Memories Trail, Part One

By DL Larson

For Elizabeth Kincaid, her innocence as well as her ignorance of frontier ways spell danger when she is captured by a band of savages and taken into the wilds of the Ohio Territory. Except one of those savages, the leader named Tecumseh, is not the heathen she though he was, especially wehn she realizes they share a common gift, visions of things to come.

Tecumseh asked Elizabeth for a vision, and after several days pass, she tells him of a man who will come to their village in friendship. No one is more surprised than Elizabeth when the man appears with the morning sun just as she envisioned.

But evil lurks even in the most tranquil of settings and Tecumseh's brother accuses 'the man of her vision' Will Douglas, of being the devil. To defend his honor and hers, Will must run the gauntlet. His life or death will decide her own.

Governor Harrison of the Indiana Territory intends to expand the frontier. The Shawnee and other Indian tribes are to give up their land or suffer the consequences. The Shawnee, Tecumseh's tribe, have already given all they can. Tecumseh wishes for a united Indian Nation where they can live just as their ancestors had for generations. The British in Detroit have long guns and cannon aimed at the Americans. It is only a matter of time before war breaks out.

Tecumseh tells Elizabeth he sees Will's death as easily as he sees his own. Despite her pleas, Will picks up his war club to defend the people he loves. His decision could well destroy them both.

• Language: English
• Publisher: DL Larson
• Release date: Jun 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301850006

DL Larson

I'm DL Larson, and I've been a writer awhile now. My historical love story, MEMORIES TRAIL is soon to be available at Smashwords. "MEMORIES TRAIL" Part One: Set in frontier America during the War of 1812. Three people united in passion and purpose are torn apart by the devastation of war. Dominion over the wilderness beyond the frontier threatens all they believe in. If you check the profile picture, note the tomahawk in the front center ~ it is a ceremonial piece, circa 1880's (60+ years past the War of 1812) but still very unique. I purchased it at the Blue Licks State Park, Kentucky. Also in the profile picture ~ in the background is a poster of an Indian. That's Tecumseh, the Shawnee warrior, a major character in my book and a real person from American history. Researching Tecumseh was a challenge and a reward. He was charismatic and extremely succesful in pursuading other Indian tribes to join his cause for a United Indian Nation. My characters, Will and Elizabeth, become friends with Tecumseh and thus entangled with the war efforts. Their beliefs could destroy them all.

Book preview

Acknowledgments

Indian Legend states that a story seeks a writer and if it finds her worthy, it will settle on her heart. The author’s gift is to give that story life. Memories Trail is set in and around the War of 1812, where my characters face injustice, prejudice and political unrest. Although my story is fiction, the Shawnee warrior, Tecumseh, was very real. His dream for a United Indian Nation brought thousands together, and his beliefs to retain their freedom and to live as they chose lived in every Indian’s heart.

I dedicate this book to the thousands who have lost their lives or their loved ones to war. War is ugly, destructive, but so often necessary. Injustice can not win.

Sometimes we must settle for awareness and let the healing act of love be the cornerstone for a better tomorrow.

Just as my characters offer love in the midst of devastation, I reach out to my family in gratitude and adoration for always, always supporting me. This book would never have become a reality without their encouragement. Thanks to my sister Pat, father Wayne, and friends Judy Rosengren, Gina Nelson, Marge George, Cindy Barnes. Kurt, my beloved, to Angie, Wayne, Amber, Josh, Nick and Shannon, thank you! Thank you. Thank you for standing by me, no matter what!

Memories Trail

Part One

By

DL Larson

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Published by DL Larson on Smashwords

© June, 2013 by DL Larson (2nd edition)

© November 2004, by Helm Publishing (1st edition)

Cover art supplied by http://www.istock.com and designed by Stephen R. Walker of http://www.srwalkerdesigns.com

Smashwords License Statement

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

CHAPTER ONE

The autumn wind danced about hot and damp, teasing as if it was still summer and not closer to winter as another breeze brushed against Elizabeth’s long skirt. Her boots sank into the rocky ground as she stood silently while the Kentucky weather pretended to behave, and Elizabeth frowned more from the thoughts rambling inside her head than the nagging humidity.

She stood with her youngest son watching her husband adjust the wooden cross at the end of the freshly turned earth. The others had long since left and were gathered at Sam’s Tavern back in Shadow Creek to drink a toast to Devon Douglas, their beloved friend and trader of trinkets and pelts.

Her husband wasn’t ready to leave the knoll yet, and Elizabeth waited while he said good-bye in his own way. His Indian son of about seven stood close, quietly chanting along with him, both dressed in their buckskin clothes and thinking it perfectly normal.

This man of hers didn’t understand religion much. Elizabeth adjusted her thinking, knowing he didn’t comprehend the white man’s faith, and since the circuit preacher had officiated, a rare occurrence to be sure, her warrior had been unsatisfied with the proceedings. Now, he performed his own ceremony with sedate movements toward the heavens. His prayers were cries of anguish one moment and soft exclamations of triumph the next. Elizabeth watched silently, as did their two-year-old son.

At the bottom of the bluff, the Ohio River glinted a dull grey as it meandered its way to the Mississippi. The brush took over most of the steep climb along with the clinging trees that swayed against the blue sky, weaving a bit to the gentle singing. Whoever loved Devon Douglas would feel the pull of sorrow and know an end of some type had come to pass. The whisper through the leaves told her it had already begun. The Pawnee would know their friend, River’s Son was not returning in the spring. River’s Son would not bring them goods to trade ever again.

Elizabeth had only known Devon these few years, but she had loved him dearly. Devon had been more like a father to her, and his oldest son and family were buried just a few feet away. The old graves drew her gaze as well, and then the other one beyond, smaller, nestled in the gravelly ground. Agony pushed in even though she had good things to think of now.

Her gaze lifted from the small mound, and as she absently patted her son’s slim shoulders, chanting voices filled the quiet stillness. She searched the river, her gaze moving east toward where it had all started. The bend in the river was some hundred miles away; but still, it had its pull. Just like the lazy current with all its tricks, her life had changed so quickly, or so it seemed now.

When her papa decided to move further west, Elizabeth had only been eighteen. They lived the greater part of her life in Lexington, Kentucky. Her father was a preacher, fierce in his beliefs and devoted to saving the fallen Kentuckians, as he had called them. The Lord had been left behind, and her father thought it his duty to bring God to the frontier. Her mama, Rachel, didn’t disagree, so the Kincaid family started down the Kentucky River late in the spring of l807. Elizabeth’s only brother, Joe, was sixteen, and neither of them had a say in whether they cared to go west or not. She heard the Indians, the Shawnee in particular, weren’t too kind to settlers coming in, especially on the Ohio River, but her father dismissed it as gossip against the savages. As a man of the cloth, he wouldn’t be harmed because God was on his side.

The fact that her father didn’t look like a preacher and certainly didn’t act like one when he had trouble navigating the broadhorn flatboat, didn’t help matters. Three other families traveled with them, all brothers with their young wives and children, and Elizabeth pitied them their innocence. They were fresh from the east, eager to find what they could call their own out in the great promised land known as the frontier. She had been told too many stories to ever think of the frontier as anything but wilderness. The wild, dangerous land that men, not women, wanted to conquer, and women followed since they didn’t know what else to do, just like herself and her mother.

Fourteen made up their small group, and no one was prepared for the task ahead of them. Just because they had rifles, knives, and even a few tomahawks from some unknown origin, didn’t mean they knew how to use them, and no one, including her, could distinguish a friendly Indian from a hostile one.

The pioneers traveled by water, making little progress in a week’s time. They were new to this way of life, navigating the river all day, and then setting up camp each night. Finding meat, cleaning and cooking, it all took time. The strong desire to preserve their precious supplies wore on all of them. Who knew when they would need them? They hadn’t really learned much in such a short time.

When their little troupe rounded the lazy bend in the Ohio that bright, sunny morning and came smack into a Shawnee hunting party, panic spread like a grease fire. A few of the men shot toward the savages, and their aim was anything but accurate. One gun going off led to another, then another.

The Indians looked fierce and retaliated in a heartbeat. Trinkets on naked flesh gleamed in the brilliant morning sun as they moved as one. Their whoops set her nerves skittering as their flatboat listed wildly against the current. Her father shoved her down, and there she stayed, crouched on the boat deck. Shouts were drowned out by the gunfire, and in quick succession it was returned. An arrow thumped in the wooden side in front of her, another whizzed over her head and thunked into a tarp covering their belongings. The smoke from the guns cleared slowly as blood inched up her skirt, and, a foot away, her father stared at her with dead eyes.

Her gaze tore from one man to the next, and then moved on til she saw the contorted body of her brother. The other men were all slumped over, blood painted their clothing. Her eyes didn’t have a place to land that wouldn’t set her screaming. Her mama wailed and wilted over Father’s chest. Blood covered her mother’s hands, then her face. Elizabeth shook her head, denying what her mind had yet to accept.

In the distance, horses splashed through the water, and she raised her eyes like a child looking for solace. Six Shawnee braves moved as one, faces now, dark eyes wary and alert. The space between her and them closed as the wall of flesh collapsed in on her. The dull but secure life she’d known ceased to exist as these wild Indians, intent on their unholy business, surrounded the flatboat listing toward the rocky shore.

One woman and her child jumped overboard, in hopes of drowning. The warriors, already on horseback, pulled them from the current, then attended the boat next, their efforts quick and efficient. The barge-like boat glided to the shore, and the women huddled together like a nest of worms turned up under a rock. They shivered and shuffled, twitching in fear, then stood as still as stone, with no place to go. The warriors shooed them off the boat and they moved, each stumbling over the other.

The oldest brave, dressed in hide leggins and dark beaded moccasins, spoke quietly with a hint of respect in his voice. Elizabeth stared, her mouth gaping, terror so strong it took a long moment to realize she understood the heavy accent as well as the words the savage said. They would not be killed if they didn’t try to run away. They were prisoners now; if they behaved, they would not be mistreated. Two of the warriors moved to scalp the slain men. Her friends shrieked, the screams circling up the bluffs where they faded away in the lush green overgrowth of trees and brush. With a wave of his hand, the leader commanded his men to stop their knives from cutting. Glinting blades disappeared into pouches at their hips as the warriors rifled through the boat instead.

Only the leader spoke English, and Elizabeth felt as if she was the only one listening. The other women clung to their children, wailing in terror. The noise grew disorienting, echoing as it did, but no one was there to listen, and Elizabeth wanted to clamp her hands to her ears, wanted to give in to the fear flooding her senses. Her mother dropped to the ground screaming. None of them could look at the slain men sprawled about the boat, nor the blood pooling across the deck. Horror-struck eyes darted to the savages behind them, and they shrank away from the reality of their situation. The women watched their belongings manhandled with no regard for their owners. The shrieking grew louder, then turned to moaning when the warriors, their skin gleaming in the sun, snarled at them.

The tall Indian looked aggravated, close to losing patience, and he finally strode up to Elizabeth and growled low, Make them understand. Hazel eyes drilled into hers as he towered over her. We do you no harm. With that he turned toward the boat and helped his men sift through the ill gotten booty.

They trudged through the thick and dark woods most of the day, and Elizabeth worried why that savage had singled her out. She assumed they were headed toward a camp, or home, or whatever Indians called where they lived. They stumbled along a narrow path; Elizabeth wasn’t sure if man or beast made it. Only a dull part of her brain registered that they were headed north, maybe northeast; she was too tired and too scared to care. One warrior left, probably to cover their tracks, perhaps to scout or hunt; and a gnawing realization dawned that she and the others might never see civilization again. At the same time, she was too numb with grief to care.

Each of the five women was roped like a steer led off to slaughter as they stumbled alongside the horses the savages rode. Five women and three young toddlers were all that was left of their families. Even one boy child, only ten, lay slain, still clutching his gun. Her throat knotted up, and she wanted to give into the tears. They had killed her father! Her brother! Hate toward her captors festered, yet Elizabeth knew the men on the boat would have shot back if anyone had fired at them first. It was second nature to retaliate when accosted in such a way. The men on the boat might not have stopped at only shooting the warriors if their situation had been reversed. Shivers scuttled across her cold, tired body. Wars were started over something like this, misunderstanding, ignorance, and fear. Too many times she’d heard men brag that they had killed themselves a brave, or a squaw, bragging that grew bloated and hate filled over the loss of a loved one. Grief for her father, her brother, and the other men on the journey froze the breath in her chest. And anger! Their men had been foolish, it had cost them their lives, and now she and the others were left to a life of captivity with savages.

The rope jerked tight and she tripped against the strain. Coughing blurred her eyes but she refused to release the tears she felt. Stiff fingers eased the grip of rope against her throat as defiance filled her stare. That bit of strength she shot toward her abductor. The Indian had stopped, but she hadn’t, hence the tightening of rawhide around her neck. Her breath grew jagged as she stood as still as a tree, hoping he would continue to sit on his great horse and ignore her.

They were above the river five miles, maybe ten, and her feet hurt too much to think how far they had traveled. Dread filled her veins, even as the flickering of grit kept her from trembling. She felt somehow that her life was finished. Boulders were before her, and to her back, a good place to camp and torture a woman. The orange sun dropped beyond the trees, and Elizabeth wearily wondered how the day had continued on without them.

The children first carried by the women had been taken from them, but the warriors gave them back to their mothers. The women sighed in relief, fatigue too heavy to voice the dread they shared. Elizabeth had worried that the savages might kill those innocent babes simply because they couldn’t walk, but the three children hadn’t been harmed, merely carried on horseback, being held quite safely by their captors, one even fell asleep.

These heathens made no sense. They had refused to bury the dead men, yet carried the children when they became too burdensome for the women to hold. Elizabeth didn’t dare to guess why they hadn’t been slain.

Every woman took an unconscious step back when the Indians slid from their ponies. Their large, nearly naked bodies were all the more threatening as they set up camp. The women huddled next to the horses until even that small protection was taken from them.

He stood looking down at her. Even through slitted lids Elizabeth noticed his broad shoulders rippled with strength. Silver- banded bear claws dangled against a bare, muscled chest. A beaded armband flexed against the dark skin of his marbled biceps. Her heart pounded hard as fear gushed up, making her bones heavy and her breath short. The strength to lift her gaze came slowly. His stare turned fierce, or so it seemed to her, and his stature grew before her eyes; his silent watching felt daunting, even as the few feathers in his long hair shimmered in the fading sun.

You are the daughter of Moneto? he said softly with an odd ring of reverence in his voice.

No, my father was…. A stiff gesture had her pointing toward the path they had been on. Tears welled up at the thought of her papa lying back there, no funeral to bury him. It took a few tries to clear her throat, but strength took hold and Elizabeth stiffened her posture, and then bore penetrating eyes at her captor. Joseph Kincaid was my father.

Yet Moneto has painted your eyes the color of his forest, was more intrigue than question.

Her mouth dropped, and her mind refused to register the conversation she was having. After all they’d been through he spoke of her eyes? This savage made no sense; he was stronger than she, no doubt of that. If he wanted to touch her, or take her, she would be powerless to stop him. Her breath caught as panic filled her ears and veins at the thought . Her mind tripped on the thought, then raced, registering everything he said in a heartbeat. Moneto. Who was this Moneto? Sounded like his god, or perchance his king, and she spat her defiance before good sense could stop her. Moneto will see that you fall sick with gout if you touch me. He will see that you live in much pain til you’re very old and wrinkled.

He reared back, startled at her outburst, amused, and then perplexed that she might well be the daughter of Moneto. Apparently no one had ever threatened him before, she certainly shouldn’t have either and winced, shocked at her own sass. He would probably accuse her of being a witch . . .

We camp here, he stated quietly. If they wail, they go hungry. With that he offered his broad back, and before she could comprehend the insult of his actions, he strode away.

Three nights later, Elizabeth woke to a boy’s wailing. Her fear had her panting in panic, but she muffled her scream. The rope jerked her back and she tumbled against the big Indian. He woke in an instant, his dark eyes darted for danger, then rested on her as she fought to regain her distance from him. He looked mildly surprised to see her tears, but Elizabeth only just realized them herself. A blubbery sob slipped out before she could stop it. Anguish doubled her over, and she prayed he couldn’t follow her thoughts. All too quickly he realized she saw something he didn’t. Again, he glanced around, slower this time as she sat on her haunches, her hair tumbled down in a tangle of golden clumps. The small, faint fire cast a bit of light as the fog of her dream lingered. The screams and the blood were still vivid, and the claws!

What do you see, Green Eyes? The question filtered into her disoriented thoughts.

Her fingers curled across her chest. It’ll kill him, she mumbled and her arm moved again, the same slow, fierce movement gripped her. Blood trailed down a young chest and arms, and she tried to blink the image away.

Who? A gentle inquisition she had no answer for.

She sank down, her tears still ready, which she tried to hide. I don’t know, she moaned, closing her eyes and pretended to sleep.

The Indian watched her. He knew she hadn’t dreamed of the dead men, her people, but of something else. Through the rest of the night he guarded their camp. The oddity was she felt protected, as if he watched over the daughter of Moneto himself. Her lids grew heavy and sleep crawled closer. Moneto. She felt a quiet presence slip into her mind, and peace filled her with the Almighty’s presence, then his. No, she had the urge to tell him, she was not the daughter of Moneto, the Supreme Being of all things. God.

Morning came too quickly with a groggy, stuffy head from unshed tears. The rope about her neck dangled slack and she reached for it. The Indian stood by his horse, not too far away. If she caught him off guard, maybe she could run. A stealthy glance had her fretting which direction would be the best. Back the way they had come? No, she couldn’t look upon that again. North surely meant more Indians, east would mean rivers, possibly mountains, and west, she shivered, was wilderness. East then. If she stayed off the path, close to the trees and rocks, he couldn’t shoot her as easily. The thought of a bullet in her back made her cringe, but acting the coward served no purpose. The next breath, she rose quietly as a butterfly, glancing over her shoulder, wishing she could flit away as easily as a monarch.

You move further than two trees, his solemn voice reached her, one child will die today.

Hesitation stopped her cold. His English rang crystal clear, and she swore that whoever had taught him her language should have his tongue removed. Immediately.

Cautious steps propelled her toward the trees, then to the one beyond the closest. She even went so far as to step around to the far side, but she wouldn’t tempt fate any further and hurried back as soon as she was finished.

They walked the whole day away, her gown mud-crusted and tattered, but Elizabeth only noticed when they stopped for small intervals to rest. To talk to her mother or the other women seemed imperative, and as the day wore away, she kept looking at them, hoping they would raise their heads. Elizabeth was the only one not tethered, but the big Indian remained close, too close, for she flinched in wanting to remove the rawhide from around her neck. Like a trained dog, she stayed near because she feared for the others. If she tried to escape, he had been very plain in what would happen. No wonder they hadn’t killed the children. What better leverage than to taunt her with their deaths.

Fury mounted, as well as frustration. If she had a weapon she would kill these heathens, every last one of them.

The day grew weary, as did