story of the raid. Troutman ordered everyone into his blockhouse. He dispatched a rider to warn Preacher Handsford’s settlement. Wade asked for a horse and Troutman gave him his fastest gelding.
Riding hard to reach Montgomery, where the militia was stationed, Wade’s mind flashed back to early morning. He had felt such surprise and pleasure at meeting Clarinda and Polly on the path near the station. It seemed like a lifetime ago.
On his way to alert the militia Wade spread word of the attack to every cabin he came upon. At the military post the officer in command started preparing to track down the renegades. Wade explained his bewilderment at seeing so many tribes represented in the melee.
Captain Enoch Smith listened to Wade’s story. “Did you say the chief was a Cherokee, carrying a trophy rifle?”
Wade nodded. “Yes, and he looked familiar, but for the life of me I can’t figure out why.”
“Sounds like Chulio to me. He’s a half-breed. Cherokee father, French mother. Very cunning, speaks English. Has some schooling. It’s been a long time since he’s carried out a raid. He’s been active in treaty meetings promoting peace. The Indian agents and the military trust him. That’s how he got that rifle. Always wears his long hair pulled back, tied with eagle feathers.”
“That describes him all right,” Wade said. “He wore the markings of a high-ranking chief.”
“Was Ralph Morgan killed in the attack?” the captain asked.
“No, he took his family up to Boonesborough on some business. Joe Young told me they left before daybreak.”
Captain Smith had to get his men ready for what might turn into a long campaign. He gave Wade a gun and some ammunition. Wade advised him he would continue to warn other settlers on the way to his father’s farm.
Dawson Wade’s place was about two miles from Morgan’s. Wade stopped first by Harper’s Creek, at his sister Esther’s house. The Pleaks were overjoyed to see him. He learned from them that Abraham Becraft had survived. He had come in two hours before, confused and scared. Becraft had told Wade’s parents that he saw James Wade shot down and set upon by two Indians.
Wade shook his head in disbelief. Becraft must have seen that happen to someone else. The poor man surely witnessed the capture of his family from where he was hiding in the pines.
“It’s a cursed thing them Indians have done,” Wade said to Pleak. “Can’t figure what brought it on. The captain said he hadn’t heard of any Indian killings that might have provoked them.”
Wade remounted and said “We’ll send anyone who needs doctoring over here.” It was well known that John Pleak was good at digging out bullets.
“Just tell the men to gather here,” John called out. “We’ll decide then on the best way to rescue the captives.”
It was easy for Wade’s parents to believe Becraft’s story, because Wade’s horse had galloped in, lathered and spent. Wade’s father caught the animal and commenced to rub him down while he waited for more news.
Dawson Wade did not have long to wait. James came pounding down the road and dismounted on the run.
“James, son, praise God. Your mother is crazy with grief. She took your rifle and set out with the other families for Mount Sterling.” The elder Wade embraced James in a bear hug.
“Indians, Pa, it was awful. I forgot to take my gun this morning. They took some women and children.”
Young Wade stripped to the waist while he talked, splashing his body with water from a basin near the door. He was pulling on a clean shirt when Jonathan and David Allington came running into the yard.
“We’ve been planting,” David said, gasping for breath. “Heard the gunfire, it sounded near to the Furnace, then we saw the smoke.”
“Is it the station?” Jonathan asked, tears streaming. He grabbed James’ arm. “Come on man, let’s go now. Our Ma and Clarinda are in there.”
James Wade relayed the morning’s tragic events to the brothers. He told them how Clarinda and the others were taken, adding that he saw Martha run out the south gate into the woods. This news, grim as it was, gave David and Jonathan a slim shred of hope.
William Rice had built his home on land out of sight of the Allington’s farm. He heard the muffled shots, and saw smoke rising above the treetops. Dropping everything, he started running from the field toward his cabin. Up ahead he could see Rebecca and her sisters talking to a man on horseback.
The messenger had just brought word of the Indian attack and Clarinda’s capture. There was no time for questions or details. The rider had to warn others of the raid.
While hitching up the wagon William gave orders to his wife, “Rebecca, you take the young’uns, with Nancy and Sarah to Mount Sterling. It’ll be safe for all of you there.”
“What about Ma? My God, what will happen to Clarinda?” Rebecca cried. “Wade said the militia won’t go to Morgan’s until morning.”
“I’ll go for Martha, just pray I’m not too late.” William hugged his family and lifted them into the wagon bed. “Do as I say Rebecca. Don’t stop for anything.” William touched her face gently as he gave her the warning.
“Indians won’t come this way, militia’s too close. Go now, hurry.” Filled with dread, he watched them leave, calling after them “there’ll be other folks on the road. Stay together.”
Changing into buckskins and moccasins, William grabbed his gun and knife. Riding his horse Indian fashion he raced hellbent for Morgan’s Station. His experience as an Indian scout in the early days would stand him in good stead now.
Dawson Wade had some friends among the Cherokee. The way this attack was carried out puzzled him. He knew of the chief known as Chulio. He could think of no logical reason for him to be involved in any raid. He tried to recall everything he’d ever heard about the chief.
The white man’s name for the Cherokee chief was Shoe Boots, so named because of the knee-high moccasins he wore. In the early years, before Washington’s army defeated the British, and before the Cherokee agreed to the terms of the peace treaty, Shoe Boots and his warriors rampaged against all whites who dared cross into Cherokee land.
“Hard to believe it was Chulio,” Dawson told the men. “He has a reputation for being fair-minded and straight forward in dealing with fur traders and the military. I think he lives in a town on the Tennessee River, deep in the Cherokee nation.
“He should be busy chasing Creeks or Red Sticks off Cherokee land. Kentucky is way out of his territory. It’s even told that he fought alongside the Tennessee militia in the Revolution.”
The elder Wade, hoping to reassure Clarinda’s brothers, now that Jacob and John had arrived, told them the Cherokee seldom mistreated captive women.
More men on horseback came to offer assistance. They brought some good news. Andy Duncan had made his way to Anderson’s place, near Mount Sterling, but he reported the Indians numbered around two hundred.
“No, only about forty, maybe fifty, and some of them took off with the captives,” James Wade told them, wanting the truth known about what really happened.
One man in the group spoke to Wade “I saw your mother on the Mount Sterling road and asked her for your gun, thinking we could use more weapons here. She was holding it close like it was a child and refused to give it up. Said you were dead and would have no need of your rifle.”
“My poor Ma. Pa, try and get word to her. The rest of you, we’re going to gather at John Pleak’s place. Get your horses and dogs and meet us there.” Wade took off at full gallop.
By the time the horsemen gathered at Pleak’s it was nearly dark. They talked among themselves and agreed it would be prudent to stay in the shadowed shelter of the forest on their way to the fort. Indians could still be lurking near the ruins, and there