Upon attaining his majority three years before, John Norton had
gained a commission through the influence of his uncle, a merchant at
New Orleans. Yellow fever had left him alone in the world six months
afterward, and he had looked forward to a career in the army. By a
curious combination of circumstances, however, he had now resigned
that career to enter on a more hazardous and difficult task.
What he remembered of his life had been centred about New Orleans,
but beyond a casual acquaintance with his uncle's business he had not
lingered about the city save for a few weeks at a time. A few years
of wandering in the Southern woods with friendly Indians, traders,
and frontiersmen had given him a thorough mastery of woodcraft; with
this his brief military career had not interfered, for he had
conducted several treaty-making or mapping expeditions through
eastern Louisiana, once as far as Florida.
Now, however, a new service had offered itself to him. The Ohio
Valley trade came largely to St. Louis and New Orleans, by means of
arks and flatboats. It was easy to float down with the current, and
men took down their wares, sold them, and came back overland, for the
return river journey was difficult. A few years before, banditti had
been numerous until the Kentucky riflemen had broken up the Harpe and
Mason gang of pirates. Since that time there had arisen a new king
of the lawless, whose doings had all but paralyzed the river trade.
"Let me give you my own story first, gentlemen," said Norton quietly,
as he rode between Colonel Dick and Boone, with Zach just ahead.
"Since you seem to jump at the very name of Blacknose, things must
indeed be in a poor state up here."
The others merely nodded. All four were riding slowly toward
Louisville; the sun was but recently up, and in the brisk morning air
all thought of danger or trouble seemed very vague and distant. Yet
Boone's keen gaze never left the roadside.
"As you will, sir," responded Colonel Dick courteously. "My son has
told us of you, and we would be only too glad to hear of your family.
I knew a gallant gentleman of your name--a Major Charles Norton, of
my own Virginian regiment under General Washington."
"He was my father." And Norton's face darkened.
"What, sir--your father!" Colonel Taylor drew rein suddenly.
"Yes. He brought his family west, expecting to settle at
Cincinnati--he was a member of that society, of course, and was
attracted by the name. He had barely reached there when he found a
message from my Uncle John, who had gone to St. Louis. My father
decided to join him, and undertook the trip with a brother officer
named Moore.
"This was in the fall of 1790, when I was four years old. During the
winter my father and Captain Moore built a large ark, and early in
the spring embarked both families, with their property and slaves.
The ark passed Louisville, and after that--it vanished."
"Good heavens, sir--what do you mean?" demanded Colonel Taylor,
staring. Norton smiled.
"River pirates. I was fetched to St. Louis by my old nigger mammy in
a crazy canoe; she died before she could more than tell who I was,
having been shot. Beyond a doubt the ark was surprised, either by
Indians or pirates, only my devoted old black mammy getting me away.
The rest were never heard from again----"
Norton proceeded to give a brief account of how his uncle had adopted
him, later removing to New Orleans, and of how his own life had
fitted him for the task in hand.
"Now, as you all know," he continued calmly, "the river somewhere
between here and Fort Massac has been terrorized by a band of river
pirates. Whether whites or Indians, no one knows, for the simple
reason that they take no prisoners. For some reason the rumour has
crept out that their leader is called Blacknose, and is a member of
the old Mason gang. This may or may not be true----"
"For heaven's sake, man, don't speak that name!" broke out the
younger Taylor. "If any group discusses the name in these parts,
they suffer for it. Dad urged the Legislature to send out the
militia to guard the river against him; three days later our barns
were burned. The same thing has happened to other men. We know
nothing more about the gang than you do, except that it must have an
excellent spy system."
Norton listened, his face setting into cold lines.
"No one asks you to talk of him," he returned grimly. "I'll do all
that's necessary. Three months ago the New Orleans merchants got
together to discuss the damages being wrought upon the river-trade;
they knew I was a woodsman and that I had had the luck to break up
that Nagatoches gang, so they came to me. I accepted the task of
smashing this Blacknose, and I mean to do it. Gentlemen, my letters."
With this, he handed a letter each to Boone and Taylor, then moved a
few paces on to the side of the lieutenant.
"See here, Norton," exclaimed the latter, with a glance at his
father, "let me join you in----"
"Not much, Zach." And Norton smiled grimly. "You're a farmer, not a
woodsman; besides, you've a bride to take care of. No--that's final."
Taylor said no more, and John Norton gazed out at the view beyond the
little rising knoll on which they stood. It was close enough to the
river to be in sight of the falls, and directly opposite them, on the
Indiana shore, was Clarksville. Norton's eye lingered a moment on
the large house which stood at the point of rocks; he had learned on
the previous day that this was the home of George Rogers Clark, one
of the great frontier heroes, but now an old man and crippled.
His gaze swept on to Louisville, half of its one street hidden by a
rising knoll of cot ton woods. The stone court-house, the
bell-roofed taverns, the Gault gardens at the upper end of
town--Norton looked past these to Shippingsport, the little harbour
below the falls, and his eyes narrowed. Here began his trail, as he
knew well. From Shippingsport went out every ounce of freight to New
Orleans from Louisville and all points up-river, for only experienced
pilots could bring any craft through the falls. Louisville was to
all intents the starting-point of river traffic, and somewhere
between Louisville and Fort Massac, at the juncture of the Ohio and
Mississippi, had vanished a full third of all the rich cargoes sent
down in the past three years.
Having already mapped out a vague plan in his mind, he turned to the
two older men, and smiled slightly. Boone had just finished spelling
out his letter painfully enough, and was staring at it in disgust;
Colonel Taylor was looking at his horse's head with a stern sadness,
the cause of which the younger man knew only too well.
"One moment, Colonel Dick," said Norton gently. The two gazed up
quickly. "I wish to draw you into nothing which can----"
"Captain Norton," broke in the other sternly, "I have never refused
to do my duty, whatever the consequences, nor do I intend to falter
now. My aid is yours, sir."
"You mistake me," smiled Norton, trying to offset the hint of tragedy
in the other's eyes, "Since conditions here are as you inform me,
there is no reason for my incriminating you. If these river pirates
really have a spy system in effect, my mission will be discovered
sooner or later. Do you go on to town with Zach; from this moment we
are strangers. The only good you can do me is to request those whom
you can trust that they will supply all I demand and draw on the New
Orleans merchants who signed that letter to you. For your sake and
that of your family, do as I ask. In this manner you can serve me
best. Colonel Boone will, I am sure, bear me out in this."
The old frontiersman nodded quickly. Colonel Taylor hesitated, then
stretched a hand to Norton.
"God bless you, my boy--and if you need help in the open, come to me."
Norton smiled, exchanged a handgrip and a word with Lieutenant
Taylor, and watched father and son ride off toward the town. Then he
turned to Boone, to find the old man looking glumly at him.
"Well?" he laughed questioningly. "Has Blacknose taken the heart out
of you, or have you forgotten how to fire a rifle?"
To his intense amazement, Boone nodded and spat in the road.
"Yep. That's it. See here, Norton: I fit Injuns all my life and I
ain't quit yet, but my hide's got to feelin' good on my back. Now
I'm goin' to help you, but I ain't goin' to hunt them river pirates.
I ain't ripe to die, not by a good ways! No, sir! I'm a God-fearin'
man, Norton, and I ain't huntin' after trouble."
"What do you mean?" queried the perplexed Norton, taken utterly aback
by the old man's attitude. "What can I count on----"
"You listen here." Boone's blue eyes wandered off among the trees as
he spoke. "I ain't afeard o' no man livin', but I got a wife to
pervide for. Now, we'll go down to the tavern and I'll bring you a
feller who knows the hull country around here and who'll act as
go-betwixt for anything you want. How you fixed on the military end?"
"I've letters to General Harrison from General Wilkinson, which will
allow me to make use of the militia if I wish. Why?"
"Well, you 'tend to the military yourself an' listen here." Boone
leaned over and dropped his voice, his eyes still on the trees. "Ye
know where Blue River runs into the Ohio? Well, forty-five mile down
the river from here, an' twelve mile this side o' Blue River, there's
a big rocky cliff on the Injianny shore, with a cabin an' mebbe more
cabins under it. But _you_ stay on the Kaintuck side, mind.
D'reckly opposite that cliff, ye'll find a big cottonwood blazed
north an' south. Head right south from that there tree, an' in
less'n two mile you'll find a cabin. That's where Red Hugh lives.
Go an' find him if he's there; if he ain't, wait till he comes back.
Tell him 'bout me sending ye, and ask fer help if ye need it."
"Who's Red Hugh?" demanded Norton, wondering.
"That's more'n I can tell ye." And Boone shook his head. "I've
knowed him off an' on hard on twenty year. He raises crops there,
an' goes on reg'lar spring an' fall hunts after Injuns. They killed
off his fam'ly, I reckon, an' God ain't softened his heart
yet--though He will some day, I reckon. He most gen'rally does--
_Lay down_! _Quick_!"
The last three words shot out with vehement force; instinctively,
Norton obeyed the swift gesture and ducked forward. Something sang
over his head, almost brushing his hair; there came a crack on the
wind, and he looked up to see a little drift of white rise from a
clump of cottonwoods a hundred yards away.
Before he quite realized what had happened, the rifle was torn out of
his hand and Boone was sighting. The flint fell uselessly, and with
a muttered curse the old frontiersman slipped from his horse and ran
for the trees whence had come the shot. Norton, now comprehending,
was after him instantly.
Active though he was, he had hard work keeping up with Boone.
Together they gained the trees, to find nothing more than a slight
tinge of powder on the air, until Boone leaned over the ground,
pointing.
"Here he was, the skunk! Come on, now."
His trained eye making out the tracks, Norton followed. After five
minutes they came out on Beargrass Creek, and on the opposite shore
was no trail.
"Slipped us," cried Boone savagely. "Consarn him! He might ha' gone
up or down, so let's git out o' here whilst our hides are safe."
Whereupon, the old woodsman turned and incontinently made for the
horses, as did Norton. The assassin had had time to reload, and
tracking him in the river bed was impossible. When they had regained
the horses, Boone held out something to Norton.
"Find the feller who owns this, an' ye've got him. I reckon your
errand has slipped out, friend."
Norton smiled faintly at the grim sarcasm in the old man's voice, and
looked at the object. It was the plug of a powder-horn evidently
dropped in haste. Finely carved in greyish horn, the stopper was
crossed lengthwise by a band of red.
"You find a feller with a horn what's got a red streak in it," went
on Boone, "and a wooden plug; he's wearin' Shawnee moccasins instead
o' boots; he's left-handed, 'cause he rested his rifle that side o'
the tree, an' I wouldn't wonder but what he was cross-eyed."
"Huh? Why cross-eyed?" queried Norton, frowning, and dropped the
plug in his shirt.
"'Cause he didn't see me a-watchin' them trees," cackled the old man,
and swung up to his saddle. "Now let's git away from here; it makes
me plumb scared. What do you reckon ye'll do first off?"
"Take advice," smiled Norton easily. "All I can get. I fancy the
pirates are in league with some one here, for they've dropped on the
best cargoes and let the poor ones pass by. It looks as if they had
spies here, sure enough."
"An' one of 'em's wearin' Shawnee moccasins," chuckled Boone. "Well,
afore ye git desp'rit, go see Red Hugh. Now, you git up to the
tavern an' wait till I come. I'm a-goin' to see Kitty Grigg."
"Kitty Grigg?" Norton's mind went back swiftly to the girl he had
glimpsed on the previous day. "Who is she, Colonel?"
"Well, Ol' Abel Grigg 'lows she's his daughter," returned the other
slowly. "'Fraid Abel ain't much account, though. He was with me
back in the Blue Lick massacree, and cert'nly fit good, but went bad
later. I've knowed Kathleen sence afore I went to Missouri, and if
she's Abel's daughter, then, by gum, I'll sculp myself!"
"Grigg lives at Louisville, then?"
"No--he's a hunter, mostly. Has a farm back o' town a piece. Well,
see ye later! What tavern ye goin' to?"
"The 'Steuben Arms', just beyond Doctor Gault's residence."
Boone nodded, and rode off along a forest trail leading to the south,
while Norton pursued his course into town.
Who had fired that shot? He thought of Duval's threat, but Duval was
no woodsman, and the assassin was, as his method of escape testified.
It seemed much more likely that, as Boone had said, some hint of his
mission had leaked out.
How that could have been, Norton knew not. He had breathed no word
of it to any man from leaving New Orleans until reaching the Taylor
farm, nor had he discussed either piracy in general or Blacknose in
particular. He had kept his ears open along the frontier but had
learned nothing; no one had ever seen Blacknose, no one so much as
knew whether there were a Blacknose or not. The name was a rumour, a
border myth--and only in Louisville was it backed up by reality,
reflected Norton.
He had not been sent on any false trail, that was certain. Neither
the up-river farmers and merchants nor those of New Orleans could
give him any definite information; yet both they and Norton knew well
that in this year of grace, 1810, when settlements and cabins were
scattered all along the Ohio and Mississippi, flatboat after flatboat
could not vanish into thin air with their crews.
Norton's private opinion had been that Blacknose was a renegade who
led a band of Indians and kept in touch with some one at Louisville
for information. That opinion was sorely shaken by what the Taylors
had said, however. He began to think the whole affair was engineered
by river pirates alone, and so rode slowly into town, lost in
thought. Nor did he forget the horn plug which now reposed in his
pocket. Sooner or later he would find the man who wore Shawnee
moccasins and whose powder-horn was mottled with a red streak, and he
promised himself that something unpleasant would happen to the
gentleman in question.
As he splashed through the mud in front of the courthouse, he saw the
figure of Duval going up the steps. The lawyer had not observed him,
however, and Norton watched him disappear inside. For the Far West
the courthouse was a stately building, with its two stories, ornate
cupola, and handsome pillars.
The Louisianian rode slowly on down the one principal street toward
the lower end of town, and so came to the "Steuben Arms", whose host
had once served under the fiery baron in the late war. Indeed, it
was for this reason alone that Norton had chosen the place, for it
was none of the best; he had been disappointed in finding Bower an
infirm, mumbling old veteran.
Dismounting, he gave his reins to the waiting negro, nodded to old
Bower as he passed through the public room, and sought his own
chambers. He had no desire to hang about below-stairs, since the inn
seemed frequented by rivermen.
The morning was well advanced when, in response to a knock, Norton
opened the door and admitted Colonel Boone and a stranger. This
stranger was a peculiar individual, even for a time when the border
was crowded with peculiar personages. He was dressed in a dirty
shirt with dirty ruffles, an ancient beaver, ancient scarlet velvet
breeches, shoes which had burst at the toes, and a greatcoat of
reddish fustian. Below a greasy and dishevelled wig, his face was
small and pinched, yet very ruddy and healthy; he seemed to Norton an
odd little old man, and his black eyes twinkled perpetually.
"Captain Norton, my friend, Mr. Elisha Ayres, Gent.," declaimed Boone
with something like a grin. "Ayres, young Norton's the likeliest
feller I've seen in a coon's age."
"That, sir," averred Mr. Ayres in a slow and precise tone, "is a
truer knighthood than any which could be bestowed by the crowned
heads of the Old World! I trust you appreciate the honour, Mr.
Norton, sir! I am yours to command."
"You can trust Mr. Ayres, Norton," continued Boone. "Now, I'm goin'
to git home. Pow'ful glad I met ye, Norton, and if ye need to do a
little shootin', go find Red Hugh. Ye can trust Elisha----"
"You're not starting for Missouri--now?" inquired the astonished
Norton.
"Not yet--goin' to crack a bowl o' punch at Doc Gault's first." And
Boone shook hands with both men, then turned to the door. Norton had
a last glimpse of the barrel-like chest, grey hair, and keen eyes;
then Boone was gone with a final wave of the hand.
"Well, Captain Norton," began Ayres in his dry precise manner,
"Colonel Boone has told me of your mission in these parts, sir. I
congratulate you heartily, sir, and I congratulate these United
States upon having a public servant of your spirit----"
Norton smiled to himself. He began to think that Boone had made the
best of a bad bargain by passing off the first person he had picked
up as an assistant.
"What is your business, Mr. Ayres?" he inquired, wondering how best
to get rid of the ruddy-cheeked little man.
"I am a schoolmaster, sir"; and as he spoke, Ayres settled back in
his chair and pulled forth a pipe. "By the way, Mr. Norton, the man
who shot at you this morning is a hunter from down-river. His name I
do not know, but he wears a fox-skin cap with the brush hanging,
dresses in buckskin like yourself, and wears a black beard."
Norton started.
"Are you jesting, sir? Do you know this man?"
"I do not." And Ayres fell to work with flint and steel, until he
had a light for his pipe. "I saw him last week, and chanced to note
the redstreaked powder-horn. When my friend Colonel Boone told me of
it, I remembered. That is all. Ah--one point further--he was
discussing some of our host's excellent Virginia whisky, in company
with one Charles Duval, Gent., a fellow townsman of mine."
While Norton was still trying to assimilate the information imparted
by this queer individual, the bell on the roof banged out its summons
to dinner. Ayres arose with a grandiose bow.
"You will honour me, sir, by your company below? Then we can discuss
matters at our leisure."
Norton swallowed hard, nodded, and followed to the door. He began to
think that he had sadly misjudged Colonel Daniel Boone.