By Ken Drenten

The Kentucky rifle, or long rifle, was commonly used in hunting and warfare in America from the 1700s until the mid-1800s. With a length ranging from 54 inches to more than 70 inches, it was indeed a long rifle, and it typically weighed 7 to 10 pounds. The weapon with its rifled bore was accurate to well over 200 yards when fired by an experienced user. (Wikipedia)

CHAPTER NINE: Shawnee Pride

“Up ahead is a settlement of Christianized Shawnees,” Banks said to the others. “Proudy Bill is the son of a Shawnee chief, but he’s way past his prime now. When we go into that village, we need to show ‘em who’s in charge. If they so much as lift a finger to us, shoot to kill. I don’t even know why the state lets ‘em live here.”

“Do you think they’ll know where that wagon went?” Shorty said.

“The tracks lead right into their village. What do you think?” Banks said. “Just shut up and follow my lead. Even if we can’t find Tritt, we need to find out where that gold is.”

Banks was surprised when two Shawnees stepped out into the trail ahead of them.

He called to them. “Hello there, we mean no harm! My name’s Banks, and these are my friends. We’re just passing through. Can we stop and water our horses in your village?”

One of the Shawnees motioned to him, and Banks winked at the others. They followed the footsteps of the two men.

Banks observed the squalid collection of cabins and shacks along the riverside. A dog walked up to his horse and sniffed, then hurried away.

John Williamson, one of the sons of the chief, stood before them with arms folded.

“You men get off your horses,” he said. “We will be glad to let you water them.”

“Why thankee, sir,” said Banks, lowering himself from his horse and motioning the others to do the same. “We come in peace, see?”

“You are armed,” Williamson replied. “We are not.”

Banks twirled a strand of hair between two fingers. This was going exactly as he had envisioned.

“Have you seen three men and a woman come through on a wagon?” he said. “Maybe they had a couple horses with them.”

“Maybe. Are they friends of yours?”

“Yes, they’re friends. We’d like to speak with them,” Banks said. “Where are they?”

John Williamson frowned. “We have treated you as our Creator God would have wanted us to up to now. We have shown you brotherhood. But now you have lied to us. We know they are not your friends. You seek to kill them. You must leave.”

Banks looked around. The two Shawnees who had met them on the trail were behind them. Another man, who looked like he could be the brother of the man who addressed them, was on their right flank, and four others were on their left. Banks didn’t like it, but none of the Shawnees had firearms. They only carried knives or machetes used to cut corn. He smirked.

“I don’t think we will. You see, we’ve been polite up to now, too. Now we’re gonna give some orders.”

Banks and his associates unholstered flintlock pistols. Each man pointed his weapon at the nearest Shawnee. Williamson made no move but stood his ground.

“Now you’re gonna tell us where Tritt and his band are, and where you’ve hidden the gold!”

Williamson nodded his head. The door of the cabin behind him opened and out came Proudy Bill, in full warpaint and feathers, and armed with an ancient rifle.

Banks was surprised for a moment, then laughed. “Oh, look at this chief! You are way too old to be playing with guns anymore. You better go back to bed. Or maybe I’ll just shoot you to get it over with.” He pointed his pistol and began to cock the hammer.

But just before he squeezed the trigger, the pistol disintegrated. It was only then that he heard the report of a shot and caught a glimpse of who had fired.

“AGGHHH!” Banks yelled in pain, grabbing his hand. “Don’t just stand there! Shoot them!”

But the Shawnees had disappeared into the woods. A voice called out to him.

“Banks, you and your men are surrounded. Lay down your weapons and no one else will get hurt.”

Banks growled in pain and spit out his words. “That you, Tritt? I would’ve figured you’d be hidden. You’re not a fair fighter. Why don’t you come out and fight like a man?” Banks called, looking at the rifle in the scabbard on his horse a few feet away.

Proudy Bill, still standing in front of the gang, pointed his rifle at Banks. “No, Long Knife. We are still being kind by letting you live. This is your last chance. You must leave, or you will die.”

Banks motioned to Shorty. “Just shoot him, will you?” Shorty took aim and fired, and Proudy Bill crumpled.

The hidden Shawnees, led by John and Matthew Williamson, rose up from their hiding places, shouting war cries and brandishing knives and clubs.

At the same time, a cascade of shots rang out. Amid the smoke from the guns, Mudd and Neff fell to the ground. Lefty and Shorty jumped back on their horses, turned around, and began galloping back the way they had come. 

Out of the gunpowder smoke came Tritt, reloading his rifle as he trotted up to the scene. The others followed close behind.

Banks reached his horse and pulled another pistol from its holster, as well as a long-bladed knife. Then he ran into the smoke on foot.

Tritt approached warily as the smoke began to clear. He heard Banks’ voice calling out to him.

“Tritt! I got your woman here! Tell all your men to drop their guns or I’ll slit her throat!”

He did so and motioned to the others to drop their weapons as well, and he walked calmly toward Banks, who was holding his knife to Susan’s throat.

“I -I’m sorry, Tritt,” she said. “He snuck up on me.”

“That’s okay, Susan, just remember what I told you,” Tritt said. “Banks, turn her loose. You’ll never make it out of here alive if she gets hurt.”

“Tritt, you forget I’m holding the queen of hearts here. Tell your Shawnee friends to turn over the gold to me, or else you’ll have one less friend in your little band. Hear me?”

Tritt nodded to Shaw, who spoke in low tones to John and Matthew. John walked away quickly, and came back with two other men, who carried a large, heavy-laden leather satchel between them.

“Put that on the wagon and back away,” Banks said. “Sorry, Tritt, I’m going to have to borrow your wagon – and your woman.”

Susan’s eyes met Tritt’s and she motioned that she still had her derringer hidden in her pocket. Tritt shook his head.

Banks pushed Susan up into the wagon, then began to climb into the driver’s seat. For a split second, Tritt could see that his hands were occupied away from her.

Tritt shouted, “Susan, JUMP!”

She leapt from the wagon and Tritt picked his rifle up and fired. Banks’ hand dropped the knife and he fell into the wagon, while the mule team bolted off at the shot.

In an instant, the wagon, Banks — whether wounded or dead — and the treasure chest were gone in a haze of gunpowder smoke.

As Tritt and Mac tended to Susan, Matthew and John ran to their father, whose head was being cradled by his wife.

“My sons are warriors,” Proudy Bill said haltingly. “A father — could be no prouder than I am today. I die a happy man. My sons — you lead our people now.” He squeezed both their hands, then his head sank and he was no more.

The entire extended family of Shawnees, joined by Tritt, Mac, Shaw and Susan, gathered around the lifeless form of their grandfather, Proudy Bill.

“He was a great chief and a great father,” Matthew said. “I will miss him more than all the gold in the world.”

NEXT: Epilogue

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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