SUMMER
Chapter 2
By the time Mingo reached the settlement, the sun had been down for much more than an hour. Lantern light glowed from all the cabins inside the fortress walls. It was past closing time for the establishment owned by Cincinnatus Cicero Jones, but there was still a light in his window. The grizzled, bearded colonial was one of the original settlers to travel to Kentucky with Daniel Boone. He ran the only tavern and general store for miles, and did his fair share of hunting, fishing, and doctoring when it was needed.
Mingo entered slowly. He knew the squeak of the door would announce to the proprietor that he had another patron at the late hour. The Cherokee expected a waspish greeting from the older man he called friend.
"Oh, it's only you, Mingo," the crusty voice came from behind the bar. He could see the painted on smile disappear from the tired tavern keeper's face.
"And a hearty good evening to you as well, Cincinnatus," the Cherokee jibed at him. "You are keeping late hours tonight." As always, he leaned his rifle in one of the two worn down notches on the wall by the door. The other notch belonged to Daniel's rifle better known to all as Ticklicker, that is when the big frontiersman happened to be in the tavern.
"Not me," the bartender answered and motioned to a table in the back where two big men sat drinking. "Them!" The ragged cloth he ran lightly over the bar just missed Mingo's elbows coming to rest on the rough surface.
"Cincinnatus! Two more ales…now!" the heavier of the two men shouted. The table shook with the pounding of their tankards.
"Just hold on to your suspenders," Cincinnatus shouted. "I'm waitin' on another customer here." He leaned over to Mingo and mumbled, "Like they need another."
"I'm sorry, Mingo," he said. "Would you like an ale?" Cincinnatus' eyes remained on the two in the back.
Mingo could see concern in his friend's face.
"Not tonight, Cincinnatus, thank you," he answered.
But the older man's mind was elsewhere.
"Comin' right up," and the bartender drew an ale from the nearest barrel.
Cincinnatus could handle most any customer who gave him trouble. These two were obviously rubbing the proprietor the wrong way. Mingo picked up the unsolicited mug of ale. He leaned back on the bar and took a second look at the two ruffians. From their attire and the telltale odor in the room, he surmised they were trappers. The majority of the tavern patrons who weren't permanent residents of Boonesborough were of that persuasion. They made their living in the wilderness…refinement was not high on their list of priorities.
These two were big, burly, and loud; especially loud. One was bearded, one was not.
"New faces, Cincinnatus?" Mingo asked while sipping his ale.
The bartender's eyes returned to his patron at the bar.
"Huh? Ah, no, Mingo. They come in two, three times a year. The bigger one with the red hair, the one doin' all the shoutin'? Name's Wade Tolliver, the other is Merle Anderssen, Swede for short. They're ornery, but they bring in a pretty fair cache of furs or other goods to trade." He leaned over, "And usually by the time they leave, they've spent most of the money I give 'em for their merchandise right here in the tavern."
The quiet cackle that came from the businessman spoke of his profit.
"They're just a little louder than usual tonight and not about to leave, even though I told them several times I was closin' up."
Wade Tolliver was the bigger in heft of the two, 5' 10" and over two hundred twenty pounds. Mingo observed that ten pounds of that was unshaven whiskers and dirt. Swede was taller, but not as bulky; blond-hair, blue eyes, carrying a pistol in his belt.
Tolliver ambled up to the bar and slammed down two empty tankards.
"Cincinnatus! You gonna get us our ales or just keep talking to this filthy redskin here?"
Mingo was used to the growls of white men and their insults. At times, he let the insults go by, and at other times, he did not. This was one of those times when he did not. His elbows remained on the bar, his eyes on the rim of the mug he idly ran his finger around.
"Filthy sir, I beg to differ," the Cherokee remarked slowly. "I bathe everyday-- something you might want to think about doing very soon."
Mingo's polished verbiage and tone told Cincinnatus it was time to start clearing off the bar.
"Your buckskins reek of every meal you have eaten for the last week," Mingo continued.
The insult escaped the big man, but not Cincinnatus, who had to look away.
"Our drinks!" Tolliver barked, and grabbed the smaller man's arm, very nearly pulling him over the bar.
"Now just a doggone minute," Cincinnatus squeaked.
Mingo rose to his full height, easily taller than Tolliver. He took a quick glance at the Swede who still sat at their table. Mingo could see the other man was watching the happenings at the bar. "You know, Cincinnatus I do believe I was correct when I first came in and saw these gentlemen. Their less than immaculate clothing and telltale bouquet only adds a higher class to your regular clientele." Mingo's dark eyes glared as he took hold of the trapper's wrist and squeezed until Tolliver let go of Cincinnatus "You, sir, need to have more respect for your proprietor," he said, releasing him.
Tolliver shook his hand to get the feeling back into it.
Mingo continued. "If Cincinnatus announced that it is closing time, as he told me he has, then it is indeed closing time."
Tolliver drew himself up slowly, but only came to the Cherokee's chin. He was bulkier than Mingo, but not as muscular.
" Are you talkin' to me, redskin?"
Mingo smiled wryly. "I have been, sir, ever since you approached the bar and insisted on accosting the owner."
"I ain't costing him anything. I just grabbed his arm," Tolliver yipped.
Mingo's rolling eyes went to Cincinnatus, then back to Tolliver. "I believe, Mr. Tolliver, that Cincinnatus informed you that your last drink was just that…..your last drink. It is time for you and your comrade to depart and come back another day. Tomorrow perhaps, when you are both sober and thirsty once more."
Mingo's voice was calm, not so his stance.
"We're thirsty right now, Injun!" Tolliver's loud voice signaled for his partner to join in the conversation. Merle Anderssen got up from the table, and slowly circled behind the Cherokee.
He was not unnoticed.
Tolliver's now-bold demeanor made it clear that he thought they had the upper hand.
"You're Boone's Injun, ain't you?" he sneered as he turned facing Mingo head on.
'Not another one,' Mingo thought to himself. He ever so slightly moved the full tankard of ale toward Cincinnatus, who promptly disposed of it.
"Well, Mr. Tolliver, that is one of the many colorful appellations I have been labeled with. Although I do prefer my given name, which is Mingo. But if that proves too difficult for you to remember, then I suppose Boone's Injun is what I will have to be satisfied with."
He saw the redhead's eyes leave his and look to Anderssen. Mingo could feel the man behind him move in closer.
"You like using them fancy words don't you, half-breed?" Tolliver said.
The Cherokee's eyebrows arched in growing discontent. At the mention of the word half-breed, Cincinnatus took the opportunity to clear away anything in the immediate area that was breakable or valuable.
Wade Tolliver continued.
"Wonder if you fight as pretty as you talk."
Mingo smiled again. "In my estimation, sir, there is only one way to find out."
Anderssen took one step too close to the Cherokee and received an elbow to the gullet for his efforts. He fell on the bar gasping for air. Tolliver threw a right hand to the Cherokee's jaw, but was too slow for it to connect. Mingo ducked, and threw a roundhouse left that sent the burly trapper to the floor. Swede recovered enough to grab Mingo around the neck, but equilibrium and muscle were on the Cherokee's side. He flipped the blond-haired trapper over his head, knocking Tolliver down a second time. Both drunken men sat on the floor dazed as well as amazed at the quickness, strength, and agility of their single opponent.
Mingo nodded at Cincinnatus who stood holding a glass lantern in one hand and the mirror that had been hanging on the wall in the other. Out of the corner of his eye, the Cherokee saw Anderssen go for his pistol. The Swede yelped at the crack of a bullwhip that wrapped around his hand.
"You do not want to do that," Mingo stated, the whip in hand.
The pistol fell to the floor.
"Now then, stand up, both of you. Cincinnatus, open the door please."
Mingo picked up the pistol and tapped on it until it was empty of powder. Then he handed it back to the tall Swede.
"Someday, Injun," he mumbled as he rubbed the bloody whip mark on his wrist.
"Oh, so you are able to speak, Mr. Anderssen," Mingo's voice rang with sarcasm as he escorted them to the front door of the tavern.
"Come back tomorrow, boys," Cincinnatus shouted, as he watched the two trappers walk reluctantly out into the night air.
The tavern keeper breathed a sigh of relief as he closed the door. Mingo picked up the overturned tables and benches for him.
"Hee, hee. I ain't never seen a better confrontation than that one, Mingo. I don't know which confused 'em most, your words or your fists. But I sure do thank you. Land o'mighty, that left you got has a kick like my Kentucky Blue Thunder."
The tall Cherokee joined his friend at the bar. "Oh, they were quite inebriated, Cincinnatus. They might have put up a better fight had not the ale slowed their reactions. They are most likely pretty even-tempered when sober, I would venture."
"Mebbe so, Mingo, but you may want to watch your back while they're still in Boonesborough," the older man said.
"Well, I am not going to be in Boonesborough myself for a few days. Did you not remember what I am here for, Cincinnatus?"
"Oh, by golly, where is my head? Got it right here for ya." The bartender reached behind him, and handed Mingo a square package wrapped in brown paper.
Mingo's nose wrinkled when he smelled it. He shook his head. "Yes, that is it,"
"Finest smoking' tobacco in all of Salem." Cincinnatus assured him.
"Chief Standing Bear will thank you, as will my uncle. A little peace offering from the chief of the Cherokee to the chief of the Choctaw. How much do I owe you, Cincinnatus?" Mingo opened his pack.
"Oh, no, you don't, Mingo. Not after what you just done for me. I'm much obliged, and if I can help keep the peace 'tween the Cherokee, the Choctaw and Boonesborough, it's well worth it."
Mingo reached over the bar and shook his older friend's hand. "That is very generous of you, Cincinnatus, thank you." He put the package in his pack.
"Now then, how about that ale, Mingo?" The tavern keeper started to pour one into a tankard.
"No, thank you, Cincinnatus. I have a long walk ahead of me tomorrow. I had better abstain this time." He nodded toward the filled mug, "But you go right ahead." The smile on his face was genuine.
"Don't mind if I do," the bearded man said and drank it dry. "Ahhhh. I'll sleep good tonight," he laughed as he belched.
"As will I," the Cherokee answered, "But not if I stay here talking all night. I had best be on my way. I will see you in a couple of weeks. I promised Daniel I would help him dig some more root cellars on my return. With this drought, we are going to need them."
Mingo headed toward the door; picking up his rifle, he held the brown package up in the air. "Thank you again, Cincinnatus, and good night."
" 'Night, Mingo," the older man waved.
As Mingo walked through the main gate of Boonesborough, he glanced back toward the tavern just in time to see the glow of the lantern dim in the window. He smiled to himself. His friend Cincinnatus would be in his nightshirt and asleep before Mingo reached his own camp and lodge on the outskirts of the settlement by Birch Tree River.