Chapter One
"No, Daniel." Mingo's voice was quiet but firm. "The last time I was in Boonesborough, the settlers put a rope around my neck and tried to hang me. It is better that I stay away and avoid more trouble." His expression was an odd combination of stubbornness and regret.
"Becky and the young'uns are gonna be mighty disappointed. You know they're missin' you something fierce." Daniel filled the coffeepot with water and coffee and set it in the fire to boil.
"Yes, and the settlers will miss another opportunity to blame me if a chicken is missing, or the butter doesn't come quickly enough while churning, or if any other petty crime is committed by any Indian in the territory." The Cherokee's voice was bitter. He poked at the fire over which their supper was roasting. Over time, Mingo had taken on the cooking responsibilities since Daniel's meals were rarely edible. Tonight's meal would be rabbit and corn cakes. It wouldn't make a banquet, but it would be filling.
September had found the two exploring for new areas to trap during the winter. The one they had chosen for the winter's trapping was about five days' journey from Boonesborough. The place was unknown to either man, and they were glad to find what seemed to be pristine forest unclaimed by any settler or Indian tribe.
On a return trip in October, they hauled in supplies, set out traps and built the snug lodge that would be their home during the coldest part of the winter. The lodge was built along the designs the Cherokee Indians used, with branches and vines forming the framework with wattle and daub covering the outside. During the coldest part of the winter, animal hides would be thrown over the outside to keep in as much warmth as possible. A hole in the roof allowed smoke to rise; an animal skin flap served as a door. There were two low platforms covered in furs for sleeping, and plenty of room for storing their supplies. All in all, it was quite a comfortable place, but most of the winter would be spent outdoors. Unless the weather was bitterly cold, or if rain or snow were falling, both men preferred sleeping rough, on the ground outside.
"How're you gonna let the settlers get to know you if you ain't ever around?" Daniel asked, as he poured them each a cup of boiled coffee.
The Indian sipped his coffee and grimaced. From the taste of the coffee, it looked as if he would be adding one more thing to his cooking chores. "I am hoping my absence will make their hearts grow fonder," he said mildly.
"Well, like I said, Becky's plannin' on you comin' to keep Christmas with us; if I know her, she'll have been gettin' ready for weeks. I sure hate to be the one to tell her you ain't gonna be there." Daniel shook his head.
"Daniel," Mingo began, exasperated with his friend. Daniel had been, well, nagging was the only word Mingo could honestly use, for what seemed like weeks, in an effort to persuade him to return to Boonesborough. Mingo wasn't going to budge. "I thank you for your invitation, but I have declined. Many times! Short of being hog-tied and carried to Boonesborough, I do not plan on 'keeping Christmas' at all this year. One of us needs to stay here to safeguard the camp and work the trap lines. Your wife and children are expecting you to come home for Christmas. My people do not expect to see me again until the spring. I will stay here and 'mind the store' until you return."
Daniel had seen the Cherokee's obstinate side before. Weighing Mingo's mule-headedness against the disappointment of his wife and children, he tried again, "Mingo, when you were in England there must've been some pretty fancy doin's for Christmas. Something about keepin' Christmas you enjoyed. You know how important Christmas is to folks."
"Not to the Cherokee!" Mingo snapped. "The Christmas festivities I am familiar with were just another example of wretched excess. Those of 'blue blood' celebrated – twelve noisy days of dancing, drinking, overeating and debauchery. The lower classes were grateful to receive a basket of food, a few trinkets and a sovereign on Boxing Day. Daniel, I do not miss England, Christmas celebrations, or anything about my life before I returned home to Kentucky." The Cherokee blew on his mug of boiled coffee and risked another sip.
"Christmas ain't just drinkin', dancin' and debauchery, Mingo. It's a time of peace and goodwill, love and forgiveness." Daniel tasted his coffee and dumped his cup into the bushes.
"For what am I to be forgiven, Daniel?" Mingo scowled and dumped his cup out too.
"You need to forgive the people of Boonesborough for the way they've treated you and give 'em another chance to know and appreciate the person you are."
The Indian shook his head as he dumped out the rest of the coffee. "You know, Daniel, I believe I need to forgive you for trying to 'brew' the coffee."
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The skies were gray and overcast. It looked as if it might begin snowing at any time. Ten days before Christmas, Daniel gave up trying to persuade Mingo and decided to head for home. This was the only time he could remember that the Cherokee's stubbornness had won over his own. Surprised by Mingo's steadfast refusal, Daniel tried coaxing, cajoling, and in the end had used Becky's wish for the Indian's presence for Christmas, to plead his case. Daniel had never known Mingo to refuse Rebecca Boone anything she asked, but he was unyielding as stone in his refusal to return to Boonesborough.
"You sure you won't change your mind?" Daniel tried once more as he draped his powder horn and shot bag over his shoulder.
Mingo handed him a blanket roll and bag of food and shook his head. "Daniel, you are the most stubborn man I know. But I can be stubborn too! Please give my love to Rebecca and the children. I will see them in the spring. Tell Israel I will take him hunting when I return."
Daniel grinned. "I was countin' on that. When he ain't huntin' for arrowheads, he's badgerin' you to let him use your bow! That bow and the arrows you left are gonna be one of his favorite presents this Christmas. "
Mingo returned his grin. "Yes, I will make sure the boy learns to use them properly. You palefaces just can't seem to shoot an arrow the way the red man can."
Daniel slapped the Indian on the back and shook his hand. "Well, Merry Christmas to you, Mingo. Make sure you keep yourself outta trouble while I'm gone. I always worry about you when I ain't around to pull your feathers outta the fire."
Mingo's smile flashed across his face. "Daniel, you wound me. Am I not always careful?"
Daniel grinned back, "Mingo, what you call 'careful', other men would call foolhardy. I'll see you in the New Year." He settled his pack on his back, hefted Tick Licker and started off for home. "If you should change your mind," he called back over his shoulder, "you know the route I'll be takin'."
Mingo laughed and waved. "I won't change my mind. Godspeed, Daniel, and a Happy Christmas to you too."
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The Cherokee stood watching as the big man left. Daniel's long legs ate up the ground and he traveled at a good pace. Mingo glanced up at the sky and guessed from the gathering clouds that a blizzard was coming. It was only a few hours past daylight. He might fix a decent pot of coffee and then begin walking the trap lines. The traps were strung out for almost 20 miles; it would be a long, cold day's walk. It would also keep his mind off what he had refused - the invitation to spend Christmas with the Boones.
The temperature was dropping sharply. The frigid wind felt like frozen needles on his exposed skin, another sign of a coming blizzard. Mingo sat close to the fire while he sipped his coffee, deep in thought. Absent-mindedly, he broke up bits of kindling and tossed them into the fire.
As a Cherokee warrior, he prided himself on his self-reliance. He could run, hunt, shoot, and fight with the best of the warriors in his village. As an Englishman, he had received the finest education that Oxford University and his father's money could provide for him. Still, he yearned to fit in. "Neither fish nor fowl, nor good red meat," one of his tutors had declared him. Respected by his mother's people, he wanted as well to fit in with the white settlers of Boonesborough. Instead the settlers distrusted him because he was a half-breed. "Half Injun, half Redcoat," he had heard himself described many times. He knew Daniel Boone's friendship had spared him from grief and trouble on more than one occasion, but still, in a perverse way, he didn't want Daniel's acceptance to be the only thing that made him welcome in Boonesborough. He wanted acceptance because he was himself, Mingo.
He smiled as he considered his preparations for the Christmas he hadn't intended keeping: He had left his entire credit for the previous winter's pelts with Cincinnatus, and given the old tavern keeper his Christmas shopping list months before. There was a new steel knife for Daniel, and lead soldiers for Israel all from Salem. A chain and locket for Jemima. A gold pin for Rebecca Boone. The older man had agreed to deliver these gifts on Christmas Eve. The Cherokee's gift to Cincinnatus had been shag tobacco from Virginia for his pipe. When Cincinnatus pointed out the cost of these gifts, Mingo shook his head and insisted he needed only enough money to buy shot and powder. He needed nothing else for himself that the woods couldn't provide.
His mind insisted on returning to the idea of Christmas in Boonesborough. With the Boones. He wasn't even sure why he had refused Daniel's invitation to "keep Christmas" with his family. He loved the Boones. There, he had said it. Admitted it to himself . The Boone cabin was the only place in the settlement where he felt entirely welcome, not merely tolerated. He had told Rebecca Boone early in their acquaintance that trying to reconcile his Indian self with the Englishman he had been raised to be made him a confusion to himself. A confusion indeed! He didn't understand his own feelings. Why should the acceptance of the white settlers seem so important to him?
Mingo shook himself and laughed at his own thoughts. Foolishness. Wishing for what could not be.
He rose to his feet, picked up his gun and set off to check the traps. As he walked, lost in thought, the snow began falling. The morning hours passed quickly, following the trap lines. He and Daniel had walked these lines a few times already; the route was familiar. To the best of their knowledge, there were no Indian tribes in the area; no white settlers had traveled this far. He was alone in the silent forest with the blizzard and his thoughts. The traps were empty. Either nothing had been lured into the traps, or someone had already emptied them. As the morning went on, he became aware that there were signs that the traps had been tampered with. Several traps had been sprung, but were empty. Others had tufts of fur clinging, but no animal carcasses. This meant that human hands had been at work here.
Suddenly, an arrow embedded itself in the tree next to his head. Cursing himself for not paying attention to his surroundings, he dove for cover behind a fir tree. Cautiously he raised his head to try to see his attacker. His gun was primed and loaded; when Daniel Boone had taught him how to use his rifle properly, he emphasized that an unloaded weapon was like having NO weapon. His bull whip had been left behind in the lodge. A bull whip was no weapon against an enemy you could not see.
A second arrow caught him in the back and threw him face first into the snow.
Pain. Instant agony.
The world was spinning around in a throbbing haze. He could hear voices approaching, making no effort to hide themselves.
"I know you shot something, Tommy. I seen it drop." The voice belonged to a white man.
"Here it is!" exulted another, younger voice. Suddenly, joy turned to panic. "Lookee here, Billy. This ain't no elk - I got me an Injun!" The owner of the voice loomed over him.
A foot caught Mingo in the ribs and he was rolled onto his side. The movement pushed the arrow deeper into his shoulder. The sudden sharp stab made his head swim as he tried to look up at his attacker. Between the snow falling, and the red veil of pain, Mingo could barely make out the speaker's face. He focused instead on what he could see: a highly decorated pair of moccasins adorning a huge pair of feet.
"It ain't just any Injun," the first voice announced. "It's Boone's Injun! Tarnation, Tommy, if Daniel Boone finds out you shot his Injun, he'll come after you and kill you!"
The voice called Billy squatted next to Mingo as he lay in the wet snow. "Maybe Boone won't kill you if he don't know you're the one shot him," the voice continued reasonably. "It ain't like you done it a-purpose. We was only huntin'. In the snow, this Injun looked like an animal. Can't fault a man for bein' hungry."
"Well, he sure can fault us for stealin' his furs and near killin' his Injun. I never woulda trifled with those traps if I'da knowed they was Boone's! We can't leave him here like this," the voice called Tommy said in worried tones.
"Sure we can," Billy's voice was cheerful. "We didn't see no sign of Boone nohow. I reckon this here Injun's all alone. Lookee how the arrow's stickin' out of his back. Probably bleed to death afore Boone comes back and starts sniffin' around for him." Billy punctuated his comments with a few more kicks to Mingo's ribs.
"You reckon so?" asked Tommy. "We could carry him back to that lodge we found."
"Tommy, use your head! Why waste time carryin' him back to his camp? We ain't gonna nursemaid him! We been stealing furs from his traps. He's probably trappin' with Boone. Boone might overlook us stealin' his furs. He sure ain't gonna overlook us killin' his Injun."
Mingo felt a hand close on the arrow in his shoulder and give a vicious tug. He struggled to remain conscious, but the aching was so overwhelming, even breathing was difficult. "He'd probably die if we tried to pull this arrow out anyhow. The way it's stuck in his back – I think it's the only thing keepin' him from bleedin' to death."
The feet belonging to Billy shifted as he rose to his feet. "Tommy, it'll be weeks 'fore Boone comes back if he's gone home for Christmas. I sure do hate to see an animal suffer – even an Injun," he said mockingly. "I reckon the only thing to do is kill him. Just put him out of his mis'ry."
A rifle butt caught Mingo at the base of his skull, his head exploded with pain, and there was nothing more.
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