(Reading level: grade 7.8)
Of the two
men carefully concealed among the brown, dead, and damp leaves of the creek
bottom, one was a white man. It was he who had first eyed the four sharpened
sticks scattered about here and there.
“That was
done by a beaver, not a man,” the Creek Indian said quietly. “How do you know?”
whispered his white companion. “I see the teeth marks, at least two of them,”
he answered, again, quietly.
Both men lay
unmoving among the downed tree limbs and dried leaves of a cold winter’s
afternoon. The narrow creek bottom they were hiding in didn’t offer much in the
way of cover. They had burrowed quickly down into the leaves and were pretty
well hidden. Both were armed with gun and knife. They were waiting to see if
the party of nearby Red Stick Creeks would find their trail or pass on by.
Fortunately, they had heard the approaching Indians before they had been
spotted. Working quickly, they had tried as best they could to become as
invisible as possible.
Red Sticks
hated whites and all their Indian friends. Since they had been defeated during the recent Indian war in what was now the new state of Alabama, many of them had fled to Florida. They had joined up with the Seminoles in resisting white settlements and the U. S. government. But apparently, a few of them had decided that South Georgia offered
some opportunities for economic advancement in the form of widely scattered
farms with infrequent army protection. So they had drifted into the region and
already showed signs of their success. They were driving two stolen young
calves and had four riding horses, not enough for all of them, but still they
were proud of their new found wealth. And judging from the loud talking of two
to three of them, they had also managed to steal someone’s “medicinal” supply
of rum or homemade brew.
Slowly,
Clifton became aware of the smell of smoke drifting down the creek bottom from
upstream and upwind. The warriors had decided to camp for the night. The two
friends exchanged an understanding look. If the Red Stick warriors were going
to camp and were also getting drunk, then the two would have a much easier time
of avoiding them. Clifton had been uncomfortable roaming the woodlands this far
north of his usual wandering grounds. He was very partial to the land around
the Okefenokee Swamp of Southeast Georgia. He had long been ready to return southwards
but an agreement to help someone had delayed their return.
The two had
only been up this far north a couple of times and were only here this time due
to having made an agreement with a wealthy farmer’s first cousin down near
Waresboro way. The cousin had been sitting in the stage station lamenting the
number of his cousin’s calves which a panther had been making off with. Neither
Clifton nor Cross Toed John could understand why anyone would allow such an
animal to continually destroy livestock and one of them had questioned the why
of the matter.
It turned
out that the wealthy farmer’s three slaves were terrified of the panther and
incapable of tracking and shooting him. The farmer himself had tried it, only
to have the big cat jump him and his horse from the advantageous position of a
low hanging oak limb. The resulting terror and commotion caused the farmer to
lose control of his horse which ran away into a large patch of blackberry
bushes.
The cat had slid down the horses hindquarters
and inflected such painful injuries that the horse had ran quite a ways before
tiring and circling slowly back to the main house. The farmer had fired a shotgun blast which did
little except scatter an especially large number of acorns across the area. Of
course, the blast did frighten the panther, causing him to run away. After a
considerable amount of effort the farmer had extricated himself from the
blackberry bushes and walked the few miles back to his house. There he met a
very tired and still frightened horse who took a bit of coaxing with an ear of
corn to get back into its pen.
With that
adventure over, the farmer had written to his South Georgia cousin for advice.
This had led to the meeting at the Waresboro stage station and the agreement by
Clifton and Cross Toed John to head north and help track and kill the panther. Though
both men had not enjoyed the company of the farmer nor his sharp tongued wife
and her harsh coffee, he had paid well when the job was done.
Now as the
two lay in the damp and very cold creek bottom, the panther was three days dead
and Clifton was anxious to be back south. An area where Red Sticks never
ventured and one never had to hide in damp and very cold leaves to avoid them. The
two friends had been on the second day of their return trip when the present
situation delayed them.
The
mid-winter sun seemed to be quickly falling from the sky. The cold seemed to
increase even more rapidly. Clifton knew that soon he would be hard put to keep
his teeth from chattering. The glow of a very large fire now seemed to be
filling the far end of the creek bottom and suddenly a very frightened calf
began to bawl. The bawling ended in a kind of unnerving high bawl. “And that is
the end of that calf,” thought Clifton as he realized that the Indians had just
butchered the calf and were settling in to roast beef steaks and get even
drunker.
As the
darkness now filled the lower creek bottom, Clifton and John rose slowly to
their feet. It was obvious to the two frontiersmen that the noisy bunch of Red
Sticks had not posted a guard nor did they seem to be concerned about someone
hearing them. “Could be that they killed whoever they stole those animals
from,” commented John quietly. As he said it, he was checking his gun for moisture,
just in case. Both men knew of times when people had been injured or killed
because they didn’t mind their powder and let it get too damp to fire properly
during a fight.
“Could be,”
answered Clifton as he finished seeing to his own weapon. “Now what?” he asked
his companion. “There’s nine or ten of them, and only the two of us. Even
drunk, they might get off a couple of lucky shots and then we would be in a bad
way,” muttered John. Gradually the two men drifted over to stand behind a tree
which both realized would help break up their outline, should one of the Red
Sticks decide to wander out for a look around.
After a few
minutes, with the cold seeming to penetrate deeper and deeper into their layers
of clothing, Clifton spoke. “I think we should run off with their horses,” he
said. “I think there is a settlement a few miles south of us along that
military road we crossed coming up here. We can leave them there and explain
where these guys are. The local militia can form up and get after them.”
John looked
thoughtfully up at the rising moon and said, “Sounds good to me…they’ll be
asleep soon.” The two friends crouched down with their backs to a tree and
waited. The Indians seemed to be arguing over something and an occasional shout
would ring out. “They’re gambling,” stated John. Being a Creek himself, he
could understand a good part of their language even as distorted as it was by
the strong drink and distance. The two friends ceased talking and waited
patiently in the way long time hunters and frontiersmen train themselves to do.
They slowly and carefully eased a leg this way and that to keep a foot from
falling asleep because of cramped circulation. Each filtered the night’s sounds
and both were aware of each Indian leaving the far campfire to ease himself.
After what
may have been three hours the far camp had grown quiet. The sound of one or two
snorers could be heard as well as the occasional shifting of a horse or calf.
Slowly the two frontiersmen rose as one. John took the lead, slowly moving
along a route that would take them around the camp and to where the horses were
tied. Moving slowly, the two took almost an hour to cover the distance, one
slow step at a time. One of the Indians seemed to be having disturbing dreams
as he shifted often and sat up a couple of times briefly. Each time he soon lay
down and was quickly snoring softly again.
As they
untied two of the horses and mounted, with the lead ropes of the other two in
hand, the restless sleeper sat up again. This time he didn’t lie back down but
instead stood up and gazed into the night’s shadows as if trying to decide if
it was really two men on the horses or maybe if it was a part of whatever dream
he had been enduring. Suddenly the reality of the situation broke through his
disturbed mind and shouting loudly he reached down for a weapon! Both men
shouted at their steeds in unison, slapping their heels to the sides of the now
startled farm horses. The animals, unused to being ridden with such vigorous
encouragement leapt forward, one crashing into a small tree as if blinded by
fright! Recovering, the mount plunged
off after his retreating friend, headed up the creek bottom as the sharp crack
of a musket sounded behind. That the full camp of Indian warriors were now up
and active was soon made clear as three or four more fired blindly in the
direction of the running horses.
Climbing up
the bank at the head of the bottom, John shouted back at Clifton, “East or
west?” “Head west, the creek is shallower up that way, we can cross it and turn
back south!” answered Clifton, glancing back.
***********************************
Two days
later the two friends arrived at a trail crossing along the military road built
to allow quick movement of troops from the Georgia coast inland. Situated at
this crossing were a trading post, three small homes, and a stage station with
a few spare horses. The trading post owner also served as an assistant to the
federally appointed Indian agent for the Lower Creek tribes and it was he to
whom the two reported their adventure.
Though news of any Indian problems had not reached the community as of
yet, the agent was not surprised when informed that the raiders were some of the last remaining Red
Sticks north of Florida. Cross Toed John’s description and report of some of the overheard
comments from the creek bottom helped him to believe the story. “You boys were just plain lucky!” he
exclaimed. Clifton replied,” The Good Lord watches over those of us who stumble
along the way. That’s what my ole’ mom used to say, at least.”
“Well,
whatever… at least you two were able to bring word. I’ll send my man, Frank, up
the road to find the army patrol camped near the Ocmulgee River. He can find
them within a day or so. Maybe they can cut back across and find these fellows
before they do more harm,” the agent said. “Sounds good. Now I think we will
buy a few things for the trip and head south,” Clifton said.
************************
Later that
day, as they were trailing southwards, John looked back and asked, “What was
that feller laughing about when we left?” “Oh, he was laughing about the
farmer, Mr. Wilkes, we helped out. When he heard about the panther jumping him,
he just about fell over laughing.” “Why?” queried a perplexed John.
“Turns out
they are cousins… and they don’t particularly like each other. Seems that Mr.
Wilkes claims to have been a great Indian fighter against the Cherokee during
the last war with England. He stole the heart of a young lady this feller was
high on, married her, then left her for another woman,” answered Clifton. “So
what happened to the woman?” asked John. “That was her out back bouncing that
little boy baby on her lap,” answered Clifton.
“She was a
nice woman, her coffee was good and her home was clean. Knew there was
something about that Wilkes I didn’t like when we were up there helping him.
Just couldn’t figure it out,” Cross Toed John said, shifting his rifle to a
more comfortable position, as his eyes noted the bright white tail of another
retreating whitetail buck off to the far right of their trail.
The End
The Rev. John Wesley was appointed a Church of England
missionary to the colony of Georgia and served from 1736-37. He then returned
to England and went on to become famous as the founder of Methodism. His brother Charles is acclaimed as one of
the greatest hymn writers of all time. 
