Daughter of Shiloh. Ilene Shepard Smiddy

moving in the direction of his horse.

      “Good evening, Sam, ride careful.” David watched him go, remembering when he was a young soldier in Virginia.

      Clarinda had glanced back over her shoulder just in time to see the handshake. “Well, at least David didn’t hurt the poor boy,” she giggled.

      Looking intently at Polly now, Clarinda could tell they were both recalling yesterday’s events. “Ma, Polly wants me to walk with her to Becraft’s cabin. Jacob isn’t here for our schooling yet. Will it trouble you if I go?”

      “Make sure you don’t tarry too long, we’ve got chores to catch up on. Old Beauty must be milked. The calf don’t take near what she gives. She’s fresh, but we can use the milk to feed the other stock. Nancy and Sarah are working on a quilt at Rebecca’s. Jacob is helping Jonathan and John in the fields, so no school for you today.” Martha wagged her finger at Clarinda as she spoke, then went back to her bread making.

      “Yes, Ma, I’ll hurry right back,” Clarinda sang out, tying her bonnet over the unruly mass of dark hair.

      The Allington men and William Rice had built new cabins near their fields, less than a mile from the station. They were living outside the fort, while Martha, Jacob, and the girls remained in the blockhouse.

      The Becraft’s new cabin was about one fourth of a mile from the station in a large field. It set north of the main gate, in plain view of the fort.

      Heavy rains in March had swollen Slate Creek out of its banks. The relentless downpour had cut a deep ravine across the newly plowed field near the bend in the creek, to the left of the field. The north gate swung loose on its hinges and part of the stockade fence was down. Repairs were needed, but security was no longer a major concern, so the gate was left open. The girls walked through without a care.

      “Why are you going to see Mrs. Becraft?” Clarinda asked Polly.

      “My mother wanted me to take this over for the baby,” Polly said, displaying a knitted cap and sweater.

      “Won’t she look sweet in that,” Clarinda exclaimed, fingering the handiwork. “Ma said Mrs. Becraft has been feeling poorly. She asked Ma if I could dress her hair. I’ll just do it while we’re there. Maybe that will help to cheer her.”

      Clarinda was glad the Bakers had come to Morgan’s Station. How pretty Polly is, she thought, seeing how Polly’s blond hair gleamed in the warm sunshine.

      Tiny white and yellow butterflies fluttered around them. Dipping and swirling, they lighted only for seconds on the colorful wild flowers growing alongside the footpath.

      A flock of crows made a terrible racket, circling around, disturbed about something. Clarinda also heard a squirrel, whose incessant barking caused her to look toward the hickory trees at the edge of the field. Today she was happy to be with her friend and the signs that would otherwise have alerted her to danger did not register.

      Despite the rains, it had been an especially warm March. Lots of plants were up, and some were in full bloom.

      “Wait for me,” Clarinda called out. She ran into the muddy field a short distance and picked a handful of sweet william. Holding the purple blossoms above her head, she continued walking with Polly. “I wonder why they’re called sweet william,” she mused.

      Polly looked at her friend’s thoughtful expression and smiled. “Clarinda, you’re always seeking answers to questions nobody else asks. My mother says you’re twelve going on thirty.”

      “Did she now? Well, the Allingtons are a curious clan, and made of strong stuff. Least that’s what my brother Jake says. He has taught all of us girls to read and cipher.

      “I was nine when my Pa died. I can hear him still, saying, Clarinda, knowledge is freedom, and don’t you ever forget it. He said too, that freedom is a state of mind, one should hold it dear. I think of Pa a lot, and I’m just now beginning to understand some of what he meant.” Clarinda paused. She had never told anyone about her Pa before.

      “Look, there comes Mr. Wade!” Polly shouted out a hello, waving a friendly greeting to the approaching horseman.

      Wade pulled his mount up when he met the girls on the path. “Good day, Miss Allington, Miss Baker,” Wade said, a teasing note in his voice. He touched his wide-brimmed hat. “Where are you two ladies headed?”

      “To see Mrs. Becraft,” they answered in unison.

      “Well, it’s a good day to be out. Have a nice visit. I sold Preacher Handsford some corn and have to check my corncrib before he comes.”

      Clarinda and Polly turned and watched Wade ride through the open gate into the square.

      “Nancy and Sarah are forever whispering about James Wade’s good looks,” Clarinda told Polly. “He never pays them much mind, but he talks to me a lot. Did you know his brother was killed by Indians two years ago? It happened the very week our family rolled into Morgan’s Station. I remember how sad he was then.” Clarinda’s thoughts went back to that time.

      It was not uncommon now to see Cherokees at the trading posts. Many changes had taken place on the frontier in the two years since the Allingtons arrived. Sometimes Indians hung around the station, trading furs for dry goods or cured tobacco.

      The Indians Clarinda had seen at Morgan’s were quiet and reserved. They stayed mostly in the shadows, watching the white men’s activity, then went on about their business.

      Clarinda’s memory flashed back to one day last winter, when a tall, well-built Cherokee seemed to be watching her. His scrutiny lasted for such a long time that she felt uncomfortable. She had gone inside the cabin to avoid his stare. Why did she remember that incident today she wondered? With all the new experiences in her life she had all but forgotten her earlier fascination with Indians.

      James Wade rode into the station and turned his horse into the stable. It was at the end of the blockhouse, next to his corncrib. Removing the bit from the horse’s mouth, he gave him a few ears of corn. He then turned and walked over to Harry Martin’s place to sit a spell.

      “Handsford came early for the seedcorn. I have some money for you.” Mrs. Martin said, handing Wade a chair. He had just sat down when the silence was broken by piercing, blood-chilling screams.

      Wade jumped to his feet and yelled, “My God, that’s a Cherokee war cry.” His thoughts flashed back to his ride in. The crow’s raucous cawing and the squirrel’s chatter still lingered in his mind. Had he not been focusing all of his attention on Clarinda and Polly he would have noticed their significance. Any woodsman worth his salt should have known something was amiss.

      Wade rushed outside. Dear God, he prayed, Clarinda and that Baker girl are out there. I’ll never forgive myself if they come to harm.

      Harry Martin stopped long enough to jerk down his gun from over the door jam. He came through the door right on Wade’s heels.

      The Becraft men and Andy Duncan had been working in the field near the cabin. Wade saw them running for their lives in front of a pack of screeching savages. Abraham Becraft was closer to the woods than his sons were. Wade was relieved to see him jump the rail fence and disappear in a stand of pine.

      Harry Martin, with his gun uplifted, ran with all of his might toward the Indians, firing. Wade, hoping to find a gun, ran to the nearest blockhouse. Before flinging open the blockhouse door, he caught sight of women racing from their cabins.

      “Everyone, get back inside!” he shouted. Frantically he searched for the guns. Joe Young appeared with his gun and took cover inside the blockhouse where Wade was. The usual stack of rifles and muskets was not there. The men had taken them to the fields early that morning.

      Peering through a porthole, Wade could see the Becraft cabin. It looked to him like the Indians had been hiding down inside the gully that the rains had washed out. The deep ravine was just beyond Becraft’s place.

      When Clarinda and Polly appeared and Mrs. Becraft opened