others rode with me, four to the front and two to the rear. I had an escort and twelve extra eyes. Eyes that knew what to look for.

Chapter 17

Manning’s map would be a help once I found the starting point. I could tell by looking at it, that the trail was called south . It led through the Rocky Mountains to a place called Oregon. The “X” marked on the map was less than one hundred miles into the mountains. Communication was a problem with my escorts but one of them, Three-Feathers, I called him, after looking a long time at the map, rode ahead and came back three days later wanting to see the map again. I showed him, he put his finger on the junction of two rivers and pointed southwest. The Sioux generally brought meat to the fire every night. Deer, strange sheep, and a beast that looked like a huge goat with a white butt. They earned their meal. I enjoyed mine. A day later, my wagons were at the juncture of two rivers. From that point, orientation was easy but the trail hard. My escort had by now figured out where wagons could go and where they could not. With their help and the strength of my oxen, we arrived at what appeared to be the “X” on the map. I sat the wagon seat bewildered. It all looked the same; mountains and trees, rocks and bigger rocks. Three-Feathers came riding back from a ridge to the south. He was smiling, then went into ranting some jibberish. I was sure I knew his sister. He pointed and made a sweep of his arms for me to follow. These oxen didn’t have much left but I cracked the whip and pointed Sweet Mary to the ridge. Cresting it I saw what I had come for. Before me was a huge valley that ran south and west. Mountains ran high on both sides. There was a stream through the valley, beaver dams making small lakes as far as I could see. There were aspens and behind them pine. It was just gorgeous. Down into the grassy valley we rode. A mile into it, the valley narrowed to less than one hundred yards then opened up again. From where I sat, it was more than a mile wide and longer than I could see. A warrior came up and talked his jibberish to Three-Feathers who came to the wagon. He motioned for me to follow. On the back side of the outcropping that narrowed the valley was an old abandoned structure, built of rock and what looked like cement. There was a spring coming out of the rocks next to the structure. I pulled up my wagons, looked around, for sure, I smiled. I gave a nod to ThreeFeathers, who just waved back and with that the Sioux were gone. It was like

Scotland with trees, I was home.

Chapter 18

That first night I spent in my covered wagon. Sleep was long in coming, excited I was to see this new valley. At first light, I was up, made a fire; coffee and a meal. As the coffee was set to the fire I caught up the brown and saddled him up. Little interest did he have as another mare was in heat. The oxen grazed, relieved I did not come from them. The ride to the far end of my valley was three hours. There were three streams coming in, all converging then exiting at the same spot. The water left through a cut in the mountains, a geological split for which I had no explanation. I could hear a water fall beyond that which I could see. Through the gap, I could see forever. Apparently we were higher in elevation than lands beyond the falls. As I rode I saw deer, wild goat and big horned sheep, beaver and an occasional wolf. I saw tracks of buffalo and wondered how I could have not seen them. None of the animals had a fear of me. What was here, had been here a long time. There were several more structures like the one at the entrance, each was back under an outcropping. The walls on the back of them were still black with years of smoke. Shards of pottery littered the grounds around them. People had lived here before, a long time ago. The sun was dropping over the mountain slopes to the west when I got back to the wagon. I had a lay of the land in my mind’s eye. Where I was, I would build my home. From my vantage, a well-aimed rifle controlled the valley and the walls of the old structure would stop all but a cannon. I had naught to fear but marauding Indians and it looked like few if any had been here in a hundred years. There was much to do. My labors began with the unloading of the wagons. I had to open the crates and barrels and carry the contents in to my small fortress. They were much too heavy to manage otherwise. The first room would be my point of defense. The walls were six foot tall with no windows or doors to the front, room access was only from the rear. It needed a roof and ports for my rifles. The next room back was small and would, with a roof be easy to heat. I would sleep there. To the rear, the walls were smoked stained. It was just a big space walled back by the first two rooms. The overhang served well as a roof. It was dry. To the third space I carried everything I could from the wagons, arranging items for

inventory. Manning had prepared well, there was all manner of tool and implement. One barrel was nothing but seed, each bag labeled. That barrel once emptied, I rolled inside, then repacked it sealing the lid again. No need of seed would I have until spring. What foods I had left were carried in. A saw I would have a lean winter if things did not go well for me. I smiled when I saw the still. It was small but serviceable, it would be of no value without a grain harvest. Little did I know of the weather and snows yet, but people had lived here before. Then I wondered why they left. Two days I labored finally getting all my stores inside. My livestock had moved off further down the valley but I could see them and there was a cow in heat in heat as well as a different mare. Happy were the times down below, for the bull and the brown. As I set up housekeeping, I wished Christine with me to help, if she would or could, but my labors would certainly have been easier with Elaine or TalksAlot. At least I’d be eating better with one of them. I had shelter, but it was in need of improvement. The next day, I got Sweet Mary and another oxen, hitched them to the freight wagon. Then with an axe and saw thrown to the bed. I drove the team to a tree line where I filled the wagon with firewood. There was plenty of deadfall, I didn’t have to cut live trees just yet. I would however need some for winter heat. The dead fall burnt too fast. Two fall loads were hauled to my home and piled. Next I needed meat. I caught the brown and a mare, took both back to the house and saddled them. I tagged the mare to follow them with my Hawken across the pommel I rode to the far end of the valley, shot a buck and gutted it and took the carcass home, where I butchered it. I put meat over a fire to broil, saved a chunk for the next fire, and then cut the remainder into long strips which I hung on pieces of dead fall positioned well above my fire in the smoke. The hide I stretched out and scraped. The antlers I saved but I had no specific use. This I had fallen into a routine, if I wasn’t hauling wood, hunting, dealing with livestock, I spent my time on home improvements. I was busy all day every day. There was always something to do. The roof over the front room was a job. I cut fresh timbers keeping the size manageable, with the timbers I built a strong frame pegging the timbers together. There were several drill bits in the tool box to make the holes, pegs were easy enough to fashion. Over the heavy frame, I laid lattice, all four to six inch thick. Once I had the framework finished I hauled back thin peat stones and built a roof out of slate from the creeks. These, when I finished I had a low profile, rain proof, fire proof roof with ports under the eave to shoot through if the need arose. Along

the inside face of the wall I built a wood parapet just a step up that I could walk along at a comfortable shooting height. Someone shooting at the house would be lower in elevation and as close as I could tell would have a two inch window. Inside looking out and down a defender would have a complete field of fire. There were few places to hide within the 100 yards opening to my valley. When finished, I put a charged rifle at each window. Extra ammunition was placed at each gun. When the aspen leaves fell so did the snow. The first night there was six inch on the ground, then to my amazement it was gone the next day. It was a long lonely winter, but the pattern of snow and melt remained the same. It snowed then it was gone. My livestock did well, but continuously moved farther away as the grass diminished. Farther and farther I had to walk to retrieve or check on them. The time spent building a fence would not offset my walk to retrieve animals. I spent winter considering options. God I was lonely. The lonelier I got, the more I found to do. I thought much of Christine, of Elaine and her cooking, TalksAlot and her Gibberish, I even thought of Lisbon whores, a man alone is just that. Spring came none too early. My winter loneliness had produced much. My horse was furnished with a real bed, a four poster with pegs attached to each for the hanging of my extra clothing and whatevers. I had fashioned a mattress from the wagon tenting and stuffed it full with pine needles. I even made a couple of pillows. Sleep well I did. Deer hides had been sewn together to make a bed cover that kept me warm. I had a table with two chairs, though I thought the second a foolish waste of time, but it was wishful thinking. I had a stone fireplace in the bedroom and one for cooking and heat in my great room. I fashioned a wood door to my house, solid it was. It swung on big hinges I made from log pieces and peg. Of all my work, the swinging heavy door was my proudest achievement. As I was spading my garden, preparatory to seed, I heard them coming, from the ridge trail above. Seven men on horses each trailing a pack mule. They were a ways off yet, lucky I was that sound carries between the mountains. “Jesus Christ,” I heard, “Someone lives down there.” I’d been seen at my labors but time I had to walk to the house, stick four rifles out the gun ports, and stick two pistols to my belt. Returning we met at my garden.

“How long you been here, pilgrim?” “Long enough to lay claim,” I said. “Just you?” “No, I’ve friends.” Mountain men, trappers by the look of them, I was sure. “Nice valley,” one said. “And your friends?” Questioned another. “Up at the house just watching. You know folks out here alone can’t be too careful.” “Speculate you might have women and children in your cabin,” the man was smiling. “I might, or I might have brothers with good eyes and a clear field of fire.” It was then the protruding rifles were noticed. “Brothers,” he said. “Ya, I just might, your business gentlemen?” “Beaver,” he said, “just looking to set our traps and asses for a spell. It’s been a ride.” “I’m sorry, my valley, my beaver. You would be welcome to coffee if I had any.” “You got some horses out there, want to sell that brown one?” A man said. He wasn’t the leader, just a little Frenchie from the sound of his speech. “No, but I’d sell ya one of the paints.” “Ain’t no respecting fur man would ride a paint. Those reds would spot you right off. No, I want the brown, mines going lame. He limps worse than I do.” “Sorry again, he’s not for sale. He’s my stud animal.” “Well what if I was just to take him?”

“Then you would be the first to die.” “First?” “Ya, you won’t be the first short, fat, gimpy son of a bitch I’ve ever shot,” I said making eye with all of them. “Damn it Jordashe, now that’s not how to negotiate with a white man,” said one that I suspected to be the leader. “Damn, if I’m embarrassed now, damn.” “Gentlemen, our business is concluded. It’s time you went back up the ridge. If I so signal we will start empting saddles.” “Damn you Jordashe, friends are few and far in these mountains.” With that they turned their horse and rode back up the ridge. They were gone, but I wasn’t for sure. At night fall, I took a post on my parapet, that Hawken at the ready. Try as I might, I could not keep my head from nodding. I was so tired from my day’s labor with that spade, most of an acre I had turned over. On one of my recoveries I look out and in the dim light of a half-moon I saw two horses, one being led. They were leaving the valley not twenty feet yet to go to be beyond my field of fire. With no time to ponder, almost no time to aim, I let that Hawken talk. The shot took a man from the saddle. Both horses bolted but turned and went back down to my herd. The man never moved. I watch the body and surroundings and saw nothing else. I watched until the sun well lit my valley. There was no one else around. Upon closer inspection, it was Frenchie, and he had hit the ground with no heart. My shot had taken him under his right arm and exited under his left. Everything between was no doubt gone. From the ground I retrieved his rifle, it wasn’t a Hawken but it was similar in all regards. He had a pistol in his belt, knife, and hand axe. He would not need those, nor would he need his purse, extra shot, and powder. Once his essentials were mine, I drug him over to the garden and buried him deep. Frenchie’s horse was indeed lame but with rest I thought she’d be just fine. I took his saddle and possible bag to the house. There wasn’t much but there was

a bag of real coffee. Late in the day, the others returned, all six of them. They stopped at the entrance then backed up to the point where they were not covered by rifle fire from the house. One of them rode out into view, then plain as day dropped his rifle to the ground as well as the pistol. He raised his hands high and nudged his horse. “Don’t shoot,” he said, “Don’t shoot. We come as friends.” “Come on ahead,” I yelled from my parapet. “Keep your hands high.” Once in front of my house, he stopped his horse. “Sorry to bother you again, but come morning, that damn Jordashe was gone. We back tracked him here. Was he a bother?” “He tried to steal my horse.” “We thought as much, he was dead set on having it. We told him over and over we didn’t steal from white folk. He snuck off in the night. We see from the track he came down here, damn sure he didn’t come out.” “No sir,” I said, “Buried him in the garden after first light.” “Good for you, we none liked that damn Jordashe, but out here trapping, the more eyes and guns the better.” There was a pause. “Listen here,” he said, “we are not all like Jordashe, none of us. Fact is we talked many a times of killing the bastard ourselves. We are friends if you’ll have us, out here a man needs a place to run.” “Ok, I’ll be out.” That Hawken and me along with two pistols in my belt met the man at the door. “Howard’s my name, Howard Littlejohn.” He stuck out his hand and I took it. “Jon McKay,” I said. I had made a friend, six of them. The trappers stayed most of a week. I had no idea how starved for

companionship a man could be. We made a big fire pit out front and roasted a whole elk. We drank Frenchie’s coffee then some of theirs, we ate, drank, talked and laughed, story after story but being bamboozled and run off by a dirt farmer with two empty pistols in his belt and four unmanned guns pointing at nothing but the sky kept them rolling time after time. I had never said the pistols were unloaded, but it was their story and I let them have it. Even better than the laughing, six men not only helped me finish planting my garden, then we built a pole fence around it. “Why so much corn?” Asked Beggar Bob. “For my still.” They all six looking at me. “Yes, I have a still, I intend to make whiskey to sell or trade.” “Whiskey right here?” They were stunned. “When will it be ready?” “If I start making batches in the fall, let it age in my barrels, it might be decent in a few years.” “A few years?” “Ya, that’s what decent whiskey takes, longer the better.” “Out here boy,” interjected Tennessee Tom, “Shine is fine, soon as she’s cooled, she fit to drool. Yes sir Jon, we’ll be back.” Later over our last campfire, they told me of the trails they followed and places they went. Most liked Taos and would go back. Taos had stores and whores. I got the Manning map and folded it out. Littlejohn asked for ink and pen, he would add to it. Neither did I have so with a piece of fine charcoal he added to the map. What he couldn’t draw, we talked about. When my friends rode out the next day, I knew where I was in relationship to where I was going, Taos; stores and whores. Twelve days was the ride, but if not for the smudge of charcoal, I might have made it in ten or eleven. I was what they call disoriented for a day or three. What I found was not a glistening southwest paradise but an old ramshackle

string of adobes. Few were the whites, most were Mexicans, none of whom spoke English. Spanish is what I heard and it was not the same as they spoke in Lisbon. The stores, two of them, had almost nothing I wanted, and as to whores, I sure didn’t see any. I found a cantina, tied up the brown and my paint pack horse to a post and went in. There were a few rough sewn tables with benches. One had men at it playing cards. The other empty as I seated myself at the vacant table. I was greeted by a young pretty lady, dark of skin, eyes and hair. “Buenos dias amigo.” “No speak Spanish,” I replied. “No hablo Española?” She said. “Yes.” “Let me help you,” said one of the card player, leaning back in his chair. “What is it you want?” “A meal and coffee if they have it.” “Una comida y el café,” he told the lady. She smiled and was gone. “Emmitt Smiths my name,” he said throwing down his cards, “Deal me out.” He pulled his chair up to my table, “We don’t get many Anglos down here, and when we do it’s usually those crazy mountain men.” “Jon McKay,” I said. “ing through?” he asked. “Came down to see the town, kind look around, be neighborly.” “Live close do ya?”

“Twelve days north.” “Close enough I guess.” We talked quite a while, just this and that’s. I told him I was building sort of a half way station, my goal was to sell merchandise, horses, or whatever to those that might follow. “Oh they will come,” Emmitt said, “And by the thousands when they start. I agree, a man set up and ready will do well.” “What have you need of in Taos, twelve days is a ride just to talk.” I just laughed, “After last winter, I damn near traveled a thousand miles back east to hear a voice other than my own. What I want are some basics, flour, sugar, coffee, beans, tea, and maybe a bottle of bourbon.” “These I could help you with, I would walk to the stores with you.” “Also I was looking to hire some men to work. Their pay would be small at first, but if my venture succeeds, I would pay more.” “Would you take men with families?” He asked. “I might, if the costs were not too much.” “I believe I know two with families who have recently arrived from Mexico. They have no job, no money, and no prospects.” “Let’s talk with them.” Two days later, I was home bound with nine people who I could not communicate with. Two men, two women, two six year olds, two toddlers and a baby still sucking, and a cur bitch dog they called “Pepe”. Trailing behind them were five donkeys, two loaded with all they owned, one loaded both sides with crates of chickens, one loaded with piglets. The last donkey carried food for the trip. My pack horse carried my purchases, plus a few bags of corn meal. The brown carried me, at first, then me and two six year olds, a boy and a girl. We traveled no faster than the slowest donkey who had to be continuously

switched. It was twelve days to Taos with two being lost. This time it was fifteen days home. Over and over I questioned the decision to take two families. I had to feed and care for all these people, but three days into the trip I had a liking for each of them, especially the kids. One family were the Gonzales, Pedro and Marie. The other were the Gomez, Diego and Estelle. Marie and Estelle were sisters. The children were Jose, Raphael, Miguel, and Anna. The baby was Donetta. Whose kids were whose was a mystery, they were everywhere with everyone. Only Donetta did I peg as she was often times on Marie’s breast. I thought my cavalcade would wear out quickly each day but these people were tougher than nails, all of them. I wasn’t sure where they came from, but they had walked many months just to get to Taos. Upon arrival at my valley they were beyond jubilant; the women seemed to weep for joy as they looked upon it. At least I hoped it was joy. That first night we crowded into my house to sleep, each family member making a pallet on the floor. It worked for a while, but I woke in the night with four kids who had slipped in with me. I gave each family a horse to use and one of the ruins as their own. Tools I had and to work we went. With five workers, each ruin got a new roof and was made into a home. From there I put the men to work, eight hours a day for me, sixteen hours for themselves. I supplied the meat for the pots. Each family doing for themselves. Things just fell into place. The Gonzales raised our chickens. The Gomez raised the pigs. Gomez tended the oxen, much work there was with the calves to break them to the harness. Gonzales worked with the colts breaking them to the saddle. Careful we were with our livestock, we slaughtered no chickens or hogs the first year. All we wanted was to propagate the animals. The goal was to be able to sell for a profit and have plenty for ourselves. The women tended my garden, nary a weed grew. The corn grew well. It was more than a full barrel of shell corn at season’s end. With it and the help of Pedro I cooked my first batch of mash, then a second. I had half a keg of clear liquor

now, to which I added half water. Then I sealed the top. Three years I planned to wait. But it was only three days until my first customers came riding down the ridge. Howard and his crew of mountain men were back. I saw right off they were a man short, but they had another elk across the saddle. “Jon,” he hailed, “I see you have made improvements. Oh, and you have help now looking at the families who were gleaming the last of the garden.” “Yes I have, where’s George?” “Gone under, some Ute’s arrow stuck him about a month back.” “Nice fella, shame. I see ya brought dinner again.” “That we did.” “Well get off those horses and rest yourselves. Pedro, Diego, the elk por favor.” The women got a fire roaring in the pit and in no time at all that elk was roasting on the coals. I sat with the trappers and talked. George was a loss, they all agreed. A good hand but he always ate more than his share. “Ya ever make any clear?” Asked Tennessee Tom. “I did, but the good stuff won’t be ready for years.” “Won’t hurt to give it a taste, would it?” “I suppose not, grab your cups gents,” I said. I produced the keg, ten gallons, I guessed it was, pulled the bung and poured a lick for each. “Damn, that’s fine,” said Tennessee Tom, “just fine.” “Sure enough is.” “I know you are in the business to make money,” said Howard, “We would be honored to buy that keg.” “If I sold you the whole keg, I’d have none for myself.”

“We did bring you an elk.” “And we are cooking it for you.” “Well what if we were to buy half a keg?” “If you were, what would you pay?” “Why, we would part with George’s pistol.” “I’ve already got two and they are loaded this time.” They all went to laughing and I poured them another cup. “Well we could part with George’s pistol and rifle.” “Won’t do no good without powder and shot.” “Damn, that’s good shine,” said Tennessee Tom, wiping his chin. “It sure is,” added Lazy Jim, “Best I ever had come to say, it’s the first I ever had. It warms a man down to where he lives.” “Ok,” said Howard, “one rifle, one pistol, all his powder and shot, and caps for half that keg.” “Deal,” I said, “What you want me to pour it in?” They all looked at each other. “What have you got around here to put it in?” “Let me think,” I said sitting down taking a taste myself. It was smooth as silk with a fire that burned. “This is my only unused keg. If I was to pour your half into a crock, it would just spill out, that won’t work. If I pour mine into the crock, it won’t age proper. It will just remain shine. We are at an ime.” I sat and sipped waiting for wither their shine to take effect or perhaps a suggestion. “Well,” said Tennessee Tom, “its damn good shine and we’ve a ways to go. Why don’t you pour your half into the crock and we take the keg?”

“The keg is worth more than the squeeze. I got the still and I can make more. I need the keg to put it in.” Howard interjected, “As I see it, George’s horse is worth more than a keg. Take his horse and we take the half full keg.” “Ok,” I said, “But the horse is no good without the saddle.” “Take the damn saddle too.” “Ok, let me pour half out into the crock.” I returned with the barrel and handed it to Tennessee Tom. “Here, enjoy.” A grand night we had laughing, storytelling, eating and drinking their shine. That next morning as they loaded their gear it was noticed that the keg was noticeably diminished. “Say,” questioned Howard, “Did you trick us, most of this is gone.” “You drank it,” I replied. “You were going to leave the horse and George’s gear here anyway and you’re leaving with what’s left of a fine time.” He thought but a few seconds, his befuddled sotten mind was trying to work. “Right, I think. See ya next spring, Pilgrim.” And they were gone for the winter.

Chapter 19

No real troubles were experienced that first winter with the Gonzales and Gomez families that I commonly now called the Double G’s. Harder workers could not be found, man, woman, and child. Each did their share and more. Spring came with even more calves, colts, chickens, and swine, more than we could eat. We even got a litter of pups. Often I went to the ridge looking for those that would come, but there were none. Only tracks of horses did I see. On one such trip I noticed a crag from which a climber might espy down into my valley. It was a rock outcropping that before I had taken no real notice of. At the base of it I saw a lance stuck in the ground with an assortment of feathers on it. Upon closer inspection, I saw there were all manner of artifacts, antlers, strange stones, feathers and fur. Indians had been here and recently, yet none had I seen. I returned to the valley and gave warning to the Double G’s to be wary and keep their firearms close, eyes always to the ridge. Two days later as we labored with the plantings, they came, not Indians, but Howard and his company of trappers. Behind them rode five others, a black man, black woman, with two black kids on one horse. The woman had yet another kid, a baby in a sling around her neck and shoulders. No faces could I yet see as they came down what was now my trail, single file. “Jon McKay,” bellowed Howard, “We’ve come to trade.” “Come on in, Howard,” you are always welcome. “I wasn’t sure, your people are all armed.” “No troubles yet,” I said, “but I’ve seen plenty of Indian sign on the ridge.” The trappers went to laughing. “Injun trouble, you say,” laughing even harder.

“Not hardly,” said Howard as he got off his horse. “I suspect your sign is those accumulating little monuments at the crag. We’ve seen them every trip in or out of here.” “You have?” “They are sign alright, signs to stay away. You are damn famous boy. Every squaw lover from the big river to the Pacific has heard of you and they stay clear. They know your name, McKay the piler of men. The greatest of all warriors. They say you pile up the dead as a warning to others, hundreds they say.” “Only seven,” I said. “Let the story grow, lad, it only helps. Oh, I brought a friend to see you all the way from St Louis.” When the man tipped back his big floppy hat, I saw the smile underneath it. Dirty Joe. “How ya been, Jon?” It was a great day, we prepared a feast and pulled out a keg. “Thought you sold us the last keg?” “I did,” I lied. “I just traded for some more.” “Wonder what they had to give for you to keep them. I brought back your empty.” Two full days lasted the feast, then six befuddled still well sotten trappers lined their way up the ridge, less of course three buffalo robes, a crate of injun trinkets, two blankets, some trade knives, and Tennessee Tom’s store bought teeth. With them was less than half a keg of flavored shine, it wasn’t ready yet. Left behind was Dirty Joe, his wife and three kids. They weren’t part of the trade. When finally Joe got to tell his story, I learned that he had worked his way down

to Savannah on a coast runner, took his leave and made his way to Macon, his travels only in the night for fear of being enslaved again. Through a man known and friendly to him, negotiations were attempted to buy back his wife and kids. The plantation owner was in no mood to sell, he had taken a fancy to Penelope. So Dirty Joe up and stole them back in the night and made the run north. He got as far as Ohio. In a small town general store, part of the rail, he heard the name, Jon McKay. He had followed west looking for either Jon or his future. In St Louis he heard the name often, “McKay the Injun Piler.” He met Howard and the rest was just a long, long miserable ride. Dirty Joe was an asset, having no more ruins to rehab. The seven of us built a nice cabin at the tree line across the valley from my house. Within a week, Dirty Joe and his were high and dry. I had noticed right off that the baby, a little girl was much lighter complexed than the rest of his brood. I said nothing, neither did he. He treated that baby as his own, he was a good man. I started getting visitors, not many, and most generally trappers. Three different groups came during the summer. Whisky or shine is what they wanted, one outfit needed a horse. I traded and they profited. They took a paint and was glad to get him. It was Dirty Joe who said that the pork was okay but if we were to smoke it, it would last longer and taste better. We built a smoker, he cured the meat with salt and put it in the smoke house. The result was awesome. We now had hams and bacon. On it went, that season and another. It was amazing what seven hard workers could accomplish. The kids were now of an age to be of real help. They did just fine. It was that next spring, just before planting time that Gonzales, our hog tender, came on the run. I grabbed my Hawken and met him half way. “Look, look,” he said, “handing me a gold nugget the size of my thumb. The hogs uprooted it.” “Where?”

“In the canyon.” I followed Gonzales back to the canyon where we had fenced back the hogs. It was but a three or four acre grotto cut back between two bluffs. “There,” he said, pointing to the ground, right there, and right there was another. We had gold and just for the picking up.

Chapter 20

That night, we had a sit to, all of us sat and talked. “This gold Gonzales found will change things in our valley. What is it you want?” I asked. “Bury it back where it was,” said Marie, “Never have we been so happy. We are warm and dry. Our larders overflow.” “I agree,” added Estelle, “What gold buys is nothing but trouble.” “Little good it would do us,” said Penelope, “We would still be black. A rich nigger is just asking to be a dead nigger. That’s a white man’s world out there.” Their men folk just nodded, little else could they do, the bosses had spoken. “Let’s not be too hasty. Some gold if used wisely might in time improve our lot. Wisely is the trick. No one, I mean no one can know we have it. It is a secret that we must pledge ourselves to, agreed?” Vows were made and my people went home. I secured the nuggets in the house. I gave thought to them and what they would do. As I was pulling out seed for the next week’s plantings, an idea came to me. Seed was just that, plant it poorly and it might grow. Properly planted, it would grow. Perhaps the same thing could happen with gold nuggets. Commerce was my ion, I loved to trade, to dicker back and forth. There were but two rules, first, you must have what the other wants and second he could never get the better of the deal but always must think he did. I practiced over and over with the trappers that came and went with more regularity now. Whiskey I now had in good quantity. That seemed to be the biggest draw, but there were other items that relieved them of their furs. They liked hams and bacon, dried beans, and apples.

We now had apple trees, seed furnished by Manning, the trees were now almost head high, and we had fifty of them. I made batches of apple flavored shine. The trappers loved it, hard cider I called it. Tasted great but it was damn hard on you the next day if you drank too much. After the plantings, ten full acres now, we began construction of a general store, a place to store that which we wanted to part with and conduct the commerce. It was much easier from behind a counter than one’s front yard. The counter took the personal aspect out of the sale. The building was thirty by thirty. I situated it about another thirty feet to the south of my house along the face of the same rock wall. We made it two story, the upper story knee walls, six foot with shooting ports. The lower level had windows on each side of the door. As an afterthought, we added a roofed front porch. It was the finest structure I’d seen since St Joseph, better than anything in Taos. We made heavy shutters with cross gun ports for the windows and hinged the door similar to the one on my house. The shutters just lifted in and out, naturally there were gun ports. On one end, we built a stone fire place that went from the ground well past the eave. There was a firebox on the first floor. Holes were cut in the second floor planking to allow heat to rise. The roofs were covered with wood shakes. We had logs left over. Those we used to make a barricade wall from my house to the back door of the store. The labors took most of the summer as time allowed, other labors had to also be attended to. Once finished we moved our wares inside. Pleased I was, we had a fortress and we had a general store. All in one. But we needed more items for the shelves. I also needed to plant the golden seed to make this venture prosper. Pedro, one of the boys, myself and six pack horses left early on a crisp fall morning on the long ride to Taos. On the animals we carried items to trade for items we wanted. What we had most of was extra corn, beans, whiskey, and hams. Those items along with the last purse of gold coin, I had been given by my mother years ago would be used to make our purchases. Two nuggets in my pockets were for the purposes of seed.

I left Dirty Joe in charge and that pack of cur dogs to give warning. My people had rifles, plenty of shot, powder and cap. Most importantly if given enough warning they could fort up in my house and store. It would take an army to drive them out. At least that was the plan. Dirty Joe was a fighter, that I knew, and Gomez could shoot. The women could load. They were tough practical gals, good to ride the river with, they would do what needed done. The ride to Taos took only eight nights. Noticed two days north of Taos were cart tracks, a two wheeled cart pulled by a single ox. Three people along side of it. Over the past few years, I had learned to read much into the trails left by others, I was far from a mountain man or Indian but I was learning. The cart had come from Taos but had turned off and went northwest up a canyon. I could not imagine who would or could live up there, but who was I to say, I lived far out in the wilderness below a ridge that overlooked a few used to go where I had never been, and I was buying items to sell to who? It was all a gamble, perhaps these three gambled too. Taos was as I had left it, nothing had changed, not one thing. With the help of Gonzales in translation we were able to change our home produced commodities for items essential to the store. With added coin from the purse we added fabric for clothing, heavy clothes mostly, but some gaily colored fabrics too. I thought they would make nice dresses. Then I planted a seed. To the store owner I asked the value of gold. “Oro?” “Yes, a mountain man visited us in need of a horse. He had nothing to trade, but produced these two nuggets from his pocket,” I lied. “Oro,” the man said again. “I think so.” I had his interest and handed him the nuggets. He looked them over, seemingly weighing them in his hand.

“Oro, for sure. Where is it the man found these nuggets?” “I’m not sure but he had come from a place he called, Unicompahgre.” Unicompahgre was just a mountain I’d heard the trappers talk about. It was about a hundred miles past my ridge. “Oro, Unicompahgre.” The store owner said I had traded well and that he’d be willing to double my investment. He would give me two horses for the nuggets. Haggle we did, he gave me two horses, one pack mount with leads, one poor saddle and reins, and his only book, an English revision of Don Quixote. As I was leaving, I heard him again, “Oro, Unicompahgre.” The seed had been planted, now with time it would grow. Northbound, two days above Taos we came to the canyon where I had earlier seen the cart tracks. They were still there but ever so feint now and hard to see. What covered them now were horse tracks going up into the same canyon, these tracks were not that old. Looked like six or seven horses. As I studied them, I heard a faint pop from up the canyon. Sound travels strangely through the mountains, no idea from what distance it came. Prudence dictated we hasten our pace and put distance between us and possible troubles. Although I was not sure I felt those up the canyon were having trouble a plenty of their own. I wanted distance but a pack train could not out run a war party of Indians. “Pedro,” I said, “You and the boy head north with the animals. Make time and distance. If these are Indians on the prod, they will come back and see our track. They will be on us in no time. I’m going to have a look see up there, if its trouble I can assist with I will. If I can’t, maybe I can cause delay to the hostiles. If not I will lead them a merry chase and buy you time. Pedro knew the urgency and picked up the pace. He and the boy vanished quickly into the rocks and trees.

I checked to my loads, then felt my blade hilt in its sheath. All was secure, I touched Brownie to the flank. We followed six horses up the canyon. I heard another shot, much closer now, maybe a half mile. Wary I rode, that Hawken in my hand. When I heard a scream, a man was dying, then another, a woman was screaming and crying, no it was two women. I picked up the pace. The terrain quickly changed from rock and trees to a huge meadow, low now in vegetation. The grass had been pastured low. I heard still the screaming women and dogs barking. I could smell smoke. On the north side of the meadow was a cabin and cart. The cabin was in flames and there were people down, two were naked, both women. Their clothing strewn about on the ground around them. There were six Indians, of whatever tribe I hadn’t a clue. They had long black hair and loin clothes, long flaps that hung to their knees. Several wore shirts or skin tops, some wore nothing but their loin rags. Two were on horses, the other four were tormenting the ground. I saw one fire an arrow into one of the two naked women the ground. The man was beyond torment. No cover was there, everything was low grass. Sheep I saw in a field, lots of them moving away from the cabin. With nowhere to hide, I put the boots to the brown and just charged, and I was seen. Men scrambled for their horses. The already two mounted looked around, perhaps to make count of who was coming. Once they saw it was just me, they set their mounts and were coming fast. There was a shot from somewhere but I wasn’t hit. I had charged at less than fifty yards, we closed within seconds. I dropped my reins and took aim with my rifle. We were no more than a second apart when I shot a rider dead center to the chest. The second threw his lance which glanced hard off my hip, hit the saddle and fell to the ground. I whipped my rifle around and caught him good as our animals ed. I didn’t see if he went down or not, my eyes focused on a third who was now mounted and on the charge, he was no more than twenty yards, five as my pistol emptied his saddle. I tried to find the rein but no time was there as a fourth horseman replaced the third. We crashed together both animals going

to the ground. We were both screaming at each other as we rolled up. He attacked, a knife held high and coming down. I shot him with the second pistol, but damage he caused me. I looked back and the second warrior had retrieved his lance and was charging back on his horse. Two other had apparently not found their horses were on the run at me. One was shooting arrows at me as he did. The other was trying to load his rifle as he ran. The arrow shooter was no more than ten feet at a run towards me and I was running at him, my blade now in my hand. He let an arrow fly and it stuck me good but my momentum carried me forward with my blade sinking deep into his chest. I held him up, spun him between me and the now loaded man who fired his shot into his already dead friend. He kept coming, the rifle now a fifteen pound club. His first blow caught me on the side of my shoulder but I slipped inside and grabbed his hair and jerked him around. My knife easily sliced his throat ear to ear. The lance man was back, he pulled his animal to a halt and once again made his throw doing a much better job this time sticking me deep in the thigh. He was off that horse knife in hand ready to finish the job. He came quick, pained as I was I jerked the lance free just in time to drive the blunt end into his face. He stopped dead, screaming he put both hands to where his right eye once was. I turned the lance and drove it deep where he lived. I sank to my knees, blood covered most of me, at least the ports I could see. I gasped for breath but none seemed to come, the arrow in my chest now taking its toll. From my knees I could see the cabin now fully engulfed in flames. A man lay dead, he had arrows stuck in him. A naked woman had one arrow stuck in her chest. The third was gone. I saw no more, my world was dark.

Chapter 21

I woke to darkness, in such agony, I wished myself dead. I couldn’t breathe, my chest felt like there was the weight of the world smashing down on me. I knew I was not yet dead, closed my eyes, thinking death was upon me. It came, I was relieved of my agonies again. I woke, I knew not when, still in agony, still without breath, but this time there was a glow of light that came from overhead. I was in a big box. Lucky I was to have such a fine coffin, but why the pain. Death was one’s peaceful reward. Mine was excruciating, no breath could I take. Then darkness again. I woke racked in fever and pain. I had a thirst. An angel gave me a sip of water, but why was she in my coffin. Then the darkness, but no silence. I heard screaming savages, I saw my mothers, both of them, applying cool towels to my head and chest. Christine held my hand. So many in my coffin. I told them to leave, that I was dead and wished no company. I wanted to be pain free. I wanted silence, not screaming half naked men. I got part of my wish, I felt no pain but demons of all sorts filled my brain. As I slept, I felt myself cooled. I grew cold and felt a warmth. I tried to breathe but got no relief but sleep. On went the cycle of sleep and pain, on and on. Constant with each awakening was my coffin. A big wood box not much longer than my six foot, but it was of a width for two or more. The top was a draped fabric. The cushion below me was made of wool. I was covered with more wool pelts. I might have been content for eternity in my coffin had it not been for the heavy deep pain in my chest and the difficulty with breath. Wondering if ever, I would breathe, I discovered bandaging to my shoulder and hip. One of my legs was

throbbing now, a pain which almost made me forget the weight on my chest. My head hurt too, but I didn’t know why. I was a mess and to top it off, they had buried me naked. I slept again, but with me there was a comforting warmth. When next I woke, the warmth ading me moved. There was a head next to mine facing away. The hair was long and brown. I had apparently been buried with someone else. I moved ever so little, my agonies kept me still, it hurt to move anything. The warmth came to life, rolled left and rose to her knees. “Her.” I was put in my grave with a woman and one that could move. She got to her knees and from somewhere retrieved a cup. Dim was the light but there was a glow through the canvass shroud that covered my casket. “Agua,” she said, “beber esta agua.” She propped up my head and helped me take a few sips, then let my head back down. “You, live.” “Am I not dead?” “No, but close. You were badly wounded. I have done what I could, can you drink more?” “With help I could.” Absolutely no strength did I have. “You must rest more. I will bring you broth.” With that she lifted the top off my casket and climbed out. I did not see her face but her voice was soothing to the ear. The shroud was replaced. As I fell back in to the pain free relief of sleep. My last thought was that the angel wore a raggedy dress and no shoes. I had noticed she had dirty feet.

I woke again alone in my casket. With my left hand now moved, I felt my own body. It was warm, I hurt still, but I could breathe a little. My leg still throbbed but not near so much. Again I confirmed I was naked, except for bandaging over the parts of me that hurt. Had I been dreaming before, had there been an angel with dirty feet in the casket with me? Nothing made sense. Was I returning from the dead still interned in my coffin? I heard noises outside my coffin, it was the snapping of sticks, the crackling of a fire, and then I caught the smell of smoke. Try as I might, my body did not respond. Every attempt to move caused pain. I just laid back resolute that someone was turning my coffin into a funeral pyre. There was naught I could do. Maybe the flames would relieve the pain. Perhaps the angel would give me a sip of water before I was burnt. I was ever so dry. I could see but a little, dim was the inside of my coffin, but there were streams of light here and there in the overhead shroud. I followed a beam of light up and saw it came through a hole in the cover. I had just decided I was not in a coffin or casket when the tarp was pulled partially back. Looking in was the woman. “You are awake again,” she said, “Bueno.” I recognized the voice, she was the angel. “It’s you,” I said, “I you, you were going to get some broth.” “That was four days ago,” she said, “that was the last time you talked to me, but you have taken broth and drink everyday a sip at a time.” “I hurt terribly, it even hurts to talk.” “Then don’t talk, you are lucky to even be alive. Nine days now you have been at the edge of death. I will not lie, you are still there. Just lie still and rest. I have done what I can. Father Time has thus far been your friend.” I coughed but got out, “Gracia amiga.”

Near death I was I for sure but I wasn’t yet gone, my angel was young and pretty. She had long brown hair and blue eyes that matched the sky I could see beyond her. I watched as she climbed over the wood sides of what I guessed was a big cart. It was her alright, my angel with dirty feet. I slept off and on during the remainder of the day, the sleep again, my only relief from the pain. On each of my waking’s, she provided water and a broth with small pieces of meats in it. She spoon fed me, ever so patient. The sun was setting when she again climbed back into the cart with me. With her was my Hawken, another long gun, both of my pistols, and powder pouch. The weapons she leaned against the front corner of the box. Then she stood up, looked around, one last time before flopping the canvass over the top. What she did next is what she had done the nine previous nights. She snuggled up to me and used her own body heat to keep me warm. Pained though I was, she was indeed a comfort. I fell asleep listening to her night sounds. Who is she? What is her name?

Chapter 22

It was now well into day ten, alone in the cart, I managed myself into a sitting position. I could hear the crackling of a fire, for the first time I smelled smoke. I still had pain aplenty but not so much, at least I could take a real breath, it was painful, but I moved air. It felt better to be sitting now, flat on my back for days caused its own woes. Again I assessed my damages. I’d been cut on my head and shoulder, there had been an arrow in my chest, a lung had been punctured. I ed a lance had gouged out my hip, then a second throw had been embedded in my leg. My wounds were still covered with cloth bandages. I could smell a poultice. Whatever it was had done some good as I was still alive. I could see a gourd on a string and an empty cup, both within reach. I poured myself a cup of water and drank it all. I wondered where my clothes were, but well knew I couldn’t manage movement enough to get into them. I felt movement on the cart, the canvass moved and she looked in again. “What are you doing?” She scolded. “You lay back. You are not ready to move, the bleeding will start again. I’ve had such a time controlling it.” “Yes, in a minute, I’m breathing better upright.” “Let me get you some more broth.” With that, she was gone, but returned in a thrice with a steaming cup in her hands. I watched her climb over the side of the cart. My angel wasn’t tall, nor was she short. She wasn’t skinny nor was she plump. She wasn’t real young, who is to say, but she certainly wasn’t as old as me. She had other attributes too, my angel was a woman, all woman.

Most striking of all was her voice, so pleasant it was in all regards, even when scolding. I wanted to hear more. As she handed me the cup of broth I asked, “Your name?” “Miranda, Miranda Louise, You?” “Jon McKay.” “I might have guessed, we have heard of you. Mountain men from time to time visit the valleys above. People have been talking about you for years.” “I’m known?” “Yes, but we thought most stories were just the wild yarns of those lying trappers.” “Well, I’m real enough but the stories probably aren’t.” “I’ve seen you fight, they did not exaggerate much, not much at all. You did just fine and I live because of you and your valor.” I finished my broth and another cup of water. “You must rest again.” “Ok,” she had no argument from me. With some help, she got me laid out on the sheep skin pallet. Exhausted I was. Sleep came easier. Miranda was her name, Miranda Louise. Day eleven was much like day ten. I rested, ate, and rested some more. I could manage to get myself up and down into a sitting position but I could see nothing but the side boards to the cart. It was late in the day when she appeared again above the walls of the cart. “Where are my pants? I wish to stand.”

“Is Jon McKay embarrassed?” She asked. “Who do you think has been changing your bedding and washing your arse?” “You, I suspect.” “There is no other.” “Well I wish to stand, I at least need to try.” “Let me help you,” she said climbing over the side. It was with great effort between the two of us that got to my feet. The side walls were four foot, chest high, once up I could brace myself; my leg was still swollen and stiff. Embarrassed I was, but Miranda paid me no never mind. It was good to look outside, what was for days on in my big casket. Their home was just a pile of ashes. Next to it were two recent graves, both covered with stone. “Your people,” I said breaking the silence. “My parents.” “You buried them?” “Yes, the most tear filled toil of my life.” “I bet. Those savages?” “I drug them just far enough I didn’t have to see or smell them.” One of them had boots I could wear. They stunk, but I cleaned them. All my clothes, everything we owned burned with our home. I have nothing now, no home, no family, not even a single pair of shoes. She started crying. I held her as we stood the wagon. She just put her face in my chest and let it go, sobbing, weeping. Grief comes to all in time. Morning came again, this time with the sounds of clomping horse hooves on the

hard ground. There were more than two horses. Voices I heard, the strange sounds of an unknown language. Savages had come back looking for their friends. The cart was less than a rocks throw from the ruins. Hard as it was, I crawled over Miranda motioning for her to be quiet. I worked my still naked body up the sides of the cart. Peeking out under the cart I saw three Indians, similar in attire to the earlier ones. Two were looking at the graves, their backs to me. One was riding his horse to the cart. “Eeyoo,” I heard over to my right. There were more and they had found their friends. I heard the clop of horses as they went to the others. I took hold of the first pistol leaned against the cart wall as the canvass was peeling back. A face appeared, red, ugly, and mean. He let out a yell as my shot took him square in the mouth. He was dead as he hit the ground. I heard again those savage screams I had heard too often in my delirious dreams. They were coming, all of them. Arrows filled the air whacking the wood walls of the carts. “Load!” I yelled to Miranda handing her the spent pistol. I didn’t even know if she could. I leveled the Hawken and took another from his mount. I dropped it to Miranda who was still fumbling with the pistol. She kept to her task. The other long gun was a flint fowler. I cocked, aimed, and fired. The horrendous blast took a third along with his horse, both went tumbling over each other. The kick of the weapon did damage to my healing shoulder. I had no idea what she had in that old piece but it packed a wallop at both ends. The fowler blast broke the attack and they pulled off and regrouped well out of range. There were still four of them and they were pretty mad. After a few minutes, they took several es riding cross ways in front of the cart apparently trying to see who or how many they had trapped.

They began chanting, seemingly daring me to shoot as they came closer and closer. I held fire and watched. The pain to my body was back. Braced as I was, I was using my strength up just to see over the edge. We were reloaded, even the fowler. I saw she had more than a measure of powder and a handful of large pellets and rocks stuffed down the barrel. It was a wonder the barrel hadn’t exploded. I needed to sit back, my good leg was cramping, the other near useless and bleeding again. They came again this time two went to the right, two to the left. At some yell, all four came at a charge, screaming and yelling. I picked out one to my left and shot at forty yards, low he was over the horse. My shot went through part of the horse’s neck and through his. Miranda handed me a pistol just as a horse and rider crashed into the cart. The rider leaped to the wall, hatchet in hand. He was hacking down when I shot. He fell back out of my sight, dead or dying, I had hit him dead in his midsection. A third was coming over the other side to my back. Miranda fired the fowler from her sitting position below me. Again there was a deafening roar. What was once a screaming near naked lance throwing savage was almost two, the blast cut him near in half. The fourth and final attacker had a sudden realization that discretion is always the better part of valor. He spun his horse and began racing away. I got the Hawken up, used the wall for a brace, elevated for distance, aimed and fired. I hit the horse causing it to spin and tumble. The rider rolled free and got up running. He looked over his shoulder at the cart, expecting another shot which I didn’t have, glad he was. He looked back along his path of flight, stopped dead and began running the other direction. I watched as a black man with a big hat ran him to the ground. The Indian threw his hands up in a gesture of surrender, little good it did, Dirty Joe shot him dead.

Chapter 23

The fight had caused myself injuries. The blood was flowing again, my lungs heaved for breaths. It wasn’t long before I was down again, this time attended to by Dirty Joe and Miranda while Gonzales kept watch. I slept again that night and most the next day, Miranda much more to my side as there were others to watch for danger, tend the fire, and fix the meals. Joe slipped away and came back to camp with a freshly slaughtered sheep. He and Gonzales made short work of the butchering, steaks and chops were set above the fire to broil. I was able to eat, strength I gained. The next morning I had Miranda fetch my clothes, with much tribulation and even a bit of giggling, mostly on her part, I was dressed for the first time in two weeks. With help I was lifted from the cart to the ground, then over to the breakfast fire. No coffee was to be had but Gonzales had packed some tea, it was good, very good. We talked as most breakfasters do. Miranda told her story, much of which I had not heard. She was a Basque, her family now over two hundred years in these mountains. They did not fear the Indians. They would welcome trading partners and who often bought their sheep or wool. Those that came two weeks prior had different ideas, they were White Mountain Apache. They wanted to buy me. My father said no and got arrow shot for his refusal. My mom got shot just because she was too old for their lusts. Then Jon rode in hollering and shooting. He met all six head on and killed all of them sustaining his injury in the process. He almost died protecting me. “Company,” said Gonzales, “there on the ridge.” Riding into camp were two men, sheep herders by the look of them.

“Miranda,” said the taller one, “we see you have had trouble. Your house is gone, there are fresh graves.” “This is Hector and his brother Fernando,” Miranda said in the way of introduction. Then she swung her arm, “and these are my friends; Jon, Joe, and Pedro. They came to help me.” “Your parents?” “Dead and buried.” “Now, perhaps you will marry me and leave this place,” said Hector. I was caught flatfooted. I hoped my disappointment didn’t show. “No, Hector, you are a fine man but my answer is the same now as it had been for the past five years. A friend you are and always will be, but I chose you naught.” “For the present, I owe my allegiance to Jon McKay. He saved me from a fate worse than death and in doing so has received injuries from which he may yet die.” All eyes, especially Hector’s were on me. “Jon McKay,” said Hector, almost astonished. I nodded. “The Jon McKay, the legend.” I nodded again. “Hector,” said Miranda, “Let you and me take a walk, Senor Gonzales will you accompany us?” The three walked down to the graves. I sat the fire drinking my tea. After a while Miranda and Gonzales returned. Hector and Fernandez rode off in

the direction of the flocks. It was Miranda who spoke. “Let’s get Jon ready to travel, I understand it is many days to your home. The snow comes soon, we must be through the .” Two hours later we were headed north. As we exited the valley out on the trail home I saw a pile of corpses. All thirteen Apache were heaped in a pile. “Me and Pedro thought it would be fitting,” is all Dirty Joe said. The ride home was long and painful, but Miranda was good at her pledge, she attended at me and my woes in earnest. She called a halt when she thought the pain was too much. She bandaged and re-bandaged. A better nurse could not be found. The snow was blowing as we rode single file down into the valley. I was home.

Chapter 24

Coming down the ridge, I was most pleased by our greeting. A pack of noisy, yippy dogs came up the ridge. None were big enough to cause real injury but they were plenty loud. Warning of approach was a good thing to those below. As we rounded the edge of the opening into the valley below, I could see rifle barrels extended from all our gun ports in both my house and the store. There were even a few along the log walkway between. I saw more rifle barrels than we had guns. “Hello, the house,” roared Dirty Joe. “We’re back!” With that a half dozen barrels were pulled back in, the rest remained leveled. Out the door they came, all our people, the Gonzales, the Gomez’s, as well as Dirty Joe’s family. A most joyful reunion was had. Glad I was to see each and every one of them. The women were initially cautious of Miranda, silently questioning her presence, but over a communal meal inside the store, and then stories that were related, she was accepted as my nurse and maybe more. I saw the store had improvements since I left. The center had been cleared out and a long table had been built with benches down each side. Our wares were moved to the outside walls. I noted the extra rifles were but toy replicas. “Whose idea was that?” I asked, pointing to the toys. “It was the kids who came up with it. They wanted to help if there was ever an attack, we thought it an excellent idea,” said Gomez. “And the table?”

“That was Estelle’s idea, but we all worked on it.” Marie left and returned with a dress she had just made as well as tros and a shirt. “Please,” she said to Miranda, “I see you have none but the trail worn clothing you wear. Take these with my thanks for attending to our Jon.” “Thank you,” was her reply, “I am a frightful bag of rags.” Penelope and Estelle also had slipped away and returned giggling and laughing. What the joke was I did not know. When the last of my friends departed for the night, it was Miranda who asked, “Where is it you sleep, Jon? We need to get you clean, replace your wound coverings, and get you to bed.” All three I knew were true. I was filthy, I hurt and I was dog tired. My chest still hurt to breathe and my leg was stiffening up again. “My house is through the back door there, help me stand up if you would. I’ll show you.” With her help, I limped back to the house. What I found opening the door was the cause of the giggling. The interior was warm, fires had been lit in both my fireplaces, kitchen and bed room. There was hot water on the hearth, soap from the store wares, and a towel. Fresh bandaging had been neatly folded and ready. The house had been swept and my personals were neatly arranged. There was even a keg of hard cider set to the side of the hearth with two cups. My friends made a little love nest. “You live like this?” “I guess I do now.” “I am impressed, you have far seeing devoted friends.”

“I guess I do.” “Now Jon McKay, let’s get those stinking rags off you and get you cleaned up. I need to see to your wounds.” Using the hot water, rags and soap she helped scrub me down. As she did, her labors and inspections we warmed two cups of the cider on the coals. The fire warmed my front side, the cider warmed my insides while Miranda scrubbed my backside. Once finished, she put my coat over my shoulders, threw a few more logs on the fire, and filled the pot with fresh water from the spring that ran through the kitchen. Then he went back to the store, returning with the clothing Estelle had given her. “It’s my turn,” she said, “never have I been so filthy, you may help or retire, it’s your choice.” “Ah,” was all I got out. “Choose wisely.” “I’ll help.” “Bueno.” She was a vision to behold. She was all woman, just everywhere, just everywhere, and I did my very best in my duties. She had my full attention. Once she was satisfied with herself and toweled off, she said, “Now Mr. McKay, let’s see where is it, you sleep?” I got up and swung back the elk skin door that covered my bedroom doorway. I pulled back the deer skin bed covering to find not one but two new blankets, one was stretched over the canvass mattress, the other was a liner between the mattress cover and the deer skins. “You live well,” she said.

“I guess I do.” We slipped in and pulled the covers back, this time we were both naked. She snuggled to me, the warmth and smell of her was more than a comfort. It took but a few seconds to realize Miranda’s intentions were more than sleep. “I will be gentle with you,” she whispered. Lucky for me, she was a damn liar.

Chapter 25

A better winter I had never had, nor could I imagine anyone else for that matter. I was warm, dry, fed, and bred. There was an opening line from a book read many years ago as I took my lessons by the flicker of a hearth fire. “It was the best of times, the worst of times.” The winter was just the best of times, I had survived the worst. Recover I did. I could walk with limping but more importantly, I could breathe. Miranda was more than a man deserved, she was devoted always, she kept a fine home, she cooked with the best of them and at night she was more than a comfort. I was sure she loved me, at least she frequently said so. I knew there would never be another, I was smitten, I was head over heels in love. Our talks were always pleasant. I just loved to hear the sound of her voice. It was a pleasure. I learned much of her life and family. I found out Hector was more than a suitor. They had for a time been lovers, she said she wasn’t particularly attracted to him, he was just all there was. Hector talked only of sheep, it was his life. He knew everything there was to know about them. It was when Hector began to lose his teeth that the relationship waned. According to Miranda his breath became foul and she couldn’t abide the odor, she said it was just horrid. His brother Fernando’s breath wasn’t so foul but the man was born flat lazy. On and on she talked, and I listened. Mostly she gave remembrances of her parents and how good they were to her. She had brothers but they had died, two as infants another in a rock slide. She missed all of them. She talked of an old relative, one of the first Basques into the New World. The story about her were told and retold around the campfires. She was a large woman, bigger than the biggest man. Anna was her name. She took a man as her own and defended him until death they parted with her. She took his son to the grave. He in his rage led the conquistadors to their death.

Miranda, one time asked me if I had known other women. Of course I lied and said no, but one liar can spot another. She never asked me again. It was just as well, so little did I of anyone else. I would have had to lie to tell the truth. Miranda had a way about her, what she asked for I gave. She wanted first a real privy, one built of stone to match the house. She picked out the spot and I picked a deep hole in the frozen ground. She helped with the gathering of flat stones and even in the actual construction. I enjoyed the company. Gonzales, Gomez, and Dirty Joe were not, however, pleased with our privy as each was forced by their wives to build their own. That was the way of it. With the spring thaw came the trappers to trade and buy. Howard and his troop arrived with two pack animals lugging small empty kegs, twenty of them. “Fill them up,” he said. He got two full ones in return, one hard cider, one whiskey, two years in the barrel. He had to promise to bring the empties back. We decided he would leave the pack animals as a deposit. Haggle he did but both of us knew that was the plan from the beginning. Something else they wanted was tobacco, I had none, but Tennessee Tom just smiled. I got seed, real tobacco seed. I don’t know if you can grow it up here, but I’d trade it for a ham. We too haggled, both knowing I had every intention of providing a ham dinner and that he wanted to give me the seed. It worked out just fine. The trappers left fed and hung over. Good friends they were. The trappers were heading up the ridge as a herd of sheep were coming down. There were at least fifty ewes and several rams being moved by three dogs, Hector, Fernando, and some other guy tag lining pack animals.

“Hector, Fernando, and Emanuel,” yelled out Miranda, excited to see her friends. “You are right on time, I’ve been watching for you!” “You knew they were coming?” I asked. “Of course I did, we made the arrangements last fall. These sheep are mine, Hector keeps the other half of the herd for deliveries. It was Gonzales who gave direction.” “You knew you weren’t going back?” “I knew,” she smiled. The sheep herders stayed three days resting their mounts and themselves. One stayed, his name was Emanuel Baca, a distant relative of Miranda, an old man, short on years with no place else to go. “He’s good with the sheep, shears, and dogs,” was all she said. Hector and Gonzales left southbound for home, Hector sporting a mouthful of store bought teeth. I thought it was my most excellent trade. False teeth I did not need for a woman I very much wanted. Other trapping parties stopped in, camped, drank, traded or brought what nots, then left. Each time I got more than I gave. Each time they left they felt the same. Occasionally, prospectors came down the ridge. They were usually more solitary in nature and never carried on, like the trappers. It was late spring before I began getting inquiries about Unicompahgre. Then more and more, men with needs were coming. I was selling fast and would soon need more inventory. Dirty Joe and Penelope knew much about tobacco, they got it to grow. By summer they had near a half acre of it. Joe said it wasn’t as good as they had back in Georgia, but it would do.

Spring turned to summer and fall would soon be here. I began compiling a list of items I wanted from Taos, then items I wanted to sell. I had furs, hard cider, whiskey, corn, beans, wool, and so much more. A pack train might take ten horses. I wished that wagon or cart could be used, but there was no way either could be pulled along the trail traveled. Perhaps there was another way. A different route would no doubt be longer, I would have to ask Howard, he had roamed these mountains for years. In the meantime, it looked like another long ride.

Chapter 26

Preparations were made, our commodities were lined out on the porch of the store and mentally weighed in stacks packable for each animal. Busy we were when the dogs began there barking and ran to the ridge. I followed to have a look. Men were coming down, not single file but in a skirmish line. Even at a distance, I could see they had rifles at the ready. Friends they were not. “To arms,” I yelled, “fort up, everyone to the store!” Our people were running, me included, my limp long since gone. I slammed the door behind me. All the adults took a weapon and shot pouch to their preassigned port. We had eight shooters at the ready when twelve riders rounded the crag. They stopped, looked at what they saw was a fertile valley with grazing livestock. There were crop fields, fruit trees, homes with wisps of chimney smoke, and to the left a large log building. They turned their mounts towards us. They were looking for me but I was watching them. Four I recognized as Scottish pikers from their distinctive attire, the others were no doubt hired men, bounty seekers. Before our fortress, the men spread out still in a line, slowly they advanced accessing as they closed the distance to twenty yards. “Jon McKay,” yelled a piker, we want Jon McKay, no one else.” There was a pause. “Mc,” was all he said as the boom of an overloaded Fowler took the man from his crumpling horse. Both were ripped to pieces. It was Miranda, pulling her near cannon back through the port. Shots from every weapon of our ruined ball through men and animals. They in turn were shooting at us without effect. One kill was mine, another piker. I had

no idea who else scored but we had three down who did not move, one was hurt, limping, trying to catch a horse. The others broke and ran, our dogs steady yipping at the galloping horses. “Reload,” I yelled, they will be back. “Gomez, take your family to my house, shoot from my parapet. Have them keep weapons loaded for you.” I reloaded and took aim at the wounded man who finally caught up a horse that was near as bloody as he was. I squeezed off as did Dirty Joe, two ports down. The wounded man never again would ponder his futile efforts in catching a gut shot horse, both balls hitting him at the same time. “Bueno,” was all I heard, I knew the voice. We had caught them flat footed was all. They did not know how many they faced nor the fire power. They would the next time have a plan. They would be back at a time of their choosing. There were eight men, all well-armed and vengeful, friends or comrades they had lost. When they came back, they would want more than me, they would kill every man, woman, child, and dog. No one was safe. I left the store, pistols in my belt, Hawken in hand, went to the crag, and peeked to the ridge. All I saw was a pack of mangy dogs returning down the ridge, proud they were for having run off the bad guys. I would have given each a pat and bone if I had time. “Gonzales,” I yelled, “fetch up the brown and get him saddled.” “I’ll go with you,” he said. “No, you stay with your family. They need your protection.”

“I will do what needs done.” I then gathered the people and gave instruction for defense. “Gather those weapons and powder from those who lay dead. Put their guns with our own. Two shooters at the house, two to the walkway, the rest in the store. We have food and water for months. The advantage is ours.” I lied. Well I knew the best defense is an incredible offense, and I was taking it to them. I went to my house to grab my shot bag and a few traveling items. “Gomez,” I said, “Go help the others, the attack is broke for now.” “Si,” he said, he and his family left. “Are you doing what I think?” asked Miranda, who came in as they filed out. “Yes, if I don’t they will be back.” “Let them come, these walls will protect us, have they not already?” “These men are not superstitious savages, the only pile of bodies to stop them are their own. This is an old feud from the old country. The only way I can protect you and the others is to take the fight to them. If I don’t they will wait and pick their time. They will be back.” “What shall I do if you are not successful?” “Survive.” “What is life without you?” “You will always have me,” I smiled. “Do you not think I have noticed your condition?” “What condition?” “Do you think the morning sickness and that additional weight you now carry have gone unnoticed?”

“I was going to tell you, I had a special idea.” “Come here.” We hugged long and hard. “It is because I love you, I go, but worry not, I’ll be back. It is you I want to spend my life with.” “I love you,” she said. “And I you.” I grabbed what I needed and we walked out to the front of the store. My house was ready. I gave her a kiss good bye, then swung my leg over the top of the Brown. With my Hawken in hand and two pistols stuffed in my belt, I rode to the crag then up the ridge. I did not look back. Perhaps if I would have seen a black man wearing a big hat following behind. Well past the ridge, I heard him come up behind me. “It’s not your fight, Joe.” “Your enemies are mine,” is all he said. Dirty Joe and I found their tracks and set ourselves to it. We were less than ten miles on the track when we heard horses racing from the rear. As we wheeled to face our enemies who had somehow gotten behind us, surprised I was. Riding up hard was Howard and his trappers. “Where the hell you going without us? We rode down to your diggings to find your people piling the bodies in a wagon. Miranda told us what happened. Recon, you’ll need some help. She said there was a el of them.” “It’s not your fight,” I said. “A friend’s enemies are ours, besides if something happened to you, where are we going to get our liquor and tobacco?”

“Thanks,” I said, “If we get through this, it’ll be free.” “Yeah right,” he replied, “besides, we are St. Louis bound for the winter and these enemies of yours seemed to be heading that way.” We were back on the track. The odds were even now, eight to eight. About two hours later, we came up on them. We were atop a ridge, they were below us in a glade next to a mountain stream. The men had their horses tied in the nearby trees. There were two covered wagons, both with a four horse team still standing in their harness. A cook fire blazed, all eight men and a few extra stood the fire waiting for a meal; several had plates in their hands. Several were talking loud and using hand gestures to emphasize their conversations. They were still plenty mad. Two women were tending the fire and pots. A little boy, maybe eight or nine, was throwing rocks into the stream. We had not been seen. “This way,” Howard whispered, “We can go down to the stream on this side of the ridge and ride right up on them. Damn fool place to lay over.” I followed Howard down the ridge, the rest followed me. At the bottom, we eased into the stream and started our horses up stream. Low in voice was Howard, “Have you a plan?” “Ya, ride right in there and shoot the bastards.” “Works for me.” And that’s just what we did. As we came over the edge of the creek, that kid was still throwing rocks and we were pouring out the lead. Straight to the fire we charged. Men were throwing their plates and scrambling for weapons. My Hawken took the first almost point blank. I dropped it and grabbed a pistol, found a target and dropped him too. Our men quickly overpowered the entire outfit, they got off but a few shots, one took that hat right off Dirty Joe, he

toppled back, I saw blood. A man already wounded tried to run past me, he was a bearded piker. I dived off the Brown, grabbing him around the neck dragging him to the ground. He was stout, even though shot, the man was bull strong and he could fight. We hit hard, and he threw me off. We both rose, knuckle and skull. No time was there to draw my extra pistol nor my knife. Three or four times he bashed me hard, chest and head. I got him as many. His wound was through his right shoulder and there I hit him over and over. He was screaming now in agony. “Damn you dirty son of a bitch!” He yelled. With the voice, there was recognition, Donk Sellars, and I hit him again, dead square in the jaw. He dropped to his knees and my knife came to hand. “No, no,” I heard, “No.” Christine, apparently one of the camp cooks threw herself over him. “No, Charles, No please!” I was winded, gasping for breath. I just stood. The fighting had stopped, at least I heard no more shots. “Christine?” “Please Charles, spare him, please, for me.” “Don’t hurt my daddy no more,” the little boy stood defiantly with Christine. He had his fists clenched. I was looking at me. “I beg of you Charles, it’s over, let him live.” I said nothing, I was stunned. “Christine?”

“Yes Charles, it’s me, please don’t kill him.” I was still looking at the boy, who looked like me. “Yes, he’s yours, but he knows only Donk. His name is Jonathan. He was christened back when you were still Charles.” I did not know what was going on with the trappers and Dirty Joe. I only knew we won. I heard a horse walk up behind me but my focus was on Donk, Christine, and the boy. “Please let us go, Yes, Donk rode to your valley to avenge his family and perhaps settle a personal matter. He always thought you would return home to claim all that was yours. He saw what you had and realized that you accomplished everything and more than his family ever dreamed. He had just told his pikers and hired men that we were pulling out, that he would pay them off as promised, that we were going home.” There was a tug on my arm. “And it’s time for us to go home,” it was Miranda. Standing next to Miranda was a bloody Dirty Joe. Joe was missing a chunk of his scalp. “Miranda, this is Christine. Christine, this is my wife Miranda, and we too are going home.” Then to the little boy I said, “Go with god.” I said it in the old language. He replied in the same old tongue, “and you.” To the boy I extended my hand, he his, he was wary yet still defiant. We shook hands. I couldn’t help but smile, proud of him I was. From my neck I removed an old key on an old chain necklace. I placed it over his neck. “When you become a man, take this key to the Bank of Glasgow, tell them you were sent by Irwin McDonagle, Margret McKay, and Jon McKay to retrieve a family chest. You are to make your request in the old language.”

Then to Christine I turned, “You did understand my instructions?” “Yes I did,” she replied in the old language. “You never told me you were one of us.” “You never asked.” “No I guess I never did.” I looked around their camp, several of their crew had surrendered without a fight and were still alive. “Howard,” I said, “could you and your men escort these wagons back to St. Louis. This boy is very special to me and the prairie is very dangerous.” If he is special to you, he’s special to me. I’d be my honor. You just be sure to have our shine ready in the spring. “Consider it done.” As Miranda and I were riding out of their camp, I saw a man peek his head up from behind the seat of a wagon. “Don’t shoot, please. I’m just the teamster.” I recognized both the voice and the driver, Donk Sellars was going to have to listen to Dennis Nash for a thousand long, long miles. Donk had suffered much and it was not over yet. Miranda and I left the camp and started back home. “He was your son?” she asked. “Yes.” “And the key?” “My inheritance from my mother.” “You are giving it up?”

“Yes, but that wealth means nil when happiness is on the other end of the scale. I have you and you mean more to me that all the riches of the world.” She pulled her horse around and pulled up next to the brown. Her arms went around me and her lips met mine. There were tears in her eyes as we embraced. Once composed and headed home she noticed me smiling. “What causes your smirk Jon McKay?” “We have each other, but we also have wealth for our children. Back in our valley, guarded by a herd of swine, buried under their odiferous droppings is our pot of gold, more than enough for all our children, and maybe theirs too.