Chapter 1

The mist of the early morning rose slowly from the small branch running in a southwesterly direction toward the Cumberland Basin. John Renfroe raised his head quickly and looked around, not because he had heard something, but because he had a strange feeling, an unknown premonition gnawing somewhere deep inside, a haunting that originated from the dark, and dank, cold woods that surrounded them. He looked to where Tom Turpin should have been standing guard, but Tom lay with his back against a huge double White Sycamore tree, his head drooped forward in somber sleep.

 

It was the absence of sound that caused John his uneasy feeling, and he tossed an acorn at Tom causing him to jerk his head up and look around in surprise and a sense of shame. The rest of the eleven members of camp lay sleeping, exhausted and stressed from a hurried day of gathering their belongings left behind at Red River Station the week before, during the attack.

 

John was a large man standing six-feet-two inches tall. He had broad shoulders and a face heavy with a salt and pepper beard. He lumbered to his feet, and pulled his dark wide brim hat down snuggly upon his head. He had grown up in the forests of Virginia and he knew the way of the wilderness, and now, he was uneasy and felt a sense of fear as he looked around at his sleeping companions nestled in their nut-brown blankets, unaware. Not wanting his eyes to meet John’s, Tom turned away and gazed into the dark wooded forest that circled them, he too could feel the uneasiness in the air, the foreboding of terror.

 

John moved easily to the edge of the creek, bending down, cupping water with his hands, he heard the bobwhite call from across the creek; the answer came from the thicket just behind where he was standing. He turned quickly looking back at Tom with questioned fear and alarm. That same raw fear was on Tom’s face too, as he reached quickly for his rifle lying against the tree, knowing the fear they had sensed earlier was right, but there was no time.

 

At the same instance before he could shout the alarm he heard the almost silent, zipping sound of the arrow as it pierced his throat and severed his voice box, and the only sounds that were emitted from Tom’s throat were the gurgling, frothy oxygenated blood that sputtered forth as he tried to shout the warning. John felt the same terror as arrows sliced through his throat and chest almost at the same instant. John tumbled face down in the creek from his kneeling position. Tom fell backwards with the second arrow piercing his heart. It sliced through his gray doeskin shirt with a thump, like a sharp knife pushing his life out the other side, protruding, as the light left his eyes and he fell backward to his left side into the V shaped trunk of the tree.

 

The Indians sprang upon the drowsy settlers while they still lay in their improvised beds struggling out of sleep and trying to defend themselves with bare hands. The Indians used new cold steel hatchets bought from the English in Fort Detroit with scalps taken from settlers coming down the Ohio. The dull thudding sound of the cold steel, sinking deep into the skull of the sleeping victims, were drowned out only by the frightful screams of those who awoke before the fatal blow was struck, causing an almost shark like feeding frenzy of Indians hurrying to the next victim before the sleeping settlers realized what was happening.

 

Sam Johns struggled to his feet from his bed near the creek and grappled with an Indian who found a broad ax leaning next to a tree. The Indian swung the ax in a wide ark as Sam jumped backward trying to avoid the blow but the blade of the ax caught just below his left ear and embedded deep into his neck. Sam crumpled to the ground, knees first and then splashed into the creek behind him, his head at an awkward dangling angle leaking his blood into the crystal clear waters of the pristine creek.

The four children were the last to be slain, whimpering and cowering as they looked on in terror at the blood and bits of flesh and skull splattered about.

 

Martha Jones woke to the screams and hacking sounds finding the Indians had passed her over. In fear, she bolted from her covers and ran into the thicket that surrounded the clearing. She was dressed only in her under cloths, hanging her dress over a limb to dry the night before. She ran blindly at first only wanting to escape the cries and butcher sounds of the cold steel hatchet blows against human flesh. Then she paused to regain her bearing, adrenaline pumping wildly through her body and her heart racing with terror. She trembled and shivered uncontrollably as she stood listening in her white under clothing and wild early morning uncombed hair with frosty breath and hot red cheeks. Her fears confirmed with the pounding sounds of running feet coming swiftly. She knew they saw her leave running in horror, her only chance was to run swiftly down the creek bank toward the south and Eaton’s Station and then on the Bluffs where the main settlement was forming under direction of James Robertson.

 

As she ran, the briars and limbs whipped and tore at her flesh, ripping her underclothing off in pieces; she could feel the cool air on her naked body as the sweat evaporated chilling her as she ran. As the warriors found particles of her ripped clothing she could hear their fiendish yells, and terror propelled her forward.

 

The creek emptied into a lush fall valley with brown grass knee high. As she reached the other end, she looked over her shoulder in panic and saw the four heathens loping after her, like hunting dogs on the scent. They crouched over as they ran, and the shiny tomahawk hatchets they carried glinted in the early morning sunlight. Martha breathless and frightened by the sight of the bloodthirsty savages ran on toward the pass in the ridge where the small creek emptied into a larger one.

 

Her heart pounded, and she continually glanced quickly over her shoulder. She knew they were gaining, and it was only a matter of time before they would reach her. Her mind raced with her heartbeat, thinking she couldn’t even kill herself before capture, torture and the unspeakable. She had been warned, “it was better to die” than endure the carnal abuse and eventual slow agonizing death, or worse yet, slave to the murderers of family and friends.

 

She felt helplessness flood her mind, and wondered why she was even running. If she had stayed with the others it would all be over now. Her legs ached and her lungs cried out for more oxygen, but she ran on with fear and terror gaining upon her from behind.

 

The terrain grew rocky and the land began to rise rapidly toward the gap in the ridge. The small creek had honed out a gorge over a million years, making it impossible to follow. She stumbled and looked behind. The Indians were tracking her up the hillside. They kept coming at a steady pace over the rocks and downed limbs never breaking their stride. They seemed mechanical in their determined stalk, bloodthirsty and unstoppable. She struggled to her feet and staggered forward, knowing it was only a matter of time, but she just could not quit. She would not give up. It was not in her character to quit.

 

The Indians drew closer and Martha could hear the steady pounding rhythm of their feet on the earth coming rapidly behind her. The path she followed was a game trail and it wound around the hillside with the white capped rushing creek waters flowing below in a sheer drop on the left and a rocky bluff of limestone on the right. The Indians were close behind her as she carefully hurried along the ledge. They followed just out of grasp. She felt desperate, knowing she couldn't escape. She had decided to jump when the booming report of a rifle shot shattered the brisk morning air. The Indian closest to her jerked and bounced off the rocky limestone embankment. Blood spattered on the gray rock as his knees buckled heaving him backward into the rushing waters below that tumbled him away. Martha froze in a slightly cowering, but standing, shivering, clinging, in her nakedness to the rocky limestone bluff in the early morning sunlight. The other three Indians realizing their exposure began to move back but the one closest to Martha desperately grabbed out in a last attempt to drag Martha with him or toss her from the ledge. She felt his long dirty fingernails drag across her wet back as she instinctively flinched forward pressing hard against the cold stone. Then, the second shot sounded and the ricochet of the round passing through its victim and glancing off the rock rang in her ears as that Indian heaved into the rushing waters below.

 

Heavy blue smoke from the black power drifted up across the hollow giving away the shooters position, but the last two Indians quickly disappeared in the undergrowth hurrying away from the accurate and deadly shooter. Martha clung motionless to the rocky bluff. She could see the figure of a man coming down the hillside opposite her position. His movements were quick and sure. The sight of him gave her hope and strength and she began to inch her way off the ledge and await his arrival.

 

Henry Ramsey was a man of medium height, with broad heavy shoulders and slender hips. His stride was even and sure. His cold steel gray eyes gave him a piercing gaze. The slight gray of his beard and hair made him appear older than his thirty-five years. It all blended with his graying doeskin frock, britches and knee-high leggings that gave him a camouflage effect with the late fall background of tree bark so abundant in the forest.

His eyes were kind and lost their hardness as he approached Martha. She sat on the ground, scraped and bruised from her escape. The briars had ripped at her flesh, and the blood which had seeped from her wounds began to dry in the crisp late fall air. She shivered and sobbed as she sat there. Her sobs were of joy at being saved, remorse for family and those friends she had lost that morning, and shear hysteria.

 

He did not speak at first nor did she. Henry removed his frock and he slipped his shirt over his head exposing his massive chest with its mat of hair. The muscles of his shoulders, arms, and back exemplified the power and strength he possessed. He slipped his shirt over her head, and placed her arms through the sleeves as if he were dressing a little girl. His hard-calloused hands were gentle and his voice was tender as he spoke.

 

"Ma'am you're alright now. Don't worry, they won't be back for a while, but we got to get back to the Bluffs, and we got to move as fast as we can, 'cause they'll be back with more of those red devils 'fore long," he said.

 

She turned to face him, but couldn't respond to his questioned look. Her eyes read the rugged softness of his face, and she knew the man who was capable of dealing out instant death was also capable of tenderness, and humane love. She felt safe, and had a feeling of ease she hadn't felt since before her husband died of consumption during their overland trip from the mountains.

 

As he pulled her to her feet, he could see that her beauty was steeped in strength, the kind of strength a woman needed to survive in the wilderness. Her breasts were firm, her hips were wide and shapely. He could see she was capable of bearing many children easily.

 

She looked back at his eyes and could see that she had stirred his manly passion, and even after all she had gone through could feel herself stir at his touch. It had been 8 months since her husband had died and even longer since, she had felt the closeness of man and wife.

 

Henry looked at her dark brown hair and her strong features for a long moment. Her height was almost his own, and he could see she still had strength, and they would need it if they were to arrive at the Bluffs safely.

 

They moved off quickly down the hillside and crossed a small branch. From her countenance, Henry knew she could make the Bluffs without difficulty. She held her head high even in her ragged condition, and her voice when she spoke was sure and didn't falter, but had a quality of softness that gave her an appealing even sensual air.

 

When they had reached the top of the next hill, Martha looked back in an effort to etch in her memory the near rendezvous with death where she had contemplated suicide. Her narrow escape was lost in the beauty of the place, and the death that had lurked so near seemed never to have existed except for the crumpled bodies of the Indians lying at the bottom of the gorge. Henry placed his hand on her shoulder, and she felt for the first time since the attack tears welling up in her eyes.

 

"Never look back ma'am. You can't afford that luxury in this country. It's beautiful but it'll be washed in blood 'for we're all through," he said.

 

"It may be, and even though it almost killed me, and killed my husband I love it. It's mine and my future children's or God would've let those savages take me on that mountain side, and not tantalize me with such beauty if I wasn't meant to be here," she said looking at Henry with determination.

 

"Even though it's beautiful, ma'am it's mighty cruel here, but I think you'll survive, and I think it will be yours and your children's. A woman out here don't make it unless she can see the beauty through all the burden, unless she's ready to pick up and build again and again. I don't even know your name, and I haven't known you an hour yet, but you got grit, real grit."

 

"My name is Martha, Martha Jones."

 

"I'm Henry Ramsey, hunter, trapper. Come down across country and met up with Robinson at the Bluffs. I heard stories of this place and I had to see for myself. It's beautiful and I never seen so much elk, deer and buffalo in all my life. It's no wonder why them red devils wants to kill us. I don't blame 'em. We'll kill all the game off 'fore long when more settlers come in, and they'll come!"

 

“God give us the right, Mr. Ramsey! They don't use the land so it don't belong to them. I look around and I see fields of wheat, tobacco and corn. It's gonna be mine Mr. Ramsey. I've come too far, and given up too much for this not to be right. God helps those who help themselves!" She said.

 

"I believe it will Mrs. Jones, I believe it will."

 

They crested the hill and walked down a saddle to the valley cut through the ridges. The walking was easier, and the game abounded seemingly not frightened, but curious of these two strangers that had invaded their domain.

 

Henry led the way to the trail that was known as Indian Cut. It led to the Cumberland and on out past the Bluffs and French Lick, where the animals and men alike came to get salt from the salt springs that abounded there.

 

As the sun turned the western sky a beautiful red orange they came to the top of a small knob that gave them a view of the basin where the Bluffs were located. The fall frosts had painted the hardwood trees with strikingly bright colors, and the early afternoon light made them come alive, seeming to dance in the evening breeze.

 

Martha held her breath at the beauty, and knew she had finally come home, for she had never known a place as beautiful or that could stand up to the majesty of this valley. In her vision she could see waving fields of grain, mansions, and stables all laced together with roads. She knew it would be inevitable, as the settlers pushed in across the Appalachian Mountains to this new land.

 

Henry clutched her hand almost as if she were his, because he too could see the beauty and the majesty of the valley, and though he could imagine the fields of grain, houses, stables and roads these visions were not as vivid as Martha's, at least not yet. As a hunter, scout and adventurer he had a sadness at this soon to be explosion of civilization into his world. He loved it as it was!

 

They moved off the knoll, knowing the Indians were somewhere behind them, and that they would make a fine target silhouetted against the southern sky. Martha needed the comfort and security of the settlement but they needed to stop for the night and at first light travel on to the settlement. Henry could have made the bluffs before dark alone, but had to measure his travel time to accommodate and allow for Martha's ordeal. They would move off the trail and make camp without fire. Henry didn't think the Indians would continue to follow in the darkness but knew they were close. They would hide in a hollow gap under a giant fallen Oak tree on the side of a hill. It was a perfect covered place where they could gain some needed rest without fear of being discovered.

"Ma'am, we don't have any blankets. We must huddle up close to each other for warmth during the night. I know you understand. The temperature will drop quickly tonight and we don't want to freeze to death out here because of modesty," Henry said as they snuggled in the depression where he had laid leaves and pine branches to keep their bodies off the ground. He also laid limbs across the opening against the root ball to keep out the cool night breeze and they rested in each other's arms till the morning rays of sun woke them.

 

James Robertson wasn't a big man, but had a strong jaw with bright blue eyes, and at a glance it was obvious the determination that lay behind this founder of civilization in the wilderness. The settlement had a hard winter, but the boats had come and the fields cleared producing a good crop. They felt secure and confident in their position, and even the frequent Indian attacks hadn't dampened their spirits. From time to time the settlers were forced back to the fort for protection, but they always returned to their land. The first land some had ever owned, and they wouldn't turn that possibility of financial freedom loose, not even with the possibility of death.

 

John Rains brought the news of Henry's return with Mrs. Jones. He was hunting at the salt lick to replenish the forts meat supply when he saw Henry and Martha approach. At the sight of Henry and his companion dressed only in a doeskin shirt he hurried forward to greet them. After a brief explanation, and assurances they could make it to the compound, he hurried on to prepare for their arrival, and to pass the word quickly of the deaths of the settlers at Renfro's Station. Time was of the essence if all the nearby settlers were notified of the possibility of an impending Indian attack.

 

As Henry and Martha approached the fort several women met them at the gate. Charlotte Robertson wrapped a cover around Martha and escorted her off to an enclosure for food, rest and medical attention.

 

Martha felt a tinge of regret at leaving Henry even though they had only met some 2 days before. But she was tired and the warm food and bed was a welcome change from the previous several hurried, frightening days of terror, dried venison and the hard ground she slept on huddled next to Henry for warmth. She drifted off into a deep sleep and dreamed not of the awful things that had happened to her, but of the beautiful country she had seen and walked through. Her sleep was peaceful, and not what you would expect from a woman who had just escaped from a massacre.

 

She rested comfortably in the rope bed, and couldn't help but weave Henry into her dreams. He seemed part of the beautiful country. She wanted to ask him if he was married, but couldn't find the right words.

 

The dawn broke gently with stripes of red and golden yellow in the eastern sky forming ribbons of light between the high Cirrus clouds as the early morning sun peeped over the horizon. The crisp fall air seem to indicate an early winter, but the temperatures during the day were still warm and comfortable. Henry talked with James Robertson at length about the signs and Indians he had seen. He estimated the band that massacred the settlers at what he called Battle Creek at near forty. They seemed to be only a part of a larger band of nearly three hundred from the signs that were left along Indian Cut. It was Henry's opinion that a major attack would soon occur.

Chapter 2

He was tall for an Indian, with six foot of tempered muscle strung on a medium frame, that commanded respect from those who met him. His jaw was firm and strong with a touch of delicacy around the mouth and eyes. His word was never doubted and while he could be cruel and murderous, he could also be just and merciful.

 

Pontchuma (the powerful) stood silently listening and watching as the two braves told of the deadly accuracy with which Henry Ramsey had disposed of their two companions, and how they watched from a distance as he moved with the sureness of a cougar to save the white woman. They described him as a strong muscular man with a firm and deadly eye. One who wouldn't hesitate in a moment of need, but who also was merciful and tender to the woman.

 

Pontchuma knew that one day their paths must cross, and only one would survive. He was Shawnee and his Indian brothers saw him as not only a leader but a prophet, and only waited for him to say the word and they would drive the settlers from the Bluffs.

 

The entire area north to the Ohio River, west to the Mississippi, east to the Appalachian Mountains, and deep into the South was a shared hunting ground of the Cherokee, Chickasaw, Creek, and Miami. Even the Delaware, The Wyandot, and Cayuga Iroquois came to this area to hunt. It was a bountiful area with game of all types including woodland buffalo, elk, deer, and bear. The Indians only came to hunt in this sacred hunting ground. Each tribe was aware that the other shared the game and none were permitted to settle there. They killed only what they needed and improved the natural balance of the area by insuring that the herds and animals never became over populated. It was almost as if they were managing the area, and in an unaware way they were. They knew from the lands east of the Appalachians and along the coast how the white man had marked and scared the land, killing or running off the game and changing the land forever. He fenced the land and called it his own, growing crops and using the land instead of the Indian way of living with the land. The Indians believed that the land belonged to all, and the animals belonged to all, and the white man did not know this.

 

Pontchuma knew that the settlers had come to stay, and that soon the life of the Indians would change as it had across the big mountains. This drove him to his alliance with the British. He knew that the Indians were not a united people, and could never withstand the onslaught of the settlers without the help of the British.

 

The British had promised not to cross the highest point of the mountains, and for now that was enough. He knew that no matter who won, the settlers or the British, the Indian would eventually lose, but at least it gave them a little more time. Action needed to be taken quickly. The whites had to be driven from the area before gaining a firm foot hold, before it was too late!

 

Pontchuma and five of his braves had previously ridden to the Chickasaw camp just south of the Bluffs on the big waters of the Tanasi (Tennessee) River and an agreement had been made for two-hundred Shawnee braves and two-hundred Chickasaw braves to unite at the first full moon at the Red River camp of Pontchuma to drive the whites from the Bluffs.

 

These hunting camps had been traditional since the origins of the tribes in the area. Now the hunting camps took on the atmosphere of a war camp.

 

The fires licked high at the night air and caused shadows to waver across the grim faces of the half clothed red skins who had gathered in a war council to discuss the attack. Pontchuma stood up in an earnest address to the war council. All talking stopped as each brave felt Pontchuma's commanding presence. He stared into the fire as if seeing a vision, then the words flowed from his mouth in a strange voice that those present did not recognize. They all knew that Pontchuma had elicited the Netherworld and called upon the Great Spirit.

 

"Our people are like the animals of the forest. Our life begins and ends in harmony with the trees and blades of grass, the bear and the deer, the buffalo and the elk, the streams and the fish the turkey and the duck, the air and the water. Even now across the great mountains as the sun rises, the animals are driven away and killed for no reason other than they are there. Our brothers the Delaware the Wyandot, and the Cayuga go the same way as the animals. Now the white hunter comes to our hunting ground and builds his dwellings, girdles the trees and burns the forests. He traps the beaver for his fur and kills the buffalo for this hide, and leaves their flesh to rot in the sun. We will soon go the way of the buffalo, because we are free as the buffalo is free, and the white man corrupts the free. They are as many as the blades of grass. Every day comes more from across the great water with the morning sun. We will surely die or be driven west from our lands for it is the way, as the fox eats the hare, and the cougar eats the deer, so will the white man devour us, but the deer when he cannot escape turns and fights to the death, and the hare struggles to the end, and so shall we struggle to the end for we are the deer and the hare, we are the wind that blows in the grass and the water that flows in the streams, we are the mountains and the valleys, and we will resist, but in the end we will lose, but it is the way!"

 

The grim silence was broken only by the crackling of the fire as it roared out its approval to what Pontchuma had said. His voice stopped, and he closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them again his voice had lost the mysticism, and his eyes were fierce and his jaw firm, sweat formed on his face in the cool fall nights and those that saw knew the anger that he showed was frustration. For he had the knowledge of the extinction of a way of life and all he or any other could do was to delay the inevitable outcome.

 

He spoke with steady deliberate well thought out words. The attack would come at daybreak on the following day. The plan was simple. Take the settlers by surprise. First attack and kill the sparse surrounding settlers and then take the fort and burn it to the ground.

 

The preparation had already began months before and the excitement among the young men ran at a high pitch, some would be proving their manhood and some had fought many battles, but no battle had been fought with so much hatred on both sides. It was a hatred that went beyond normal bounds, and bordered upon the fanatical. The dedication to a cause that drove men to blind obedience to a leader because he exemplified the cause, took hold of the wild braves. They prepared for victory or death, in a fever pitch of excitement.

 

The excitement exploded into vengeance as a party of Chickasaw came into camp dragging a captured white settler from French Lick. While hunting he had happened upon the Indian scouting party.

 

The captive, Simon Keeton was a young man of only 23 and his expectations of growing old didn't look good. He had shot a deer and the report of his rifle brought the scouting party upon him. Now the braves in camp chanted for his death. After the Bluffs were taken he would be carried north, but now the Indians wanted their sport, and Simon could only make it north if he was successful in running the gauntlet. Simon was almost six feet tall, big boned and muscular, but his legs and body were bruised from the constant kicking and beating he had taken on the way to the camp.

 

Tishmego pushed Simon with delight into the big circle where the fire roared. Tishmego was the leader and war chief of the Chickasaw war party. He was almost as tall as Simon, and had a lean mean look with evil piercing black eyes. His naked skin had a red tint with a black strip across his eyes resembling a mask with four black drivels on each side painted under the back side of the eyes to the ears as if flowing from the mask. His lips were also painted black accenting the red tint giving him a fearsome demeanor. His black hair pulled back from his head exposed a large forehead all tinted in red while eagle feathers gracefully adorned his black hair on top falling down upon the middle of his back.

 

Tishmego described his prisoner to the men who sat in council as one of a strong killer of Indians who was a great warrior, and he, Tishmego had captured him. He went on to explain that for the planned war to go the way of the Indian each brave should dip his hands into the blood of this terrible foe, then and only then, could they carry into battle the vengeance of those who had died at the hands of this great warrior of the white man. That brought about a great cry for blood among the young braves.

Simon gagged feeling the rope tighten around his neck as Tishmego jerked him to his feet. The raw hide thongs that bound his hands, cut into his flesh, causing his arms and hands to go numb.

 

With this Pontchuma stepped forward and held up his hand and said, "No, if this is the great warrior you say, then he should be respected as a warrior, and die as a warrior as we would die, and then the glory and honor of his capture will be something to talk about around your campfire. But, if he is not a great warrior then let me be the first to dip my hands into his blood. Test the courage of this white hunter, and if he is brave and strong then the great spirit will save him for death at the stake! Let him run the gauntlet!"

 

Cries of approval were shouted at the wise and just words of Pontchuma. Tishmego's eyes burned with envy at the approval of Ponthcuma's words, but he could say nothing. The braves assembled two long lines on either side of the lodge of Tishmego. Tishmego pushed Keeton violently to the head of the line. He stood behind him while the braves grabbed up branches and clubs, anything to strike with. If he could make it to Tishmego's lodge then he could prolong the inevitable. Simon's mind raced wildly, could he make it to the lodge? As he looked down the line he realized that the frenzied braves would surly kill him long before he reached the end. Just at that moment Tishmego struck him so violently on the back that he stumbled forward and the race for life had begun. Braves on either side struck at his body and he realized his only chance was to break the line and out run the Indians. In an instant his mind computed the distance from the nearest lodge beside the line of braves to the dark tree line of the forest. He had never been beaten in a race in all his life, and even the Cherokee who knew him called him "chabe" the deer, because he ran in great bounds like a frightened deer.

 

Next to the closest lodge stood a small Indian with a club foot. He decided he would break over him and run into the woods, try to outdistance the Indians and hide in the forest until morning and if that succeeded make his way back to the Bluffs to warn of the attack.

 

As he approached the small clubfooted Indian he stumbled, and lunged through the line over the surprised brave. He gained distance on the braves by the sheer surprise and audacity of his break. They hesitated in confusion for just a moment not knowing what had happened. That moment gave Keeton the needed time to dart behind the lodge that hid his escape from the largest part of the Indians in line.

 

Tishmego's lean body reacted quickly and he was soon right behind the fleeing captive. The other braves followed in pursuit, but soon it was just Keeton and Tishmego. Tishmego's sinewy body was built for speed and Keeton could hear the beating of his feet close behind. His body strained from the beating he had taken in the gauntlet and his capture. He ran harder than he had ever run, causing his legs to ache and grow almost numb, but still the Indian was close behind. Tishmego's war club whipped at the air as he struck out at Keeton's head. It grazed the back of his scalp and he could feel the warm blood run down his back, but he never lost stride for he knew that if he slowed to fight the others would be on them in a moment.

 

The briars and small bushes whipped and tore at his chest and arms, but he ran on and began to gain a little distance on his pursuer. An outcrop of rock was on his left and it jutted out over the river. He bounded over the rocks with Tishmego only a few steps behind. The silence of the night air was broken only by their pounding feet and gasps for breath. Keeton reached the top and dove into the late fall waters of the Red River. The shock of the cold water gave him new strength.

 

Tishmego splashed into the water close behind him. They both swam strongly to the opposite shore. Tishmego being the better swimmer caught up with Keeton in the waist deep water as he waded to shore.

 

The other braves gathered on top of the outcrop of rock and waited for the victor to emerge. Curiously none entered the water. It was a private battle between representatives of the red man and white man. An omen for the battle that was to come. Tishmego grabbed Keeton from behind and wrestled him backwards into the deeper water holding him under. He struggled, and his lungs strained for air after his hard run and swim. They were both exhausted and deeper water caused Tishmego to lose his footing. Keeton emerged from the water gasping for breath. In his hand he held a smooth round stone from the bottom of the river. Almost as if by reflex action he slammed it against Tishmego's face crushing his nose. Tishmego fell back into the water and Keeton was on him to make sure the last signs of life were gone. He placed his foot in the small of the braves back, while pulling his head back by the hair causing his mouth to open. He watched the last bubbles of air float to the top of the water, then he knew Tishmego was dead.