Rick Carter's First Big Adventure (Pete's Barbecue Book 1) (29 page)

      Margaret rushed to her husband’s side fearing the worst.  She reached out to turn him over, but he was already flipping himself over, his face covered in snow and a wild expression of sudden surprise and fiery rage.  She looked down at his chest expecting a gaping hole and blood.  But, there wasn’t any.  His nice dress shirt was as pristine as it had been before, minus the dirty snow that marred it now.  Tormodis was feeling his chest frantically, his face now turning red.  Mel watched all of this with his typical amused fascination. 

       “Well, I guess that answers that question,” He said.

      “What question?”  Roger huffed as he finally made the group, his breathing labored and deep.

         Mel looked at his brother’s return with gladness.  “Tormodis just got shot,” He said.

        “You were wondering if he could get shot?”  Roger was puzzled.

        “No, I was wondering about the Prime Sphere, though.  I guess I don’t need to wonder anymore.”  Mel smiled widely.

       “Oh, that reminds me.”  Roger said between gasps of air.  “There’s some Indians over there.”  He pointed back toward the hill.

      Mel patted him on the shoulder.  “Nice going, Rog.  You got that one right the first time.”

      Roger didn’t understand what he meant.

      Margaret helped her husband get to his feet again.  Unfortunately, it didn’t improve his mood any more than lying in the snow.  His eyes were almost bloodshot with rage.  “You knew about this?!”  He spit at Mel.

      “Sure.  You didn’t?”  Mel poured on the contemptuous disdain.

      Margaret, relieved that husband wasn’t dead, glanced quickly back up to the hilltop.  She was wondering why the Indians hadn’t fired again yet.  But, they seemed to have lost interest in them for the moment.  Something on the other side of the hill had caught their attention, and they were occupied with trying to determine the new threat.   “What are they waiting for?”  She asked.

       Tormodis raged on, oblivious to Indians or his wife’s question.  “You knew this could happen?”

      Mel looked irritated.  “I know what the Prime Sphere can do.  Haven’t you ever been shot before?’  He asked almost casually.

     “No!”  Tormodis shouted back.  “That’s not something we try to do a lot.  How many times have you been shot?”

       Mel thought for a moment.  “Several dozen times I’m sure.  It’s hard to remember.”

      Margaret was fully engrossed in the distracted Indians now, and Roger had joined her.  “What are they doing?”

     Roger was leaning forward squinting his eyes.  “Waiting.”

     “For what?”  She asked.

    “You know you could have warned us about it!”  Tormodis continued spitting his rage in Mel’s direction.

     “What did you want me to say? Please, get shot so we can see if you’re covered by the Prime Sphere?  Which, by the way, brings up another question: how are you guys covered?  I mean you’re not employees, and you don’t operate with Pete’s frequencies.  So how do you go about getting your shield?”   Mel fired back.

     “Do I look like I know?  I don’t know what this thing is.”  Tormodis gritted his teeth as he brushed off the snow that hadn’t melted from his pants and shirt. 

      “Hey, everyone.  Somethings wrong with the Indians.”  Margaret tried to point out to the bickering men beside her.  The small group on the hill top were edging off to the left now, making cautiously for a small stand of trees there.  Suddenly another crack sounded, the report of another musket, unseen, sent the Warriors into a panic, and they fled quickly toward the trees, disappearing stealthily into their midst like ghosts. 

      “That’s weird,” Roger muttered.

       “They left?”  Margret asked, surprised.

       “No, they didn’t say goodbye.”  Roger seemed disappointed.

        Tormodis repositioned the M1 carbine on his back again and stamped his feet.  “Well, if it was any worse than their hello, good riddance.”

       “Hey, who’s that?”  Margret pointed back up at the hilltop.

       Mel turned to see three new figures on the hilltop, almost in the same positions the Indians had just been in.  They were tall, stone like men with similar buckskin and accouterments and muskets cradled in their arms.  They were looking down on the little group in the valley just like the fleeing warriors had done.   “I don’t know.  Hope they’re friendly, though.”

      Roger put his hand up to shield his eyes from the glare of the white snow.  He smiled broadly.  “That’s the Tracker.”

      Tormodis’s attention snapped toward the three newcomers, and Mel glanced at his brother with an admiring smile.  “Good job, Roger.”

      The three men walked slowly toward them, apprehensive and vigilant.  Mel could see from the short distance that two of them were clearly older, maybe mid to late 40s around his age.  And the two looked a lot alike.  They had dark hair pulled back from their scalps underneath their black hats.   But, one looked more weather-beaten than the other two.  The third was much younger, in his early 20s.  They arrived at Mel’s little group with blank but concerned expressions.  The man on the left spoke first, “Greetings.”  His voice was clear and sharp and gave no hint of fascination or curiosity at the bizarre nature of finding four such odd and out of place creatures underneath the cold winter sky.

      Mel proudly adjusted himself, stood more upright and threw his charm talent into overdrive.  “Hello.  We’re looking for the Tracker.”  He smiled broadly and enthusiastically.

      “Are you now?”  The same man replied.  “By the looks of you, you need more than a tracker.  Tell me, who are you and how be you here in the wilds with these strange clothes?”

        “Well,” Mel chuckled, aware that he had to make impressions count and count quickly. “That’s a long story, friend.   My name is Mel, this is Roger, and these two are Margaret and Tormodis.  We’re very glad to make you acquaintance.”  He extended his hand.

        At the mention of Tormodis’s name, the man in the middle perked up.  He glanced at Tor and looked him up and down.  “You’re Tormodis?”  He asked, his voice was softer than the first man as if he weren’t used to speaking all that much.

        Tormodis stepped up, still holding his M1 cautiously as if expecting another sudden attack.  “Yes,” He said, waiting for some additional word. “I am.”

        The man stared at Tormodis with some doubt and apprehension of his own.  His blue eyes looked as if he were looking right through him. 

       The first man put out his hand offering it to Mel who quickly took it and shook vigorously.   “Well met, friend.  I am Ned, Ned Boone.  This here’s my older brother Daniel and that’s his son Israel.”

       Mel continued to shake his hand, his charming smile fixed in place by a sudden shock, as if he had just been slapped. “I’m sorry what?”

    “I said,” Ned tried once more, “I am Ned Boone; this is my brother Daniel and his son Israel.”

      Mel dropped his hand sharply.  He looked over at Daniel.  “You’re Daniel Boone?  THE Daniel Boone?”

    “Yes,” he replied, just as softly.  “Have we met?”

      All Mel could manage was, “O my…”

      Roger leaned into Mel to whisper in his left ear, “I told you.  But, he doesn’t look anything like Fess Parker.” Mel made no response to this.  His eyes were still wide and his mouth slightly open.  In all his travels, his many adventures stumbling about reality, he had met many people, famous people, and had seen some amazing things.  Few had impressed him as much as this.

       Even Tormodis and Margaret were stunned.  “You’re the Tracker?”  He asked.

        “I have been known to track and hunt.  But, you’re not the Tormodis I know.”  He responded with a soft but firm voice, his eyes still running over the young man in front of him uncertainly.

       Tormodis grunted a little. The awkward moment he feared had come at last.  “Well…”

      “It’s okay, Mr. Boone.”  Mel stepped in.  “It’s just a little mix-up in…timing.”  He smiled.

      Daniel looked at him steadily, no appearance of confusion or dismay crossing his face. “I know a Tormodis.  But, he’s an older man.  Older than me.  Much older than you. He goes by another name around here.  We call him Ole Sam.  He’s the Old one the Indians are so afraid of.  The one who travels through the land and comes and goes without being seen.”

       “Well, guess what?” Mel spoke up heartily, smiling again and extending his charm gauge into realms it had seldom gone. “He may not look like the one you know, but he is at the same time…the same one…that you, um, might know…”  He stumbled badly but projected his voice firmly and with authority.  He followed this absurd statement with a slight frown when he realized how ridiculous it sounded.  “I think I better explain…”

         Mel made two clumsy attempts at explaining Tormodis’s awkward younger presence before realizing that it wasn’t gaining him any new ground. And Daniel was growing tired of trying to follow the broken explanations, so he announced, in his very simple, practical-mindedness, that they needed to get in out of the cold first, and that stories could wait until they were warm.   He led them back up the trail for about two miles where they came upon a steep hill not far from a little creek.  The trace went through the valley between the hills, beside the stream, following its course onward.  On top of this hill was an arrangement of several hastily built log cabins.  Two looked fully built while two more were half built, logs strewn about in the snow.  The place had obviously seen a lot of activity.  The ground was all trampled and muddy in some places from the horses that were hobbled nearby.    There were several tripods made from small tree limbs that were over top circles of blackened charcoal where outside cooking had taken place.  Daniel told them it was called Boone’s Station.  The families had only been there since the start of winter. The winter, he said, was the coldest he could remember.

        He took them to one of the cabins where smoke was pouring out of the stone-cobbled chimney.  Inside a woman and several children, who ranged in ages from 5 or 6 to 8 and 12, were busy with the many tasks needful for life on the frontier.  The cabin was thick with the smell of smoke and the unwashed bodies and of toil and tears.  It was amazing just how many people could fit in so small space.  But, Mel and the others didn’t care about the crowding or the smell.  They were glad for the big fire that kept the cabin warm.  They all four huddled around it for several long minutes, trying to re-warm fingers and toes. 

      “Now,” Daniel said, placing his rifle upright by the door and shaking himself from the cold.  “What was it you were trying to say?”  He went over to the small table by the other wall, through the herd of children who were gathered about gawking at their new visitors.  He grabbed a bottle from the table and handed it to Mel. It was nearly filled with Ole Mongahella whiskey.  Mel passed it on to Roger, who took it and uncorked it, sniffing the contents. He crinkled his nose at the strong odor then handed the bottle on to Tormodis.  Tormodis bypassed Margaret and handed it to Israel, who had come in with Ned behind them, stamping their feet.  Israel passed it on to Ned and Ned gave it to the unnamed woman, who remained silent to the new arrivals, but was busy with a large piece of meat that she had in the corner on a small table attempting to cut slices of it off for cooking.  She put the bottle back on the table Daniel had just taken it off of. 

     Daniel didn’t notice any of this activity.  He was wading through people, small and large, comfortable in this crowded, smoky life as anyone could be.  He took off his broad-brimmed black Quaker hat, his powder horn and leather bag that had been strung across his chest and hung them on a wooden peg by the door.  Then he made his way to one of two cane-bottomed chairs that were next to the great stone hearth of the fire.  He sat down in one and offered Margaret the other.  She happily complied.  Ned and Israel stood by the door, out of the way as much as possible, their elbows propped on the barrel of their rifles, the butts of the guns on the wooden floor.  They had removed their hats but kept them in their hands. 

     The children were all naturally curious about the newcomers, but they kept silent, observing the four from different parts of the cabin.

    The woman looked up momentarily from her meat cutting.  It was hard to tell her age.  She still had a natural beauty about her but years of toil and burden had prematurely aged her.  She was also clearly well along in pregnancy.  “Please ignore the mess sirs.  We’re just arrived and haven’t had much time to get better means made.”

      Daniel looked at her, aware his manners were lacking. “This is my wife, Rebecca,” He announced to the group. “My other brother Samuel is somewhere about.  I do not presently know where.”

       Mel looked at her and bowed slightly.  “Ma’am,” He said with a courteous reply.  No one else spoke.  Margaret sat in the chair next to Daniel with her eyes glued on him.  She was just as fascinated by this pleasant turn of events as was her husband, but more willing to show it in her face and eyes.   She felt ridiculous like a tourist for the first time.  They had been to so many places, seen so many things and even met a few interesting names along the way like John Sutter, of Sutter’s Mill fame, Queen Isabella of Spain, and, oddly enough, Phillip K. Dick.  But, meeting Daniel Boone was an altogether different proposition.  Here in front of her was the legendary Daniel Boone.  Margaret grew up in the Kentucky school system.  Everyone in Kentucky knew that name by heart from childhood.  Unfortunately, very few knew, or wanted to know anymore, the facts about the real man.  Most were just content with the legends, even if a lot of the legends were untrue.