By Ken Drenten

By 1837, 14 of the state’s 32 established stage routes connected to the National Road. Towns that had been established prior to the road’s construction like Zanesville and Cambridge began to take on added importance along the new road, and completely new towns were being laid out along the pike.

CHAPTER FIVE: The Partnership

Tritt and Mac lounged outside the sheriff’s office in the morning until they figured it was the appointed time. Tritt stood up, opened the door and went in, with Mac following.

The sheriff looked up. “Well, Mr. Tritt, I almost didn’t think I’d see you back again. Are you with …?”

“This is Mac, Sheriff, he’s a pard from awhile back.”

The lawman grunted. “I know who he is. Your choices in friends seem to be on par with your enemies.”

Tritt bristled. “Now see here…”

“Aw, it’s awright, Tritt,” Mac said. “He don’t mean nothin’ by it. This lawman an’ me go back a wee bit. This ain’t the first time I’ve been in his jailhouse. Most of the time I couldn’t remember the reason for it.” He winked at the sheriff.

The sheriff pulled open a desk drawer. “As to the matter at hand, here’s your reward money. Sign this receipt for it. I’m warning you, don’t be flaunting it about town. Even better, I’d advise you to leave town before you attract any more trouble.”

“Don’t worry about us, Sheriff, we’ll be as good as gold,” Tritt said, signing the chit and opening the bag of coins to count it. Then he put it into an inner pocket.

“Tritt, remember what I said about that gang,” the sheriff said. “Watch your back, you hear?”

“I’ll remember,” he said.

Mac cleared his throat and looked at Tritt.

“Oh, uh, there is just one other thing,” Tritt said. “You got a jailbird in here by the name of John Shaw?”

The sheriff started at the name. “I do. What do you want with him?”

“Well, what’s he in for?”

“Drunk and disorderly, disturbing the peace, knocking some heads,” the sheriff said. “You know him?”

“He’s a friend of a friend. How much to bail him out?”

“Three dollars, but if you ask me, he ain’t worth a dime.”

Tritt dug into the money that had just been counted out to him and put a few coins on the desk. “Here.”

The sheriff shrugged. “For another dollar I’ll forgo the charges.” Another coin landed into his outstretched palm. He slowly got up from his desk and pulled a key from a hook on the wall next to him. “All right, he’s yours. But now I really don’t want to see any of you again for a long time.”

In a few minutes, a dark-complexioned man with dark brown, nearly black hair down to his shoulders walked out into the office rubbing his eyes. He stood a couple inches over six feet tall and was heavily muscled. He grunted. “Mac.”

“Yeah, it’s me,” Mac said. He motioned toward Tritt. “You got a new friend. This is Tritt, he’s the one bailing you out of the slammer.”

Shaw then gave a toothy grin. “Thanks, friend.”

As they walked out of the sheriff’s office, they nearly ran into Susan Whitworth, who was focusing on dodging the mud, horse droppings and small dogs in the street.

“Oh,” she said. “Mr. Tritt. You have some new friends, I see.”

“Good morning, Miss Whitworth. That’s right. Let’s us go over to the stables and find somewhere to have a little chat,” Tritt said.

Tritt sent Mac to the general store for some items, then walked over to the livery stable and rented a horse and wagon for the day. They all piled in, including Mac, who carried a box filled with apples, a small wheel of cheese, a string of cured sausages and tin of crackers, along with a stoneware jug of hard cider.

“Lunch for later,” he explained. “Cain’t do no figgerin’ on an empty stomach.”

The four readied the team and wagon and traveled eastward on the pike until they came to a crossroad. Tritt guided the horse down the rutted road until they came to a grassy meadow with a large oak tree overlooking a pond.

“Ah, would ye look at this perfect setting,” Mac said. “I think I still have an old hook and some string in my pocket.”

They pulled up to the tree and clambered out.

“Well,” Susan said. “I suppose you’re going to tell us why we’ve come all the way out here?”

“I am,” Tritt said. “There’s some things you just can’t talk about in a town full of greedy ears.”

Tritt introduced the topic that Susan had told him about the previous day, and the other members of the group became quite attentive. For some time, the group talked earnestly about the topic of gold – Shawnee gold.

They ate while Mac whittled a green tree branch and attached his fishing line. Susan told what she knew of the gold stash, and stated her version of it boldly, completing her tale with her belief that the gold had been stolen from settlers by the Shawnees and hidden in a secret place in revenge for white mens’ schemes and broken treaties. The Shawnees had the gold that white men wanted.

But Shaw winced noticeably at her story.

“I will tell you what I know. I was told that the gold the Shawnees spoke of was not gold as the white man knows. This gold was not something the white man could put his hands upon. It was not hidden, except that its meaning was hidden from the white man. What the Shawnee want has already been taken from them. The white man has stolen their lands and their homes. Gold cannot buy it back.”

“You’re prob’ly right, Shaw,” Tritt said. “What was stolen from the Shawnee can’t be measured in gold, and gold can’t buy back nothin’ the Shawnees have lost. It can sure buy a lotta nice things, though. Let’s say that this gold does exist, and that we are able to find out where this gold was. D’you think the Shawnees would let us have some?”

Shaw glared at him fiercely for an instant.

“Some, not all, you know.” He smiled apologetically.

“Jest enough t’get all of us on our feet, say,” added Mac, licking his cracked lips. “Includin’ you, Shaw.”

“I would strongly urge you to give up on this plan. And I’ve told you all I know,” Shaw said. “I’m only half-Shawnee.”

“But how many Shawnee are there around here anymore?” asked Tritt. “Not many, I’m thinkin’. They all went to Kansas and Missouri, didn’t they?”

Mac stayed within earshot but walked over to the pond and threw his line into the water with a bit of sausage on the hook.

“Not because they wanted to, but yes, most have gone west. Most of those who remain are those who married into white families or took the white man’s religion,” Shaw said.

“So who would speak for the Shawnee?” asked Susan.

“Proud Bear,” said Shaw. “In English he goes by the name of William Proud. The whites call him Proudy Bill. He was a war chief, but he is long in years now. He lives north of here. He would be able to speak for the Shawnee. I do not say that he would speak, though.”

Mac yelped suddenly and pulled on his fishing pole. He had a fine bluegill on the line, which he expertly took off the hook and placed on piece of old paper that had been in the wagon. “Stick with me and you’ll have a free dinner tonight,” he said.

After resting a bit longer, the group got up from their picnic, dusted themselves off, and got back into the wagon. It was late afternoon, and time to get back to town. Mac had caught a dozen bluegill and was anxious to get them back to prepare.

None of them had noticed a stealthy figure who had watched them from a small, wooded area a little way off. After they left, he slipped away to a waiting horse tethered to a tree and rode off.

NEXT: Dark Purposes

Ken Drenten is creator and editor of Dusty-Tires.com, a travel blog for out-of-the-ordinary places in Ohio.

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