The Longhunter

It was a simple arrangement of cabins located in the territory south of the Ohio River. Surrounded by slash pine, its stockade stood just under five feet. The entire property line encompassed an area of ten acres and a bit. Inside the settlement were two cabins, a barn, a smokehouse, three outlying sheds, a deep water well, and a large privy outfitted for three. The entire place ran alongside a narrow creek with modest palisades. This time of year, the water ran quick and shallow. The lands lay just east of the Cumberland Gap, which had only been explored by Daniel Boone some four years earlier. The Tennessee and Kentucky borders ran east to west of the creek and just three miles north. The cabins and barn were made up of rough-hewn pine similar in fashion to the stockade-timber-stacked crossway Swedish-style. Each member was notched for a stable interlocking of the mating corners. The seams in the layered timber were packed with red clay and canebrake to keep wind and weather out. The low, slanted roofs were sealed in similar fashion. Split pine board covered the floor of the main cabin, laid over hard-packed earth mixed with red clay. Dry straw lay scattered about, mingling with the dirt and dust created by several busy feet. Each cabin was well aired and neatly arranged. The main structure was long with a low-set roof. Constructed with frontier settler hands, it was dry and healthy, able to sleep eight. This was the MacEwan trading homestead. A popular way station that straddled the westward trail, the MacEwan family place was worked and operated by Elspeth and Ian MacEwan along with their six offspring. On this cool spring morning, a wisp of woodsmoke drifted skyward from the large stone fireplace enclosed within the main cabin. Dying embers continued to warm the inner space of the central room. It was early, daybreak only minutes away. In the early darkness, a tall young man quietly closed the door behind him as he stole outside the big cabin. The leather hinges swung silently closed as he sniffed the morning air eagerly. He carefully tiptoed his way about the water bucket just outside the door. Chickens wandered aimlessly around the enclosed compound, clucking softly. The birds were paying little attention to the young man as they methodically pecked the damp ground for insects and seed corn scattered throughout the grass. Gingerly threading his way through the standing livestock, he crossed the open space to the compound outer gate quickly. He slid the heavy gate pole back and pushed through enough for him to squeeze out. He wore only a thin white linen nightshirt. It was the same nightshirt he wore every evening to his bed. His mother, making certain it was clean, washed it whenever needed. He hurried along, knowing his mother would be up soon along with a gaggle of his hungry siblings. He made his way toward the creek as quickly as his bare feet allowed. He could hear the water rushing gently southwest as he approached the little stream. The musket he carried was loaded, ready to fire. It was a common British Brown Bess, a gift from his father, which he now nestled in the crook of his left arm in cradle fashion. He only hoped his little trick would work and that he would be able to bring home fresh meat to his mother. The young man crouched low as he advanced to the water’s edge. He spied the tree he had used for his trap, a tall oak with a good stout branch that could bend some but not break. On it, he had tied two fat catfish with a thin rope taken from his father’s work kit. He knew his mother would chastise him for that, but he didn’t care. She would have disagreed about the trap as well, settling on the two fish without the use of the rope. She was practical in that way. What did she always say—“a bird in the hand”? He was close now. Quietly bringing the musket up to ready position, he settled in. His shoulder was tucked in comfortably against the stock as he pressed his cheek lightly along the polished wood. His nightshirt briefly tangled underfoot. He carefully pulled it out. Except for the running creek and a few morning birds, it was stone quiet. He leaned forward and took into view three, not two, raccoons as he had expected. His father told him there would most likely be two. Hanging just above the raccoons were the bony remains of two catfish swaying gently under the bending branch. They hung a little less than two feet off the ground. The young man studied the animals for several seconds. If he moved to the left, he might have a better angle. If his position was good, he could hit two of the raccoons with a single shot. The third racoon had wandered off a few feet from the others. He shuffled sideways, slow and silent, pulling the Bess back so as not to catch any branches from the thick brush that concealed him. Bringing the musket back up, he had a sharp view of his prey and a good sight line for striking the two animals sitting along the water’s edge. The raccoons were busy cleaning themselves after their meal, bobbing down and back and vigorously scrubbing their paws. Their ducking motion played in unison every few seconds. He waited for the perfect shot. Across the creek, the quiver of a low branch among the canebrake caught the young man’s attention, distracting him momentarily. Staring across the running water, the racoons sat upright in a locked pose, their paws clasped together as if in prayer. It was the perfect shot for the young hunter. Suddenly, a branch visibly shook on the far side of the creek, alarming the raccoons. They quickly separated, backing away from the water’s edge. Losing his target, the young man aimed at the closer of the two. But he did not fire. He was as curious as the raccoons about this unexpected intrusion on the opposite bank. Sitting as still as a tree, the young hunter pondered his next move. Staring hard at the opposite bank of thick brush and low trees, he saw nothing, and his eyesight was excellent. He could spy a gray squirrel perched in a tree at two hundred yards off. His father had often complimented him on this ability. He had the sight of a good Longhunter. At first, it was just a glimpse of a thing; but as it moved behind the dense brush, a dark feather and then a lighter one came to be seen, and the young man became excited. A turkey, he wondered. If he brought home a fat turkey, his mother would be very pleased. Roasted turkey meat was her favorite dish. The two raccoons stood frozen in concentration, staring across the slow running water. Then they ran. They scampered away so quickly the third raccoon was equally startled and ran wildly in the direction of the young hunter. He took aim at the oncoming racoon then quickly pulled his musket left, aiming across the creek. As he stood up, he could see a dark feather clearly jutting out just so from the brush. He fired. As the echoing roar of the Brown Bess exploded over the creek, the fleeing raccoon slid to a stop, turned sharp left, and ran for its life, dodging the flash and thunderous sound. Across the creek, a figure that was clearly not a turkey stumbled out from behind the brush and canebrake. Clutching his left side with a bloodied hand, the Indian dropped to one knee and fell forward on his right side, moaning. The young hunter stared in shock at the sight. The Indian moaned again, louder this time. Then it was the young man who turned and ran. He was so shaken by the event that he couldn’t recall how he suddenly appeared in front of the cabin doorway, his heart pounding in his throat as he tried to call for his mother. The only sound that came out was a strangled croak. He took a sharp breath. “Mother!” he hollered as loud as he could. “Mother, I’ve shot an Indian down at the creek! Mother!” The cabin door swung open, and a dark-haired woman stepped outside. “William MacEwan,” scolded the woman fiercely, “what’re you doing out the cabin this time of morning in nothing but a nightshirt?”