By Ken Drenten

One of the most common vehicles on the National Road was the Conestoga wagon, used to move freight. Those who made their living driving these wagons were called wagoners or teamsters for the teams of horses they drove. Conestoga wagons averaged 17 to 19 feet in length (22 feet in length including a canvas covering), 11 feet in height, and weighed about 3,500 pounds. The average load weighed 6,000 pounds. Sometimes loads as heavy as 10,000 pounds were hauled. (National Park Service)

CHAPTER SEVEN: The Two-Way Road

Tritt, still sitting at the table in the tavern after Mac had left on an errand, looked at Susan, now sitting across from him.

“Oh, you’re wondering what I’m doing here? Well, I’ve been asking myself some questions,” she said.

“Ok, shoot.” He sipped at his coffee.

She ordered a cup of coffee and some biscuits, then spoke.

“I’m just wondering what the long-term prospects could be with a man like you.”

Tritt almost spit out his own coffee. “What?”

“It’s not a crazy idea. Men outnumber women out here three or four to one, you know. Women can have their pick.”

“Well, uh, yeah, but I guess –”

“Just think what we could do as a real team, Tritt. You and me – husband and wife, or maybe just man and woman until you get more used to the idea. Just give it some thought.”

“Uh, I will promise you I’ll do that,” he said, wiping coffee from his shirt. “But give me a little more time. We’ve just met each other.”

“I know. And I know that it’s unseemly for a woman to say the things I do and have the ideas I do, but I’m not like other women,” she said. “You must realize that by now.”

“Oh, I do realize that, I sure do, Miss Whitworth. And I will think on what you’ve said.”

Tritt, along with Mac and Shaw, spent another night in the drover’s house with their knives and pistols close to them, while Susan spent another night in the hotel.

The next morning, Tritt knew that they would have to move quickly with their plan. Staying in one place would mean giving the remaining members of the gang too much time to do whatever it was they were planning, which Tritt was sure involved revenge.

The next day, Tritt organized the purchase of a small wagon rig and two mules at the stable, and food and supplies at the general store. Spending all the money they had between them, they procured dried beef, beans, flour, oats, a ham, tobacco, coffee, blankets, powder and lead, a water barrel, picks and shovels and one gingham scarf.

When Tritt handed it to Susan, she balked. “A scarf? It doesn’t match anything I own! Why are you giving me this?”

“You’ll thank me for it later,” he said. He also handed her another item, a two-shot derringer.

“A pistol?”

He nodded. “It looks like a toy, but I assure you, it’s real. It’s a derringer pistol, and it’s deadly at close range. Keep it close to you, but don’t keep it loaded. I’ll show you how it works…”

They walked a short distance out of town and spent an hour practicing. He showed her how to load, cock and unload the little pistol, as well having her fire it once or twice. Tritt didn’t want to arouse any excitement by firing off too many shots.

By the afternoon, they were ready to set off. Mac drove the wagon team with Miss Whitworth sitting next to him, while Tritt and Shaw rode horses – Shaw in front, with Tritt trailing behind. They set off down the National Road eastward toward Zanesville.

This route was an intentional effort to lead any would-be followers astray. Their plan was to turn south, and then the opposite direction — north on a wagon path along a creek that would lead to Proudy Bill’s encampment on the Walhonding River.

A wagon pulled by two mules doesn’t travel quickly, and it was easy for two men on horseback to follow. Shorty and Lefty trailed about a quarter-mile behind the group, keeping them in sight.

About an hour before sundown, Lefty turned to Shorty. “Banks wanted us both back in camp by sundown tonight. But I don’t want to lose their trail. I want you to go back to camp now and tell him where we’re going – east, toward Zanesville. I’ll keep tracking the wagon. Tell him to come fast.”

“What if we can’t find you?”

“You’ll find me,” snarled Lefty. “Just come back here and pick up the trail. Now go.”

About 20 minutes later, the wagon made a turn off the National Road along a sloping track to the south and continued on it for awhile. It was nearly dark when they finally came to a stop. Tritt rode up to the wagon.

“Why are we stopping, Mr. Tritt?” asked Susan.

“We’re stopping here for a moment, then we’ll turn around and cut back up our trail,” he said. “Someone’s been followin’ us.”

“Won’t that mean we’ll run right smack into ’em?” asked Mac, licking his lips.

“Yep, and it will mean he’ll either have to hide or fight. I’m hoping he’ll be so concerned about keeping hidden that we can slip by. Either that, or he’ll be forced to fight us and we’ll have him outnumbered.”

“One of the gang from the stagecoach robbery has been following us?” asked Shaw.

“I’m sure it is,” replied Tritt. “I think there’s just one or two of them out there. But at some point, if they wanna jump us, they’ll have to go get the rest of the gang. That’s another reason to force their play now. Just keep your eyes and ears open.”

They turned the wagon northward by the waning light of the setting sun and began the return trip to the National Road.

Lefty reined up and found he was no longer trailing but now was ahead of the group. He viewed this change with alarm. They were heading right for him — had they seen him?

He scrambled off the trail to a wooded area to hide his horse. He dismounted and unsheathed his long rifle from its leather scabbard. Kneeling, he held the rifle at ready.

He was sorely tempted to shoot, but knew Banks would be angry if he took a potshot at the party now, without the rest of the gang being there. And he feared what Banks might do to him. He also knew he could only kill one member of the party, and the rest of them would fire at him.

And finally, Lefty couldn’t make anything out clearly in the darkening light. He just waited and listened as he heard the wagon pass by, heading northward.

The group traveled back to the Pike without incident, although Tritt admitted he had been a little nervous when they passed a wooded area. Nothing had happened, but he had felt a strong sense of being watched.

Shaw had noted this as well. “I almost wished I’d snuck over there with my knife,” he whispered to Tritt. “I probably would have found something.”

Tritt nodded grimly. “I’m glad you didn’t do that,” he said. “We can’t afford rash actions just now. We have to stick together.”

“Now where are we going?” Susan asked.

“We keep going north to Proudy Bill’s village.”

“In the dark?”

“It’s been done before,” Tritt grunted.

Tritt now had Shaw dismount from his horse as he led the group to ensure a clear path for the wagon. Tritt continued to trail behind, periodically stopping to look and listen behind him.

The path followed Wakatomica Creek, named for a Shawnee subchief whose family now resided in Kansas. They arrived at Proudy Bill’s encampment near the Walhonding River about an hour after dawn, exhausted though they had taken a steady, careful pace in the darkness.

Shaw went warily into the village first, then motioned the others to come. It was a small collection of log cabins and lean-tos, punctuated by plots of corn and beans and deerskins stretched to dry next to smoking embers of fires.

About 30 men, women and children all stopped what they were doing to stare at the group as they arrived. A man with a weather-beaten face, dressed in homespun and leather, wearing his gray hair long and carrying a long, club-like walking stick, stood straight as they walked their horses up to him.

“You must be Tritt,” the man said gravely, as Tritt dismounted. “I am Coshtconchock, Proud Bear — who you call Proudy Bill.”

NEXT: Hidden Treasures

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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