When the Sticks Are Gone

By Pat Ramsey Beckman and Robert S. Beckman

David Godfrey, tall for fifteen, didnt wait for his uncles answer. He yanked buckskins over his muscular legs and hurtled down from the loft. Dashing from the feed yard, black crow feathers flying, he leaped over Seeaways rump and onto the ponys back.

The story of an orphan boy trying to care for his younger brother in the pioneer days of the Midwest brings adventure and intrigue to the reader.

Taming the wild country to carve out a home for settlers, Indians, and oh yes, mischief makers will not only entertain but also bring history alive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504927857

Pat Ramsey Beckman

I have been a journalist and a writer since I was a child. From the time I visited the Press Room of the Philadelphia Inquirer I was hooked. Growing up on the East Coast I am now a mid-westerner and loving all the research I have been able to glean for my juvenile historic novels. My husband, Jim, is supportive of my craft, as are my four children, nine grandchildren, and now my baby great grand children. I have held writing workshops in New Jersey, Pennsylvania, New York, Ohio, Michigan and served as guest faculty for Chautauqua Highlights, and for the Intergenerational Institute in Glens Falls, New York for four years. I also taught writing workshops in Hilton Head, South Carolina schools. My books: From the Ashes Colors of War Animal Academy Short Stories for Magazines

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© 2015 Pat Ramsey Beckman. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse   08/11/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-2785-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-2784-0 (e)

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Contents

Acknowledgment

Dedication

Chapter I When The Sticks Are Gone

Chapter II Help

Chapter III The Meeting

Chapter IV When The Sticks Are Gone

Chapter V Image

Chapter VI Getting Started

Chapter VII Uncle Henry

Chapter VIII The Snow Crust Moon

Chapter IX Spring Thaw

Chapter X The Moon When Geese Return

Chapter XI The Road Home

Credits

About the Author

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

My deep appreciation for my son Robert S. Beckman, Illustrator.

DEDICATION

My beloved husband, James R. Beckman

My children, grand children, and great grand children

CHAPTER I

WHEN THE STICKS ARE GONE

David Godfrey, tall for fifteen, didn’t wait for his uncle’s answer. He yanked buckskins over his muscular legs, and hurtled down from the loft. Dashing from the feed yard, black crow feathers flying, he leaped over Seeaway’s rump, and onto the pony’s back.

Davey, you know I take good care of your little brother, old Uncle Henry called after David. Black Wolf didn’t watch Michael like I told him to. The words oozed like warm butter from the old man’s mouth. I needed time to draw up my road plans. David frowned. Months ago Washington told Uncle Henry to drain the mud from the swamp and build a road. But still there was no road.

David knew the old man had been a surveyor in Cincinnati. He respected him for that. But Uncle Henry could infuriate David faster than a rabbit could pee and run. If he’d started the road like he was supposed to, I wouldn’t be looking for Michael now.

Digging his heels into Seeaway’s sides, David galloped hard down Bean Creek trail. His heart pounded in his ears. Just two miles from his cabin, swampland stretched across northern Ohio from the Maumee River to the giant lake called Erie. Wolves roamed the muddy fields. Poisonous snakes roiled through the swamp.

Michael’s most likely snake hunting with them older boys, David thought squeezing his pony’s sides. He slapped her neck with the reins. Seeaway tossed her head as David scanned the fast-moving landscape for his missing brother. Stretching his long legs, David felt weary. For days he’d been carting wigwams, blankets, clothes and kettles to the swampland for the Indians. These old men and women had snaked along behind David, grateful for the dry patches of land to live on. They’d always shown David their affection; never bitter over the loss of their river land. But David didn’t let his own bitterness show. With the gentleness of his nature he showed purpose in his serious young face. The pony threaded her way through rows of tall tree stumps just beyond the pebble beach. David had no desire to go back into the swamp. It reeked of mold and fungus.

Moss hung like gray beards from giant oaks. Willows with crooked elbows reached down into black scum. Snakes and water rats were everywhere, but David couldn’t quit, he had to find his little brother.

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Three years ago, after David had joined the Shawnee Indians, his friend, Tecumseh, had gone missing from the treaty council. The Shawnee chief had sent David to look for him. The swamp was wretched black that night; bats swooping down on David like a dark cloud. While trudging through the green muck, David had lost his way. He couldn’t find Tecumseh.

A shiver went down his spine. What if I can’t find Michael now?

Halt, girl, David seized his pony’s mane. Seeaway reared up on hind legs, a snake slithered up a nearby stump, the whirr and rattle of its horny segments struck. A pit viper! Pit vipers, copperheads and rattlesnakes hid in hollow places under these trees. David knew it was no place for a ten-year-old; Ma had warned them. Don’t go near the black water, she’d say. Michael knew he wasn’t allowed in here, but he never seemed to care.

I guess I didn’t care much either back then, David thought, but Michael followed me around, playing tricks like pretending he was snake-bit and dying; or smearing his face with mud and sneaking up so I’d think he was some renegade.

Squeezing his pony’s sides, David slapped her neck with the reins, and urged her over the spring snowmelt. He flipped his long hair out of his eyes and searched the fast-moving landscape for his brother.

This wasn’t the first time Michael has gone missing. When the renegades kidnapped him, Uncle Henry found Michael down in Cincinnati on the Ohio River. When Uncle Henry brought Michael home to Bean Creek, he went missing again.

Probably looking for Ma and Pa, David thought. But convincing a ten-year-old is like turning a mule around in a muddy stream, and I’m not sorry I gave up telling him Ma and Pa weren’t coming back.

At the swamp, Seeaway threaded her way through rows of huge tree stumps. The tall stumps stood in the swamp water like headless soldiers.

Again David’s mind went back to the time he went looking for Tecumseh. The trees in the swamp were alive and green then, full and twisted around each other. It was just after the Indians adopted David in the Moon When All Things Ripen, 1795. The Indian Council had gathered on the Maumee riverbank to talk peace, but their best scout Tecumseh was missing.

David had gone looking for him on that black-as-charcoal night. Wretched with bats, wolves, and snakes, the swamp gurgled with green muck under his feet. Dragging his legs through the murky water, David had ducked just in time. A mass of bats darted at him. They had swooped down as one black