Patrick Henry and the Frigate’s Keel: And Other Stories of a Young Nation by Howard Fast Read Free Book Online

all?”
    He shushed me, pointing to Rachel. She woke up, stretching and yawning, smiled at me, and then let the smile go as she saw Jim and Pa. She cut cold smoky and bread for our breakfast.
    â€œI guess they’re mighty hungry,” I said.
    â€œI guess they are.”
    We set off again, only this time I walked along with Rachel. She was so nice to me, I couldn’t lift up and light back to Pa. Jim and Pa followed along with the horse, about ten yards behind us.
    Once, Rachel said, “Your ma must have been nice, Davey.”
    â€œShe was—but so are you.”
    â€œI reckon you favor her,” Rachel said; “not your Pa.”
    Noontime, we finished the smoky and bread. Jim and Pa built a fire again, but I helped Rachel make her own. They must have been awful hungry, because all morning they walked with their guns ready, like men hunting; only never a sign of a creature crossed our path, and I guess neither would go off to hunt and leave the other alone.
    Noontime, Jim did say, “My, that smoky smells awful fine.”
    But Pa never said a word.
    It was some hours after noon, when we were walking along and getting near to the stockade, that I heard a turkey gobbler calling behind us.
    â€œThat’s a turkey gobbler,” I told Rachel. “It would make mighty nice eating if Jim or Pa would go off and hunt it.”
    â€œI don’t think they will,” Rachel said.
    The gobbler called again, and I looked back to see what Jim and Pa would do. For some reason, they had stopped and were facing the other direction.
    Suddenly, Pa threw up his rifle and fired. There was a long scream, not the scream a gobbler makes.
    Rachel put her arm around me.
    Pa and Jim ran toward us, and without saying a word, Pa lifted Rachel and swung her onto the horse.
    â€œShawnees,” Jim said.
    Pa threw me onto the horse. “Tell them at the stockade!” he cried, and slapped the horse across the rump. The old horse clattered through the woods, and when I glanced back, Pa and Jim were crouched down behind a fallen tree.
    I guess we had gone a few hundred yards or so when Rachel seemed to come out of her trance. She pulled the horse up sharp and slipped down from it.
    â€œDavey,” she whispered, “can you find the stockade?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œThen go there and bring them. Davey, I have to go back—I have to.” And she began to run toward where Pa and Jim were.
    Well, it wasn’t much to ride the five or six miles to the stockade and come back with Parson Jackson, Matt Green, Lem Thurley and four or five others.
    Lem said he didn’t believe the Shawnee story because there hadn’t been Shawnees within a hundred miles for God knows how long. Sure enough, we weren’t more than three quarters way back when we met Jim Fairway, walking along with his long rifle over his shoulder and whistling like there wasn’t a Shawnee in the country.
    â€œHey, you, Jim Fairway!” Lem Thurley yelled.
    Jim grinned and waved, and we rode up to him.
    â€œHow about the Shawnees?” Parson Jackson said.
    â€œLord, I feel free,” Jim said. “I’m a walking man and a hunting man. I got an itch to my heels and a load in my gun, and I ain’t touched food in two days.”
    â€œHow about the Shawnees?”
    â€œThey was two, and they’re dead,” Jim told us.
    â€œWell, that’s that,” Lem Thurley said. “I might ’a’ known.”
    â€œI guess I’ll go along back to Pa,” I said. I felt petered out.
    Matt Green said, “Hold on. How about the four dollars your pappy owes me?”
    Jim grinned and fetched silver from his pockets. “I’m paying,” he said. “I’m sure happy to. I got silver money to spend.” And he paid Matt Green out the four dollars.
    They went back, Jim with them, and I rode on. I got to the fallen log, and there were Pa and Rachel, just sitting and looking