South Fork Country

Mounce had never mastered the technique of loading his rifle on the run, as had the great frontiersmen of the day, and he considered abandoning the weapon. He decided against it, figuring that he could always use it as a club if he had to. He paced himself and sought to keep his running under control. Sprints and too much running at high speed would exhaust him prematurely.

When they reached the ridge top, the Cherokees paused and fired their weapons at the gray figure darting away from them. The bullets sang through the air and flattened themselves against the great chestnut trees that crowned the ridge crest. The hilltops overlooking Rock Creek were bathed in moonlight. Visibility was of the maximum and the Indians immediately gave chase to the white man ahead of them. As they ran, they stripped themselves of hunting shirts and leggings. In breechclouts and moccasins, they sped along on the cushion of autumn leaves that carpeted the ground. After half a mile, the Indians dropped their rifles and ran onward, armed only with knife and tomahawk.

Mounce was not an experienced frontiersman. Had he been he would not have undertaken the run. A man familiar with the tactics of survival in the western forest would have used his wits more than his legs in effecting an escape from the Cherokees. But, Mounce was a farmer and his logic told him that when one was outnumbered and chased by a band of angry Indians, bent on taking his life, the sensible thing to do was run. And Andy Mounce ran.

From the ridges overlooking Rock Creek to those towering over Steel Hollow, he pushed himself. His moccasined feet beat a rhythmic tattoo on the oak and chestnut leaves that paved his path. His sinewy legs pumped like pistons and his chest rose and fell as he got his second wind. From the locks of dark hair that fell across his forehead, beads of perspiration formed and dropped to the forest floor.

A mile went by and then another. Mounce could only assume that the Indians were still behind him, for they made no sound as they ran. But, the white man was growing tired. His legs ached and cried for rest and the longrifle swinging beside him pulled at the muscles of his arm.

Ahead stood a lightning-struck chestnut tree, its trunk blackened and hollowed by decay. Perhaps he could hide within the tree as he had heard of the old Indian fighters doing. He reached the tree, dropped the rifle, and bent over, his hands on his knees, drawing in great gulps of air and fighting to quell the sound of his own heavy breathing. He listened intently, his ears cocked toward his back trail. Overhead, an owl glided to a rest on a dead snag. A raccoon shuffled nonchalantly down the slope of the ridge, ignoring the strange creature on two legs that panted, agonizingly, in the moonlight.

Then Mounce heard it. At first, he thought he must be imagining things, but it was no dream. The sounds were real. They were the sounds of moccasins padding softly on the dry acorns and leaves. They were coming toward him.

Abandoning his hastily conceived plan to hide in the tree, Mounce picked up his rifle and, once again, swung into a run. The pause at the dead tree had cost him much of his lead and he found himself running harder to regain it. The forest became silent again except for the sound of his feet.

At length, Mounce lost all track of time and reality. He did not think of his father lying cold and alone in a rude, brushy grave. Nor did his thoughts dwell on the loved ones who waited at his cabin, waiting for him to return with the old man. For young Andy Mounce, life had been reduced to its barest essentials. He could do nothing save keep his aching legs moving. Though his lungs burned with each breath and his heart seemed ready to burst within his breast, he could not slack his pace. He had to keep going. He had to get away from those who had murdered his father before they, in turn, murdered him.