By Ken Drenten

EPILOGUE

Tritt and his friends helped the Shawnee band over the next few days as the dead were buried and the families made preparations for their trip west. Tritt gave them some of their supplies, and they divided up the robbers’ horses and gear.

The evening before the Shawnee group’s departure, John and Matthew Williamson shook hands with Tritt, Shaw, Mac and Susan.

“We will never forget what you have done for us,” John said. “We will tell this story of bravery and generosity to our grandchildren and great-grandchildren as we warm ourselves before our fires.”

“Thank you for helping us as well,” Tritt said. “We will never forget you, either. And your father’s idea to fill that satchel full of rocks was nothing less than brilliant.”

Matthew grinned quickly, then nodded to Tritt. “John and I have something else to show you before we leave.”

He walked toward the river, leading the group. The sun was just starting to set, and the mellow sunshine reflected on the water of the Walhonding River like ingots of gold. Long branches of willow trees reached into the water like arms, creating whirlpools in the river’s current. An insect flew lazily just above the water’s surface, and a fish suddenly jumped to catch it in its mouth.

The sound of water gurgling over rocks in the streambed was soothing to their souls. The scene was framed by lush green rippling hills that rose from the far riverbank. The group stood there a long time, mesmerized by the beauty and peacefulness of the river, the trees and the land.

“I can see why you love your home,” said Susan. “I could stay here forever.”

“ ‘I lift my eyes to the hills – where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth,’ ” said John. “Psalm 121, verses 1 and 2.”

“This, and our families, are our treasures,” Matthew said. “Now, with God’s help, we must leave here to start anew.”

As they walked back from the river, Tritt was thoughtful. He was not happy that two of the gang, as well as possibly Banks, had gotten away. He felt sure that they wouldn’t create any problems for him right now, but if they decided to gather up a new gang, it might be different.

 “What’s going to happen now for us?” Susan asked, interrupting his thoughts. She clutched his arm tightly.

“Well, uh, I’m not sure,” Tritt said, scratching his beard. He was a bit uncomfortable with how she had asked the question. “What do you mean?’

Before she could answer, a voice sounded from out of the trees on the edge of the village.

“Hallooo! I mean you no harm!” the voice called.

Tritt brought his rifle up, then relaxed when he saw the figure.

A paunchy middle-aged man riding a mule slowly rode up, reined in and got off. He was dressed in a rumpled yellow three-piece suit, a brown hat, and held a clay pipe in his hand.

“You’re one of the passengers from the stagecoach on the Pike,” Tritt said.

“Indeed! You’re correct, my boy,” the man said, dusting himself off and gesturing grandly. “Permit me to introduce myself. My name is Horace K. Huffington, dramatist of stage, orator of verse and adventurer of the frontier. I’ve come in hopes of retrieving what belongs to me. I mean to say, what was purloined from my person by those larcenous ruffians.”

“I’ve heard of you, Mr. Huffington,” Susan said. “I believe I saw a poster with your name on it in Wheeling.”

Tritt looked at Huffington narrowly. He thought he recognized Huffington as well, from a number of suspicious poker games from which a man fitting his description had hastily departed after winning the table.

“A poster?” Huffington said in alarm. “What kind of poster?”

“Oh, you know, an advertisement about your traveling show,” Susan said.

Huffington looked visibly relieved. “Ah yes, of course,” he said.

“So, Mr. Huffington, how did you come to know about us?” Tritt asked.

“Oh, the Pike is a long road with many small towns and few amusements,” he said. “There are consequently few secrets. Now, about my possessions. Is it possible by some miraculous consequence that you might have them?”

Mac walked up and motioned to the group. He and Shaw had finished their inventory of the items retrieved from the saddlebags of Banks and two of his men, with items spread out on a blanket.

Everyone’s eyes widened. A great amount of gold and silver pocket watches, rings, necklaces, cufflinks, bracelets and other jewelry of all kinds, gold and silver coins, eyeglasses and paper money was spread out on a blanket.

They allowed Huffington to pick out what he said belonged to him, but they first counted out a portion of the coins and currency to John and Matthew for the families’ well-being.

Susan bent down and picked up a necklace and another item. “I know who this belongs to – my grandmother!” She put the other item into Tritt’s hand. “I’m giving this to you for safekeeping right now, Elmer, but you can give it back to me at some point if you’d like.”

Tritt opened his hand. It was a diamond engagement ring.

Then Susan pulled something out of her pocket. It was the blue gingham scarf that had indicated to the Shawnee chief that she was a married woman. She removed her battered old hat and put the scarf over her head.

He smiled. “I’ll take that into strong consideration, Miss – uh, Susie.” And before the look of surprise had left her face, he took her in his arms and kissed her.

Shaw and Mac grinned from ear to ear.

“C’mon, we’ll take the rest of this plunder back to Jacksontown and let the sheriff sort it out,” Mac said to Shaw. “We’ll call it Proudy’s Gold. What d’ye say?”

~ THE END ~

There is a well-known old legend of Shawnee silver, rather than gold. Prisoners of the Shawnee reported being forced to carry heavy sacks of mined minerals during their imprisonment in one of several Shawnee villages named Chillicothe in what was later Ohio.

Some believe the prisoners created the stories of silver as a means of entertaining their listeners after being ransomed. But the Shawnee acquired silver from somewhere, because many of them were bedecked with bracelets, armbands, amulets and other items that they wore and treasured. Who knows – the treasure trove might still be out there somewhere.

NOTE: This story can be found in its entirety along with other stories at Dusty’s Short Stories in the Dusty Tires website.

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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