JIM LONG-KNIFE
By Florance Walton Taylor
[Illustration: uncaptioned]
Illustrated by
Dirk Gringhuis
ALBERT WHITMAN & COMPANY
Chicago Illinois
Second Printing 1967
Copyright 1959 by
ALBERT WHITMAN & COMPANY
L. C. Card 59-9656
Published simultaneously in the Dominion of Canada by George J. McLeod,
Limited, Toronto. Printed in
the U.S.A.
Dedication
To Alan’s three little queens;
Elizabeth,
Leslie,
Sarah.
[Illustration: uncaptioned]
Permission is gratefully acknowledged for the use of material from
“George Rogers Clark Papers” in Vol. 8 of the _Collections_ of the
Illinois State Historical Library, edited by James Alton James,
copyright 1912.
[Illustration: _Minnemung_]
TABLE OF CONTENTS
I. A Strange Guest 7
II. Was It a Trick? 25
III. An Exchange at the Salt Lick 42
IV. Winter with the Potawatomis 57
V. The Long Knives 74
VI. On to Kaskaskia 94
VII. No Adoption 108
VIII. A Peaceful Interval 120
IX. Through the Drowned Lands 137
X. Capture of Vincennes 155
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Chapter I
A STRANGE GUEST
Thirteen-year-old Jim Hudson thumped a melon with practiced fingers,
then pulled it from the vine and laid it in a pile with the others. He
wiped his hot forehead with his sweaty shirtsleeve, turning with a smile
toward his mother. “Look, Ma!” he called, “See how many melons we have.
And how fine the turnips and corn look.”
Ma Hudson, her rifle across her knees, was sitting on a large stump in
the little clearing. She turned at the sound of Jim’s voice, and smiled
wearily at her towheaded boy. “Yes, Jim. We’ll have plenty to eat this
winter, I’m thinking.”
Jim moved on to another vine and glanced along the row to where his
father was kneeling. Ma pushed her sunbonnet back over her faded yellow
hair and resumed her watch into the wilderness surrounding the clearing.
All during the spring and summer the Hudsons had worked in this fashion.
Jim and Pa had planted their crops and enlarged the clearing by felling
trees, while Ma had sat ready with the Kentucky rifle, and looked for
hostile Indians.
This year of 1777 was a fearful one for Kentucky settlers. Some had been
captured or killed by Indians; others had returned to Virginia
discouraged by repeated Indian attacks. The Hudsons, however, had not
been molested and Pa Hudson was determined to stay on his land. It was
the first farm he had ever owned; he loved every inch of this lush
Kentucky wilderness. He and Jim continued to gather melons. Jim worked
faster than his father, because each time Pa moved from one vine to
another, he had to pick up his rifle lying close by on the ground.
Suddenly Jim raised his head and listened. Then he turned to his father.
“Pa, I hear something groaning. Do you?”
Pa seized his rifle and was on his feet immediately. “Where, son?”
Jim cocked his head toward the right. “Over there. Listen. There it is
again.”
At this moment Ma Hudson called, “Pa, I hear groaning.” She was already
picking her way among the stumps toward the sound, the rifle grasped
firmly in her hands.
Pa went striding through the melon patch. “Wait, Ma. Let me go first.”
Soon he was ahead of her, with Jim beside him.
The three made their way through the tangled brambles into woods so
dense the Hudsons seemed to be walking in twilight. Quite suddenly they
saw a bridled horse standing quietly just ahead of them. In a moment the
groaning sound came again, this time to the left of where Jim was
standing.
He whirled around, scrambled over a large fallen tree and cried, “Why,
here’s a boy! Kind of a small boy, too.” Jim started to stoop down
toward the prostrate form.
Pa sprang to his side. “Wait a minute, son.” He peered through the gloom
and saw an Indian boy smaller than Jim, dressed in a long blue cloth
shirt, his face streaked with hideous vermilion. “Maybe this is a
trick,” Pa muttered. “Perhaps he’s been put here to lure us into a
trap.” Holding his rifle ready, Pa started looking about in the shadowy
woods.
Ma Hudson’s hands trembled as she held her rifle and looked down at the
boy. “Pa, he’s hurt. Look at his shoulder. This is no trick.”
Pa handed his rifle to Jim. “You watch with Ma, while I have a look at
him.” He dropped to his knees to examine the boy, mumbling, “I’m still
afraid it’s an Indian trick.”
As Pa turned the boy to one side, he saw an ugly wound where the blue
shirt was torn from one shoulder. Then he looked closely at the wound.
“Why, I can see a bone too, Ma. I think he’s broken his shoulder.”
Ma forgot about the possibility of other Indians lurking near, as she
ventured closer to Pa to look at the boy again. “Pa, he’s not as old as
Jim. We’ll have to take care of him. We can’t leave him here.”
“No, reckon we can’t,” Pa replied, as he tried to lift the Indian boy
from the tangled underbrush. But the boy’s body was enmeshed in a stout
wild grapevine. Pa took out his long knife and began slashing at the
tangled vine.
At this moment, the Indian boy groaned and opened his eyes. He looked up
at the Hudsons in alarm. When he saw Pa’s long knife, he was terrified
and cried out, “_Shemolsea! Shemolsea!_”
“What did you say?” Jim asked, but the boy had lost consciousness again.
When Pa had freed the boy from the vine, he gathered him in his arms and
turned to Jim. “You go ahead with the rifle, Jim, and Ma, you walk
behind me. Mind you both keep a sharp lookout. We’ll have to take him
back to the cabin.”
“But Pa,” put in Jim, “what’ll we do about the horse?” He nodded toward
the animal standing a few feet away.
“Bring him along. And tie him up in our lean-to next to Nellie. But not
too close to our horse. She might nip him.”
The Hudsons took the boy and his horse back to their cabin without
seeing another human being. While Jim tethered the horse at a safe
distance from Nellie, Ma flew about the cabin getting water, her
home-made soap, and clean rags for Pa. He set the wounded boy’s broken
bone as best he could, supporting it with a rude splint. Then with Ma’s
help, he washed the wound with soap and bound the shoulder with rags to
hold the bone securely in place.
When they had finished Pa shook his head. “I’m afraid he’s lost a lot of
blood. He’ll be a while getting well.”
Ma turned to Jim who was standing in the doorway of the cabin. “Jim,
we’ll have to put him in your bed. He’s awfully weak.”
Jim nodded. “Sure, Ma. He’s welcome to it. I can sleep on the floor.”
Pa Hudson laid the boy carefully on Jim’s bed, muttering all the while.
“I don’t like harboring an Indian in my house. No, sir, I don’t.” Then
he turned to Jim. “You stand guard at the door with Ma’s rifle and I’ll
go back for the melons. Some Indians might come swooping in here to get
him.”
Ma’s eyes flashed as she stooped to pick up her rifle from the floor.
“No, Jim. You go help your pa. I’ll stand guard.”
“All right. We’ll be right back,” Jim said; he dashed out to join his
father.
When they had brought all the melons up to the cabin and stacked them in
the shade, they fed and watered the Indian boy’s horse. Inside the cabin
again they found the boy sound asleep. Now and then, Ma glanced at him
as she prepared supper. “Shall we wake him, Pa, and give him something
to eat?”
Pa studied the Indian for a few minutes. “No. He’s breathing all right
but seems in pain. Probably wouldn’t want to eat anyway. Let’s not
bother him.”
After supper the Hudsons conversed in low tones. “Where do you suppose
he came from, Pa?” Ma asked.
Pa shrugged. “I’ve no idea, but now we know the Indians have been near
our farm.”
Ma’s blue eyes widened and she shivered slightly. “It makes me fearful,
Pa. I’ve never really been afraid before.” She laid a thin, work-worn
hand on her husband’s brawny one. “Let’s go back to Virginia.”
Jim glanced quickly at his father and saw Pa’s face set in a stubborn
mask. He was not surprised to hear his father say, “We can’t go all the
way back there alone, Ma. It’s too dangerous. And there’s nothing back
in Virginia for us. We were indentured servants, remember. I want to
hang on to our farm, all four hundred acres of it.”
Ma sighed and smoothed back her faded blond hair. “But we’re free now,
Pa. We finished our time of service before we came out here three years
ago. And I’d like Jim to have some schooling.”
Pa shook his head. “There’d be no future for us in Virginia. We have no
money to start back there. Here we have land, our own land. And this is
going to be a wonderful country. As for school, you can teach Jim the
way you’ve been doing. Weren’t you a governess in one of the big houses
of Virginia?”
Jim had been looking from one to the other of his parents, his clear
blue eyes sparkling. “Please, Ma,” he said, “I want to stay here. You
can teach me lots more, and I can help Pa to clear and plant the land.”
Pa nodded to Jim and smiled in approval. “There’s big men out here, too,
from the finest families of Virginia. Men like James Harrod, Robert
Todd, Simon Kenton and George Rogers Clark.
“You certainly remember Clark, Ma. His father’s land joined where we
worked. George Rogers Clark will figure out some way to stop the
redskins. You surely don’t intend to let one lone Indian boy scare you
away from our home.”
Ma tried to smile. “No. No Pa, of course not. But we can’t be sure there
aren’t other Indians near at hand.”
“That’s true,” Pa agreed. “You and Jim go to bed. I’ll sit up for a
while and listen for any unusual sounds.”
Ma shook her head. “I’ll stay up with you. Jim, I’ll make a pallet for
you.” She got up and fixed a comfortable bed on the floor for Jim. Then
she sat down in the cabin doorway beside her husband.
Jim glanced at the Indian boy lying so quietly in his bed, dropped down
on the pallet and went to sleep.
Ma and Pa Hudson continued to sit in the doorway, rifles by their side,
and to stare out into the silent black night.
When Jim awakened the next morning, Ma had breakfast ready and the
Indian boy was looking solemnly at him from his bed.
Jim jumped up. “Good morning, boy,” he said with a smile. “What’s your
name?”
The Indian boy did not reply but kept his brown eyes fixed on Jim.
Ma put a pewter bowl containing steaming hot grits at Jim’s place on the
table. “Wash your hands and face, son.”
“Yes’m.” Jim poured some water into the washbasin and began splashing
water on his face and hands. As soon as he had finished he carried a pan
of water to their strange guest, so he could wash his face.
But the Indian boy just stared at him and did not move.
Ma came over and stood beside the boy. “Come now, boy,” she said
briskly, “I’ll wash your hands and face. Then you must have some
breakfast.” As she turned one hand over and began to wash it, he tried
to sit up, but fell back on the bed with a groan.
“Poor boy. Your shoulder must hurt badly.” Ma tried to soothe him as she
continued with the washing. “I’ll have to get this awful stuff off your
face.” But when she began scrubbing his face, he groaned again and tried
to turn away.
“Maybe it means something to him to wear that vermilion streak,” Jim
suggested. “Looks like mud, doesn’t it? Or it could be he doesn’t like
water.”
Ma wasn’t able to get the Indian boy’s face thoroughly clean. She
brought a bowl of hot grits to him. “Here, boy, try to eat some of
this.” She held a spoonful of grits to his lips.
The boy tasted it gingerly, found it good and opened his mouth for more.
Ma fed him the contents of the bowl while Jim and Pa ate their
breakfast.
For several days the Hudsons’ strange guest rested in Jim’s bed. Now and
then he tried to sit up only to lie down again with a low moan. With
Ma’s good food, however, and excellent care, he did improve and seemed
to be less frightened at being with the white family.
Little by little he and Jim began trying to talk to each other. By
signs, gestures, and a word or two, each boy began to learn a few words
of the other’s language.
Jim learned that the Indian boy’s name was Wahbunou, which meant The
Juggler, and that he had been pulled from his horse when it galloped
under a large thorn tree. One of the low branches had brushed him off
and a large thorn had pierced his shoulder. He had fallen on a jagged
stump and into the tangled wild grapevine, where the Hudsons had found
him. But Jim was not able to find out what he was doing near their
clearing.
As for Pa, he was disturbed because the Indian boy had been riding so
near their farm. Every night after Ma and Jim were asleep, he rose from
his bed and sat in the cabin doorway with his rifle ready. But no
Indians appeared.
Sometime later Wahbunou was able to be up and about in the cabin. He
would watch Pa clean and oil his Deckard rifle, but he never offered to
touch it. Soon he began walking around the clearing with Jim and Ma
Hudson. He followed Ma everywhere, gratitude for her care shining in his
brown eyes.
One morning Pa said, “We’d best have a look at that shoulder, Wahbunou,
to see if it’s healing properly.” But when Pa tried to remove the rag
bandage, Wahbunou jerked away like a wounded animal, terror in his eyes.
“Come now, Wahbunou, I just want to look at it,” Pa said. “I promise not
to hurt you.”
But Wahbunou would not permit Pa to touch the bandage.
“Maybe I can show him something new, Pa, and get him calmed down a bit
so you can have a look,” Jim suggested. “I’ll get your drum, Pa. Maybe
he’s never seen a drum.”
Pa shrugged. “Indians have drums, Jim, though not like ours. All right,
get it down for him.”
Jim climbed on a chair and lifted Pa’s drum from its place on the top of
Ma’s high cupboard. “Look, Wahbunou.” Jim took the drumsticks and played
a short ruffle on the drum.
Wahbunou seemed interested; he smiled as he reached for one of the
sticks. He grasped it gingerly, turning it over and over, finally
returning it to Jim who played another ruffle and a loud roll. Wahbunou
smiled again and reached for the drum.
Jim nodded. “If you let Pa look at your shoulder, you may have it.” Jim
pointed to the Indian boy’s shoulder and then to his father.
Wahbunou drew back, but finally nodded.
Pa took the bandage off, and gently pulled the rough splint back far
enough to look at the boy’s shoulder. Then as gently, he replaced it.
“Your wound is healing fine, Wahbunou. Soon you’ll be as good as new.”
Jim handed the drum to Wahbunou and the Indian boy beat out a queer,
rhythmical sound with the palm of his hand. He didn’t seem to know how
to use the drumsticks. Then the boys took turns beating it. Jim could
make many fancy rolls and ruffles, but Wahbunou could make only the one
sound.
One day was like another at the cabin until nights began to grow much
cooler. Pa said any day now there would be a frost, so they’d soon have
to harvest the turnips and corn.
Wahbunou’s shoulder healed nicely and Pa finally took off the bandage
and splint. Now that it was cooler and his shirt was in shreds, Ma said
Wahbunou should have a new outfit of clothes. She had been sewing for Pa
and Jim, so she made Wahbunou a homespun shirt and trousers. In his new
clothes Wahbunou looked like any Kentucky boy, save for his
copper-colored skin and straight, coarse black hair.
Not many days after Pa had removed Wahbunou’s bandage, Ma awakened Pa
and Jim earlier than usual. “Jim! Pa!” she cried. “Wake up! He’s gone.”
“Gone! Who’s gone?” Pa asked.
“Wahbunou. He’s not in his bed.”
Jim had scrambled into his clothes. “He’s probably outside, Ma,” he
cried as he dashed out-of-doors. But when Jim looked around their
dooryard and in the shed, he saw that Wahbunou’s horse was gone. He ran
back into the house. “Pa, Wahbunou _must_ be gone. His horse isn’t in
the shed with Nellie, either.”
The Hudsons could not believe that Wahbunou would leave without telling
them good-bye; they spent a long time looking for him. But Wahbunou and
his horse were nowhere in sight.
Finally Ma fixed breakfast. As she put bowls on the table, she sighed
and said, “I can’t understand why he wanted to leave us. He recovered so
nicely and seemed happy here.”
Jim looked up from his food. “But Ma, maybe he wanted to go back to his
own people. I sure would if I were with the Indians or some other
strange folks.”
Ma shrugged and brushed her hair back from her forehead. “That was the
wrong thing for him to do, Jim——go away without telling us good-bye.
Sneaking off in the night.”
Pa looked up at his wife, his brown eyes thoughtful. “Now, Ma, I don’t
think he did anything so wrong. He was probably afraid we would try to
keep him from going, so he just left quietly in the night. I don’t
believe he was ungrateful. As Jim says, he probably longed for his own
people.”
Jim finished his breakfast in silence and then suddenly said, “Do you
suppose some of the Indians came for him?” Jim’s eyes flashed in
excitement.
Pa picked up his rifle and put on his homespun jacket. “I don’t think
they did, Jim, but I’ll have a look around to see if there are new
tracks of any kind. I believe I would have heard them. He probably just
rode off alone.”
Ma began to take away the pewter bowls. “I don’t like it at all. I feel
queer, as if we were surrounded by Indians. I’m afraid we aren’t safe
here any more.”
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