Chapter 1
The afternoon sunlight was strong as it beamed down on Mingo's still face and closed eyes. Slowly the drowsy Cherokee became aware of his surroundings. He could hear the bird calls and leaves rustling in the summer breeze. That breeze lightly touched his bare arms and stirred the thick black hair that covered his forehead. He carefully opened his eyes and found himself lying flat on his back at the base of a steep hill. He didn't move for several seconds, puzzling out the reason for his position. Only blank blackness filled his mind.
Breathing more rapidly as fear began to circle his heart, he slowly pushed himself into a sitting position. His bare arms were scraped and bruised. Bracken covered his body and stuck in his long black hair. From the pain in his ribs and the general sore feeling of his entire body Mingo surmised that he had rolled down the hill beside him. But he had no memory of it.
A bee buzzed around his head and he automatically lifted his right hand to chase it away. He was surprised to see a frayed rope still attached to his wrist. He glanced at his left wrist and found that it too had a rope attached. He had been bound, a captive. But of who? And why?
With that knowledge he quickly stood and staggered into the shelter of the nearby trees to hide. There he leaned against the smooth bark of a sycamore. His head was throbbing and he was thirsty. He pushed his way farther into the forest, searching for a stream or spring to slake his thirst. Finding one within only a few minutes he drank deeply and then sat supported by a large walnut tree. There he took inventory. He was missing his gun, his knife, and his whip. Being virtually defenseless in the Kentucky forest was not comforting. He gathered several nearby stones to use as missiles if the need arose.
From the general weakness of his body Mingo understood that he had been without food for days. His empty stomach, now filled with water, churned unpleasantly. Wearily he pushed himself to his feet and gathered a number of fibrous vines, braided them for added strength, and set two snares along a small game path nearby. He quickly made a firebow to start a fire when evening came. Then he sat back against the walnut tree and watched the leaves fluttering in the gentle summer breeze.
When he awoke in the early evening his snares yielded a young, tender rabbit which he laboriously cleaned using the sharp edges of several broken rocks. The ragged edges tore the meat but after many minutes of labor Mingo was able to remove the skin and clean the body cavity.
He spitted the meat over the small fire that he had kindled using the firebow he'd made. While the rabbit roasted he teased the rope from his wrists using another sharp rock. Even without seasoning the rabbit meat was most welcome and he ate every morsel. As the nourishment coursed through his sore body Mingo lay back on the moist Kentucky soil and sought his elusive memory.
A half mile away Jericho crept as silently as possible through the thick underbrush below the ridgeline. He and Daniel had split up when the bear they'd been stalking decided to turn from the hunted to the hunter. That was several hours ago and it was nearly dark. He'd been circling in an ever-widening arc, hoping to cut Daniel's trail. Suddenly he noticed a section of scraped vegetation. It looked as though someone of size had recently slid or rolled down the side of the hill. Cautiously Jericho followed the path of broken vegetation to the bottom. In the last summer light he could see moccasin prints trailing into the thick brush nearby. Judging by the strange placement of the tracks, the owner of the prints was unsteady on his feet. There was no sign of blood droplets to indicate a wounded man. Puzzled, Jericho crouched down to think.
Deciding that the man was possibly injured in a way he didn't understand, Jericho carefully followed the trail of stumbling footprints. About a hundred yards into the thick forest he spied a prone figure. Silently he glided closer. In the murky twilight he recognized the clothing. The tall recumbent man was Mingo. Never before had Jericho known the Cherokee to allow someone to sneak up on him. He must be injured. Feeling protective, Jericho softly spoke Mingo's name and approached to stand by his side. In the near darkness the young man could just make out the other man's features. There seemed to be a large swelling above Mingo's right eye. It was discolored and seeped a bloody fluid. As Jericho stood looking down at his friend he noticed that Mingo had no knife and his whip was also missing. There also was no sign of his rifle.
The small campfire was nearly out. Quietly Jericho walked out into the woods to find as much firewood as he could before it became impossible to see. When he returned to Mingo's camp he carefully placed the wood beside the fire ring and sat down to watch over his friend's deep sleep. He had never known the man to sleep so deeply and he was becoming worried about Mingo's physical condition.
Jericho munched on a piece of jerky and added several small sticks to the fire. Then he placed his gun across his knees and leaned back against the large oak behind him. His mind rambled and a clear memory of Mingo's laughing face brought a smile to his own. He remembered the tall man leaning back from his knees, laughing heartily as Suma's tribesmen carried him to the sweat lodge. Though he had never told Mingo, the Cherokee's presence during that time had been most reassuring.
Jericho thought of other times when Mingo and he, usually with Daniel, had adventures together. Now watching the sleeping man Jericho realized how empty his life would be without Mingo. His humor, his understanding, his reassuring nature was a strong support that Jericho had never acknowledged. As the hours passed the young pioneer decided to tell his friend of the important role he played in Jericho's life.
Late in the night Mingo stirred and moaned softly. Jericho came instantly alert and leaned forward to watch the other man stiffly pull himself into a sitting position. As his eyes focused Mingo started to find another man so close. His hands patted the ground, searching for the pile of stones. Jericho's voice was soothing as he spoke.
"Mingo, it's me, Jericho. I've been watching you sleep for hours. Are you all right?"
Mingo closed his eyes against the pain of his throbbing head and tried to remember Jericho. Only the blackness filled his mind. He opened his dark eyes and stared at the young man. Nothing, no memory of any kind. But obviously the other man recognized him. Mingo realized that this was a blessing and determined to use the knowledge to help himself.
"I seem to have lost my memory. I can't say that I know you. You said your name is Jericho?" The youth nodded, his handsome face creased with concern.
"Tell me my name again, please. Perhaps that will help spark my elusive memory." Whatever memory the blow had removed, it had done nothing to impair the education received years before. Mingo remained as courtly and erudite as he had always been. Jericho smiled at Mingo's earnest face and answered.
"Your name is Mingo. You are my friend; I have known you for years. You've been a very important part of my life. I'd never told you that before, but I want you to know. You are a Cherokee but your father was English. And what happened to you I have no idea, except that you've got a knot on your head the size of a chicken egg. That's prob'ly why you can't remember."
Mingo's long fingers tentatively touched the knot. It was very tender and obviously recent. Jericho leaned onto his knees and reached inside his pack for a coffee pot and coffee. The rich aroma wafted to Mingo's nose and he sniffed appreciatively. Jericho smiled and rose to find water. Mingo pointed in the direction of the little spring he'd found earlier and smiled as he realized he'd remembered that. Apparently new memories weren't going to be affected. Only the distant past.
While Jericho was gone Mingo struggled to remember the young man. He tried to place his voice, his appearance, anything. But there was no memory of any kind. Mingo frowned, and the wound on his head throbbed more strongly. Gingerly he again touched the knot. Who had hit him that hard, and why? And why had he been bound? Shaking his head in annoyance, Mingo glanced up as Jericho entered the camp. The young man leaned forward and placed several larger sticks on the fire, and as he did the firelight lit up his handsome Irish face. Suddenly a flash of recognition exploded in Mingo's mind: Jericho around a campfire in a large camp of some kind. There were wagons and several men. Jericho and he were seated around a fire, and another man, a very tall man, was striding toward them.
Jericho continued to settle the pot in the fire. He glanced up and caught Mingo's expression.
"You just remembered something didn't you? If you'll tell me what it was, I'll tell you what was happening and maybe you'll remember more."
Mingo nodded. "You and I were sitting around a campfire, eating. A very tall man approached us. We were in a large camp with several men and wagons. There were tents too. I dished up a plate of food for the other man but he told me to keep it hot and walked away. That's all I remember."
Jericho grinned. "You, me and Dan were in the camp of a road-building crew that crossed Shawnee land and killed a Shawnee boy. We were trying to stop an Indian war and the leader of that crew was bein' mighty stubborn. Dan got the idea to use up all the water so you and him would have to go out and get more. He said that we were dirty and needed a bath. I said I'd just swum a river the day before, and you said the same thing. But that's how we used up the water. You said bathin' in a barrel was 'somewhat constricting'. You're always saying things like that. Must be your Oxford education."
"My what?"
"You were schooled in England by your daddy. At a place called Oxford. You always talk way above the rest of us. Cincinnatus is always ribbin' you for it."
"Who does what?"
"Cincinnatus, the man who runs the trading store and tavern. He ribs you. Teases you. Tall, thin man with a bushy gray beard. Makes a wicked brew he calls Blue Thunder. Don't want to drink much o' that stuff. It makes you lose your mem'ry too and gives you a wicked headache."
"I haven't been imbibing, have I? I too have a 'wicked headache'."
Jericho shook his head. "I'd a smelled that from a mile away. You ain't been drinkin'. You don't ever drink more'n ale or rum. I've never seen you drunk or even tipsy. You just aren't that way."
Mingo nodded slightly. The coffee was boiled and Jericho poured a measure into his tin cup and held it out to his friend. Mingo gingerly sipped the hot coffee. The aroma was pleasing. He closed his eyes and another memory formed. He was seated in a tall-backed settee. Before him he could see that same tall man and a pretty red-haired woman seated in a rocking chair. They all three were sipping hot coffee, and the feeling of deep bonds pulled at Mingo's heart. Across the fire Jericho spoke softly.
"You're remembering something else, right?"
"I am. That same tall man and a pretty woman before a fireplace. We all three are drinking coffee and talking pleasantly."
"That's Dan again, and Becky. You and he are the best of friends. You've been his friend since before he came to live in Kentucky. You showed him the place for the fort. He and Yadkin helped you fight off a passel of Shawnee and that's how you three met."
"Yadkin?"
"Dan's friend from the Carolinas. They were scouting a route through the Gap and lookin' for a place to build a fort. They ran into you and you showed 'em. Remember Yadkin? I only met him once or twice. He was tall and had gold hair that hung in waves to his collar. He wore a mustache. Usually dressed in buckskins. Wore a hat with a long feather on the side."
Mingo stared into the fire. Yadkin. Yes, another memory was forming. Mingo's lips tightened against the pain. Yadkin was lying in a bed. His chest was bandaged. The man called Dan and the woman called Becky stood nearby. So did many other men. And a very small white-haired boy. Yadkin's voice was plaintive as he asked the questions.
"Why, Mingo? That's all I ask. Why?" The blue, blue eyes that looked into his were filled with hurt. Mingo swallowed as the memory continued to form. Jericho sat watching the play of emotions that darted across Mingo's face in the firelight.
It had been Taramingo that shot Yadkin. His brother. Another memory formed. The water closed over his head as he frantically clutched his brother's arms. His hands grabbed for the rocky bank and Taramingo pulled them away. He felt his fingernails pull loose. The cold water swirled around his body and banged him against the rocks.
His lungs were on fire. He tried to scream and water filled his mouth. Mingo fought the memory and pushed it out of his mind. The cup of coffee slipped from his hand and spilled hissing onto the hot stones. Jericho leaped and grabbed the cup before it fell into the fire.
"Mingo! Are you all right?" Jericho was anxiously clutching Mingo's muscled arm. Slowly the Cherokee became aware of his surroundings. The near-drowning had happened many, many years ago. But the memory was very powerful. He felt drained and released a shuddering sigh. He nodded at Jericho.
"I think I had better sleep again. Thank you for the coffee. It was most welcome." Mingo backed away from the fire a few feet and lay on his side, his back turned to the fire, his left arm crooked as a pillow. As he lay willing his breathing to steady he felt a blanket cover his long body. He smiled at the affectionate gesture, then allowed the last memory to form. It was of his mother Talota. They were laughing and splashing each other in the small stream. In his hand was a speckled rock that his mother had just given him. The pleasant memories surrounded the drowsy man and he fell asleep in his mother's arms.