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.