Fire Moon

By Robert Gourley

The Mackenzie brother's saga continues to a conclusion in book 3 of the series:

The slim, dark-haired rider finally realized that he had fallen too far back to clearly hear the song that the big man riding in front of him was singing. After gently spurring his horse while making a clicking sound with his tongue against the roof of his mouth, he closed the gap behind the big singer, almost near enough to enjoy the words and melody. But even as close as he was riding, the rising and falling roar of the rushing water in the nearby Watauga River was still occasionally drowning out the big singer’s voice, much to the dark-haired rider’s disappointment.
The dark-haired rider was not much of a singer himself, and he really didn’t need to hear all of the words to be able to hum along with the singer and fill in the gaps when the river’s roar drowned out the song entirely. Just like the big singer, he had heard the ballad so many times that he knew the melody and words by heart. The dark-haired rider thoughtfully looked down at his horse’s reins, pondering why the singer was singing that particular song. It certainly was an old, sweet song, much older than the two men riding in single-file along the river bank and much too sweet for the river’s roar to completely overpower it.

“O’ misty lowlands, rapt in wind-driven snow,”
“The hills whisper longings to the glens that lie below,”
“Where have the guid folk gone? I know, yea, I know,”
“Always remember yer homeland, for tis truly blest,”

Hugh Mackenzie unexpectedly stopped singing the Scottish ballad, abruptly choking off the last word of the verse. Jerking back his reins to quickly stop Hercules, the mule he was riding, Hugh’s eyes darted around warily as if he had been startled by some noise or a movement in the brush nearby. The powerful mule shivered under Hugh’s weight, sensing his rider’s unease. Not seeing anything out of the ordinary, Hercules flicked his ears forward to see if he could hear what had startled his heavy rider.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Gourley
• Release date: Oct 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463987872

Robert Gourley

'Kings Pinnacle' is Robert's first work of fiction in The March Hare Novels and is loosely based on the life of his great, great, great grandfather, Captain Thomas Gourley who fought several battles in the north and in the south during the Revolutionary War, including the Battle of Kings Mountain. The second book in The March Hare Novels is titled 'The Last Reiver'. It continues the story of the Mackenzie brothers that was begun in Kings Pinnacle. The third installment of The March Hare Novels is titled 'Fire Moon' and was first published in 2017. Robert lives with his wife of over 35 years, Nancy, in Frisco, Texas.

Book preview

Fire Moon

A March Hare Novel: Book 3

By Robert Gourley

FIRE MOON Copyright 2017 by Robert Gourley

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from Robert Gourley.

Fire Moon is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Certain real life characters and real life events are described in the book, but they are also used fictitiously, and any other resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

Cover photograph by Robyn Michelle Photography

www.robynphotography.com/

* * * *

I would like to thank editors Nancy Gourley and Deloris Glenn, and I would like to dedicate this book to my wife Nancy.

* * * *

March Hare Novels

Kings Pinnacle, A March Hare Novel: Book 1 (July 2013)

The Last Reiver, A March Hare Novel: Book 2 (July 2014)

Fire Moon, A March Hare Novel: Book 3 (April 2017) (this book)

* * * *

Table of Contents

Fire Moon Part 1

Fire Moon Part 2

Fire Moon Part 3

Fire Moon Part 4

Fire Moon Part 5

Fire Moon Part 6

* * * *

Fire Moon Part 1

Robert and Hugh (October 1784)

The slim, dark-haired rider finally realized that he had fallen too far back to clearly hear the song that the big man riding in front of him was singing. After gently spurring his horse while making a clicking sound with his tongue against the roof of his mouth, he closed the gap behind the big singer, almost near enough to enjoy the words and melody. But even as close as he was riding, the rising and falling roar of the rushing water in the nearby Watauga River was still occasionally drowning out the big singer’s voice, much to the dark-haired rider’s disappointment.

The dark-haired rider was not much of a singer himself, and he really didn’t need to hear all of the words to be able to hum along with the singer and fill in the gaps when the river’s roar drowned out the song entirely. Just like the big singer, he had heard the ballad so many times that he knew the melody and words by heart. The dark-haired rider thoughtfully looked down at his horse’s reins, pondering why the singer was singing that particular song. It certainly was an old, sweet song, much older than the two men riding in single-file along the river bank and much too sweet for the river’s roar to completely overpower it.

"O’ misty lowlands, rapt in wind-driven snow,"

"The hills whisper longings to the glens that lie below,"

"Where have the guid folk gone? I know, yea, I know,"

"Always remember yer homeland, for tis truly blest,"

Hugh Mackenzie unexpectedly stopped singing the Scottish ballad, abruptly choking off the last word of the verse. Jerking back his reins to quickly stop Hercules, the mule he was riding, Hugh’s eyes darted around warily as if he had been startled by some noise or a movement in the brush nearby. The powerful mule shivered under Hugh’s weight, sensing his rider’s unease. Not seeing anything out of the ordinary, Hercules flicked his ears forward to see if he could hear what had startled his heavy rider.

His older brother Robert, who was riding the horse directly behind him, had not anticipated Hugh’s abrupt stop and had momentarily taken his eyes off the pack horse that Hugh was leading directly in front of him. To avoid a collision, Robert dropped his own pack horse’s lead-rope and quickly pulled his reins to the left. Swerving around to the side of Hugh’s pack horse and Hercules, Robert was finally able to stop his horse directly beside Hugh. Turning his head to glare at Hugh for making the abrupt stop without warning him, Robert bunched his face up into a frown while considering the consequences that could have resulted from the possibly disastrous collision that had been narrowly avoided.

The close call between Robert’s horse and Hugh’s pack horse had been mostly Robert’s fault, and he knew it. He had been daydreaming and looking down at his reins while following Hugh too closely in order to listen to his song. But he could hardly blame himself; Hugh really was a talented singer who had a knack for putting all his emotions into a song. Even when he was a lad in Scotland, Hugh used to sing and entertain at camps, gatherings, and village meetings in a way that grabbed the attention of everyone who listened to his songs. Rather than having a bass vocal range, which one might have expected from the big man, his tenor voice was as sweet and pure as the farmland and the wild countryside of the Scottish lowlands and marshes that he was singing about. Why Hugh had been singing a Scottish ballad, making him homesick for Scotland, Robert had no idea. Perhaps there was no real reason for it. Robert may have been reading too much into Hugh’s song selection.

Neither brother really wanted to return to the Scottish border, even if they could have. The sentiment that Hugh expressed in his song was more of a visceral attachment to his homeland rather than a rational one. There was undoubtedly a large reward posted for the brother’s capture still waiting for them back in the auld sod. In Newcastle, England, the High Sheriff of Northumberland, Charles Brandling would be more than pleased to lock up the entire Mackenzie clan inside Newcastle’s Newgate prison if he could lay his meaty hands on them. And even though they had been born on the Scottish border and still loved it, the two brothers had made very nice lives for themselves on the frontier of America in far western North Carolina near Fort Watauga. That general area later became the eastern counties of the state of Tennessee.

The post-Revolutionary War period on the American frontier held so much promise for the settlers that it was difficult for anyone who lived out there to be pessimistic about the future. The unlikely rebels or rabble, as the British soldiers and loyalists referred to them, had finally defeated the world-class, mighty British Army at Yorktown in the final battle of the Revolutionary War. Before the war started and even during it, a betting man would never have given them even a ghost of a chance to win the war. But somehow in spite of all their defeats, the ragtag army of rebels had managed to pull off a victory over the undisputed best army in the world. They had good reason to be proud of themselves.

After the war was over, the retired combat veteran soldiers, Robert and Hugh, had finally made their way back to Fort Watauga, where they had picked up their lives again at the point where they had left off before the war. But that homecoming had been delayed by the not so small task of first breaking their father out of Newgate prison in Northumberland and then smuggling him out of England in spite of the high sheriff’s best efforts to catch them. And now the two brothers were off on the trail again on another grand adventure.

Again Robert mentally scolded himself for not paying more attention to his riding and the trail ahead of him, but again he decided that he could hardly blame himself for his mind wandering a bit while listening to Hugh sing. Hugh purposely ignored Robert’s frown, after having quickly glanced at him. Putting his hand on the top of the tomahawk that had become a fixture in his belt, Hugh looked around again as if he were still searching for something. After apparently not finding what he was looking for, Hugh pushed his fur cap back and scratched his head.

Robber, I dinna remember exactly how we marked the beginning of the trail we’re looking fer. It seems like it’s been fer aye since we’ve been oot an aboot in this territory. Do ye recall how we marked the trail when we were first oot here? asked Hugh, turning to look directly at Robert.

Next time you want to stop that quickly, it’s customary for you to lift your hand to signal me before you pull back on the reins. And to answer your question, if I remember correctly, Hugh, I asked you to chop an ‘X’ with your tomahawk into the trunk of one of the large trees that was growing at the intersection of the stream that we had followed and the Watauga River bank, replied his older brother, knowing that Hugh would ignore the scolding he had given him.

Och, now I recollect it. Ye hae it right, laddie. This spot looks just like the one where that tree I marked ought to be, but I dinna see any trees growing on this river bank. Do ye hae any clue, Robber? asked Hugh, as he again rubbed the top of the tomahawk that he had carried since the war.

Based on the high water marks in the brush washed up here on the river bank, it looks like the Watauga River has flooded along here fairly recently. The high water may have uprooted all the trees growing along this bank and washed them away. I probably should have come up with a more permanent marker idea when we were first out here, but my personal philosophy prohibits me from admitting that I made a mistake, replied the unusually talkative Robert, who had stopped frowning and was now grinning at Hugh.

Weel now, that’s verra funny, Robber. Can ye no admit to even one wee mistake that ye might hae made? asked Hugh, throwing an agitated glance at Robert.

Robert saw Hugh’s glance, ignored the question, and thought that for some reason he may have pushed Hugh a little too far with his usual brand of dry humor. Again, Robert’s mind wandered back to the Scottish ballad that Hugh had been singing, but he laid that thought aside for the moment, opting for a more constructive comment.

This little creek that flows from the South into the Watauga River right here where we sit looks familiar to me. It might just be the one we’re looking for. Let’s ride upstream along it for a ways and see if we recognize any landmarks from our previous journeys, concluded Robert as he spurred his horse to lead the way after turning away from the river bank to ride southwest alongside the small stream.

* * * *

* * * *

Jean (October 1784)

Jean, have you finished your chores yet? If you have, I want you and your useless friends to get out of here, right now! Go to the Plaza or better yet, go look for a job on the docks. If you stay here, I will put you and your friends to work immediately! shouted Madame Aubry to the gaggle of young boys, lounging around on the front porch of the house. The small dwelling had been built directly behind a blacksmith shop located at the western corner of Bourbon Street and St. Philip Street in the French Quarter, or Vieux Carre, of New Orleans, a little more than two city blocks north of the Plaza de Armas as the crow flies.

The Spanish name Plaza de Armas translates literally as Weapons Square, but figuratively should be translated as Parade Square or Parade Ground, which both better describe what it was originally used for. Plaza de Armas is the name used for the main square or plaza that is centrally located in many cities around the globe that were either established by or conquered by Spain.

The early New Orleans French colonial government and business district was centered on the same square that was first named the Place d'Armes by the founding French authorities. But when the Spanish colonial administration assumed rule of New Orleans from the French in 1766, the square’s name was changed to the Plaza de Armas. The Plaza originally overlooked the Mississippi River across Decatur Street, but that river view was later blocked by the construction of higher levees along the river bank. The Mississippi riverfront located directly across from the Plaza was long devoted to shipping and passenger docks.

"Oui, Mama, replied the fourteen-year-old Jean, who was the leader of the ragtag group of boys. Dom, René, allons before she puts us to work."

Following along in a short queue behind Jean, the boys made their way off the front porch and through the blacksmith shop out to Bourbon Street. As they turned southwest on the lane, Dominique and René ran up to walk on either side of Jean as he led the way toward the Plaza. The three boys were best friends and de facto leaders of the small group of young hooligans. After turning left on St. Ann Street, the boys were almost half way to the Plaza de Armas and eager to see if anything of interest was happening there. The youthful adolescent lads had no idea what they would do when they got there, but whatever it was, it would be better than what Jean’s mother had in mind for them.

Dominique Youx, or Dom, as everyone called him, had arrived in New Orleans along with his extended family from the French colony of Santo Domingo. After the revolution to overthrow the French government, Santo Domingo changed its name to become the island nation of Haiti. His parents, who were free people of color or gens de couleur libres, had departed Santo Domingo during the pre-revolution upheavals along with thousands of other immigrants. While the New Orleans Spanish government officials wanted to keep out most of the free black immigrants coming from Santo Domingo, the French Creoles, who made up the majority of the population, wanted to increase the number of French-speaking residents, resulting in a disagreement between the citizens of New Orleans and the Spanish authorities. When the government eventually allowed more and more immigrants into Louisiana, a large number of immigrants from Santo Domingo who had first settled in Cuba also arrived in New Orleans along with additional immigrants who came directly from Santo Domingo.

The other lad’s name was Renato Beluche. His friends called him René. He was a French-Acadian creole who had been born in New Orleans and had lived there in his family’s home all his life. His parents had been among the exiles that had arrived from the Canadian Maritime Provinces or Acadia during the mid 1700s. The British conquest of French Acadia and the subsequent French and Indian War had forced the migration of hundreds of French Canadians to the eastern seaboard of the American colonies and to other nations. Many of them also migrated to Louisiana in what became known as the Great Upheaval.

Jean’s mother was also an immigrant widow from Santo Domingo who had married an American merchant named Pedro Aubry, almost as soon as she had arrived in New Orleans. Jean had been born in Bordeaux, France but immigrated to Santo Domingo at an early age with his father, mother and his older brother Pierre. His father was a French sea captain who was killed when his ship had been defeated in a sea battle when Jean was an infant. His mother had been born in Spain but moved to France where she had married the dashing young French sea captain.

The rest of the young boys in the group were a mixed lot of recent immigrants and native-born Americans. Most of them were bilingual and knew how to speak French but preferred to speak English, even though their vocabulary was richly laced with French words.

The walk from the blacksmith shop to the Plaza had taken the boys only a few short minutes. When they emerged from St. Ann Street into the Plaza de Armas, they ran directly across it to the docks to look at the ships and boats tied up to the piers along the Mississippi River. There was almost always some activity or something going on at the docks. Ships were constantly being loaded and unloaded. There might be fights to watch among the sailors, passengers arriving, cargo unloading, or any number of other things that might interest fourteen year-old boys. Today, the docks were rather a disappointment for the lads. Only the routine activities of loading and unloading a few ships tied up to the wooden piers along the river bank were in progress. There was also no work to be found on the docks for them that morning.

The boys quickly grew bored with the docks and wandered aimlessly back over to the Plaza to see if anything interesting was happening there. The early morning dew was still on the grass in the Plaza, and the street vendors had not yet set up their booths for the day’s commerce around its perimeter.

Thirteen-year-old Ricardo Cardona, who was the son of Doña María Cardona and the stepson of John Mackenzie, sat on a wooden porch across the Plaza watching the boys walk back from the docks into the Plaza. Ricardo had seen them many times before, and he knew that the leader of the group was a boy called Jean, but he had never spoken to any of them. That might change today. He had already been to the docks earlier and could have told the boys that they wouldn’t find any work there. Ricardo himself wouldn’t have accepted a job at the docks even if he were offered one because he didn’t need any money, and besides, he disliked work. Since his arrival in New Orleans less than two years previously, Ricardo had grown to be a rather lazy and irresponsible teenager. His mother and step-father gave him all the money that he needed, and if he needed some extra money, he could always pilfer it from the petty cashbox that was kept in a drawer at the front desk of the Royal Regent Hotel that his mother and stepfather owned. The hotel was located just two blocks southwest of the Plaza down Chartres Street.

The ragtag group of boys gazed out into the Plaza and saw that the only thing moving was a young lad, who was about ten years-old, running behind a hoop while pushing it along with a stick, leaving a trail in the wet grass. Jean and his comrades quickly circled around the perimeter of the Plaza to intercept the boy, who was not aware that he was being stalked. Ricardo got up from the bench and walked over to join the group of boys, acting like he belonged to the group. One of the larger lads elbowed Ricardo in the arm, pushing him toward the rear of the group without speaking to him. Ricardo rubbed his arm and frowned at the lad, but the lad continued to ignore him.

As the boy pushing the hoop passed him, Jean reached down and grabbed the hoop, holding it in the air above his head. Jean’s comrades and Ricardo fanned out to form a circle around the hapless boy.

Hey, give that back, shouted the boy.

Why should I? calmly asked Jean.

Because it’s mine, said the boy, sticking out his lower lip in resolution.

It was yours, but now it’s actually mine. Because you see, I have taken it from you.

My father says that you shouldn’t take things that don’t belong to you.

My father is dead, and my stepfather never says much of anything at all to me, replied Jean.

Why not? asked the boy.

"Je ne sais pas. Perhaps he doesn’t care what I do. Besides, it doesn’t matter."

The hapless boy made an expected and desperate lunge to grab the hoop back from Jean. He barely missed it as Jean jerked the hoop higher out of the boy’s reach. As the lad landed in the wet grass, he lost his footing, stumbled, dropped his stick, and fell to the ground into a nearby gutter. As the lad tried to get up out of the muck, Jean walked over to the lad and kicked him in the stomach, causing the boy to lose his breath and double up in pain still lying in the dirty gutter. All the boys in the circle including Ricardo laughed at the poor lad’s predicament.

When the boy tried to get up a second time, Ricardo stepped forward and kicked him in the stomach again. Ricardo laughed, but when he looked around at the other boys, to his dismay, none of them had joined him in laughter. As a matter of fact, they were all glaring at him.

What do you think you’re doing? asked Jean, who now completely ignored the lad on the ground and walked across the circle to confront Ricardo.

Ricardo looked at Jean and shrugged. He had no idea what to reply. Jean looked down momentarily lost in thought, and when he looked back up, he had doubled his fist. Before Ricardo could duck the punch, Jean hit him in the eye. The blow knocked Ricardo down in the gutter beside the young lad who was still lying there. The other boys continued to ignore the small lad and focused their attention on Ricardo and Jean.

Why’d you do that? asked Ricardo, holding his hand over his eye and looking up at Jean.

Never feast on someone else’s kill without first asking permission, replied Jean.

I just wanted to be friends with you. That’s all I was doing, cried Ricardo.

Come see me at the blacksmith shop on Bourbon Street after you learn how to fight. Then we can talk about becoming friends.

Okay, just don’t hit me again.

"I’m sure we will meet again, mon frere," said Jean, as he and the other boys turned their backs and walked away from Ricardo and the young lad, who were both still lying on the ground.

As soon as the boys reached the other side of the Plaza de Armas, Jean discarded the stolen hoop, throwing it into the ditch that ran beside the street. He and his friends soon disappeared from the Plaza.

Ricardo struggled to get up and staggered to his feet. Without giving the young lad any warning, Ricardo kicked him in the stomach a second time. The lad groaned and curled up into a ball again. Glaring across the square at the street where the boys had disappeared, Ricardo slowly walked across the Plaza to make his way home to the Royal Regent Hotel. As Ricardo walked into the hotel lobby, his stepfather, John Mackenzie spotted him and stopped him with his large hand resting on Ricardo’s shoulder.

Ricardo, what seems to hae gone agley with ye, lad? asked John.

Nothing, replied the stubborn Ricardo, who was looking down at the floor.

It dinna look like nothing to me. Yer clothes are all dirty and yer eye looks red. I ken yer gonna hae a shiner before the day is oot.

I fell down and hurt myself in the Plaza.

Did ye hae any help with yer falling down?

Ricardo looked up guiltily at John, knowing that he had been found out, and quickly looked back down at the floor.

Ricardo, we’re going to hae to teach ye how to defend yourself. Do ye ken anything at all aboot fighting?

No, replied Ricardo.

Weel then, we’ll hae to start with the basics. Go gather up Wang Lee and ye twa meet me oot back of the hotel in fifteen minutes. Put on some old clothes. We’re gonna teach ye how to fight, said John, who abruptly turned and walked off leaving Ricardo standing alone in the hotel lobby.

Ricardo smiled to himself, thinking that this fight training was exactly what he needed, and he didn’t even have to ask for it. After he learned how to fight, he would go to the blacksmith shop on Bourbon Street and look for Jean.

John Mackenzie had taught Robert, Hugh, and Alex to fight when they were about this age, so he and Wang Lee would have to do the same with Ricardo.

* * * *

Robert and Hugh (October 1784)

It was early October of 1784 on the American frontier, and most of the leaves still clinging to the tree limbs had turned a musty shade of dark green that looked about the same color as the shell of an old turtle. But the cool weather had already caused a few of them, growing at the higher elevations to turn as yellow as a young turtle’s underside, and some of them had even turned a rusty shade of red. The breeze was fresh and slightly brisk with just a hint of the winter that was yet to fully arrive. Robert and Hugh both enjoyed being outside in the open air and on the trail as they rode along the stream bank. It reminded them of the times when they were boys back in Scotland riding their border ponies along the marshes and glens of the Scottish lowlands. The early winter smell of the American wilderness was very similar to that in Scotland.

Robert and Hugh Mackenzie had fled from Scotland via Ireland to America along with a steady stream of immigrants from the British isles and Europe during the years before the American Revolutionary War. Arriving at Boston harbor on the merchant ship Dartmouth in late 1773, the two brothers had originally been stowaways on that ship. They had been pressed into the ship’s crew as ordinary sea hands by the captain after he had discovered them hiding inside tea chests in the ship’s cargo hold. After the Sons of Liberty boarded the ship while it was anchored in Boston harbor and dumped the entire cargo of Bohea tea overboard in what was later called the Boston Tea Party, Robert and Hugh joined the group of Patriots who had taken over the ship. When they had finished helping the Sons of Liberty throw the tea into the harbor, the two brothers climbed down the ship’s boarding ladder along with the rebels to their longboats and helped them row across the harbor to set foot in the British colonies at Boston.

Shortly before the Revolutionary War broke out, the two brothers joined the Massachusetts militia. After witnessing the massacre at Lexington Green and hearing about the battle at Concord Bridge, they, along with hundreds of other militiamen, joined the Continental Army to fight the British, starting with the Siege of Boston and continuing with the New York and New Jersey campaigns. During the Battle of Trenton, they reunited with their long-lost younger brother Alex, who unbeknownst to them was also a member of the Continental Army.

While the war was still in progress, the three brothers were transferred under orders from General George Washington to Fort Watauga on the western North Carolina frontier. After mustering at Sycamore Shoals near Fort Watauga, they had marched as Overmountain Men to continue fighting the British in several battles, including the decisive Battle of Kings Mountain which turned the tide of the war in favor of the rebels.

Between battles, Robert and Hugh worked at a gunpowder mill located near Fort Watauga on the Powder Branch Creek, a stream that ran beside the mill. The Powder Branch empties into the Watauga River just a short distance downstream from where Gap Creek also empties into the Watauga. The gunpowder mill was owned and operated by Patriots John and Mary Patton who were among the original settlers around Fort Watauga.

Even before the American Revolutionary War, gunpowder had been a precious commodity in the American colonies. Its manufacture and sale was closely regulated and controlled by the British authorities who had feared a rebellion among the colonists. Prerequisite to its production, a gunpowder mill owner had to gather three basic raw materials: saltpeter, charcoal, and sulfur. It was fairly easy to obtain and extract saltpeter, also called potassium nitrate, from bat guano deposits found in caves and from other waste sources such as barns and outhouses. It was also fairly simple to manufacture charcoal by the low-oxygen burning of willows or cottonwood trees. But sulfur was much more difficult to acquire. It was usually obtained by buying it from the French merchants along the east coast of America, who imported it from the large natural sulfur deposits around the volcanos of Sicily. These merchants controlled the trade, monopolized its distribution, and restricted its supply. The regulation kept sulfur prices extremely high for the gunpowder mill owners, who couldn’t manufacture gunpowder without it. It was widely suspected that there were numerous natural sulfur deposits in America, but the locations of these deposits were largely unknown. Much of the American wilderness was still unexplored.

While they were working at the Patton’s gunpowder mill, the owners had dispatched Robert and Hugh on several scouting expeditions into the wilderness to try to find a naturally occurring sulfur deposit that was within a reasonable distance from their mill. Their many explorations had finally taken them southwest of Fort Watauga, where they found a natural spring that reeked of sulfur. There was enough raw sulfur lying around on the ground and more sulfur that could be easily dug up to supply the mill with that raw material for the duration of the American Revolutionary War and even for a great deal of time after it.

In a stroke of extremely good luck, in addition to discovering the sulfur deposit at the site, the two brothers also had uncovered a gold vein that ran into the side of the bluff above the sulfur springs. During their initial survey of the site, Robert and Hugh had gathered all of the loose gold nuggets that they could find lying in the mineral springs and in the stream below it. They stashed the nuggets in a leather pouch. Prior to leaving the discovery, they had concealed the pouch of gold nuggets and the gold vein itself with a camouflaged obstruction at the bluff. To create the illusion of a landslide, the two brothers had piled up rocks and debris, making the site where the vein was located look like a natural rock slide had tumbled down the bluff and completely covered up the area right below it. Under the rock pile, the gold was waiting for the brothers to return and dig it out.

During the entire period that the brothers and other mill workers were excavating the sulfur for use at the gunpowder mill, no one had closely examined the camouflaged rock slide and stumbled upon the gold deposit. It was still a secret that Robert and Hugh had shared with no one, except their younger brother Alex. Alex had of course told his wife Martha about it, but that was as far as the information had gone.

Urging their mounts on along the stream bank, Robert and Hugh kicked their horses into a trot. Before leaving their cabin near Fort Watauga, the two brothers had saddled their mounts and loaded their supplies on two pack horses for the journey into the wilderness. Riding along the western bank of the Watauga River from their cabin until they were several miles south of Fort Patrick Henry, Robert and Hugh had been trying to find the intersection where they would turn southwest from the river and follow the little stream that Hugh had previously marked. Even though the two brothers didn’t know it for sure, they had in fact selected the correct stream that would take them to the location of the sulfur springs and the gold discovery. After four more hours of hard riding, they would arrive at the site of the gold deposit.

After the Revolutionary War had ended and their father had established a new life in New Orleans, all three of the Mackenzie brothers returned to Fort Watauga via separate routes and many adventures along the way. Two years had passed since Robert and Hugh had returned to their jobs in John and Mary Patton’s gunpowder mill. None of the three brothers had yet had the opportunity to return to New Orleans and visit with their father.

Taking a strong hint that was more like a threat from their father that they should marry and settle down like their brother Alex had done, soon after they returned to their jobs, Hugh began courting Becky Patton, and Robert started seeing Violet Patton. Both of the young women were daughters of John and Mary Patton. The two brothers were considering marrying the Patton women, but they didn’t have much in the way of money or prospects for the future. Working at the gunpowder mill didn’t pay enough to support a wife, much less a family. The courting had been going on long enough, and the two women were getting impatient to be married and start families. John and Mary Patton had offered to sell their gunpowder mill to Robert and Hugh so that they could marry the women and provide for them. After the war, the elderly couple wanted to retire to the cabin that they had built further downstream on the Powder Branch Creek and leave running the mill to the younger generation. That proposal sounded like a great idea to Robert and Hugh if they could come up with the money to buy the mill.

The two brothers had never had the opportunity to explore the limits of their gold outcrop discovery near the sulfur deposit. But it was the only available source of funds that they could think of that might quickly provide them with enough money to purchase the gunpowder mill. The plan that they had hatched was to use pickaxes and shovels to dig as much raw gold ore out of the vein as they could during the short expedition. They intended to haul the raw gold ore back to the gunpowder mill under cover of darkness and hide it nearby. By working alone at night with the tools and facilities available to them at the mill using a shielded lantern, the brothers thought that they should be able to separate the gold from the native rock without anyone discovering what they were doing.

The first step in the refining process was to use the gunpowder mill to crush the raw gold ore into a fine particulate, which almost had the consistency of dust. Robert had designed and built a sluice box that they could use to help recover the heavy gold from the native stone by using running water from a small stream that ran into the Powder Branch Creek. Finally, a trip to the east coast to have the gold assayed and sold for currency would be required to complete the task. The main problem was going to be inventing a cover story about how they obtained the gold in order to prevent a gold rush on the area and to keep their gold discovery a secret.

It hae been a long time since we dug any sulfur oot of here. I dinna think that we would be back this way anytime soon. I had almost forgotten aboot the gold we found near the springs, said Hugh, as the two brothers arrived at the mineral springs.

Robert nodded and dismounted to help Hugh unload the pack horses.

* * * *

The Longhunter and Jonas (October 1784)

Longhunter, the dogs are howling like they’re on the trail of another bear. Why don’t you stay here and finish up skinning this one while I go take care of the one that the dogs have gotten after? said Jonas.

Okay by me, replied the Longhunter, who continued his work on skinning the bear that he and Jonas had shot out of the tree where the dogs had trapped it. As the Longhunter worked on the hide, he hummed and sang a few bars of a lively, nonsensical Scottish song that he had often danced to as a young man when he lived in Scotland. For some strange reason, the tune had been running through his mind quite a bit