Chapter Three

The Prisoner

The pounding in Mingo's head reminded him of the cannons at the Royal Military Academy in London. Someone had struck him from behind. The last thing he remembered was leaving Daniel's cabin in the late evening. About two miles down the trail to his camp, he felt a sudden pain in the back of his head and hit the ground hard. Mingo wasn't certain how long he had been out. But now as he slowly opened his eyes he saw a sliver of light showing on the horizon. It was almost dawn. He had been unconscious all night.

When the buzzing finally stopped, Mingo tried to focus on his surroundings. Cautious as always, the Cherokee was assessing his situation. He could hear the roar of Crystal Falls nearby. It had cooled off overnight. The cold damp air sent a shiver across his bare arms which were tied tightly behind him around a birch tree. He was standing, but a prisoner...of whom he was yet to find out.

Mingo could see three men sitting around a campfire. It was far enough away that he couldn't see who they were. Two were sleeping; one was pouring himself a cup of coffee. Three more cups sat close to the flames. That meant there must be one more man. 'He is probably out on lookout,' Mingo thought to himself. The Cherokee could see his rifle and weapon's belt on the ground near the campsite.

Mingo shivered. The warmth of the campfire was too far away to benefit him The man with the coffee began walking toward him. Leftover shadows of the night prevented Mingo from seeing his face, but when he spoke his voice cut through the former son of the English peerage like a highwayman's rapier.

"Mingo, my good friend," it rang out sarcastically. "I knew we would meet again one day."

The Indian's chin dropped to his chest.

"Gore," he muttered in anguish.

Thoughts of more than a year ago went racing through Mingo's aching head.

A law from the French wars had offered twenty shillings for an Indian scalp. The law was old, the war was past, but the bounty was still being paid. Mingo and Daniel had come upon a group of Cherokee men, women, and children, massacred. They had been murdered for the bounty by a band of outlaws. There was only one Cherokee left alive, a white-haired old woman, whose scalp was not valuable because of its color.

Mingo and Daniel tracked and caught the leader of the outlaws. His name was Simon Gore. His men got away, but with the old woman's eye witness statement Daniel made the official arrest to send Gore to Salem for trial. Mingo accompanied the militia taking Gore to Salem , but his men had other plans. The outlaws overpowered Mingo and the military men and freed Simon Gore. Mingo was shot in the left shoulder, but managed to escape. The militia men were not so lucky. Gore and his men murdered them all.

Standing helplessly bound to the river birch, Mingo shut his eyes and took a deep breath as he remembered what happened next. It was something he would regret for the rest of his life.

Wounded and bleeding from the gun of one of Gore's men, Mingo made his way back to Daniel's cabin. He warned Daniel that Simon Gore's men had freed him and murdered all the militia men, and that they were following. Before Daniel could get his family to the safety of Boonesborough, Gore and his men were upon them.

The Boones were made prisoners in their own home. The last thing Mingo would have ever wanted to do was endanger Daniel's family, but that was what happened. The outlaws followed his trail of blood right to their front door.

With a price on their heads, Gore and his men were not able to claim the bounty themselves. They needed somewhere to hide while a man Gore had blackmailed delivered the blood money. The Boone's cabin became that place. What Simon Gore didn't know was that a member of his own family was traveling with this same man bringing the money. Andrew Gore, wanted to surprise his father with a visit. The young man had no idea what kind of a cutthroat his father had turned into.

After the money arrived, to make sure of their escape, Gore took Rebecca, Israel, and Jemima as hostages. He left two of his men at the cabin to kill Daniel and Mingo. The two Boonesborough men were able to overpower the outlaws. With Mingo still wounded, Daniel went after his family and Gore. In the end, it backfired tragically on the Simon Gore. The man Gore had blackmailed tried to shoot him, but Andrew got in the way and took the bullet for his father. He died in his father's arms. Gore and his men were recaptured by Daniel, sent to jail and sentenced to hang.

Mingo lifted his head in disbelief.

"Gore, how ever did you manage to escape the hangman's noose a second time? Daniel and I should have attended the execution and put the noose around your neck ourselves."

The sandy haired outlaw, always with a false smile on his face, approached his prisoner. Gore was eating an apple as he stood close by Mingo. The Indian could smell the slice of apple as Gore placed it in his mouth.

"Now Mingo, is that anyway to talk? Someone heard of our talents and broke us out of jail. Is that so hard to believe?"

"What talents?" the Cherokee asked. "Robbery, murder, kidnapping…shall I continue?"

Gore pointed to the campfire where the other two men were stirring. One was thin, and nasty looking in the face. The second man was a stocky Frenchman. Mingo recognized them.

"You remember Petch and Henri don't you?" With his knife, Gored pulled back the sleeve of the Cherokee's shirt revealing the scar of the bullet wound from their first encounter. "Ahhh," Gore said. With a leering smirk, the evil white man pressed hard on the tip of the blade, sinking it into the dark skin of the Indian's shoulder. "It's healed up nicely, hasn't it?"

Mingo's face showed no reaction. He would not give Gore the satisfaction. Petch and Henri joined their leader, both acknowledging the captive with a nod of their head.

"Why look Dr. Petch, what a good job you did on our friend's shoulder," Gore said. He let the sleeve cover the scar back up and took another slice of the apple. His men went back to the warmth of the fire.

Even though Mingo was the prisoner here, he decided it was time to get some information.

"Allow me to speculate, Gore. What would make you return to this region where there is most certainly a price on your heads?" Mingo asked, smiling himself. "My guess would be money. British money perhaps?"

Gore stepped back and put his knife in its sheath. "Precisely my dear Cherokee and you are going to help me get it."

The smile left Mingo's face. Even in his present predicament, the Cherokee was adamant in his answer. "I do not foresee that happening, Gore, not in the near future, in fact not ever. Not after what you did to my people."

The outlaw walked around the birch tree and tested the ropes, making sure they were tight. Gore came back face to face with the tall Indian. The sun was making its first full appearance through the tree line as morning erupted.

"Well Mingo, you know, some lives just aren't as valuable as others," Gore said.

It was three against one and Mingo knew retaliation would be instant. He spoke with his heart and not with his head when it came to his Cherokee heritage.

"Like your own son's life?" Mingo said softly.

The smug look on Simon Gore's face turned to fierce rage. He balled his fists and, one after another laid blows on the Indian's unprotected midsection. His men rose from their positions by the fire and watched with sadistic pleasure.

Mingo was strong, but Gore's blows were incessant. He pounded him uncontrollably, like a madman. Blow after blow fell. Blow after blow which robbed him of his wind and his dignity. Mingo withstood the punishment as long as he could until finally he began gasping for air.

Gore stopped.

"You will not ever speak of my son!" he shouted. Then he hit Mingo two times in the face cutting open his cheek. The familiar taste of blood entered Mingo's mouth. Gore walked away from him. Mingo suspected it was because he had lost his temper too soon. Gore had something planned.

Mingo could feel the bruising in his ribs every time he drew a breath. His eye was already swollen. It wasn't the first time and certainly wouldn't be the last. A half-breed Cherokee living in the white man's world was never far away from a beating. He closed his eyes, swallowed, and struggled to get his breath back.

Mingo could feel the rays of the sun through the trees, trying to reach Birch Tree River. His breathing was almost back to normal, as normal as it would be with badly bruised ribs. He opened his eyes to find Simon Gore walking slowly toward him. Gore had a canteen in his hands.

"I'm sorry, Mingo. I lost my temper," he said. He put the canteen up to Mingo's mouth and let him drink. It tasted good. The outlaw waited for him swallow. "More?" he asked nicely.

Mingo shook his head 'no'. He knew Gore was sorry for the beating he had given him. Gore had made a mistake. Mingo had something the outlaw wanted and losing his temper so soon was not going to help him get it.

"I realize now the loss of your people must have hurt you as much as the loss of Andrew hurt me," Gore said as he closed up the canteen.

Mingo let the serpent talk knowing full well Gore's words were as insincere as Satan's had been. Even so, he let him continue.

"My new British allies need some information, my friend. Give it to me and you are free to go. You have my word," Gore told him.

The cold water had cleared Mingo's head. He listened and remembered.

"...and you are free to go. You have my word." Mingo had heard the very same phrase some time ago from another man with no honor, his brother, Tara Mingo.

'Those who are without honor throw their word around like drinks in a tavern," Mingo said to the outlaw.

Gore pretended not to hear him and continued.

"We know you and your big friend, Daniel Boone are going on a special trip," Gore said, then hesitated and looked Mingo in the eye. "Don't try and deny it, Mingo," he said. Gore moved closer to the Cherokee. "All I need from you is where you are going, when, and the purpose of your trip. And please don't waste my time telling me it is just a supply run to Curran's Settlement; maybe your simple minded friends at the tavern in Boonesborough will buy that story, but not me."

Mingo's dark brown eyes watched Gore's every move. 'So there was a spy in the tavern,' Mingo thought.

"I'm waiting, my friend." the outlaw stood with his arms crossed.

"A special trip you say?" Mingo laughed. "If I were you I would make certain your network of Redcoat spies are better trained, Gore. Perhaps you could accompany them into Salem. I understand there is a very good ear doctor there," Mingo laughed again. "Daniel and I are delivering some supplies to Curran's Settlement then going on a fishing trip and that is all."

Gore went around behind the tree again. The outlaw grabbed the ropes that held Mingo prisoner and pulled them so tight the Cherokee could feel them cut into his wrists. Mingo flinched, but remained steadfast.

"Mingo, my brother, you and I both know you are lying. And I don't like liars, they can't be trusted."

"Trust? What would you know of the word?" the Cherokee shot back quietly.

The outlaw rounded the tree to confront his prisoner once more. "Now I am a patient man, but only to a point."

Mingo stared into the face of his captor. "First and foremost, Gore," he said. "Let me correct you. You are not my brother. There is only one man I call brother." Mingo took a deep breath knowing full well he would face some sort of punishment for his attitude. "And second, Daniel and I are going on a fishing trip...nothing more...nothing less."

Petch and Henri were still standing by the fire. The rotund Frenchman was putting on his coat and checking his pistol.

'Time for a lookout change,' Mingo thought to himself.

"Ahh yes, your faithful blood brother, Daniel Boone. I owe him as I do you," Gore said placing his hand on his own neck. "Two times sent to the gallows. I don't plan on a third."

Gore's wry smile telegraphed his insincerity and growing impatience as he confronted his prisoner. Mingo straightened his shoulders and stood ready.

"But trust is a word that I do know, Mingo and I feel you don't trust me. I think we need to change that."

The blade of sarcasm in his voice was as sharp as any sword.

With no warning Gore tore open the front of Mingo's shirt. He ripped the beads from around Mingo's neck and threw them on the ground. Then with one swift motion of his knife Gore cut a deep gash across the Cherokee's muscled chest.

Throwing his head back against the tree and closing his eyes, Mingo set his jaw and breathed deeply through his nose, hoping to absorb the pain and ignore it. His fists were clenched behind him. When Mingo opened his eyes, the outlaw had made a small cut in the palm of his own left hand. The Cherokee pursed his lips for what was to come next.

Gore placed his own bleeding hand on Mingo's chest, pushing him hard against the tree. The outlaw had a way of making this torture sound like it was a good thing for both of them. "I want us to be blood brothers, Mingo," he said, "I want you to trust me as much as you trust your other 'brother'. For right now, Cherokee, your life is in my hands."

Mingo closed his eyes and bit his lip to keep from giving the fugitive any satisfaction of the pain he was in. By the time he opened them, Gore had wrapped the white neck scarf he wore around the small cut on his hand. With his knife in his right hand, Gore pressed the blade up against Mingo's bare skin.

"And now, Mingo, our blood is one. And you will tell me what I want to know, now!" Gore's voice was beginning to lose it's sarcastic edge and starting to become only dangerous.. "For my friend, my patience is wearing very thin and the next blood that is shed will be more than just a cut on your chest!"

Mingo could feel the cold steel of Gore's knife against his heart. In defiance, the Cherokee spoke low and clear.

"Your blood may have mixed with mine, but it will never run through my veins. I told you before; there is only one I give my trust to," Mingo swallowed. "His blood runs one with mine; even now I feel his strength within me." Beads of sweat were forming on his face and body. Mingo's long black hair, soaked in sweat as well, was cold on the back of his neck. "Your name and his should not even be spoken in the same breath." The ice in his voice let the outlaw know his mission was not going be an easy one.

Gore turned in disgust. Mingo relaxed. He had called his bluff-the madman wasn't ready to kill his prisoner yet.

The unidentified fourth man had come in from his lookout position. Mingo watched him as he went to the fire. As he warmed his hands over the flames, Mingo smelled the familiar odor of burning tobacco. The fourth man had lit up his pipe.

Mingo squinted against the flames. He could not make out his form clearly for his eyes were watering from all he had endured. Simon Gore went over and talked with the man. Then returned to his prisoner, his pistol drawn.

"One more time, Mingo. What are you and Boone up to!?"

Mingo let his eyes drop to the pistol. Then they returned to the outlaw. and with all the strength he could muster, he answered in full voice.

"One more time, Gore...fishing."

The butt of Gore's pistol hit hard against Mingo's temple. The daylight faded for the Cherokee. As he lost consciousness Mingo felt Gore begin to undo the ropes that bound him to the tree.

"No more time, Indian. You brought this on yourself."