The characters used in this story are from the television show Daniel Boone and belong to 20th Century Fox, not me. Any you don't recognize belong to the author.

Invictus Maneo

Freedom all solace to man gives

He lives at ease that freely lives.

John Barbour, Scottish Poet

Chapter 1

A pair of sea blue eyes looked down at the tall figure walking easily on the trail below. Turning to the man beside him, Ross Armstrong nodded. "That's him, I'm sure. That's Boone's Cherokee. Calls hisself Mingo, but he's really Edmund Murray. Ol' Dunsmore's boy."

Dallas squinted his eyes to better view the figure striding on the trail that wound through the Gap. The air was close and hot as the Indian pushed his way through the brush lining the trail. Carefully the reiver balanced his long rifle on the exposed limestone and took aim on the target.

"No, you fool! Daddy don't want him dead, he wants him caught. He's no good to us dead. Come on. He's heading right for the pit we dug last night. Another few yards and he'll be trapped."

Ross Armstrong bounded down the other side of the hot rock and cut through the thick underbrush. Dallas lowered his rifle and followed his brother. Seconds later the two men heard the sound of sliding earth and falling timbers. Dashing to the deep pit dug in the center of the narrow trail the two reivers looked down at the unconscious Cherokee sprawled amid the fallen logs and Kentucky earth.

"Is he dead?" Dallas squatted at the edge of the pit and peered into the jumble.

Ross jumped down beside the tall Indian and leaned over, his rifle held as a club in case the man was only pretending. He carefully touched the Indian's brown throat. There was no response but the pulse was strong and steady.

"Naw, he's only knocked out. Quick, toss me the rope and we'll haul him out and bind him."

Together the two young men pulled Mingo's heavy body from the pit. Stained with earth and bruised from the falling logs, a swelling beginning to rise above the left eye, the Cherokee lay at their feet breathing regularly. Ross bound his captive's wrists and ankles, then sat down in the shade and waited for the Indian to return to consciousness.

Minutes later Mingo moaned and stirred. He opened his large dark eyes and stared at the Kentucky afternoon sky above him. Slowly he turned his head to look at the young men sitting beside the trail. A thin trickle of blood had dried beside his full lips. Carefully he swallowed and struggled to sit. The two young men watched him wordlessly.

Sitting in the hot August sun Mingo looked at the two men in the deep shade. They seemed to be brothers, their facial features very much alike. Slender but strong, they appeared to be in their twenties. Both were armed with rifles and long trader knives.

Raising his bound wrists, Mingo addressed the elder of the two. "I seem to be your prisoner. Will you tell me why?" The two brothers looked at each other, grins widening on their pale faces.

"That's gotta be him. Talks just like a laird, don't he?"

"King's English for sure. God save the mighty King George. Bloody prick!" The man spit in contempt, his light-skinned face screwed into an expression of intense hatred.

Though he was careful not to betray his disquiet, Mingo was alarmed at the vehemence displayed by the young man. Evidently these two men were rebels or worse. Bandits, robbers, murderers. The Trace and Wilderness Trail had drawn an ever-increasing number of predators as the Kentucky territory added more settlers.

The three men looked at each other in the midday heat. Then the elder brother rose. "Come on, Cherokee. Daddy's waiting to make your acquaintance. He's been looking forward to the meeting for days. There's no cause to make him wait any longer."

Ross and Dallas each took an arm and between them they pulled Mingo to his feet. Less than an hour later they left the trail and passed beneath a pair of sentry rocks and into a natural stone amphitheater. A collection of small stone houses were scattered around the wide bowl. Mingo quickly counted eleven as he walked between the two brothers. He noticed several women stirring simmering cooking pots. To the side was a large open-sided building that appeared to be sheltering a collection of spoils. Mingo could make out a stack of blankets, a large trunk, barrels of flour and other staples, and several rifles and kegs of powder. Three horses were hobbled nearby. A herd of milk cows and calves numbering between fifteen and twenty grazed the opposite side of the bowl. A small herd of sheep stared at him, huddled together before the steely eye of a black and white border collie. Chickens pecked and squawked underfoot.

The entire population stared as the three men walked across the open bowl to stand before a rock cairn. A blanket was folded on the top of the rocks as a kind of honor seat. Mingo glanced to his right and saw approaching a strongly built man of middle age. His hair was the color of the rocks and his eyes the color of the cold northern seas. He moved with an aura of power.

The man seated himself on the blanket facing Mingo and his two captors. The cold blue eyes stared into the Cherokee's face for several seconds. His gaze traveled carefully down Mingo's tall, slender frame. Then he nodded and turned his eyes to the man at Mingo's right.

"Well done, lad. That's him alright. Murray's whelp. Though I've never see him, I remember him being described to me many a time. A bit bruised but whole. I'm proud o' ye, lad."

The young man at Mingo's side colored with pleasure. "He weren't no trouble Daddy. The fall knocked him out and he came along right peaceful."

The cold blue eyes returned to Mingo's. "Very smart, Cherokee. I'd expect you to be as cold and calculating as your daddy." The older man spit in derision. "Now to ease your mind some, I'll tell you what we want o' ye.

Your daddy's safely back in England where he's busy grabbing as much as he can get his lily-white hands on. So he's out o' our grasp, so to speak. But his friends on this side o' the water aren't. They're busy grabbing here. It's them that we battle. We take whatever we can whenever we can. Your friend Mr. Daniel Boone is grabbing too. And now we'll be taking from him and them that's backing him."

The gray-haired man stopped and searched the Cherokee's eyes for any challenge. Finding none, the leader continued. "You're going to help me and mine. We know you're scouting for Mr. Boone. We know he's behind you with a group o' settlers for his town in the territory. We want a tribute paid for his safe passage. You're going to take that message to him."

Mingo swallowed and cleared his throat. "What if I refuse to take any part in this robbery?"

The older man colored brightly and leaped off the rocks. He stabbed his finger into Mingo's chest as he punctuated his words. "It is not robbery! It is tribute, a payment that we are owed from those who stole our homes."

"Daniel took no one's home. Neither did those who follow him to make a better life for themselves."

"Look around you, Indian. That's what me and mine are doing. Making a better life for ourselves. Men like your daddy stole our lands one piece at a time, with legal papers and with bribery and outright murder. Them with property 'n power used us for their own purposes and then cast us aside like so much offal.

For four hundred years Clan Armstrong and Clan Elliott guarded the Middle March while Clan Johnstone guarded the West. We were good enough for that until James I decided to drive us out. Himself, his ministers, and his advisors like you Murrays." Craig Armstrong again sent a stream of spittal beside the rock cairn. "Sent us to fight the Irish, to die in the Low Countries, to be used against the savages here. Sacrificed us during the French war, posted us in the front lines to be used as canon fodder. Enough! We will endure no more! Now we fight for ourselves."

The man's sea blue eyes sparkled like sunlight on the ocean. All the centuries of tenuous existence built into the present and Clan Armstrong was fighting for its own. Here in the mountains of a new continent they lived as they had for generations, fighting and robbing, reivers of the borders. Mingo nodded his head in understanding. He remembered his courses in English history well.

"I ask tonight to think about my position. You are correct that Daniel is behind me. One day will make no difference." Mingo's eyes looked boldly into the blue eyes of the border Scot. The two men measured each other for seconds. Then the Scot slowly nodded.

"Untie him, Ross."

"Daddy! He'll run back to Boone."

"No he won't. He'll give his word, won't you Cherokee?"

Again Mingo searched the older man's eyes. He nodded. "I give you my word that I won't try to escape. You can trust me." Mingo stretched out his right hand to the Scot. Craig Armstrong accepted the gesture and shook Mingo's strong hand. Beside him Ross sighed but did as instructed and freed Mingo's hands. He bent and untied the hobble around Mingo's ankles. Craig waved his sons aside and the three reivers split and went about their usual business, leaving Mingo standing alone before the seat of decision.