Gone to Texas (13 page)

Nathaniel Jones—he was better known in the Trans-Allegheny region as Flintlock—was a living legend. Boone was gone now. Kenton, too, and Lew Wetzel. Nathaniel was the last of his breed, mused Christopher as he rode down the country lane on the roan horse he'd brought at Maysville, where he had disembarked the flatboat which had brought him down the Ohio River. His belongings were in a durable canvas war bag lashed behind the saddle—he'd sold his trunk to make up the difference between the price of the roan and the money in his pocket.

No, there weren't many men like Nathaniel Jones left these days. Of course he always made light of his exploits when he told his stories to Christopher—to hear him tell it he was just very lucky—but Christopher knew better. He was a bonafide hero, and nobody was going to convince Christopher otherwise. Yes, there were characters like Davy Crockett, whom some said was a frontiersman without peer, but Christopher was firmly of the opinion that Crockett couldn't hold a candle to Nathaniel Jones. Crockett was a great one for spinning yarns that made him come across as the greatest Indian fighter and bear killer the frontier had ever seen, but he hadn't done half the things he claimed to have done.

Nathaniel and his peers—Boone, Kenton, and that bunch of border captains—had tamed this country when it was wilderness. They had been the pathfinders, responsible for bringing civilization to "The Dark and Bloody Ground." Of course, that had not been their goal. They had come over the mountains to escape civilization, only to discover it was inescapable. Boone had moved further west long ago, across the Mississippi into Missouri, still trying to escape. And Christopher knew that his grandfather longed for the good old days when the woodlands were not filled with the ringing of axes, and one could find some place in the forest where you could not smell the smoke from a settler's chimney. Those days were long gone in Kentucky. The land was filling up.

Now that Amanda was dead, Nathaniel spent most of his time wandering the forests, going far afield in search of the solitude he longed for. As Christopher took a familiar path branching off the road and winding through a stand of trees, breaking through to the other side to gaze up the long slope of bluegrass to the cabin in the summer sunlight on the crest of a high hill, his heart sank, for he could sense that the place was empty.

The cabin was no derelict, by any means. It had been
built to last. But it had the appearance of neglect. Amanda's feminine touch had made of it a warm and comfortable home, and was obviously sorely missed. The cabin was really a home no longer. Rather, a place where, perhaps one night out of three, Nathaniel came to lay his head and tend to Amanda's grave, and Quashquame's, too. Their spirits lingered here—that was the only reason Nathaniel came back at all, and even then the memories were too strong, and the grief still too severe, for him to long endure.

The horses were gone. Nathaniel had been a hunter and explorer by nature, and ill-suited for farming. To make enough money to buy staples and a few modest luxuries to make Amanda's life a little easier he had raised horses, thoroughbreds of the bloodline traced back to Jumper, the great horse Nathaniel had ridden that storm-swept Virginia night fifty years ago to warn Thomas Jefferson. All the Elm Tree horses were of the same line, for Nathaniel and Amanda had given Christopher's parents Jumper's grandson, Gallivant, as a wedding present. Nowadays, the Elm Tree stock were much prized on the race courses so abundant in Kentucky and Tennessee. But all of Nathaniel's horses were gone. Christopher had a vivid childhood memory of admiring the sight of them grazing on this long bluegrass hill.

Riding up to the cabin, Christopher called out, but to no avail, as he had suspected. Keenly disappointed, he dismounted to loosen the roan's cinch and let it breathe. Leaning against the horse, an arm draped over the sweat-stained saddle, he gave the place a long and wistful look, wondering how long Nathaniel would be gone. He had so wanted to talk to his grandfather about Texas. Should he wait? It might be days, even weeks, before Nathaniel reappeared.

Leaving the roan to crop eagerly at the lush grass in front of the cabin, Christopher quartered the slope to the wooden slopes marking the graves of Amanda Jones
and the Delaware warrior named Quashquame, yonder in the shade of a century-old hickory. Christopher had not known Quashquame very well—he'd been only eight years old when the Delaware lost his life at the Battle of the Thames, fighting at Nathaniel's side. But he had clear, fond recollections of his grandmother, who had passed away a scant two years ago. A strong yet tender woman, Amanda had been full of love and compassion. Even in her later years she had remained as slender as a willow, and as pretty as she had been when she and Nathaniel married, even though her flaxen hair had turned silver with the passing years. Always ready with a kind or encouraging word, practical, generous, and brave, Amanda's greatest pleasure had been doing for others. Christopher did not wonder that Nathaniel had loved her with unerring devotion. She had passed away quietly, in her sleep, and Nathaniel had been devastated.

"It seems like only yesterday . . . "

Christopher whirled.

Nathaniel Jones stood there, leaning on his long rifle. He had come up behind Christopher so silently that for a disconcerted instant Christopher wondered if this was an apparition before him.

" . . . and yet," continued Flintlock, "the days and nights are like one eternity after another for me, now that she is gone."

"Grandpa."

Christopher went to him, embraced him.

"This is a pleasant surprise," said Nathaniel, working hard to keep strong emotion out of his voice and expression. "You are looking well."

"As are you."

Though nearly sixty-five years of age, Nathaniel Jones was still as fit as a fiddle. Tall and straight, his skin was the color and texture of old leather, his hair completely gray now, brushed straight back and long to the shoulders of his ash gray deerskin hunting shirt. Most
bordermen did not live so long. Theirs was an arduous life. But Nathaniel's eyes were still bright and clear and keen. His aim was still truer than most. As a boy Christopher had thought of him as indestructible—and he realized now that he still did.

Nathaniel glanced at Amanda's grave—the final resting place of his wife of thirty-five years, and the only woman he had ever loved—and the lines about his mouth and eyes were etched more deeply than usual with a grief still keen after two years, a grief that caused him pain as sharp as a knife between the ribs.

"I'm glad you've come, Christopher," he said. "I hope you can stay a spell."

"Well, I was on my way home."

"On, I see . . . "

"But I can stay for a day or two," said Christopher, amending his plans on the spot, because he could tell that Nathaniel was deeply disappointed.

"Good! Good! It gets right lonely here sometimes, I must confess."

The admission made Christopher uncomfortable. He had never seen his grandfather like this. Vulnerable. Flintlock Jones was the kind of man you just naturally assumed was impervious to everything.

"Then why do you stay here, Grandpa?"

"Why?" Nathaniel looked querulous, as though he was surprised by the question—one whose answer was so obvious, at least to him. "Because of Amanda, of course. I made her a promise when we first came to Kentucky. By God, we were scarcely more than children then. But a promise is a promise."

"What was it?"

"That I would never leave her alone." Nathaniel's smile was rueful. "I had a difficult time keeping that promise, Christopher. Many's the time I did leave. Usually to fight Indians. Left her alone to wonder, time and
time again, whether I would come back alive. I can't leave her now."

Christopher didn't know what to say.

Nathaniel put a hand on his shoulder. "Come on. I've got some venison steaks. And a little corn liquor, I think." Another rueful smile. "I'm afraid I've developed a taste for it."

"You? I can't believe that. Since when?" Christopher had never known his grandfather to touch strong spirits.

Nathaniel's eyes flicked to the grave. "Recently. Helps me sleep sometimes. And it soothes the aches and pains. I swear, boy, some mornings when I get up I can hardly move. Growing old—it hits you all at once. Creeps up on you like a Shawnee Indian. But don't fret too much about the corn liquor. It doesn't have a hold on me. And, so far as I can tell, it hasn't affected my aim. Believe me, I don't plan to end up a drunkard like Simon Girty."

Christopher nodded. Simon Girty had once been the most hated man in Kentucky. He had turned against his own kind to fight with the Indians against the encroachment of the
Shemanese
. Leading Shawnees and Mingos in numerous raids, he participated in several massacres. Kentucky mothers scared their children into staying close to home by telling bloodcurdling tales of Girty waiting in the woods to snatch unsuspecting youngsters, and the terrible fate that befell his victims. Many were the Kentucky bordermen who would have died happy if given a single opportunity to lift Simon Girty's scalp.

Though Girty managed to keep his topknot, he came to a bad end nonetheless. The Indians used him, but never accepted him completely. Spurned by the redman and despised by the white, Girty settled down in Amherstburg and began drinking heavily. Nathaniel had crossed the renegade's path during his celebrated escape from the British at Fort Malden. By that time Girty had become a hopeless alcoholic, both body and mind fading
fast. He died soon after, alone and friendless, buried in an unmarked grave, his name etched in the annals of American infamy, right alongside the likes of Benedict Arnold and Aaron Burr.

They repaired to the cabin. The curtains were gone from the windows. The floor wanted sweeping. The whole place was cluttered and unclean. Two years at West Point, where he was forced to keep his quarters immaculate, had made Christopher a meticulous man, and he was shocked by the unkempt appearance of the cabin, which had once been impeccable, thanks to Amanda's loving care.

Nathaniel invited him to sit at the table. Christopher watched his grandfather rummage for a demijohn. He declined a swig, and waited while Nathaniel indulged in a good stout drink. Nathaniel gasped as the liquor exploded like liquid fire in his belly. Then, reading the expression of disapproval and dismay on Christopher's face, the old frontiersmann put the jug on the table and pushed it away as though it meant absolutely nothing to him.

"So what brings you home, Christopher? On furlough?"

"I was thrown out of the Academy." Christopher had spent much of his journey west wracking his brains to find a good way to break the news to his mother and grandfather. In the end, he decided that saying it straight out, the cold and unvarnished truth, without any shilly or shally, was his only real option. Napoleon had stated in his
Maxims
that the only true wisdom in a soldier was determined courage.

Nathaniel's features became stoic, a sun-bronzed mask. That was his way, in moments of high emotion.

"Tell me about it."

"I fought a duel."

"With who?"

"Adam Vickers."

"Vickers." Brows knit, Nathaniel tugged on his chin. "I seem to recollect . . . no, wait. Vickers. There's a family down Mississippi way by that name. There's a Dan Vickers—his daughter married Stephen Cooper."

Christopher nodded. "Dan Vickers is the one I'm thinking of. Adam Vickers is his nephew. Emily Cooper's cousin."

"Did you kill him?"

"No. But it didn't matter. I was dishonorably discharged from the Corps of Cadets."

"I assume he was the one to issue the challenge."

"Yes."

"Why did he?"

"He said it was to defend his family's honor," said Christopher dryly. "You see, Emily Cooper came to the Academy to see me. She brought me my father's cutlass. Wanted to make sure I understood that she had loved him. She also wanted to know if I hated her. I assured her that I did not. That night she took poison. Adam Vickers hated me from the day we met. His cousin's death was the excuse he was looking for."

"He
must
have hated you, to risk his life, or, at the very least, to throw away his career like that." Nathaniel glanced longingly at the jug of corn liquor, but he did not reach for it.

"Aren't you going to ask me why I accepted the challenge, and threw away my own career?"

"I reckon you felt like you had to."

"Yes. That's it exactly."

Nathaniel shook his head. "Funny, how life runs in circles. Your father fought a duel because he felt he had to, and his world was turned upside down as a result. Now the same thing has happened to you." Nathaniel paused, moodily contemplating his rough, scarred hands resting on the table. "Reckon it happened to me, too, come to think of it. When Amanda and I crossed the mountains we happened on a cabin where an old woman
lived. She was crazy. She'd buried her husband under a nearby tree, and sometimes she thought she heard him calling to her from the grave, late in the night when the wind was high. Amanda was always afraid she would end up like that woman, alone out here in this cabin. Turned out to be me alone, and her buried beneath a nearby tree."

"I'm truly sorry, Grandpa. I know she meant the world to you."

"That she did." Nathaniel managed a brave smile. "Never thought I'd outlast her." He shook his head and changed the subject. "So what do you aim to do now?"

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I'm thinking about going to Texas."

"Texas? How'd that notion get into your head?"

"The President put it there, I guess."

"Andrew Jackson?"

Christopher nodded. "He summoned me to the White House. Told me Texas needed young men who have a hankering for adventure. Said there's going to be a fight down there pretty soon."

"That's what I hear. Some folks from around these parts have pulled up stakes and gone to Texas themselves. Land for the asking there. Lots of it. Plenty of room for everybody. Only problem is, the Mexicans are trying to shut the door so far as colonization is concerned. Of course, that hasn't come close to stopping folks from trying to get in. They say Texas is a land of milk and honey."