My father is captain of the militia and men were saddling up. I could hear the horses chuffing and the rattle of tack. Mother turned up the lamp as my father pulled on his boots and had words with his corporal.
The Piankeshaw had attacked again. This time at Hardin’s farm. The corporal lowered his voice so my mother might not hear the worst of it.
“They cut him down, cap’n. Took ‘is scalp. Set the cabin afire and got captive Missus Hardin.”
My father asked how many they were. Number of rifles. Their direction of travel. He gathered his kit, his long rifle, powder and lead, and his tomahawk.
“Don’t expect us back for several days, mother,” he said, like he was going hunting.
“Daniel,” he said my name. “I know yer awake, boy. You mind things til I return.”
I nodded. “Yessir, pa.”
The company rode north. Mother turned down the lamp. I waited before telling her I was going to the privy. In the dark, she did not see me take my rifle.
My father’s pack horse was a roan we called “Crab.” I put a bridle on her and put my heels to her and pursued bareback.
I found their mounts hobbled this side of a ridge running along the river Ouabache. The glow of Piankeshaw campfires was against the trees. I belly crawled up the ridgeline, flanking my father’s men like they was flanking the Piankeshaw.
As I crested the ridge, the militia’s guns opened up. The company was divvied into three squadrons, one driving up the middle toward Missus Hardin, lashed by her neck to a sycamore. The second swept the braves north and into the waiting third. A hammer on an anvil.
My father was not one to raise his voice at our mother. He was a deacon. The Presbyterians met for worship in our barn. He whipped me only when I had it coming.
Here though, he led them like buffalo rumbling down the Trace. What didn’t git from their path, they trampled and left bloody. His guns emptied, he wielded his tomahawk like a scythe. A farmer of men, he felled them one and another.
Now to the sycamore and sawing through her leather straps, he did not see the Piankeshaw stalking him. But I did. I shouldered my rifle, considered wind and distance, sighted in and dropped the brave with a ball between the shoulders. My father turned and swung his hawk in a great overhead arc and split the warrior’s skull like a piece of firewood.
The skirmish ended and I stayed hid. Of the Piankeshaw still on the field, I heard splashes as their bodies were pitched into the Ouabache. The company collected up Missus Hardin their kit and rode south.
I figured I was in for it when I got back. But I hain’t been near a battlefield before, and I was gonna see it close. On the ground, a deerskin breechclout. Earth and leaves soaked dark in blood. A blanket. The leather straps that held Missus Hardin.
I stepped on something hard, kicked over by leaves. I reached and came up with my father’s tomahawk, the handle slick with blood. On the iron head, the image of a long knife was inlaid in silver. Colonel Small made this hawk for my father, like the one he made for General Clark.
I wiped the blood from the handle. My rifle ball had dropped that Piankeshaw and my father’s blow had finished him. I slid the hawk into my belt. I was fourteen and in for a whipping.
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Story submitted to NPR's Three-Minute Fiction, Round 11. May 2013
600-word limit, story to contain a "character who finds an object he has no intent of returning"
The Piankeshaw had attacked again. This time at Hardin’s farm. The corporal lowered his voice so my mother might not hear the worst of it.
“They cut him down, cap’n. Took ‘is scalp. Set the cabin afire and got captive Missus Hardin.”
My father asked how many they were. Number of rifles. Their direction of travel. He gathered his kit, his long rifle, powder and lead, and his tomahawk.
“Don’t expect us back for several days, mother,” he said, like he was going hunting.
“Daniel,” he said my name. “I know yer awake, boy. You mind things til I return.”
I nodded. “Yessir, pa.”
The company rode north. Mother turned down the lamp. I waited before telling her I was going to the privy. In the dark, she did not see me take my rifle.
My father’s pack horse was a roan we called “Crab.” I put a bridle on her and put my heels to her and pursued bareback.
I found their mounts hobbled this side of a ridge running along the river Ouabache. The glow of Piankeshaw campfires was against the trees. I belly crawled up the ridgeline, flanking my father’s men like they was flanking the Piankeshaw.
As I crested the ridge, the militia’s guns opened up. The company was divvied into three squadrons, one driving up the middle toward Missus Hardin, lashed by her neck to a sycamore. The second swept the braves north and into the waiting third. A hammer on an anvil.
My father was not one to raise his voice at our mother. He was a deacon. The Presbyterians met for worship in our barn. He whipped me only when I had it coming.
Here though, he led them like buffalo rumbling down the Trace. What didn’t git from their path, they trampled and left bloody. His guns emptied, he wielded his tomahawk like a scythe. A farmer of men, he felled them one and another.
Now to the sycamore and sawing through her leather straps, he did not see the Piankeshaw stalking him. But I did. I shouldered my rifle, considered wind and distance, sighted in and dropped the brave with a ball between the shoulders. My father turned and swung his hawk in a great overhead arc and split the warrior’s skull like a piece of firewood.
The skirmish ended and I stayed hid. Of the Piankeshaw still on the field, I heard splashes as their bodies were pitched into the Ouabache. The company collected up Missus Hardin their kit and rode south.
I figured I was in for it when I got back. But I hain’t been near a battlefield before, and I was gonna see it close. On the ground, a deerskin breechclout. Earth and leaves soaked dark in blood. A blanket. The leather straps that held Missus Hardin.
I stepped on something hard, kicked over by leaves. I reached and came up with my father’s tomahawk, the handle slick with blood. On the iron head, the image of a long knife was inlaid in silver. Colonel Small made this hawk for my father, like the one he made for General Clark.
I wiped the blood from the handle. My rifle ball had dropped that Piankeshaw and my father’s blow had finished him. I slid the hawk into my belt. I was fourteen and in for a whipping.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Story submitted to NPR's Three-Minute Fiction, Round 11. May 2013
600-word limit, story to contain a "character who finds an object he has no intent of returning"
