The Quest

The Quest

The Quest

Published by Vernon E. Beall at Smashwords.com

Copyright 2018 Vernon E. Beall

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events, is entirely coincidental.

Cover design, and digital formatting

services provided by

Bob Damon

Damon Digital Services, LLC

damon.digital.services@gmail.com

Amazon Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Excerpt from: Mark Coker. Smashwords Style Guide. iBooks

Table of Contents

Prologue

The Quest

About the author

Other books by this author

Prologue

In the year 1753 a wagon caravan of labors on steep mountain paths is carrying supplies to, Fort Cumberland, the most remote outpost on the isolated English frontier. Seated on one of the wagons is Josh Cleveland, a twenty-year-old blacksmith.

Josh Cleveland was lured from the safety of his shop outside Baltimore by promise of a grant in Ohio on wilderness land where few white men had ever walked.

Stalled on a narrow mountain path, an arrow buries in the wagon seat where Josh Cleveland sits. It is the beginning of the bloody French and Indian War that sweeps Josh into a vortex of savage events.

Baker, a veteran frontiersman that Indians call Bloody Hand, teaches Josh how to survive in a wilderness where painted savages move as silent shadows of death.

While in a village of a powerful Algonquin tribe, Josh sees a white girl held prisoner by Watuma, a cruel warrior avoided by most people in the village. Baker cannot prevent Josh from trying to free the girl. Josh’s actions could cause an attack against Fort Cumberland by a thousand hostile warriors. Failure could cost him a brutal and agonizing death.

The Quest is a time when life was hard and could end with a swift blow of a tomahawk. Still, pioneers like Josh Cleveland over-come hostile threats to help forge a new nation. This romance historical fiction novel is part of that story of international intrigue and local heroism.

The Quest

By

Vernon E. Beall

Smoke curled skyward from campfires above the wide meadow bordering the village of Elliott's Mill. The thaw of winter snow swelled the Patapsco River at the edge of the small village, as the swift-moving water flowed to the Chesapeake Bay.

Thirty miles east lay the thriving seaport of Baltimore, which was fast becoming an important commerce center. The year was seventeen hundred fifty-three. Fifty miles west, steep mountains formed a natural barrier, inhabited only by wild animals, snakes, and various tribes of unpredictable native Americans. Few white trappers ventured into the western wilderness.

At campfires beside the village, men relaxed among growing evening shadows as they ate their meals around open fires. They were members of a caravan traveling west.

A young man led a horse towards a parked wagon. A teamster called, Hey, Blacksmith! Get that shoe fixed?

Stopping before the driver, the younger man said, The shoe was broken and cutting into the hoof. You would have had a lame horse shortly. I made a new shoe.

The driver picked up a front foot and inspected the work.

Hoof looks sound. How much do I owe you, Smitty?

My name is Josh. I like horses. You brought this mare to me barely in time. There is no charge.

The driver patted the horse's neck. Right neighborly, Josh. Sadie is a good horse. Seems you did a mighty fine job. There ain't no blacksmiths where we're going!

Josh watched the man take the rope halter and head for a small stream. The animal was hobbled for the night in the meadow with other animals. Josh walked past tents and wagons, amused at the thought he had worked two hours for free. With a shrug, he walked briskly to his shop.

Two senior officers of the caravan had taken refuge for dinner and lodging at the Captain's Inn, the only tavern within eighteen miles.

Inside the inn, Curtis Thaddeus Farquar looked auspicious in his scarlet velvet waistcoat with gold buttons. A lace shirt was buttoned under his ample chin, and a powdered wig rested above his square, tanned face. A large man, he was broad but not obese. He held court at the tavern's heavy oak table, while several guests at the inn sat almost in reverence as they listened to the newly arrived gentleman.

Where have you traveled from? asked Mr. Becker, the tavern owner.

We sailed from Yorktown three days ago and docked at Annapolis, where Major Henry waited with our provisions. He nodded at the twenty-five year old major who sat beside him.

If I am not too inquisitive, may I ask your destination, Sir? the tavern owner asked.

Farquar, enthroned on a ladder-back chair, sipped from a pewter mug, then placed it in front of him on the table before he answered. I am privileged to carry a grant from our king to the Ohio Company. Our caravan is loaded with supplies for Fort Cumberland.

The room suddenly filled with low whispers and sounds of men moving in chairs.

But Lord Farquar! You would have to go west into Indian country! Word has traveled of how those savages are murdering and torturing white people, even women and children! Those brutish heathens cannot be trusted!

Farquar smiled and waved a beefy hand as he replied. Major Henry, recently returned from our western outpost at Fort Cumberland, will be our guide. I have been fully apprised of the attacks upon our good people. If you inspect the wagons surrounding your hospitable town, you will see we are generously equipped with cannon, something even Indians respect.

What reward makes you take such risks? Becker asked. The question seemed to be the cue Curtis Farquar was waiting for. He rose and all eyes followed his movement.

Our English colonies are young, as you all know, with cities scattered only along the coast. Few white men–if any–have ventured more than a few hundred miles westward. Who can say how far this great land might go?

He raised an arm slowly in a half-circle to emphasize his words.

Gentlemen, fortunes wait only for the taking by the stouthearted! Beavers, fox, and bear are in abundance. Fort Cumberland is the most distant outpost of our English civilization. Just beyond lies a natural pass westward through the mountains. Yes, wealth and adventure await any man willing to go into this new and vast land.

With all respect, Sir, wealth awaits providing the man lives long enough to enjoy his new riches!

Ah! Mister Becker, Major Henry will attest that only two days ago we witnessed a ship run aground with several lives lost. Danger has no geographical limits. Our company is deeding land to any family that will come and settle in our territory.

Becker studied his guest before saying; I have heard the name Farquar around Yorktown. Are you from that country?

Farquar nodded, then said, Lord Fairchild Farquar saved the king's life during the Battle of Hastings. My grandfather, Marquis Augustus Farquar, was a peer in the House of Lords. When my father, Curtis Morehead Farquar, came to America in seventeen hundred thirty, he was granted four thousand acres bordering the James River. The title passed to me at his death four years ago.

How much land has been granted the Ohio Company, my lord?

Five hundred thousand acres, land of our choosing west of the Alleghenies, Farquar stated proudly.

An old man seated near the fireplace said, That's Injun land. What right does a king who never set foot on that land, have to give away what belongs to Injuns? Has been theirs for hundr't of years.

Heads turned to the grizzled speaker dressed in worn buckskin. Farquar's eyes narrowed as he spoke to the roughly dressed man. The whole continent is the King's to give or hold as his Highness pleases.

His mouth was a thin line, and the color of his face matched the white lace of his shirt. Your words border treason! No loyal citizen will tolerate such derogatory talk!

The impertinent man was not intimidated. A paper don't mean nuth'n to the many tribes liv'n on that land, he replied.

The room fell quiet. A few men nodded in agreement.

Who is that man? Farquar asked.

His name is Hiram Gist. He trades with the Indians. Becker advised.

Instead of chastising the man, Farquar called across the room, Mister Gist, may I ask if you speak the Indian language?

Know some of 'em.

Are you familiar with the land beyond the Potomac? I am in need of such a person for our company. Pay is fifteen shillings a month.

Nope.

Mister Becker informed me you trade with the Indians. I assume you travel there on a regular schedule?

Yep, but I come back so far with my hair.

Farquar lifted his tankard and drank, never removing his eyes from the whiskered face. Setting the mug down he said, Well, Mister Gist, we leave at dawn. I do hope you change your mind.

Becker served Farquar and the officer a hearty meal, but before they had finished eating, a rear door opened and a young man's broad shoulders filled the doorway. Farquar, facing that direction, paused to ask, Who is the handsome young man standing in the doorway?

Becker turned and called, Come in, Josh.

Josh paused, listening to the loud talk, before walking to a table where the owner was seated with his guests.

Farquar's eyes swept over the tall man. He was in the prime of youth. Muscular arms extended from his rolled-up sleeves.

The wine barrels are repaired, Josh said to Becker. I made new hinges for the stable door. I will fix your wagon in the morning.

Fine, Josh, now if you are washed, sit and eat.

Thank you.

Josh, may I present Lord Curtis Farquar, and his companion, Major Henry. Gentlemen, this is my nephew, Joshua Cleveland.

Curtis Farquar smiled as he held a fork bearing a heavy piece of lamb. Mister Becker is fortunate to have you helping around his tavern, Josh.

My nephew served his apprenticeship to a blacksmith in Baltimore town, Becker answered. He has only been helping to fix things for me before opening his own shop.

Hmmm. A blacksmith and young! Can you read and write? Farquar asked.

Yes, Sir.

Josh had schooling in Philadelphia before his parents died with the sickness. He has made his home with us since, Becker added quickly.

Farquar ignored his food to study the clean-shaven man more closely. Can you handle a team?

Yes, Sir. I have to drive all types of rigs to my shop. I also have my own team and tools that I take to jobs.

Farquar watched as the tall blacksmith sat down and eased his long legs under the table.

Major Henry coughed and caught Farquar's eye. Both men continued to study Josh intently. Finally Farquar asked, Maybe you would like to come with us. We can certainly use a man of your skills. I am prepared to pay a substantial salary, plus something few men of your age are offered. You could have a grant of land deeded to you! How does that sound, Josh?

Josh brushed a tangle of dark hair from his forehead and his brown eyes rested on Farquar. The firm set of his mouth indicated he was seriously considering Farquar's proposal. The room stilled waiting for his response. Josh turned to his uncle seated beside him.

Josh, it is your decision to make. It sounds interesting, but nothing worth having comes cheap.

Forgive me, Mister Becker, said Lord Farquar. I meant no affront to you as his guardian. Naturally I make my offer with your consent.

Josh is twenty, so he is a man who can determine his own destiny. I will tell you he has an excellent future right here to make his living among civilized folks. May I add in spite of his tender years, Josh is mighty handy at his trade.

Josh considered the stranger's offer, weighing benefits of a secure local business against an obscure one filled with danger. He was content for the moment to let his uncle answer in his stead, giving himself time to think.

That is good to hear! Lord Farquar said loudly. Our position will require a variety of repairs and fabrications.

Josh wondered if Becker had spoken too quickly of his ability, remembering recent stories of Indian atrocities in the western region. He saw a pained look on his uncle's face.

The silence caused Farquar's thick eyebrows to lower, sensing he was not gaining in the delay.

Are you married, Josh?

No, Sir.

Well, Josh, this is a big decision for you, but I urge you to counsel yourself closely because it can be the greatest opportunity in your life. It seems you have your uncle's blessing.

My apology, Sir. I gave no preference one way or the other. If I had, it would be for Josh to stay, but I won't hinder him if it is his desire to go with you. Turning to Josh he added, There will be great danger in such an undertaking, son, and this is your home as long as you like.

Josh thought of the six years that the Beckers had helped after his parents' death. The childless couple had encouraged him to complete school, then paid for his apprenticeship, saving a small inheritance from his parent's estate. He owed an obligation to them, yet he knew a man of twenty should not be dependent on the generosity of relatives. He looked directly at his uncle when he spoke.

Thank you. I consider this my home. One day I will have to make a home for myself.

You will be going into a land of savages, Josh. I pray you think carefully.

Farquar spoke quickly to defend his position. It is our intentions, Mister Becker, to civilize our land and have the same things you have here. Families, stores, churches, and even a good tavern such as yours.

Laughter filled the room for a moment; Becker smiled also. Josh was the only one who did not laugh as he turned directly to Farquar. What must I do to get land in my name?

Farquar leaned across the table, his eyes wide with excitement. Simply agree to build and live on the tract and it is yours!

Any land I choose?

Yes, as long as it hasn't already been pledged, but at this time, such an assumption would be most unlikely.

Major Henry entered into the persuasion. You would be a true pioneer. May I say the land is fertile for growing, and game is more plentiful than you can imagine.

More! Farquar said. Streams run with fresh, clear water abundantly filled with fish your eyes have never seen. A hundred acres of such land is yours for the asking!

And the salary?

One pound sterling each month. Twelve pounds per year would soon give you sufficient funds to build a substantial home.

Josh leveled his eyes on Farquar and said, You seem to be in great need of a blacksmith.

Great and urgent, Farquar replied. The wagon train I lead is the largest ever to travel to Fort Cumberland. Most of the way will be footpaths over high and rugged mountains. Horses and equipment will suffer greatly, I fear.

Before Josh could respond, a serving girl set a plate of hot lamb stew in front of him he began to stir passively.

I want five pounds a month, and five hundred acres of my choice deeded to my uncle and me.

Farquar choked on the mouthful of food he had resumed eating, causing him to pull a lace handkerchief from a pocket to cover his reddened face. It took some time before he regained his composure. That is a lot to ask...perhaps too much!

That's my price, Sir. My business is growing here and your offer has a lot of risk.

With those words, Josh began eating without looking at either of the two guests.

Major Henry whispered into Lord Farquar's ear using his hand to muffle the sound. Curtis Farquar listened, knowing he was leading wagons filled with needed supplies to the most desolate post on the western frontier, and time was not in his favor. He listened to Henry's persuasion because of his desperate need for a blacksmith. The nobleman shook his head rejecting Major Henry's advice. Henry continued whispering. Josh observed with quick unseen glances. A moment later Farquar nodded.

Farquar cleared his throat and said, Josh, we will amend our offer to three pounds salary, but the Ohio Company is only granting a hundred sixty acres to a married man, and one hundred to a single man.

Josh did not look at the speaker, and only paused eating long enough to say, I will compromise on the salary, but my desire stands regarding land, with respect, Sir.

Lord Curtis Thaddeus Farquar was a man used to having his way, but his anger at the young man mellowed into quiet respect, as a smile flashed across his face. He caught himself and hid his mouth behind a napkin. Like all that heard, he knew Josh would not compromise more. Henry and Farquar resumed whispering; their heated debate raised at times, as words became audible across the table. Becker rubbed his face with a nervous hand, but his nephew seemed absorbed only in finishing the last of the stew in his bowl. Farquar straightened and faced Josh.

Such a request must have approval from the company. You understand this will take some time, but it could be possible. The company's blacksmith would be entitled to certain privileges. As manager and stock holder, I give you my pledge your request will be given serious consideration.

Farquar started to reach his hand when Major Henry asked, You will bring your wagon and your tools?

The wagon is not paid for. I still owe my uncle, and the tools are extra.

Now this is too much! Seeing the steady eyes of the young tradesman, Farquar calmed to ask, How much more, God help us!

Ten pounds, plus the five I owe my uncle.

The large man sat back in his chair and the two men's eyes met in a staring duel where only the breathing of men was heard.

Josh broke the stalemate to say, The tools are worth fifteen pounds.

The company officer sighed as he glanced at Henry. All right, but truly I trust we can cement this agreement without further delay!

Josh looked quickly to his uncle who sat with bowed head. Josh's mind churned, remembering his mother died five days after his father, leaving him at the age of fourteen alone in Philadelphia. The Beckers had stayed after the funerals and settled the Cleveland estate, then made arrangements for him to finish school. Becker also helped with expenses when he came to Baltimore for additional training.

His uncle gave him a barn behind the tavern six months ago to set up his new shop. Josh looked around the room, his eyes not resting on any of the faces, formulating his response. He wanted to please his uncle, still the challenge for his own land held him like a vise.

Josh placed his arm on the man beside him. I will stay if you want, Uncle.

Becker lifted his eyes and faced him. Josh, I have said my piece about the risk. It is your decision to make.

It can be a chance to get my own land, and have a steady income.

Becker wrapped his arms around Josh and neither spoke for some time. At last Becker spoke with difficulty. We promised your mother before she passed away, we would look after you. She would agree we have done that. You are a man, Josh. I suppose you have been taking care of yourself these past few years. You learned your trade as good as any man, but I know youth is not to be hog-tied when opportunity knocks. If it does not suit you, you can come back and pick up where you quit. The shop will not be bothered.

The tavern owner wiped his eyes without shame, then stretched out his hand, which Josh took and held tightly.

For the first time since meeting Curtis Farquar, Josh smiled and extended his hand to his new employer.

The caravan moved out before dawn the following morning with Josh's team among the forty-one wagons. Becker and his wife stood in a chilly air with arms around each other. The package of food Mrs. Becker had packed for Josh was stored carefully under his wagon seat.

Hiram Gist, dressed in stained buckskin clothing, stood in front of the tavern. With only himself to hear, he said barely above a whisper, God help them.

Chapter 2

The column of wagons and men stretched westward on the dirt road like a long, weaving snake. Roads were worn and gutted, causing wheels to drop into deep ruts forcing men to shove and pry heavily loaded wagons out of holes, so deep in places the carriage bed rested on the ground.

Josh was put to work immediately repairing damaged wagons and broken harness. Major Henry set a rapid pace. Both he and Farquar shouted and conjured men and beasts to move more quickly.

Camp was made two miles east of Fredericktown, a cluster of four log cabins and a common corral for animals. A tired and sullen group of men walked in single file to the cook's tent.

Three wagons needed repairs before Josh could wrap himself in a blanket and stretch out under his wagon. Breakfast was rushed and the caravan was moving as the sun broke behind them. Smoke rose from cabin chimneys, but there was no sign of life when wagons rumbled through the tiny village by light of a gray dawn.

The first mountain was not too high, but it was steep. Shouts and curses filled the morning air as men struggled to keep wagons and cannons moving up the grade. Twenty ax men could be heard at times cutting trees and brush ahead of the wagons. When they reached the top, Josh looked down into a wide and peaceful valley, which ran north and south like a green carpet. The valley looked to be five to eight miles wide and he felt consoled seeing the smooth, flat land. Yet he could not see smoke from a single cabin anywhere in the fertile valley.

Descending the mountain proved almost as much a challenge as the ascent. Drivers fought with inadequate brakes, mere blocks of wood fastened to stout oak levers, attached to rub against iron-rimmed wheels. On one steep incline, a wagon's brake pole snapped, allowing the loaded carriage to push into the rear of the horses. The driver steered sharply to the right in an effort to protect his team, but the wheels locked on a tree stump and the rig overturned, trapping the driver. The man was fortunate to escape with only a sprained ankle, but a new driver had to be assigned. The new driver perched himself on the seat chewing a birch twig, while Josh placed a thick limb through both rear wheels locking each securely. Other drivers stopped and did the same, taking their cue from the young blacksmith. Drivers could now control the bulky and unpredictable wagons.

The flat valley floor was easier on his team, but Josh was worried. The road, not much more than a footpath, was barely adequate for wagons to pass, in spite of the efforts of the ax men. Josh gave full attention to driving as his team squeezed between high trees, some five feet thick at the base. When they reached the end of the valley, Major Henry swung the lead wagons south towards the Potomac River, hoping to take advantage of the more level ground.

At mid-day the train stopped for lunch and to rest the animals. Two men tossed lines into the swift flowing water and were rewarded with a string of bass and catfish. Shortly a tantalizing aroma filled the air.

One of the fishermen called, Hey Blacksmith! Come over and help yourself to a mess of fresh fish!

Josh walked to the fire carrying a metal plate. This is mighty kind. What did I do to deserve such a favor?

You mended our wagon back on the mountain, remember? the shorter man answered.

I fixed so many wagons I lost track! Josh said without humor, as he dug into the steaming pot.

My name's Abe Franklin, and our cook is Jess Brandt.

Josh reached out his hand to both and said, I'm Josh Cleveland. Blacksmith is my trade.

Josh tasted the food. Good flavor...crisp the way I like fish.

I'll agree to that! a new man said joining the group. I am Charles Van Meer, and it is good to have you along! These roads are mighty rough on equipment! A smile spread across his smooth face as he rubbed his buttocks.

Josh studied Van Meer a moment before replying, Actually, the wagons are holding up fairly well. Most of the repairs are caused from neglect or carelessness. Many wagons are from Pennsylvania...Lancaster area. They are made for westward travel.

The three men were impressed. You can tell where a wagon was made? Franklin asked.

Pretty much. At least from that area.

You been up in that country?

I learned my trade in Philadelphia and Baltimore.

A man with a full set of white whiskers moved from the log he had been sitting on and looked at Josh. From here on, it won't be nuth'n like Phillydelpi! ' Trapped these ole hills clean to the 'Yock' an' places a goat would have tuh go 'round!

Abe Franklin winked at the others before asking, How come you still got your hair, Jeremiah or didn't an Injun think that briar patch on your head worth the taking!

Jeremiah let the laughter run its course, taking his time to respond. This has always bin Injun country, men, but for the times of a war party, or some renegade raid'n party, the red men has left white men come 'r go.

I hear they are raising hell with settlers now! Franklin stated.

Why don't they like settlers? Van Meer asked, his speech retaining much of his native Dutch dialect.

Jeremiah shot a hard glance towards the smooth skinned man. Injuns don't claim land–only use it! Folks farm'n and mak'n fences push game 'n Injuns out! Still a fellar hunt'n 'r moving on don't norm'ly upset 'em.

Think it is because of Frenchy? Franklin asked.

Reckon. Some Frencies I met were tolerable.

Josh got to his feet, his plate clean. Abe Franklin pointed to him and said, Maybe I'll get Josh to make me a big iron vest! Can't you just see the look on some savage's face when his arrows bounce off me!

Jeremiah did not join in the laughter, but continued to look about him even while they talked, a long rifle always within reach. Josh thanked Abe and Jess for the meal then walked to his wagon.

Major Henry's voice echoed through the forest. Drivers prepare to move out! Scouts take your posts!

Wagons followed the river all afternoon avoiding the mountains, but began to encounter deep gullies across their path where floods had swept towards the river. Josh could hear gentle river sounds at times above creaking wagons. There was much beauty here, but he refused to be distracted. Fallen trees and deep ruts demanded constant attention to driving. He also kept close vigil in case of an Indian attack. Ax men's chopping punctuated the forest ahead of the sluggish moving line of wagons. All movement stopped at the bank of a narrow, deep creek.

Scouts were sent north to find a suitable place to cross. Josh saw armed men on horses disappear quickly among trees. He knew Major Henry was avoiding being ambushed with the wagons bunched tightly together. Birds still fluttered high in the trees and he took that as a good omen.

Moments later Henry ordered the lead wagons to move north even though his scouts had not returned. While he waited on his wagon, Josh noticed a bearded man dressed in buckskin, sitting idly on a log near the trail. A rifle lay across his legs, but he seemed in no hurry.

Are you a driver? Josh called.

Yep–few wagons back."

Josh called, Wagons are beginning to move out and they say we are in Indian country.

Right on both counts, Smitty. Figure I got time 'n Injuns hain't 'bout to tangle with this large a party.

Major Henry doesn't share your confidence.

He's got to make an impression on you young folks.

Josh bit at his lip, but decided against arguing as he viewed the large knife and tomahawk stuck in the man's belt.

You been this way before?

Close 'nuff.

Then you know this country?

Well 'nuff to keep my hair.

I heard men say the mountains ahead get pretty bad.

They're right. Pointing to the wagon he added, You'll get plenty chance to ply your trade. It'll get mighty hairy 'tween here and Fort Cumberland.

I managed so far.

The older man smiled and pointed to Josh. Why don't you carry a knife? Best gets one or make it! Can save your skin in a tight pinch.

Josh looked up the line and saw the wagons ahead were still bunched waiting to move. He climbed down and stopped in front of him. My name's Josh Cleveland.

The man did not offer his hand as he said, White men call me Baker...Injuns call me Red Hand.

Wire-like whiskers flecked with gray covered his face, which had been tanned by nature until it looked like used leather. A mustache covered all but the outline of his mouth. Eyes blue like clear cold water in a mountain lake drew Josh's attention. Slightly under six feet, his powerful chest disappeared into narrow hips. A long-barrel Kentucky rifle rested on the log beside him. As if amused by the young man, Baker smiled, exposing a broken tooth. His other teeth were stained from tobacco and neglect. He spoke with a colloquial dialect, sounding much like Hiram Gist.

Josh studied the stranger a long moment before risking to ask, You know Indians?

Some. Ain't no blood brother to none, but I'm welcome at the fire of most Senecas...few Delawares.

Why do they call you 'Red Hand'?

I killed one of their braves to save my scalp.

I'm afraid I don't understand, Mister Baker.

Baker ignored the question as he stood and rubbed his bottom. Arse gets sore sit'n too long. Ain't young as I once was.

Josh persisted. How did you get called Red Hand, or is that personal?

Ain't nuth'n I can't tell honest. Injuns took me prisoner 'n gave me choices. Run the gauntlet, fry at the stake, or fight one of their braves to the death.

Josh nodded, and replied, So you agreed to fight?

Best to go down one on one, I figured. Course, they picked the best of the lot to fight me. He was good–a savvy fighter. Built strong about the chest and fast on his feet. Had me more'n a few times 'n I got tuckered out. When he was sure he had me, he lunged on me while I was on the ground. I moved to the side, hold'n my knife point up. He fell smack onto the blade, driving my hand clean into his gizzard. My hand was a bloody mess when we untangled.

Why didn't they kill you for killing one of their warriors?

Injuns have honor, boy. They keeps their word and they honor courage.

Savages! Some of the stories I have heard turn my stomach.

Most true...some gets exaggerated. But they're human–mor'n some white men I know.

Josh smiled. After a short time he asked, Could I see your knife?

With a lighting move Baker pulled the weapon from his belt and Josh stepped back defensively. Baker handed it to him handle first. After it had been closely inspected it was returned.

When you make it, pay 'tention to the edge. Not too thin or it'll break in a fight. Keep it sharp, but not too much angle ...dulls too quick.

Thanks.

They heard the wagons begin to move and Josh jumped into his wagon. He jiggled the reins and shouted, Giddy up!

Wagons followed the creek for almost two hours, then turned abruptly into the stream where only the heads of the teams could be seen above the water. Josh drove his wagon across without trouble as the line ahead swung northward toward the endless blue mountain peaks.

Another hour found them climbing a new grade at a slow turtle pace, as wagons bounced over large gray rocks and dry tree limbs. Josh began searching behind trees and boulders for Indians. He thought of Farquar's promise of land and tried to picture the house he would build. His very own place! His mind drifted back to the time he lived in boarding houses, while completing his apprenticeship. He remembered the agony of learning to live with loneliness, without the intimacy of a family. His aunt and uncle visited when they could, and wrote letters which not only kept him in touch, but made him feel he was part of their family.

The blacksmith shop where he worked in Baltimore was close to the docks. Most sailors and workers along the wharf paid little attention to the young apprentice going or coming from the hot and smelly blacksmith shop.

On one hot and humid summer evening, two sailors jumped in front of him, blocking his path. They had been drinking and he could not understand their language, but their intentions were plain. One grabbed and held him while the other began searching his pockets. It was not the first time he had been forced to fight. Josh's fists and feet struck like hammers, and the attackers lay on the damp cobblestones, dazed but wiser.

He avoided fights whenever possible, usually spending Sundays, his only free day, resting in his rented room. He remembered the girl he had wanted to court, but her banker father had forbidden her to be seen with a blacksmith–and himself only an apprentice at that.

With his attention diverted, the wagon ran over a rock, tilting his rig to a dangerous angle, bringing him back to reality with a jolt. With quick steering and luck, the wagon fell heavily back onto all wheels.

Damn!

He drove back into the tracks of proceeding wagons and concentrated on the trail, which was now becoming steeper and more treacherous. Horses began to stumble, and drivers had to stay alert to the new danger of crippling their team. The wagons stopped abruptly and Josh pulled his team to a halt. He surveyed the woods cautiously, but saw nothing to cause alarm, and heard only stillness of the forest. He picked up his rifle and checked the firing pan to see if it was primed to fire. He heard voices ahead shouting; a moment later a man came running to him.

The Major needs ya! Wagon's busted a damn axle!

Josh gathered tools and hurried after the man.

Even before they reached the disabled wagon, Josh could see it tilted on its side; oxen were still hitched to the rig. Men were busy prying under the bed with thick limbs, while others placed rocks under it, as the carriage moved slowly upwards.

Josh climbed under the wagon, made a quick inspection, then wriggled out, and brushed dirt from his clothes.

Can you fix it? the driver asked.

That axle is twisted and ready to break off. Speaking directly to the men working around the wagon, Josh asked, Can you raise it high enough to remove the wheel?

Long as these poles don't break we can do it! a worker shouted. Okay, men! Let's jack 'er up so Smitty can get this over-loaded cow moving!

Major Henry stopped to watch. Josh ran to his wagon and returned with needed tools, plus a heavy iron axle. Henry continued to watch quietly until the wheel was packed with grease and placed on the new axle. Henry looked at the driver and winked. The job took little more than an hour, but every man knew it was precious time stranded on a mountain surrounded by thick woods. Josh returned to his own team, but when he climbed onto the seat, he noticed the sun hung low above a western ridge. He looked up at the formidable incline and knew they would not reach the top before dark. The road worsened, and his wagon grated and creaked, as if it was human, resisting every movement.

An hour later the sun fled behind