Adventure Magazine Cover — page 89: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Battle of the Kettles Getting commodities of any sort was a heart-breaking task in Kentucky in those days. The glass for the first brick house in Louisville, for example, was brought across the mountains from Virginia on horseback, the boxes being suspended from a pack-sad- dle. ‘“‘Seems queer, starting out on a journey like this after dark,’’ said nineteen-year-old Tom Humphreys in a low tone to Jack Fos- sett as they sat near the stern of the flat- boat, looking back at the one twinkling lit- tle light that still marked the location of Campbelltown. ‘Tis a dodge of the ‘Colonel’s’ and the ‘Major’s,’ ”’ replied the Irishman, who thus persistently brevetted Crist and Spears. ~ “The Ohio bein’ a broad river, and broader than usual be reason of the flood, ’tis per- fectly safe to float down the middle of it be night widout much fear of an attack or promiscuous firin’ from the shore. The moon is so bright that there’ll be no throu- ble keepin’ in the middle; and the night’s thravel will put us nearly thirty miles on our way. But whin we start up that little nar- row Salt River tomorrow, boy, we’ll have to keep our eyes cocked for’ards, back’ards and sideways, f’r the woods is thick, and you know how hostyle the savages is in these parts.” ‘““These kittles along the gunnels ought to make pretty good breastworks,” remarked Tom a little nervously. “That they will, boy; but the lads that man the sweeps and do the steerin’ will have no protection; and the —— will pick those men off first if we don’t watch carefully. Ho, me!—” yawning and stretching pro- digiously—“‘I’m gittin’ sleepy.” ‘“‘Are you going to work at the salt camp, too?” asked Tom after a pause. ‘Yes; and so’s Evans Moore, there, and Dick Chinoweth and Heck MclIlvaine and Murkett, the ould feller wid the pretty young wife. But iverybody’s goin’ to sleep, boy,” and he tapped his clay pipe on his palm and tossed the ashes into the river. “Let’s do likewise.” The two rolled themselves in their blan- kets in the gangway between the kettles and were soon wrapped in the sound slumber that comes so readily to those who follow the strenuous outdoor life. Even the pretty young wife of Silas Murkett, with the neces- sarily frank intimacy of the frontier, drew a blanket over her, looking about her a bit 87 shyly, and lay down on the hard deck be- side her husband, though it was long before she could go to sleep. Only three men were left awake on the boat. Solomon Spears, one of the proprie- tors, kept watch at the stern and did what steering was necessary to keep the boat in the middle of the river, while at the bow Henry Crist, his partner, sat talking in low tones with Christian Crepps, one of the most skilful woodsmen and hardest fighters in the party. Crepps had been engaged by Crist and Spears to go on this trip as guard, scout and rifleman. He was a tall, fair-haired, debo- nair, rather handsome man of thirty, of a lion-hearted courage and intense loyalty. It was his watch at the bow that night, and Crist still lingered with him, canvassing the interesting subject of the handsome young woman on board. They sat with their legs dangling over the gunwale, almost dragging in the water. “Who is this man Murkett?” asked Crist. ‘An old shab that’s been workin’ up at the Blue Licks and other furnaces for years. He’s a good salt b’iler and straight enough, I reckon, but he drinks some and he has a temper.”’ “And why in the world did that comely young woman marry such a man? Why, he must be forty-five if he’s a day, and pow- erful ill-favored.”’ “She had to marry somebody,-I reckon,” replied Crepps calmly, stuffing leaf tobacco into his pipe. “Had to, Christian? meanP”’ “Didn’t you hear nothin’ about it up at the settlements yonder?” inquired Crepps, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “No, I didn’t,’’ confessed Crist, embar- rassed by his ignorance of current events. ‘““You see, I was so busy gettin’ my cargo and loadin’ it and all. Tell me about it, Christian.” ‘“‘Waal,’’ drawled Crepps, leaning back with his hands clasped about his knee, ‘“‘her name was Susan Lehane. She come down the river a fortnight ago with her daddy on Jack Jimmison’s boat. The old man had sorter failed back in Pennsylvany, it seems, and tuck the notion that he could get on his feet again by movin’ to a new country and takin’ up land. But comin’ down the Ohio he fell into a sorter low fever; they kerried him ashore at Louisville, and he died at What do you DOOK C©@ inn