The Trailblazers

By Mastin F. Barry

The Hermisons raised their sons on a sidehill farm in Tennessee, hunting bears and making due. Jack was young but eager to do his part for the family, and so when word came to him that his kin were in trouble, Jack sets his eyes West, and rides for the Dakota Territory. There in the wild untamed country are the Sioux and the Kiowa, the buffalo and the mountainman... The cattleman and the sodbuster, and the old feud between them. Jack must cross hundreds of miles of wilderness, brave the winter and survive all manner of dangers, make allies and enemies... And at the end of it all, must live to stand by his kin against a ruthless cattle baron and his hired killers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Onward Publishing
• Release date: Mar 17, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224250417

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Those years directly after the War Between the States were mighty hard for me and my kin. That things had changed was obvious even to me, though I was still a boy when they did. We lived in the mountains of East Tennessee, and we used to own a good spread of land in them hills. We had sheep, milk cows, hogs to herd down to the settlement of an autumn, poultry too. We had corn, beans, potatoes, even some apple trees; and all the hunting we could possibly wish for.

The War had ended those days abruptly. Pa went to fight, along with my uncles, in the Army of Northern Virginia. Then the Federal invaders destroyed or stole much of our livelihood, and left us under the unforgiving rule of the so-called ‘Reconstruction’, which was just a poor excuse for the carpetbaggers to come in and take whatever the Yankee soldiers had overlooked.

For us in Tennessee, the War began late. Our convention rejected secession for our state in February, –though it was our right– while several Southern States were already departing the Union. The State legislatures cited various causes for this choice: Northern States’ personal liberty laws, the election of a sectional candidate to the Presidency, and the Republican positions on popular sovereignty, protective tariffs, and the national bank... Then, after five months since her secession, diplomacy failed between South Carolina and the Federal government. The federals refused to yield up Fort Sumpter, and it was taken by force.

After this President Lincoln called for seventy-five thousand troops to invade South Carolina, to coerce them into Union, and men who had previously rejected secession in Tennessee reconvened in convention, and declared our independence. Ours was one of those final four States to secede, along with Virginia, North Carolina, and Arkansas. The President attempted to coerce the States into involuntary union. We asserted that membership in the Union was, and always had been, voluntary. And so we fought a second fight for independence.

The long and bloody war was fought on Southern soil. It destroyed homes, families, lives, and ultimately broke the independent spirit which for so long had attended our country. After the war was lost,  slavery was ended by amendment, and there was no love lost between us in the hills and the wealthy flatland planters. But many maintained a grudge against the northern fanatics for securing by force a perpetual union. As far as we were concerned, the Republic had finally died, and a Nation had been born out of blood: The illegitimate heir to a great inheritance of ill-gotten gain.

Pa considered emancipation to be the one good thing that came of the War, though he was never an abolitionist. He had favored the gradual and compensated manumission plans to abolition, such as were implemented in the North in years prior, but other men were less moderate, and the cost of their fervor was high.

The Republic was dead, the Confederacy was dead, the supremacy of the central government established. The bitterness of defeat led to resentment and hatred, and what I recall of those times are not pleasant memories: Hunger, cold, fear... That gnawing hatred which I harbored for years after the conflict. In the end Pa told all us boys we must move on. We could not taint our minds with the bitterness of a war we were to young to fight. We had our lives to live. But sometimes the old grief returns to me, as I watch the nation that was once a republic become an empire. My kin had shed blood to secure the blessings of liberty and defend our land: The Shawnee, the English, and at last the Northern invaders. When my ancestors killed and died on the frontier, they did so to secure liberty, not empire.

Pa moved his family further up into the hills, for he was always a lover of the wild country, as were the rest of us, and desirous of avoiding the overbearing carpetbaggers and reconstruction generally.

I often roamed the hills; those beautiful, rolling green hills of Tennessee. I sought the wildest places, where the coyotes and the cougars go of an evening. I watched the sunset burn red over Clinch Mountain. I traveled down into the low valleys, wherein the grass was green and the deer roamed warily. I’d watch them from a distance, or would creep closer, so that I could almost touch the creatures from the thick brush of elderberry. And sometimes I would go down to the settlement, and I ran errands that way for my folks.

I

THE HUNTING OF A BEAR

It was early November, 1867, and I was coming home from town with the mail. I wore home-made buckskins and my Pa’s old slouch hat. I had just got to the top of a tall, maple-clad rise, looking west over a thick pinewood when I saw, coming out of the trees about a quarter mile away, the biggest bear I’d ever seen. He looked big and mean, with some streaks through his fur leftover from old battles. He couldn't have been less than three and a half feet at the shoulder. I hadn't let Fang, –my dog– attack that critter, because it would have whupped him good, and I wasn't keen on tangling with no bear with only a revolver and a Bowie. A Dragoon Colt will carry a man pretty far in a pinch, but I would cut a wide swath of bears unless I had me a good rifle-gun, and on that day I hadn’t. My brother Clyde had set out with the Sharps more than a month ago, on a long hunt west of the Mississippi, and Pa had kept the other two rifles at the house because we were at feud, so to speak, with the McKendricks, and they were a tough and mean bunch. This was quite the predicament. There was enough tallow in one bear to last us till Christmas, just waiting to be hunted, and me with no rifle. So I decided to make a beeline for home.

We trotted through the crisp autumn air, Fang and I, reddish-brown leaves spread like a rug beneath our feet, dampened by the recent rain; but we made scarcely a sound. We were hunters by occupation, by preference, and by nature. All my life it had been my task to put meat on the table, and Fang and I could move like wildcats in the forest; if there was a quarry to track, we could track it.

The side-hill farm consisted of corn, and a little hay, about twelve acres of land, but we had livestock as well. We had two riding horses, two mules, a milk cow, two dozen chickens, and a flock of twenty or so sheep, as well as my dog Fang, and four bloodhounds.

Pa had given Fang to me when he came home from the War, as a friend of his had been trying to give away the puppies of his collie. Since then Fang had grown from a little puppy to a big, strong dog. He was a hunting dog, though, not a hound. I do not know what breed he was exactly, except that his ma was a collie, but the father had been something quite different, for he was most definitely a hunter. He weighed at least a hundred pounds, would hunt any game that we had a mind to eat, specialized in bears, and maintained respectful yet distant relations with our other dogs.

The chimney was smoking, and a sweet aroma was on the wind, so I went up to the house, and Fang went to yap at the other dogs. The door opened into the boot room, and next the dining room, and then the kitchen where Ma was cooking something that smelled pretty appetizing. I removed my hat and jacket and stepped inside.

Howdy Ma.

Howdy Jack. She answered. I put the week’s mail on the table, then took a tin cup from the shelf and scooped some water from the bucket on the counter. I drank, then turned to Ma.

I seen an absolute giant of a bar’ today. Do you know where Pa is?

He come in ’bout an hour back. Left for the north pasture with his rifle; something about a varmint. You're gun’s above the mantlepiece, though, if that’s what you’re wonderin’.

Thanks Ma. I went to the mantle and took down the rifle and the cartridge bag. It was a muzzle-loading Kentucky, made by my Uncle Jed Payne, who had gone west some time ago. Pa had one of those newfangled repeating Winchesters, which you load on Sunday and fire all week. He had bought it from a passing tinker, but kept it at the house for emergencies, the brass cartridges it took being hard to come by.

Fang was by the door, wagging his tail. I opened it and saw my youngest brother, Macken, who was ten years old, carrying in some split locust for firewood.

Hey, Macken! Pa still up in the north pasture? I hollered.

Sure, but he’s comin’ on down with Milo. Somthin’ big been eatin’ our sheep so they’s checkin’ fer sign. I went to the stable, which was four or five dozen yards southeast of the house, and I saddled up Penelope, our only riding mare, then mounted and rode to the north pasture. I whistled for the dogs as I rode, and they came a-runnin’. When we came to the north pasture I cut Pa’s unmistakable tracks, due to his wooden leg. Then I saw Pa and Milo, my twelve year old brother, and they were examining some mighty big bear tracks.

You huntin’ for something? Pa asked.

I reckon that bar whose sign you’re lookin’ over. Big critter too, must weigh seven, eight hun’nerd pounds.

Well, I do declare, Milo Exclaimed. that is impressive. How come you knows so dadgum much about it? Pa raised an eyebrow.

The way you boys talk sometimes, I wonder if I’m raising gentlemen or ruffians. They say a true southern gentlemen never pronounces his Rs. He said it with a frown on his mouth, but a smile in his deep hazel eyes.

Well, Milo answered, I’ll try to talk right, but iffen I never pronounces my Rs then I’ll sound like some Virginian.

That would be fine by me. Pa answered. Virginia is the indigenous home of all true gentlemen.

Well, Pa, I started, I’m gonna get this critter, just so y’all at the house know.

Seems this critter abducted a sheep. Pa replied with a shake of his head. But I suppose my wrath will be appeased when we have fresh bear meat on the table.

You can count on meat by tomorrow, but I doubt I’ll be back before then. I waved,  whistled for the dogs, turned my horse, and rode north.

I decided to go north and a little west to where I figured that bear to go. It was late fall, so he would be trying to fatten up for the winter, and the best place to hunt food would be out there; crab-apples and such were almost out of season, but there were deer, woodchucks and other small game to be had, and the river had some good fishing holes. We found tracks about a mile north of where I’d seen the bear earlier, headed toward the tall timber. The lead hound, Juno we called her, picked up the scent and gave out a-baying, then took off into the woods.

It was rough country for riding, and after an hour or so it was getting towards evening, so I had a hard time keeping up with them hounds, but Penelope was from a long line of  mountain horses and had run rough country all her life. We were getting pretty close on the trail, judging by the howls the dogs was giving so generously, but the pack split into two groups: the first consisted of Fang and one hound; the second consisted of Juno and two others, but the groups were staying within about thirty yards of each other, so I started figuring on a plan.

Now, generally speaking, a bear will try to lose the dogs to begin with, but sooner or later he winds up getting himself treed. A tall oak or hickory was ideal, for bears are mighty heavy, and this one especially. Once he’s treed, he just waits; if you catch him, you shoot him out. However, if he finds a cave or holler log he’s likely to put up a scrape. I was also aware that he’d pretty soon go down in the brush and force me to leave my horse. For a while I could ride, but not forever. I’d hunted bears since I was a youngster, and killed my first when I was thirteen, so I had a general idea about what they’d do.

The problem was, this bear was simply massive, and might just opt for an unruly scrap rather than a conventional treeing. In that case the dogs would surround that critter and trust me to blast him, which I fully intended to do.

I followed them dogs for about eight hundred yards. I dismounted, left Penny a ways behind, and worked through the underbrush. Juno gave out a loud baying from just in front of me, and I saw her bound through the bushes to my left; the other dogs came running to her, and the real chase began. I took after them at top speed. Juno was in front, then the others. We were on the right trail, I knew by the tracks (they were about seven inches wide) and the broken twigs, crushed leaves, and snapped branches.

I slid over a log, under a blackberry bush, and through some thick rhododendrons. I could see very little at first, as the light was failing and the evergreen leaves blocked it out anyway. Almost every dog was there already. Suddenly, out of the bushes, came the huffing, ominous growl of a very angry bear. He burst from the thicket, snarling and snapping. He had opted for a scrape, because he probably couldn't climb a tree anyway. He swept aside the yapping, baying hounds, rearing on hind legs, eight feet tall if he was an inch, and only five feet away. He came for me. I slipped on a patch of damp leaves as I lurched back. Claws slashed my chest, yet as I fell, I cocked my rifle, and as I hit ground, I fired.

It hadn’t occurred to me, however, that the job might take more than just one bullet: The shot was high, hitting the right shoulder and jolting him, but he just kept coming. Even as I tried to scramble to my feet, I knew my goose was cooked. My rifle was empty, I could not draw my pistol fast enough, and the bear right before my very eyes. Just when I figured certain demise to be at hand, the bear gave out a vicious snarl and spun around. I saw Fang gripping with his teeth to the bear’s back right leg. The critter whopped him a good-un, knocking him head-over-heels into the woods. Then, with a howl, the other dogs came from the brush, two between the bear and me.

I had four claw slashes through my buckskins, and they were starting to bleed. The fight was in full swing by the time I was on my feet, and I had my knife and pistol ready. I raised my pistol and took a shot. That got his attention all right, and he charged, huffing and growling, shoving dogs to right and left. I shot him again, and then stepped back, upped with my knife and prepared to stab him. Juno went for the throat but was thrown aside. One dog yapped as the bear’s teeth caught his ear,  just missing his head. Another dog didn’t dodge fast enough and  was slashed with the vicious claws, but the bear was distracted, so I shot three more times, missing two, another through his shoulder, aiming for his throat.

Finally he realized where the threat was, and lunged toward me with a snarl, his teeth bared, claws slashing, partially blinded with the desperation which ushers in death. I shot my last bullet, was knocked over, pinned, and plunged my knife into him. The bear snapped and slashed at my face, but I slammed my head down on the ground just in time; one claw carved a furrow through my left eyebrow and down over my cheek. I struggled and kicked; two claws of his back left paw cut my leg. With his huge front paws he was trying to pin down my head and chest, for then he would crush my shoulder or head with those powerful jaws. Suddenly Fang came leaping from the bushes, snapped for the bear’s throat, and bit down hard.

He dragged and yanked with all his strength, and this time dodged the terrible claws. By this time we were out of the rhododendrons and could see a little better. The bear went at him, ignoring me for the moment. They snarled and circled, each seeking his opening, and Fang held him back from me. I reloaded my rifle. Just as the bear shoved the dog to the ground, my gun was loaded. I rushed in, stabbed the barrel in that bear’s ribs, and fired.

In my haste I overloaded the gun with powder, so the kick-back knocked me down. I lay there, just staring at the dark sky, half expecting to see avenging jaws gaping over my dazed head. Well, I saw jaws alright, but they were of a more compassionate nature than would be expected from a bear who’d been shot five times. Fang started licking my face, so I sat up. A couple of them hounds were making absolute sure that the bear was dead, the others were licking their wounds. Fang laid down beside me, and I patted his head. Good dog. I said, breathlessly; and he wagged his tail.

II

HEADIN’ WEST

After the fight, I had to patch up the dogs a bit. Then I did a little work on myself. Besides the cut over my left eye and the wounds on my chest, I had some milder cuts on my forearms and a gash in the right shoulder that was not too serious. My buckskin britches had been good protection against the bar-claws, but were torn nonetheless. When I had done that, I skinned out the bar, which I was somewhat skilled at, and gutted and dressed it. Then I cut up the meat as best I could, and hung up the choicest cuts in the hide, so the dogs wouldn't get it. Then I bedded down.

I woke early the next morning, then I fed the dogs some of the remaining carcass. I loaded Penelope with the meat, which I put in the hide, then I began the hike home.

When we arrived in the early noon, we were greeted by Milo, who was tanning a hide.   Howdy Jack! he hollered. Good huntin’?

I ketched a bar, if that answers your question.

Well, durn if you isn't the most beat-upest bunch o’ bummers ever was seen.

I didn't agree. We ain’t. You should see the bar. Besides, them dogs wouldn't look so bad if you would do something useful, like tending to their wounds.

Sho-nuff, he answered agreeably.

I dismounted by the stable and stripped the gear off my horse, then fed her some grain. I walked over to the house and went inside. Pa, Macken, and Ma were settin’ at the table and talking after breakfast.

Hi Jack! Macken said, as I entered the room.

Howdy, said Pa How was the hunt? he asked, eyeing skeptically my busted and bloody buckskins.

Oh, it was just fine. We got that bar alright, an’ Milo’s cleaning up the dogs. Then I noticed the letter on the table. Who's it from? I asked.

Jeremiah. Seems they've had some trouble. He handed the letter to me.

Uncle Jeremiah was Pa’s younger brother, and he'd taken his family west in the summer of ’65 along with Uncle Jed Payne, but we hadn't heard from him since. I read the letter.

Travis Hermison, Johnson City, Tennessee

June 23, 1867

Travis, we have  settled in the western Dakota territory, east of the Yellowstone, at a little town called Winchester, up in the Absaroka Mountains. The neighbors are good folks. Mostly, at least. Plenty of good land, I wish you would come and settle, but there’s been trouble, too. Cousin Jake was killed, and it was a gun-hand of McKendrick’s who did it. Jeffery McKendrick has hired on a whole gang of tough renegades, who are led by a  shootist named William Johnson who is quite capable with a gun, and is very dangerous with his fists as well. He killed Jake in the middle of town, and  only comes back to get drunk with his men. Jeffery McKendrick has come west with his family and has started a ranch, as well as a range war. Jed Payne is also dead. We suspect they did it, but I can't prove anything. Harney and Regal are here too, but we need help. As for the children and Nancy, they are all with us now, but far from well after the loss of their father. This Winchester Valley is a good land, and I do hope you will join us here soon. There is another family here, an extensive clan, really, by the name of Donoman. They are good folks, but are not willing to stick their heads into a feud that is not their own.

The town marshal is a curious fellow, who is part Shoshone, chosen more for his skill with a gun and a level head than for any other reason. His name is Shem, after the son of Noah, but he has no other name that I know of. Also, Like I said before, please come soon. Sincerely, Jeremiah.

P.S., we have had our baby girl, and named her Dixie Lee, in memory of our brief independence and our beloved General.

Well, I can say I was sure shocked. It was a lot to think on, and I guess I never figured on Uncle Jed dying that way, or Jake for that matter. It wasn’t that I had never lost a family member before, as my uncle Asher had died by McKendricks just before the War, but I was just seven or eight at the time. But uncle Jed had always been special to me, giving me my first rifle, and helping us with the farm while Pa was fighting in the War.

As for Harney, Regal, and Jake, they were brothers, and Pa’s first cousins. They had gone west a while back, but we had no idea they’d wind up with Uncle Jeremiah. Jeffery McKendrick we knew had gone west with his bunch. He had left shortly after the War as well, but we hadn’t guessed it was to hunt ’em  down.

That letter was sent over four months ago. Pa said. "It might be that more folks been killed, but all the same, we have an obligation to help our kinfolk. Besides, ever since the war, I been wantin’ to go west, and now that Jeremiah has settled, we know where to go. I ain’t free from the farm ’til I can sell it, and at any rate, I’ll be needed here during the winter.

Clyde is gone on a huntin’ trip, as you know, and likely won’t be back ’til February, but he’ll be goin’ west just as soon as is practical. He paused, looking serious. I can’t ride hardly ’tall, with this leg; and I’ll need to settle our affairs before I can set out anyway... Again he paused, and I knew what was coming. Jack, he said, "I know you're a bit young an’ un-experienced, son, but