The enormous limbs of the trees made a dark cavern of the trail that led toward the setting sun and the hum of bees, the noise of tree frogs, the safety of this part of the trail from attack by renegades and Indians who had moved to the western plains, allowed George McCain to reflect upon the events of his life which had set him, the son of proud Scotch highlanders, on the westward trail toward the mystic land called Missouri.
Crossing a clear stream and catching his dark bearded and buckskinned reflection in the water, he wondered, "Can this be me? Am I the same man who, as a boy of sixteen, left his beloved Scotch family to help the Americans fight the hated English?"
In sudden loneliness, his thoughts reached back to his father's house in the Highlands. There had been clear, cool, spring fed rivers that rippled between deep, rocky ravines, a constant rustle of movement in dense patches of wood and green valleys of lush grass for the feeding cattle and goats. He had learned peace, there, while growing to early manhood.
But there had been no peace at the teeming war busy docks of Philadelphia and McCain recalled the contageous excitement he had felt when he joined the men who had sailed from Europe to serve in the Continental army. He recalled the bustle of the office of the registrar and the shouts of harried men. He had carried his Scotch arms, the best to be had, proudly and, like the others, he was given a horse and provisions and ordered to serve under the command of General Brown at the outpost of Pittsburgh.
During the two years which followed, McCain learned to live the life of the frontier. He studied the way of the renegade English, the cunning of the Indian, the independence, courage and fears of manhood. And he learned to kill because one killed - or died. Living, being not hungry or cold, became the dominant force of his days. The boy disappeared; there stood the man, George McCain, facing whatever life had in store.
The long years rolled back for McCain as he squatted by the stream, years of adventure, danger, happiness, sorrow, accomplishment to age any man. "But 'twas a good life," he thought contentedly.
At the end of the war. he had gone back to Philadelphia with the full intention of returning to his home in Scotland but that hope was destroyed when he received a warning letter from his father. "The English have refused amnesty to any man who has fought in the Colonist's forces for American Independence." his father wrote, "so, much as your mother and I long for your return, we beg you to remain where you are. It will be far better that you accept American citizenship and search for a new home in that raw and struggling land than to return to face execution as a traitor to the king."
"That first winter in Philadelphia was a hard one," he remembered. I'd been given my horse and my discharge from the army but, in lieu of back pay, I was told that the Congress was setting aside bounty lands to be given as bonus to deserving veterans. Well, fine! But what was I to do for money in the meanwhile? The few Spanish milled dollars I'd received for service would soon be gone, then, without money for provisions, what would I do?
Politics! Why not? After all, l had manner and style and an education to fit me for the job - and l should be able to marry wealth. But was this what l had come to America to find?
No. I soon realized that I wanted, instead, to build a home and raise a family on my own land - far away from my fear of England's king. The rangers from the territories of Illinois and Missouri with whom l had ridden had spoken of settlements and rich land for farming, of mountains where clear streams flowed through fertile valleys. This is where I would go! Surely, in such country, I could build my home.
During that winter, I taught school, parceling my pay carefully to provide for my needs, board my horse, and save for provisions which would, I knew, be necessary for my trek west and, when summer came, as soon as school had closed and I had received the claim allowing me a section of land in the new Missouri territory from the tardy Congress, I donned my buckskins, packed my claim papers in an oilskin pouch, purchased my provisions and, with my Scotch flintlock across my lap, rode west toward Pittsburgh.
The trip was uneventful but tiring so I was anxious, when l arrived, to find lodging. This I found at a tavern where three bits (37 1/2 cents) entitled me to a piece of meat to roast over the coals in the fireplace, a bowl of vegetables from the pot, brown bread and plum pudding plus space to spread my blankets on the puncheon floor. I had served, during the war, with some of the men in the room and, without hesitation, they answered my queries concerning the trail and warned that I must hurry lest winter catch me before could reach the Mississippi.
The next morning, with this warning ringing in my ears, I hurried onward toward Cincinnati staying to myself on the well-traveled trail until I came upon an old man dressed in the uniform of an Illinois ranger.
"You goin' west?" the man asked.
"Yes. "
"To Cincinnati?"
I nodded, adding, "and on through Vincennes, Kaskaskia and across the Mississippi into the Missouri territory."
"Care if we ride to Cincinnati together?"
Anxious to talk of the trails I knew he had ridden, I welcomed him. There was a quiet peace about the man, an air of having met life's scarring battled with courage and wit.
"And you going west of the Mississippi?" I asked hopefully.
"No" The old graybeard answered with a touch of melancholy saddening his voice. "Not this time. I reckon my days on the earth are about gone - " he chawed his pungent tobacco silently for a moment then continued, "so I sold my claim in the new country and I'm goin' home to Tennessee. Reckon it'd be nice to spend my last years with my family."
Traveling together was pleasant and the parting, near Cincinnati, came all too soon.
"Don't go into Vincennes, son," he warned. "Twouldn't be safe. You'd find enemies there ---" His voice faded away as his keen eye peered down the trail he would take, then he turned back to me with an outstretched hand.
"Good luck, boy," he said. "Good luck----"
I stayed north of the Cincinnati river front and the pleasures to be found there but though my money was almost gone, I decided to treat myself to a good meal and a roof over my head while I slept. Finding a lodge with the latchstring out, I turned off the trail, took care of my horse, lifted my pack and walked in to find a fire blazing upon the hearth and the odor of good food wafting from the cooking pot. Filling my plate, I walked across the room to sit at a long table opposite the fire, eat and listen, hopefully, to talk of the trail but these were river men and the talk was of the river rather than of the trail. Soon the warmth of the fire, my full belly, the hum of the talk made me drowsy so I spread my blankets and slept.
The next morning, I crossed the Laughery River and took to the ridge in the hopes of finding a well-traveled trail. In the days that followed, however, the trail dimmed and I could find no set route. By-paths and Indian trails branched off to the north and south, the wood seemed endless and the nights were turning cold. Was all further travel on the trails west to be this difficult?
Finally, in the hope of finding a better path, I decided that I would take the next trail south and coming upon a clear trail marked by a fingerboard which read "Muscatatuk," referring, I assumed to a nearby river, I followed it hopefully. The trail was quiet but, as I rode, I began to see signs of civilization and I was not surprised, upon reaching an overlook, to discover a beautiful broad valley checkered with cleared fields on either side of the sparkling river stretched below. Here, I knew, were the comforts of a settlement.
Crossing the river, I followed a lane heading along the edge of a large meadow toward a cluster of buildings which huddled at the mouth of a hollow. As I drew near, l could see the flume of a mill and the overshot water wheel that would be turning the burrs to grind the corn.
"Howdy," the miller said as I approached. "Been long on the trail?"
"Yes."
"I'm Howard Bates. You got a name, young feller?"
I liked the man immediately. His large, muscular frame, his clear eyes, firm mouth and deep bass voice spoke of strength and honesty.
Introducing myself, I stated frankly, "I'm tired and hungry - and l need work. Need to buy provisions and feed for my horse."
"What kind of work you lookin' for?"
"I'm a school teacher - but I'll do anything---"
Bates looked me over carefully then finally drawled, "Would you be willin' to stay here for the winter?"
Before I could answer, the miller gestured with a fling of his arm over the broad valley. "There are eleven families livin' along this river and seems to me that it's high time for the youngin's to get some schoolin'. Well, now! You're a needin' money and we're a needin' a schoolmaster so I figure it's safe to promise that we'll provide a room and fare for you and your horse plus twenty dollars Spanish for a winter's teaching." With piercing blue eyes, he peered at me. "Are you agreeable?' '
Why hesitate? "I'm your boy," I grinned. "Where do I stable my horse?"
The next few days were busy ones. I must, first, make myself presentable then there were preparations to be made at the school house. The one-room building, I discovered, squatted atop a long and rolling hill. From its doorway, one could see up and down the lovely valley. The settlers had built it carefully of notched logs, mortar and hand-shafted roof but there were no windows in the building and the doorway was small and narrow. The light within the building, therefore, was dim and the smell of damp, cold earth permeated the air. A large, stone fireplace stood at one end of the room, ample wood had been neatly stacked nearby and grease lamps had been hung from the rafters; thus had they provided light and warmth.
Other than the split log seats which had been set up for the students, the room was bare of furnishings but l found slate at the mill and Joseph Dilos, the blacksmith and mill handyman, showed me where red and white chalk could be picked up. Together, then, we installed the largest piece of slate to the right of the fireplace and cut the chalk rock into fingerling pieces to be stored away for use during the long winter. This, I knew would allow me to teach writing and, if there were no books in the settlement, my writing and oral teaching would have to suffice.
The first day of school dawned bright and clear and very cold. Frost sparkled in icy brilliance along the hedgerow and I could see a snow-bird darting through the underbrush. "What a glorious morning," I thought in exhilaration.
Build the fire. Light the lamps. Those were my first duties. Then, very carefully, I placed my few precious papers on a small, pegged, oaken table which Joseph had made for me. The school, for all its simplicity, looked warm and welcoming.
Impatiently, I waited for the children to arrive. The four Bates children were first, coming timidly into the room, then came the three Phillips', the Myers boy and five Allen children. Thirteen. "Was that all?" I wondered. "Should I proceed with the lessons or wait a few moments longer?"
Just as l began the first lesson of the day, I heard the muffled sounds of two horses in the school yard so, stepping outside and closing the door behind me to protect the children from the cold, I greeted the newcomers.
"I am Marry Elizabeth Allen," the girl said. "Are you the new school master?"
Three children were dismounting and I opened the door to let them run into the schoolroom but
the girl remained astride her horse.
"Yes, I'm the new teacher." I was feeling the cold and in a hurry to step back inside the room. "Now get down off that horse and get inside. You'll freeze out here," I said testily.
The girl stared; then grinned. "I guess you'll do" and lightly and gracefully she slid from her horse and moved to the door.
My heavens! This was no girl; this was a woman grown.
I became very busy earning my twenty dollars Spanish. There was only Joseph to help with the tasks at school and, after the school day was finished, I did whatever I could to be of assistance at the mill. The children applied themselves to their studies and Liz-Beth was soon able to read the books that we were able to find around the community.
I found myself thinking about Liz-Beth often, but not seriously, until, one day, she asked, "You have a girl?"
I had been watching the children at outside play but, startled, I turned to stare at her. Was she actually saying, "I will be your girl."
"No," I answered, hesitantly.
"Good!" she smiled, turning away. How sure of herself she seemed
I'd had girls in my life but, somehow, this was different. Liz-Beth, I realized with apprehension, had no intention of walking into my life for one night or one month or one winter. A lifetime was spread before her. Was she thinking of sharing it with me?
As the weeks passed, little more was said between us and I was left to wonder if I had put more meaning into Liz-Beth's words than she had intended. Finally, knowing that the question must be answered before I took to the trail, I arranged to sup at her home where I talked of my determination to take up my claim to the county lands in Missouri. Liz-Beth sat quietly beside me as I talked.
Later, after bidding the family good night, I walked down the dark path to the river and stood looking into the gleam of reflected starlight sparkling on the water. "I'm still your girl, aren't I?" I heard her whisper behind me.
Wordlessly turning, I drew her into my arms. The moon rose, its rays piercing the drifts of river fog and catching in the gold of her hair. The soft, spring night enfolded us.
The next morning, Liz-Beth left the children at the school house then rode on toward the mill; I followed, as soon as possible, to find her standing by the flume watching the water pour over the turning wheel. Appearing suddenly bashful, she glanced at me through long, silky lashes and I reassuringly reached for her hand. "You will not go alone to Missouri," she said shyly. "I spoke to Uncle John."
Uncle John? Was he not her father?
"Uncle John says that I have served the family well and that he will give me the horse I ride and blankets and that, since there is no Justice of the Court here, he will write us a marriage contract -" She paused, seeing the startled question in my eyes, and intuition told her that I must know the truth of her past else how could trust be held forever between us.
"l was bound to Uncle John when I was a small girl after my mother and father were killed in the Indian wars." Anxiously she watched me.
Did I, a gently born Scotsman, really want to take a bound girl as wife? The question floated through my mind and was dismissed immediately. It is nothing, my heart said.
Without hesitation, I kissed Liz-Beth and dismissed her anxiety with an affectionate laugh. "You'd better go hunt us a pack horse - cheap," I said.
During the following week, I was busy preparing for the trail and did not see Liz-Beth until she came to get the money for the pack horse. She looked smaller, somehow, in her fringed buckskin skirt, calico blouse and moccasins but she looked pretty, very pretty. I marveled. Liz-Beth was so sure of herself for one so young!
On the day of departure, I arrived at the Allen homestead to find the families of the three Allen brothers waiting. Liz-Beth, rosy in pale pink calico, came lovingly to me and, together, we stood before these loving friends, watched as Uncle John wrote the manage contract, proudly signed it, accepted it in its oilskin pouch where it would remain until we could deliver it to the Justice of the Court in Vincennes, and joined with the family to ask God's blessing.
After eating of the bountiful breakfast which had been provided in our honor, Liz-Beth paused to take one last look around the only home she had ever known and I, with Uncle John beside me, walked down the path toward the waiting horses.
"You're getting a wise girl," Uncle John said gently.
"Yes. And you're to thank for that," I answered.
John shook his head. "The seed was sown; we only watered and nourished it and watched it grow." Sadness threaded his voice then, denying it, he pointed to the pack lying nearby. "There's Liz-Beth's belongings. Not much, but all you'll be able to carry."
It was true. She had packed only the necessary clothing for the trail, provisions, her father's musket and blankets. One could not long survive on the trail without these items.
Hearing good-byes from the house, we turned to see Liz-Beth, now wearing her serviceable buckskins, coming down the path and, seeing her thus, I realized the sacrifice represented by her small pack. I found myself thinking, "Surely we can find room for her wedding dress."
And so, to Liz-Beth's delight, the wedding dress was carefully folded and stowed away and, with tearful good-byes, we took the trail west.
We rode the well-marked trail 'till the sun was down then, finding a clear, north-flowing stream, we made camp nearby. As I gathered wood, Liz-Beth prepared roast meat over the fire and dipped it in a honey jar, baked bread and brewed thick, black coffee. After eating our fill, we lay in our blankets, Liz-Beth close to me, and peacefully watched the last flicker of the fire. She broke the silence. "Mr. and Mrs. George McCain," she said, dreamily.
The feeling of happiness and content which descended upon us was, I now know, the fulfillment of the hope which had brought me to this new country, to the United States of America.
Morning rose to a sparkling world and the sun felt warm, the trail was clear, the south-flowing streams were clear and cool, and we contentedly made our way toward the White River. Reaching it at sundown, we camped but, with morning, we hurried onward because we expected to reach Vincennes. There were a number of things which we must do in the town and we were anxious to spend our first night together under a roof.
Vincennes had, for many years, been the terminus of trade routes to all the points of the compass and we found the English influence to be immediately recognizable. We wandered down the main street in search of a pleasant inn and, finding one, we stabled our horses, refreshed ourselves in the room assigned to us, then entered the common room where dining tables stood across one end of the room and we could seat ourselves facing the fireplace.
As we ate, two men entered and sat on a bench near us and I was startled to recognize one of them as an Englishman whom I had taken prisoner at the Battle of Detroit and transported .from there back to my camp. Because we were both British, he had been bitter at my option. Now, when he recognized me, hatred shone in his eyes and he said, "Again we meet, you Scot traitor! Traitor to our King!"
"But that was a long time ago," I answered. "We are Americans now."
"You are wrong. There are many of us who remain loyal to the King and them who are traitors still live in fear." He stared at me with bitterness but, at the urging of his companion of mixed blood, he left the inn. The chill of the threat, however, remained with us.
The following day was a busy one. We must find a Justice and have our marriage contract recorded; we must, from well-stocked posts, obtain provisions for the trail west; we were lucky to be able to buy an old map of the Vincennes-Natachadosis Trail, a valuable piece of paper to us because, though I had listened to many stories about the Illinois and Missouri territory, I knew little of the trails. Then, our duties done, we packed for travel and rode to the Wabash River Crossing before stopping to camp for the night.
As we sat close to the fire, I felt an uneasy sense of danger. Crediting it to the meeting with the renegade Englishman, I tried to shrug it off but Liz-Beth sensed my unease. "Don't worry about it," she tried to comfort me. "The law will protect you."
I laughed bitterly. "There is no law in the forest," I grated, "and that man is a vicious renegade of the worst kind."
Later, after Liz-Beth had climbed between the blankets, I continued to sit staring into the fire.
"What was that," Liz-Beth asked suddenly.
"Nothing." But I wasn't sure. Rising, I stretched, yawned, then walked toward the river. I listened. Yes. There it was, the soft whisper of moccasins on the grass. I turned as the Englishman charged, bringing his knife in low, and my knee caught him in the face. With a grunt, he fell, his nose crushed.
Turning, I saw Liz-Beth standing on her pallet, bathed in the moonlight, the man in her gun-sights and her finger on the trigger. "Don't kill him," I said. Then "I only kill in combat."
Lowering her gun, she breathed a sigh of relief, nodded and answered, "Good!"
Aware that the Englishman had a partner somewhere in the dark woods, we secured the man with rawhide and Liz-Beth and I took turns at watch through the long night. Breaking camp at daylight, we loosened the rawhide ties and left him lying where he had fallen.
After crossing the Wabash River, we followed the road along the river bottoms for a few miles passing, as we went, a number of cabins near a fenced-in clearing. The sight of the worn fencing enclosing only rank grass and weeds in what Liz-Beth considered to be "new" land puzzled her until we discovered, by referring to our recently purchased map, that this marked the site of a Shawnee- Delaware Indian village. We were, we discovered, to see several such villages on the road west.
Travel between Vincennes and Kaskaskia, the capitol of the new state of Illinois, was pleasant. The trail led through open land, a land of vast meadows and fruitful valleys; it crossed the Okaw River, passed through the settlement of Caryle then divided and we, taking the south road, passed numerous farms, most of which appeared to be deserted, climbed into the low hills surrounding the town of St. Philip, noticing, as we went, the old Fort Charters, and entered, at La Prairie de Roche, an area of well kept farms with upright timber, thatched roofed buildings. To the east lay the Kaskaskia River; to the west rolled the nightly Mississippi.
l knew, from my conversations with the rangers, that the town of Kaskaskia, founded by the earliest Spanish conquistadors and Monks, was over one hundred years old. Why, then, was there such decay? Why did the town appear to be so stagnant and deserted?
"The people are moving across the river," the ferryman explained, "to open up, build on and develop the vast area to the west. Kaskaskia has shrunk with lack of promise; the hope, the dreams, have moved over there." He made a long, sweeping gesture which seemed to include a vast, unseen wealth.
In answer to my query concerning a land office, he continued, "You'll find it about forty miles south of here in the new town of Jackson in the Missouri territory. Jackson - that's where the action is!"
We spent the night at a nearby inn and, anxious to step foot on the soil of the Missouri territory, we crossed the wide, powerful river on the ferry early the next morning. "At last!" we thought. "We have reached the fabled land. Here, in Missouri, we will build our home."
At the old town of Misere, we turned south on the well built El Camieo Real (The Royal Road) which, though started by the French, had been taken over and improved by the Spanish. The road, deeply rutted by the wheels of two-wheeled ox carts, led directly to Jackson and people all along the way were talking excitedly about statehood for Missouri. "Would the Congress of the United. States approve it?" they asked one another.
Finding the land office in the new Cape Girardeau County court house, we presented my military bounty claim to the clerk who, at sight of my paper, growled, "I can't help you. You'll have to go to the land office in Davidsonville; there's where the military bounty claims are being recorded."
"But ---"
"No 'buts'!" Then, seeing my dismay, he more calmly explained, "That government survey team has been working for four years and they're still surveying Lawrence County, the county to the south of here. Davidsonville's the seat of Lawrence County."
As we talked, a trader strode in, glanced around, threw his pack into a corner and approached to lean against the counter beside me.
"Davidsonville, is it?" The man spat. "Let me tell you somethin', Lad: I've just come from Davidsonville and its a hard trip. I came by the Southwest Trail - yea, that one -." he said, pointing to my map, "but l wouldn't tell any man to take his missus through that swamp. No, sir! l wouldn't! Ever since the earthquake, its been nearly impassable and it ain't gettin' no better!"
He wiped perspiration from his face on the sleeve of his coat and continued, "You ought to go west to Greenville - yea, there ---" again pointing to my map, "Greenville's the county seat of the new county of Wayne. From there, you can drop down to Davidsonville. That's the way I'd take my missus if I had one."
Why, we wondered later, hadn't we heeded his warning? Why had we decided, in spite of him, to take that southwest trail? Before we'd reached the end of the first day out, we found ourselves in the dark and murky Mingo Swamp. Never before had either of us been in such a place. Leaves lay in stagnant pools; old trees had fallen into the dark waters to stink of rotting vegetation; snakes slithered in the debris. The trail was barely visible and, finally, after the pack horse had fallen into a deep hole and we had to tug and pull and push and struggle to free him, did we admit to ourselves that, by following this trail, we might never arrive in Davidsonville; reluctantly, therefore, we turned our horses northward toward higher ground to eventually reach the westward trail to Greenville.
Was this Missouri, this land of water and mud? Was it to such land as this that I had brought my woman, my wife?
Liz-Beth pointed out that the area would make good farm land and I could not disagree with her, yet she could see my disillusionment. Where, l couldn't help wondering, was the land of clear, swift streams flowing between high rock bluffs upon which I had built my dreams? Were the rangers' stories not true?
The community of Greenville, which was located at the St. Francis River crossing, centered around Izaak E. Kelley's old Spanish grant but Kelly, we learned, had sold the claim to the Bettis family and had moved west with his family past the Current River.
Bettis, who owned the ferry, was friendly and talkative. "You can take yonder trail and shortly you'll come to the intersection with the old Southwest Trail at the Current River Crossing. The Old Southwest'll get you to Davidsonville. Of course, you'll come, first, to the Black River crossing and you'll begin to see a land of deep ravines and big rocks. When you reach the junction - and it's a well marked one with finger-boards readin' "Current River" to the west and "Devil's Run" to the south -be sure to take the trail south. It's mighty pretty along there, followin' the high ridge all shadowed by tall pines!"
We found the trail to be exactly as he had described it and, that night, we made our camp on the high ridge. During the dark hours, we were awakened by the howling of wolves near the camp and Liz-Beth moved closer to me.
"Are you afraid?" I asked, surprised. I had never known her to show fear.
She shuddered. "Yes," l heard her whisper.
She lay for a few moments with her head on my shoulder and l heard her say sadly, "The wolves remind me of the night the Indians killed my mother and father."
The next day, after following the ridge down into an area of low hills, we reached the Old Southwest Trail, the same trail which we had been forced to abandon in the Mingo Swamp, and finding it, now, to be well marked, we proceeded toward the cold, swift-flowing Current River. Leaving the pack horse tied at the Current River crossing, we turned south along the bench to the home of Widow Black but, finding the cabin empty, we returned to the crossing to make camp.
That evening, Liz-Beth suggested that we visit the black smith whose smithy we could see on the bench above. We found the man adding iron tires to the wooden wheels of an ox cart and the tire that he was preparing lay like a ring of red in the coals of his forge. The smith invited us to warm by the fire and, when he learned that we were going to Davidsonville, he told us about the town. "You'll be mightily surprised," he said. "It's a city already with brick-paved streets and fine homes. They've built a post office, a land office, a court house, the jail, a river boat landing and, believe it or not, a race track. It's an excitin' place, Davidsonville is!"
Late the next evening, we reached our destination but skirted the town to camp on the banks of the clear, cold Spring River at the site of the old town of "Three Rivers" and, early the following morning, we went to the land office to present our military bounty land claim to the clerk.
"That number's been assigned to land laying ten miles to the south," he said, "but you'll have to pay two years' land taxes before you can take possession."
Stunned at this news, we asked the reason.
"This survey was made in 1817," the clerk explained in a bored voice, "and the assessment was made when the survey was completed in your township. Also, some of the land first surveyed has already been struck off to the county - -. "
For the first time, I felt doubt that we would ever be able to build our home on our claim. To make matters worse, the map showed the claim to lay in the bottom lands of the Black River, not at all the kind of land that I had traveled all this distance to find.
"Would it be possible to exchange our land for land further up the rivers?" I asked the clerk.
"Well, I don't know," he drawled, hesitantly. "The survey team hasn't progressed very far these past three years because all the available workers are busy helping to build this town."
"Do you suppose that I could sell my claim?"
"Oh, yes. I figure you could sell it for enough money to buy land to the north - after that land is surveyed." After a pause, he continued, "There is a survey team being formed now for work this summer and they're looking for help. You might talk to the surveyor---"
Returning to camp, Liz-Beth and I talked it over and decided to ride south to try to locate our land. Within the hour, we found ourselves on high bluffs overlooking the Black River; from here, we could see the bottom lands which stretched toward the east. What a disappointing sight! The land was heavy with trees and large patches of water showed at intervals. The soil would be good, we had to admit, but how could it be cleared in order that a crop might be planted?
At camp that night, we reached our decision: to return to Davidsonville and find employment in order that we might earn enough money to pay the taxes and start our home. Dear gritty Liz-Beth, the very next day, took employment in the home of a merchant and I made application as recorder for the survey team. We found stable for our horses but, in order to get the money necessary for the provisions l would need, we were forced to sell our pack horse. I would, we realized, receive no pay until the assigned survey was completed.
Surveying, I soon found, was difficult work. We must walk, carrying our blankets and tools, and the hours were long; fortunately, however, as we surveyed to the west and north, the land became more open and we found ourselves progressing rapidly.
One morning, we entered a small hollow through which flowed a spring fed stream to find a number of homes constructed of vertical poles with patches of cultivated land and a few Indians. The rest of the inhabitants of the village, we were told, were on a hunting expedition. These Indians were a part of the Western Cherokee tribe which occupied this area.
By mid summer, we reached the settlement of Richwoods and the town of Thomasville where we made permanent camp while completing the survey of the area. The town of Thomasville was located on the north side of the fork of the Eleven Point River and its one claim to fame was a well of cold water, with a bucket hanging on a nearby peg, and a trough for watering stock located in the center of town.
As we worked north and west through the upper Eleven Point River basin, we found much open land and a few barns. The level, open land allowed us to make good progress and we were completing our assigned survey to the 37 degree parallel ahead of schedule. We were to be finished when we had surveyed the row of townships numbered twenty seven north and we found this land to be largely open meadow with patches of brush and vines but when we reached the north edge of Range Six West, we found deep rocky ravines with spring fed hollows which ran into the blue waters of the Jacks Fork of the Current River.
Suddenly, though the work was harder, my heart was light. I had, at last, found the country I'd been searching for, the country which reminded me of my boyhood home. One night, the survey team made camp on a high bluff overlooking the Jacks Fork and, after our evening meal was finished, I walked to the edge of the bluff, seated myself on the rocks and sat looking across the moonlit river's bend. The river ran south, I knew, until it reached the bluff, then turned north away from the bluff. Across that bend of the river, there was a clear bench of land. That bend, that bench, Liz-Beth willing, was ours!
The water pouring over the rocks and the wind in nearby pines echoed among the rocks sounding, for all the world, like the drone of bagpipes in the highlands of Scotland and I was reminded of a tune I had often heard as a child. The melody drifted through my mind and, there in the quiet of the Ozark evening, words came to me, words of the beauty of this place, of my loneliness for Liz-Beth, of my hunger for a home. These words I would sing to Liz-Beth when next I saw her and I prayed that I could make her hear the beauty of this sight as I was seeing it at this moment. Surely, then, she would return with me to build our home in this valley.
I discovered, when, the survey completed, we returned to Davidsonville to make our reports and collect our pay, that Liz-Beth had been as lonesome for me as I for her and her welcome was warm and loving. After the first joy of seeing one another, I told her about the place I had found on the rocky trails that led to the river's bend and sang my song:
"Rocky trails awinding up in to the blue
of the Ozark mountains, there I'll go with you
where we will build our cabin in the river's bend.
Rocky trails awinding up the mossy bluffs
of the blue Current River, there I'll float with you
through blue bells and violets that grow in the river's bend.
Rocky trails awinding up through the pines
of the rocky ridges, there I'll live with you
where we will raise our children in the rivers bend.
Rocky trails awinding up through the sky
of the heavenly home, there I'll wait for you
to be with friends and loved ones, in the river's bend."
She smiled and said, "Let us go - before winter catches us."
With no difficulty, we were able to arrange the sale of our bounty claim and buy the land I had chosen and, finally, the day came when we could pack the provisions to see us through the winter, replace the pack horse with a cow and an ox, and make our way northward to the river's bend.
"The days, the weeks, the months, the years passed. We built our cabin on a low rise above the river chosen by Liz-Beth, to my delight, to look up at the bluffs. Our children were born there, grew and flourished. There were happy days; there was sadness and trouble but never have we regretted coming here, McCain realized.
McCain looked up, breaking his reverie, to see streaks of sunset ablaze in the evening sky. He must hurry. Liz-Beth and the children would be waiting. He stood, tall and straight and strong as a Scotch Highlander should be, paused a moment longer to drink of the beauty of the scene, then stepped into his hand-made canoe to float downstream to the cabin which looks up at the bluffs at the River's Bend and his family cozy within it.