Title

“I happen to believe that genius makes people weird,” a storyteller once said, explaining how Johnny Appleseed could be at once so peculiar and so profound.

“Having been covered so often in children’s literature, here finally is an ‘adult’ version of the Johnny Appleseed folk tale... an entertaining and insightful look at an important and somewhat overlooked chapter of American history, and a fine contribution to American historical fiction.” ~ Jim Barnes of the Independent Publisher

Please enjoy the First 2 Chapters of this extraordinary historical fiction piece focused on the real-life character of Johnny Appleseed. Or....

“From all we can learn, we are of the opinion that contemporaneous with [Andy Craig] was the oddest character in our history, Johnny Chapman, alias Appleseed.”

Dead Mary squinted and sucked hard on her breath as she took lethal aim. She felt the draw tension of the bow in her forearms, and the taut, deer-tendon string hummed as if begging for release. When she’d gotten up that morning, killing somebody had been the furthest thing from her mind. She still didn’t feel much like doing it, but, if she listened to her own common sense, she had no better choice than to slay this rambling half-wit who’d trespassed into her woods. He was a white man, thus worthy of death, even if he was a bit peculiar and possibly harmless.

Will I regret it if I let him live? Won’t it be simpler just to snuff him out now, and end the whole story?

She’d tracked this gnarly, gangly frontiersman for several hundred yards along the riverbank, waiting for a clear kill shot, but also, almost despite her better intentions, studying him. He was weird just to look at. His eyes bulged like a catfish’s beneath a high brow, and his face twitched as if his cheeks were stuffed with ants. Clad in tatters, barefoot, swinging his arms, he skipped like a child through the weeds and brambles, carrying a walking stick and singing in a cheery voice:

“The tree of life, my soul hath seen,

laden with fruit and always green.

The trees of nature, fruitless be

compar’d with Christ, the Apple Tree.”

His swift stride conveyed purpose and conviction, as if he knew where he was going... which Dead Mary figured to be impossible, because ahead of him lay only thousands of acres of primitive forest, the great Black Swamp, and isolated Indian villages. Furthermore, this solitary white man, traveling where very few of those were brave enough to venture, was unarmed. He carried something bundled in a kerchief tied to his stick, and nothing more. It didn’t seem possible that he could’ve made it so far.

Despite all of these oddities, the beaming grin he sported, as if he’d just gotten away with something, struck Dead Mary as the queerest thing about him. Maybe he was drunk, or more likely just feeble-minded. Either case presented excellent justification for killing him. Much as she resisted the notion, though, she couldn’t help but wonder if this beggarly character was really as happy as he seemed to be.

The wayfarer stepped into a clearing, loosened his trouser cords, and allowed his pants to drop. He then squatted above a large skunk cabbage and began grunting to encourage the evacuation of his bowels.

“Thank ye, Lord,” he howled at the sky, “for what comes out as much as what goes in.”

Now, Dead Mary felt like killing him would be doing him a favor, since he was probably destined to become some hungry bear’s snack—the meat on his bones being insufficient for a full meal. Still, taking a man’s life in the middle of his pinching a shit seemed a rotten thing to do.

“I know that ye’d be a-watching me,” the man shouted over his shoulder. “What is it a-going to be? Are ye fixing to kill me?”

Dead Mary lowered her weapon. Was he actually calling her out while she had him trained in her kill sights, and at the same time squatting over his heels, shitting pellets? That was beyond just peculiar; more like the far side of crazy.

The man continued. “I first saw ye gathering sassafras roots upstream half a mile. I considered stepping out of the woods to introduce me-self, but I did not mean to spook ye. Instead, I reasoned that a woman alone in the wilderness would not be a-feared of any man while he is bent over in the act of moving his bowels. So here I squat. T’would be easy to kill me, although I do prefer that ye not to do that.” Bare from the waist down, he faced her, lifted his shirt, and puffed his chest to give her a clear target. “But if ye aim to kill this earthly body anyhow, I beg of ye to strike your arrow into me heart, the better to free me soul when the blood gushes out.”

In this moment, Dead Mary got her first clear view of this man—more of an eyeful than she personally would have preferred, but so strange to behold that she couldn’t make herself look away.

Although nude and as hairless as a suckling piglet from belly to ankles, he displayed himself with absolutely no modesty, which seemed even stranger in that he possessed a rather dwarfish manhood. His sandy hair draped uneven across his brow, as though it had been hacked through by a dull knife, while in the back it hung long and matted, containing twigs, burs, small pine cones, and probably all sorts of bugs that he’d picked up along the trail. His patchy beard looked like the tail of a diseased fox. Bony shoulders jutted out like plough blades from under his gray linsey shirt. His legs stretched too tall for his body, but his calves and thighs were sinewy—the only real muscle on his whole frame—and his feet appeared flat as canoe oars.

Dead Mary scanned up and down his body, and then instinctively returned her gaze to his eyes, which seemed to be shining gently, as if lit by a candle inside his skull. She blinked hard, for she worried that looking into those turquoise eyes dead-on might be a trap.

“Pull up yo’ britches. I cain’t kill no man what ain’t got ‘nuff dignity to wear pants.”

“Clothing is not for dignity, but for pride. If I am to die today, let it be as a humble man.”

Dead Mary grinded her teeth and released the arrow. It shrieked through the air and lodged in the trunk of a poplar tree inches from the man’s ear.

“Thank ye, sister, for using the free will that God gave ye to leave me alive.” He saluted her, twisted the arrow loose from the tree, inspected it, and nodded. “Tis a Delaware arrow.”

Dead Mary’s first thought was to scold herself for having gone soft and let him live. “Killing abides no doubts,” Fog Mother had once said to her, but whether that meant it was right or wrong to kill somebody, she wasn’t sure.

She steeled herself against useless sympathy. “Shut up, or I’ll kill yo’ fo’ real.”

“Forgive my effrontery, dear woman, for the Lord has cursed me with more curiosity than is always in me best interests. Rather than occupy any more of your time, I shall bid fare-thee-well.” The stranger pointed upriver with one hand while lifting his trousers with the other, and pivoted to leave.

“Thank ye for asking me to speak about me-self,” he chimed. “Me name is John Chapman, a sower of seeds. I would be pleased if ye chose to call me Johnny. I am a Yankee from Massachusetts by birth, more recently a resident of Western Pennsylvania and the Ohio Valley, but as of this moment, I feel like I have discovered a new home, here in this splendid wilderness.”

“I got here by following the beauty. A month ago, I left Pittsburgh with no particular thought of where I might go. I was attracted by the ripples of sunshine on the river, by the shadows of the hills, the colors and the fragrances of the forest, the soughing of the breeze through big maple leaves, the merry chatter of songbirds, and the lonesome howl of wolves. I followed the Ohio to the Muskingum, upriver to the Walhonding, to where I am now, which I presume to be Owl Creek. Just this morning, though, I heard a Voice telling me this is where God wants me to be.”

Johnny made a grand gesture encompassing everything. “Right here in this place. She exists in the beauty that God has spent here.”

Dead Mary had stood in that exact spot many times, but never once saw anything that God might especially favor in it, so she took another look. When she opened her eyes wider, she spotted needles of light blinking through the maple and oak leaf canopies. They seemed to dance on Johnny’s shoulders as he wiggled a finger, inviting her to follow.

He led her to a narrow clearing over a washed-out ridge at a bend in Owl Creek. The water ran wide and shallow over a sandy bottom, with a small waterfall in the middle where the flow dropped down over several, step-like sheets of mica. Johnny put his hand to his ear and encouraged Dead Mary to listen to the rhythmic flow of water.

It murmured in the shallows, burbled in the little circular eddies around side currents, and simultaneously plunged and tumbled over the miniature falls in the main channel. Something popped in her head, and the landscape then resolved into discrete details of brilliant, intricate clarity: a praying mantis camouflaged on a poplar branch, a bumblebee hovering above a patch of purple milkweed, a pair of spadefoot toads humping in a puddle covered with river foam. Dead Mary usually filtered these things out of her awareness, distractions from the labors of hunting and gathering herbs. But, come to actually notice them, they seemed pretty amazing.

“Look over yonder.” Johnny directed Dead Mary’s attention to the other side of the river.

The flat shoreline and an expansive floodplain were covered with big bluestem, Indian grass, and switchgrass, along with flowers like wild hyacinths, prairie coneflowers, sawtooth sunflowers, and a whole mess of yellow dandelions.

Johnny laughed. “My mother spoke to me in her eternal Voice, telling me that this was a place chosen by God for me to plant an apple orchard. Can ye not just imagine it?”

“A spirit, yes. The poor woman was too frail for this world. She died giving birth to my only brother, who died soon thereafter, too. My father later married Lucy Cooley, and together they sired a fine brood of half-siblings for me. But my mother continued coming to me in her spirit form, just to me-self alone. She often speaks to me.”

“And she tells yo’ to plant apples heah? “What fo’? Who’s gonna eat all dem apples?”

“Settlers,” Johnny replied. “They are a-coming. Civilization is destined for Ohio. When those settlers get here, they will want apples, which I will provide, with God’s help.

“If white folks be comin’, I’ll shoot dem full of arrows. White folks be devils.”

“I believe that all souls can be saved,” Johnny disagreed. He stepped between Dead Mary and the riverbank, intercepting her gaze. “Ye must have suffered greatly, to bear such hostility.”

“If ye don’t mind me inquiring, dear woman.... Obviously, the only explanation for a young negresse like yourself being alone in this unmapped territory is that ye are a runaway slave. But how did ye arrive here?”

It had been a long time since anybody had asked Dead Mary about herself. Her shoulders heaved in exasperation, but once she started talking, it felt good.

“I was a slave fo’ d’ most vile man in all western Virginia. His name was Granger Stone, and he done kilt a man in Baltimo’, den run away. He settled a piece of land along d’ Little Kanawha. Hogs was his business, but drinkin’ and gamblin’ and fuckin’ was what mattered most to him. He won my momma in a game of faro cards, an’ I got tossed into d’ deal when dey found me hidin’ ‘neath her skirts. Stone took my momma fo’ his bed slave. Me, he gave to be d’ wife of anotha’ slave, named of Dolt Stone, who was a growed man and a good handler with hogs, but a dummy an’ a toady fo’ his master. I was jus’ eleven years old.

“My job was to bear children with Dolt, but he didn’t rightly know what to do with a woman, so he leaved me alone. I think Dolt jus’ plain preferred hogs to women. He shoveled out dey sty and spread down wood chips fo’ dem. He’d groom dem hogs usin’ a horse hair brush, and he’d pick out nits and mites from dey fur with his own fingers. When he had to notch one’s ear, he rubbed it with lard first, so’s it wouldn’t hurt so bad. He claimed dat d’ hogs loved him back.

“Dey was one ol’ swine Dolt loved most o’ all. He called it Daddy Hog. He used to take walks with it, and when he’d talk, it’d grunt right back to him, like dey was speakin’ real words. Daddy Hog was a razorback Granger Stone took from a litter o’ wild boars, with his intent bein’ to mate it with his Yorkshire hogs, but Daddy Hog was mean an’ ornery with everybody ’cept Dolt, and he’d sooner fight a sow than hump on her. Finally, Granger Stone decided instead to slash off Daddy Hog’s nuts and fatten him fo’ market. He told Dolt to do d’ dirty work. Dolt blubbered, ‘Please don’t make me nut dat boar, Master Stone,’ but seein’ Dolt’s weakness jus’ made Stone harder in his soul. ‘Yo’ balls ain’t never done you no good,’ he said to Dolt, ‘so why’s should yo’ care what dat hog loses his nuts, too?’ Dolt finally did like he was told, but he told me dat jus’ befo’ he slit Daddy Hog’s balls, he promised dat one day he’d make it up to him.

“It was four years befo’ I busted free from Granger Stone. He decided to take his hogs to market in Marietta, where he’d heard dey’d fetch $2.50 per hund’rd weight. He needed Dolt to herd d’ hogs to market, an’ Dolt begged him to bring me, too. Why, I don’t know, nor do I know why dat horrible man agreed, ’cept maybe by dat time he’d done used up all’a my momma and was now gettin’ ready fo’ me. So I took a vow t’ myself that once we ferried int’ Ohio, I’d not go back t’ Virginia. I didn’t tell Dolt, ‘cause I was feared he’d snitch t’ his master.

“From d’ moment we landed in Marietta, Granger Stone left all d’ work mindin’ d’ hogs up t’ Dolt, while he conducted his busy-ness with men in taverns an’ gamblin’ halls. Last night befo’ d’ hog sale, Dolt slept in d’ sty with Daddy Hog, like he was sayin’ goodbye. I thought it was disgustin’ an’ shameful, but now I know he had a plan.

“Next day, at d’ hog market, with Granger Stone an all d’ white men gathered at a table drinkin’ an’ signin’ dey papers, Dolt rounded up d’ swine into a chute dat led dem to a butcher’s wagon. Daddy Hog was last, and I noticed how, jus’ befo’ he got into d’ chute, Dolt gave him a whack o’ his switch. Dat made Daddy Hog go berserk, breakin’ loose into d’ open market. He rammed a merchant’s table full of flour bags, which busted open like a snowstorm, den he barreled towards d’ table where Granger Stone sat. Stone grabbed his long rifle, but was too drunk to shoot straight. Next, Daddy Hog knocked over a whiskey barrel, spillin’ sweet mash everywhere. By dis time, Dolt had reached Granger Stone’s side to help him up, but Stone slapped him away an’ shouted ‘Kill that hog, you dickless nigger!’ He handed over his long rifle to Dolt.

“Dolt had not fired a musket in his life, but he took dat rifle, centered it so’s he was lookin’ straight down its shaft at Granger Stone, and Dolt den shot his own master right smack in d’ middle o’ his skull. Blood ‘n’ brains spewed everywhere. Dere was a half second when I caught Dolt’s eye, befo’ white men realized what had happened, an’ he winked at me, which I took fo’ a message to run like hell, so I did. Dey kilt Dolt an’ fed his corpse to d’ dogs.

“Fo’ days ‘n’ nights, I followed d’ river north. I ate what I could find, which weren’t much, ’cause I didn’t know what plants was food and what wasn’t. I got real weak, sore, an’ dizzy in my thoughts. When I started despairin’ fo’ myself, though, I called back thoughts of Granger Stone, an’ I knew that if he caught me, he’d rape me or kill me, or both. Dat gave me ’nuff courage to keep ploddin’ ahead. Finally, I crawled into a hollow sycamore trunk and went to sleep, not carin’ no more if I woke up or not.

“Next thing I knew, I was in a Delaware Indian camp. I was nursed back to health by a woman named Fog Mother, who was a powerful medicine woman, but was shunned as a witch by most o’ d’ tribe, ’cause dey’d converted to Christian religion. Me and Fog Mother kept our distance from d’ Christian Indians, an’ dey did d’ same with us. Dat’s how it was.”

Dead Mary clenched her fists, declaring, “I became Fog Mother’s daughter. Dis land is ours, an’ ain’t no cowards’ treaty can tell us we got to leave.”

Johnny clapped his hands. “Hooray! I, too, believe that God of Infinite Compassion means for ye to live here in peace. This glorious land—” He flung both arms from his chest to his sides. “—is God’s gift to all free, peace-loving people.”

That sounded too reasonable to be true. “Where white folks go, peace don’t last long. Get yo’ goin’ now,” she ordered, once again drawing her bow. “Don’t come back.”

Johnny bowed and turned upstream. Before moving out of range of her arrow, though, he paused and called back, “Are there any other white men living in this land?”

The question made Dead Mary think of a way by which she might relieve herself of any potential nuisance that Johnny might cause in the future, without having to kill him herself. “Yeah, Andy Craig. He lives a couple o’ miles upstream.”

“Oh, him.... Well, adieu ma’am.” Johnny nodded his appreciation and, seemingly without taking another step, disappeared into the brush.

There was no doubt in Dead Mary’s mind that she’d seen the last of this Johnny, because that nasty weasel Andy Craig wouldn’t have a second thought about killing a trespasser.

Johnny knew that some folks became afflicted with “woods madness” if they wandered off the beaten track anywhere in the Ohio back country. Most everybody had heard and told the grim story of the young girl who chased a hare into the forest behind her family’s cabin near Big Bottom, only to disappear, as if swallowed whole by some fearsome demon. The men of the village had formed a search party, and for a week they combed the woods, but not even the hounds could sniff the girl’s scent. Long after the rest of the community had abandoned hope, the girl’s disconsolate father kept searching alone, day-by-day, ignoring the pleas of his family, his neighbors, and his church. Then, one evening, he didn’t return either.

Johnny shivered whenever he heard a strange call in the woods at night, recalling how folks said that the girl and her father’s tormented ghosts wailed in the dark because they knew their bodies would never be given a Christian burial.

For Johnny, not getting lost was more a matter of intuition than technique. As everyone knew, the scouts from Western Virginia could navigate by studying the angles of shadows at noon, the thickness of tree bark, the growth of lichens on stones, and the bend of ash branches. He had learned these skills from some of the most knowledgeable woodsmen of the Northwest Territory, like Dan McQuay, who legend had it had hiked all the way from Pittsburgh to New Orleans, and from old Simon Kenton, who’d scouted for George Rogers Clark. Still, when Johnny tried to apply their methods, he only got disoriented.

Instead, he’d discovered that by emptying his mind, he could see nature exactly as the wildcat saw it, smell it as keenly as any wolf, and hear its every snap and shudder as clearly as a bat. He could imagine the vegetable consciousness in the great, knowing oaks.

Whenever it happened that Johnny misplaced his bearings, he just stopped, sat down, and remained still until he received guidance from his Voices. Sometimes they came as inner shouts so urgent that he couldn’t believe nobody else could hear them. Most of the time, though, they manifested as subtle music drifting to him from outside, in the murmuring of the breeze, the plinking of raindrops, the swaying of tall grasses, or in the amalgamated chirps, croaks, caws, drones, busses, honks, humming, growls, snorts, grunts, pants, gasps, chortles, heehaws, and howls that, when he listened carefully, resolved themselves into human Voices speaking plain English. He figured that God had used these kinds of Voices when speaking to the prophets of the Old Testament.

Johnny didn’t believe he possessed any special spiritual virtue that enabled him to hear them—except, possibly, his mother’s voice. Indeed, he remained convinced that anybody patient enough to listen would be able to hear the Voices. He wasn’t surprised so few actually heard, though, because most people didn’t even listen to each other when they spoke straight from one person’s mouth to another’s ear.

Johnny didn’t need any help from the Voices to find Andy Craig’s residence. As it turned out, tracking the madman of Owl Creek was as easy as following the path of rampaging bull. He knew that he was getting close when he found foot traps set under a persimmon tree, one of which had been sprung but without a catch. He easily sidetracked a pit trap, rather sloppily camouflaged with a thatch of ash switches and clumps of grass. It was deep enough to hold a person, which might’ve been its intended prey.

Not much farther, he encountered a patch of sumac shrubs that looked to have been flattened at the point where a chase had commenced. He found some powder residue on fern leaves, where someone had fired a shot, and booted footprints in the mud. Around a bend, Johnny smelled death, and following the odor he came upon what was left of a white tail buck’s carcass. Andy had slaughtered it on the spot where it had died, then discarded the leavings for the beetles, the maggots, and the turkey vultures.

From there, the route to Andy’s cabin was easy to follow by its wanton hacking of limbs and foliage, footprints preserved in moss, and indiscriminate litter left behind, from nails and hammering stones, to hand spikes and an axe wedged into a beech trunk, and lots of broken moonshine bottles. The path spilled into an open corridor strewn with stumps, boulders rolled into heaps, and several trees with girdled bark, around which had been strung a rope to demarcate a property boundary. In the center of this tract sat Andy Craig’s single-pen chestnut cabin, with a bark-thatched roof, a stick-and-mud chimney, and a lean-to shed on the side. It had no windows, although some of the unfilled chinks were wide enough to look through. A full bearskin hung across the open doorjamb. Above the threshold, the bear’s stuffed head was mounted, its mouth open, roaring. Beneath it, a scrawled sign read, “Do Not Entry.”

After a tense pause, Johnny heard the sound of a flintlock hammer being pulled back, and acting upon an impulse he could only attribute to divine intervention, he jumped. A half second later, a bullet whizzed beneath him, splitting his legs, through the exact spot where his groin had just been.

The indignant Andy thrashed aside the bearskin and bumped his head against the door frame. Musket rifle on his shoulder, he screamed, “Thief! Scoundrel!,” and fired again into the space that Johnny had just vacated. “Ass-lickin’ surveyor!”

Johnny had moved twenty yards downwind before his feet touched ground. He dashed toward the river, compelled by an instinct that he’d be safe if he could reach the other side. Splashing across the shallows, he vaulted the narrow channel and landed halfway up the embankment on the opposite shore just as another shot blasted overhead—close enough to part his hair. He bolted across a grassy meadow into the shelter of deep woods.

Johnny climbed a sugar maple tree and sat comfortably in the crook of several branches. The orange sun was already angling low and rippling off the canopy. To pass time, he snapped off a dead twig and rubbed it down to get a feel for it, then took out his buck knife and started whittling. He carved the bough into a thin cylinder, rubbed smooth with spit in his palm, and, using the tip of a porcupine quill that he kept in his kerchief, he hollowed it out until he could see from one side to the other. On one end, he whittled a sloping fipple, and along the shaft he punched holes.

He then blew into it and played a passable scale. It sounded like a lullaby to him.

That night, Johnny slept as solid as if he were part of the tree, and when he woke, an albino squirrel fidgeted in his lap. It sat on its haunches, folding its paws and barking as if in skittish prayer.

The white squirrel ran off, leaving behind a handful of nuts and seeds, for which Johnny thanked God, then consumed them as his breakfast. The day dawned soggy, leaves and grasses soaked with dew, infusing the air with a mildew smell that reminded Johnny of foot fungus—which he believed was an affliction only of persons with an unhealthy dependence on shoes.

He descended the tree, stretched, and faced the sunshine to absorb its direct heat. “Hallelujah! I cannot wait to see what God has planned for me today.”

He hoped to avoid the previous day’s contretemps by giving Andy Craig plenty of advance notice that he was coming. Across Owl Creek, around the bend but within earshot of Andy’s cabin, Johnny began playing Over the Hills and Far Away on the whistle. Skipping along as if he were leading a parade, he stepped into view of Andy’s home.

Andy faced him with a musket on his shoulder. “Is yah’ll a goddamned lunatic or jest fuckin’ crazy?”

Johnny played a little flourish before lowering his whistle. “I am not a goddamned anything, that much I know, as I have done nothing to earn eternal damnation. So by your reckoning, that would make me just fucking crazy.”

Andy cocked his head for a better view. “Yah’ll don’t look like one of them degenerated cunt-faced surveyors, so ah’ll allow yah to ’splain what yah’re doin’ here.”

The notion that God’s will had anything to do with his life had always struck Andy as dubious, although he did feel flattered to be thought of as the host of divine providence. That morning, he had awakened in a rare good mood. He didn’t know why. He’d rolled off his sleep mat and bound right onto his feet, as if he had something important to do, and most unusual, he awoke without a bourbon-fired headache. Even more odd was that his first piss of the morning was bright yellow and free from the normal urethral burning. Afterwards, he still felt so good that he thought he might spend the morning splitting clapboards for the loft that he’d long intended to add to his cabin. Maybe he’d even postpone the first drink of the day until after noon.

When, while chopping wood, Andy picked up the airy treble of a distant whistle, he thought at first that it sounded like a black-throated warbler. But once he spied that same ratty intruder from the day before on the opposite bank of Owl Creek, blowing into a toy wooden whistle, he rushed to retrieve his weapon.

“If’n ah ain’t gonna kill yah, ah gotta at least rob yah. What’cha got that ah can steal?”

“In my kerchief, I carry just a few simple tools.” Johnny still held the whistle in front of his chin. “But if ye would accept it, I would be pleased to give ye this instrument as a token of friendship.”

“Bah. Ah’ll take it, but if’n anybody e’er asks, let’s jest say that ah’m robbin’ it from yah.” Andy leaned his musket against the cabin. “Well, come’n o’er here an’ give it to me.”

Johnny played a few bars of Yankee Doodle, lifting his knees in a marching fashion as he waded across the creek.

Andy kept his palm on the butt of a tomahawk in his belt, his eyes slanted in what might’ve been a scowl, except it was hard for Johnny to discern any expression beneath the unkempt beard that covered his face from his neck to just below his eye sockets, and a mustache so thick that his mouth wasn’t visible when he spoke. He wore an open frock, buckskin pants, and moccasins trimmed in beaver fur. Mayflies lighted around his head and shoulders.

Johnny stopped in front of and presented the whistle to him. “Here is your gift... that is to say, your plunder.”

Andy took the whistle and tooted in it once so hard that slobber dribbled out the other end. He shook his head, spit off to the side, and tossed it into a pile of kindling wood. Without a word, he went into his cabin.

Andy began sorting through piles of animal pelts laid on a table, as if searching for something in particular. Most every wild beast that roamed the Ohio territory was represented among the inventory: coon, mink, squirrel, raccoon, fisher fox, otter, beaver, muskrat, deer, and of course, the big black bearskin that covered the portal to his abode. Finally, he settled upon a rather sparse piece of fur, not much more than a man could use to wipe his nose. This, he tucked under his belt.

Andy scoffed. “Ah might kill a man, but ah wouldn’t leave him to starve.” He pointed to the lean-to adjacent to the cabin. “If’n yah’ll’re hungered, ah got a jar of dried venison in the shed. Help your self.”

“Won’t eat meat?” He shook his head in disbelief. “If’n God don’t mean fer us to eat animals, why’d he make them outta food?”

“A charming negresse whom I encountered downriver told me that I might find ye here.”

“Dead Mary? She and Fog Mother are witches, yah know. Did she might to put a curse on your soul?”

For the first time, Andy looked Johnny in the eye. “Ah don’t much like it when strangers know who ah am, but ah don’t know who they’d be.”

“Thank ye for asking me to speak about me-self. Me name is John Chapman, a sower of seeds. I would be pleased if ye chose to call me Johnny.”

Andy made a slicing gesture across his throat. “Ah don’t want to know nothin’ ’bout yah, ’cept one thing. What’re yah’ll doin’ here?”

Andy mulled those words. “Paradise, huh? Not many men see paradise in this brutish country. It’s a cruel land, a killin’ place, desolation....” He flashed a rotten-toothed grin. “But it do kinda suit me. If’n all what yah want is to be left alone, this here’s somewhar near paradise. Ah don’t much like people. Ah ain’t never had a problem that wasn’t caused by some other person, ’specially my brother, cornhole-suckin’ horse-faced bastard that he is. Tell him that ah said so, if’n yah see him.”

“Oh, ah ain’t completely alone, ’cause Injuns roam the hills and valleys. They don’t bother me none. Fact is, ah do some business wit’ one Wyandot, named of Toby. He’s one honest Injun, who brings mah skins fer sellin’ at Fort Detroit, an’ he brings me back whiskey, powder, flour, salt, cheese, more whiskey, an’ this ‘n’ that. Toby is purt much the only companion ah need. Well, ’cept fer a woman. Ah’ll buy one, when ah can afford her, to do mah cleanin’ and cookin’, and to make me some baby boys. Gimme a strong woman an’ ah’ll be right happy here fer the rest of mah life.” He caught his voice beginning to drift, so he cleared his throat and concluded. “So yah see, I generally kill any folks what venture into mah land, ’cause once they start, surveyors follow. The first sign that good country is ’bout to go to hell is when some surveyor starts peepin’ through his eyepiece thereabouts. Surveyors plot the land into little boxes. It ain’t natural. A man what lives in a box cain’t be really free.”

“Don’t yah be soft-soapin’ me none. Wha’d yah mean that yah’re lookin’ fer paradise? Ah live to tell yah that it ain’t here!”

“No, certainly not. True paradise exists only in the presence of our Lord in heaven. But I do believe that we can create an Earthly paradise where people live together in love, truth, beauty, peace... and it can start with apples!”

“Well, yah got a point thar, ah reckon. Any proper paradise would to include a bounty of apples—ripe and juicy, as big as your fist.”

“Then ye agree, this land could be improved upon with a living orchard of God’s most precious fruit—apples?”

Johnny reached into his kerchief and showed Andy a handful of crusty seeds. “Through fruit, grace, my friend. In the Bible, the Word of God consecrates ‘the apple of your eye’ as something to be cherished. There is no more righteous way to nourish your body than to take a healthy bite from a crisp apple. It crunches when ye chew, engaging your jaws in a most satisfying way, while fiber and pulp burst like delicious waterfalls in your mouth. An apple is as nourishing to the body as God’s love is to the soul. I believe that every man should own an apple tree from which he can pluck delicious fruit at will. If it is within human power to create such a life, are we not obliged to do so?”

“The Eastern lands that I left behind have been scarred by greed and violence. Many people wish to leave, and they will come here looking for a better life. Today, this savage territory is beyond the care of civilization, so settlers must be prepared to endure great trials, but I can make things easier. There is yet time, in advance of the newcomers, to prepare a pomaceous garden for them. From these seeds, I will plant orchards, and these trees will nurture God’s peace in a new place innocent of sin—Ohio.”

Andy stared at him as if Johnny were a one-winged bird. “Are yah pullin’ mah leg?”

“Too bad.” He grabbed his musket and took aim. “‘Cause now ah gotta reconsider whether to kill yah or not.”

Being prepared to die wasn’t the same thing as being willing. Saddened, Johnny closed his eyes and banished timid thoughts from his head. Several moments passed before he thought it safe to peek.

The musket was still on Andy’s shoulder, but his trigger finger was dangling limp. “Thar’s three reasons that ah ain’t gonna kill yah. First, yah ain’t no shit-snortin’ surveyor, in which case ah’d’ve put your head on a pole without thinkin’ twice. Second, ’cause ah do believe that yah ain’t right in the brain, so it ain’t your fault fer saying such stupid things. And, third, most important, yah can do somethin’ fer me.”

Andy tossed the nappy pelt that was hanging from his belt to Johnny. It was scarcely as much fur as a mangy squirrel’s, but something about it gave Johnny the chills. He ran his fingers over its sutures, until he realized what it was and cried, “God have mercy.”

“It’s the scalp of the last surveyor what dared come peepin’ ’round hereabouts.”

“For fuckin’ sure, it ain’t!” he yelled proudly. “It’s evil and wicked, not to mention a bloody awful way to die. But tha’s the fate what awaits any cow-fuckin’ trespassers. Go show folks tha’ scalp an’ warn ’em that if’n they don’t want their own skulls scraped clean, they’d best stay from away from Andy Craig. Tell ’em. Warn ’em. Scare ’em. Now go!”

Johnny swallowed his revulsion, but handling the scalp for a few seconds caused a transference to begin within him. In it, he felt the lingering residue of its previous owner’s soul. He gently folded the piece and tucked it into his kerchief.

As he departed, Johnny felt Andy’s gaze on his shoulders. Once he cleared what he judged to be the extent of Andy’s territory, he scanned the surroundings for some sign that would provide guidance for what he had to do next. Johnny carried the desecrated scalp in both hands, with reverence, for he believed that God had delivered it into his hands for a reason. Ahead, on the trunk of a black-barked oak tree, an albino squirrel—surely, the same one—scampered halfway down, cocked its head to look at Johnny, wiggled its whiskers, then zipped into the dense upper branches.

The words that entered his head were so lucid, they made his ears pop. His mother’s voice almost whispered, “Yes, here.”

Johnny removed the scalp from his kerchief and flattened it on a fallen log. He rubbed bear grease through the hair and raked it with his own haw comb, until it looked ready for Sunday church.

With a hand spade, he dug a rectangular hole large enough for a whole head, and gently placed the fully-extended scalp in its diminutive grave. He whispered the Lord’s Prayer, then pushed dirt back on top of it.

Last of all, he snapped off two twigs, one long and one short, and tied them into a cross with a length of creeper vine. This he planted into the center of the grave.

He made the sign of the cross And sang out, “Rejoice, pilgrim, for now ye are in heaven.”

After his encounter with Andy Craig, Johnny followed Owl Creek another twenty or so miles, past a couple of tributaries and through a narrow gap. Branches of cottonwoods on each side reached so far across, they nearly met in the middle. He reached the stagnant bog that was the creek’s source, and paused to watch a pair of frolicsome black bears feasting on pawpaws.

He yielded the bears their fill before sampling the fruit himself. Halving a specimen with his knife, he used his index and middle fingers like a spoon to scoop a bite. The custard-like pulp had a woodsy flavor that was also tart enough to make him pucker. The delight of this taste inspired him to sing out loud:

“Where, oh where is dear little Nellie?

Where, oh where is dear little Nellie?

Way down yonder in the pawpaw patch....”

His singing must not have been very good, because white tail deer scattered, chipmunks dived into their burrows, and even the bears covered their ears with their paws. He hoped God didn’t mind his singing half as much as the animals.

Johnny could make a single pawpaw into a meal, so with his new supply, along with chestnuts and cattail roots, he had all he needed to gorge himself contentedly for the next couple days.

He slept in a hollow log on a bed of moss. In his solitude, he often did nothing at all, or whatever he pleased. Still, Johnny knew that, sooner or later, a scout, or a soldier, or another squatter like Andy Craig would discover this place, and once that happened, it’d be Eden no more. The best that he could do was plant his seeds, so that when civilization finally got here, there’d be something growing that people would want to leave as is.

Given a choice, Johnny never liked to travel the same route twice, but the safest course out of the Ohio back country would be to return the way he’d come, downriver by Owl Creek. Furthermore, he estimated that he’d wandered north of the Greenville Treaty Line, into Indian lands, so continuing in any direction other than south entailed the risk of getting tomahawked. Johnny got along with most Indians. He believed they too had immortal souls, unlike what many white folks—including clergy—claimed. Even so, some young brave looking to bolster his reputation for brutality might kill him just to prove he was wicked enough. Discretion clearly favored a southern retreat. Still, discretion showed less than complete faith in God’s providence, and where faith is supported by desire, decisions are easy.

He traversed a genuine no-man’s land, but he knew a network of south-flowing creeks lay to the west, which he could follow until they connected to the Scioto, and downriver to civilization—to the degree that Chillicothe qualified as such. Ancient forests covered the terrain, a hilly, piedmont landscape so damp and shadowy that they soaked Johnny’s senses. He had a feeling he was being followed, until he came to a familiar landmark a second time.

He started the next day at dawn, following the early morning sun wherever glimmers filtered through to the ground. Those brief flashes had often vanished by the time that he got to them, though. Once, pausing to rest, he leaned so heavily against a tree he thought he heard it say “ouch.” The talking tree—a hemlock over a hundred feet—stood taller than any others around, and something compelled him to climb it.

On the highest branch, he peered at the horizon from above the canopy, and the seamless, rolling green of treetops suggested infinity. He was then startled by a honking and, so close that he could’ve plucked one of their feathers, a “v” of migrating Canadian geese passing overhead, their formation spanning the entire sky. They couldn’t have pointed his direction more clearly if they’d put up a sign.

The following day, he found Big Lick Creek by falling into it. This close to its source, the Big Lick existed as little more than a dribble, and Johnny thought he was stepping down an escarpment, which turned out to be the soft, crumbling bank of the creek. The next thing Johnny knew, he plunked onto his backside in the drink.

“Falling down is God’s way of telling ye to pay attention.” Johnny laughed at himself as he rolled up his pants legs, then waded downstream.

Time passed quickly because Johnny forgot what was he was thinking before he’d even finished thinking it, then started thinking about something else. The moon being full that night, he kept on journeying in the darkness. After some miles, the creek built in width and volume, and eventually, Johnny came upon a verdant meadow where the Big Lick merged with two other creeks, creating what he’d heard scouts refer to as the Big Walnut, a tributary of the Scioto.

Here, for the first time in days, he detected signs of recent human presence. At first he spotted tracks and little cairns left behind to mark a direction, but it wasn’t long before he found evidence of predation, where kills had been made and fire pits left behind.

Johnny looked back to say goodbye to the wilderness, wondering how much longer it’d last.

‘Stop blubbering! God didn’t create all of this just for you.’

At the confluence with the Scioto, Johnny picked up the pace—no reason to linger any longer, since he was back on human time. Overnight, a heavy fog had saturated the river valley. As the seasons turned in the vast Northwest Territories, the dewy, sultry mornings became foggy and chilly, and when the afternoon sun finally did burn through, it cast long shadows that seemed to reach out and grab you. In just a matter of days, the first leaves, usually birch and gum, would start turning colors. Autumn in Ohio was both the most colorful season, in its brilliant foliage, and also the most colorless, in the all-too-common ghost fog.

By midday, Johnny guessed that he must be thirty or so miles north of Chillicothe. On the opposite bank, a tributary flowed into the Scioto, and he watched as three canoes piloted by Shawnees entered the current and began crossing.

Two men sat in each canoe, and five of the six were painted Indian braves with feathers dangling from bands tied across their hair. The sixth man was white, and while dressed in native buckskin with bone pendants hanging from his earlobes, he also wore a Christian cross on a chain around his neck.

Johnny walked to the point at which he estimated they’d reach shore, and skipped stones while waiting.

When the canoes pushed into sand, the braves remained inside, while the white man stepped out and stood ankle deep in the river. “Who are yah?” he asked.

“Thank ye for asking me to speak about me-self.” Johnny wiped his hands on a clean part of the inside of his trousers, and extended his right one to shake. “Me name is John Chapman, a sower of seeds. I would be pleased if ye chose to call me Johnny.

The two exchanged a handshake, which Johnny let linger, the better to underscore his amicable intentions.

“Mister Chapman, I’m right sorry to bust up yer day like this, but our big chief wants to have some words with yah.”

The man bid Johnny to enter a canoe between himself and a brave who wore a bone-handled knife in his belt.

Although not how he’d planned the day, Johnny considered it a pleasant morning for a paddle. He trailed his hand in the water and said, “I was of the impression that there were no more Indians south of the treaty line.”

The white man glanced at his Indian companion, as if checking to see if he’d understood the question, then answered. “This is Shawnee homeland.”

“My name is Stephen Ruddell,” he said. “But amongst my Shawnee brothers, I’m called Big Fish. That’s because once I caught the biggest walleye pike whatever swam in this river, probably forty pounds and as long as my reach. I worked him all day and night with just a poplar branch pole, a line made of bear gut, and a hook carved from a cougar’s sternum. That fish fought so hard that he pulled me ten miles upstream. When I finally dragged him onto a sandbar, he just rolled over, and his eyes bugged out both sides of his head so he could look straight at me. Then he spat out the hook and swam away.”

The brave in the canoe with them said something in his native language, which made Stephen Ruddell laugh. He translated for Johnny. “My friend Battle Panther says that he worries having somebody to speak English with will make me talk too much. So he suggests that I cut out yer tongue to keep yah from answering back.”

“I hope not.” Johnny stuck out his tongue. “But while I still have a tongue, do ye mind if I ask, Mr. Ruddell, did ye get taken, or did ye go wild of your own free will?”

“Oh, I got kidnapped with my brother when we was just little grunts. The Indians killed our parents for revenge, because somebody from our village killed an Indian who stole his horse. My parents had nothin’ to do with neither the killin’ nor the horse stealin’, but that was how justice worked in Kentucky. The Indians had mercy on me and my brother, though, so they took us and raised us like their own. Today, I live among the Kispoko Shawnee. Our main settlement is along White River in the Indiana territories, but some of us still live here, on Deer Creek. That’s where we’re taking yah.”

The voyage lasted over an hour, upstream on Deer Creek and past some large tracts of land that had been recently cleared, with huge butts and slag piled for burning. Johnny knew this land was part of the Virginia Military District, which, in accordance with the new Frontier Land Act, sold at two dollars an acre. But with a minimum purchase of 320 acres, that price was beyond the means of anybody Johnny had ever met, so it surprised and somewhat irked him to see that moneyed landowners were already staking claims to pieces of the back country.

The Shawnees’ Deer Creek village rested several miles farther, at a bend in the rivulet, which formed a natural pool. There, they pulled their canoes aground. The delegation led Johnny into a concourse surrounded by ten animal skin huts of recent construction, four domed wigwams with bark roofs in need of repair, and, at the border between the compound and the woods, a longhouse that had collapsed at one end. Beyond the camp’s perimeter, a clearing provided evidence of a once much-larger village, now overgrown.

Johnny reckoned this party consisted of around fifty members, about half of which were squaws. The women occupied themselves with a variety of domestic tasks, like working clay into pottery, staking out hides to dry them, and weaving baskets out of ash splints, all the while carrying on glib conversation that reminded Johnny of the way that young women interacted while waiting for gentlemen to ask them to dance at a New England society ball.

A flabby and somewhat jaundiced Indian rolled over on his blanket on the ground, thrashing his arms to either side, all the while moaning like a sick cow. He had a face like a splotchy brown cowbird egg, with one eye glazed by a milky cataract.

“He says that a snake in his liver is eatin’ him from the inside, but what that really means is that he’s got the whisky yips.”

Johnny made a move toward the man, intending to offer him a drink of water, but his attention was diverted when the village women’s conversation halted and their heads all turned in one direction.

The Shawnee chief emerged from his wegiwa and stood, hands on his hips and his chin perpendicular to the ground, in the pose of a man allowing himself to be gazed upon. The breeze gusted behind him, as if at his command. His face was rugged, but contemplative, with sharp cheekbones and pitted temples framing a brow so taut that it looked like a piece of clear sky had settled on his forehead. He had a thin red line painted across the bridge of his nose, and wore a woven scarf high upon his crown, tied behind his neck, with two raven feathers dangling in the train of long black hair between his shoulders. The whites of his eyes shined brilliantly around intensely black irises and pupils, so that looking into them created a sense of peering over a great ledge. Dressed in a leather breech, shirtless with deerskin arm dressings, he stretched, and the bands of muscles in his forearms, chest, and shoulders stiffened. The chief nodded his head, and the rest of the tribe breathed.

He then pointed at Johnny, and turned to Stephen Ruddell to say something to him.

Ruddell, in turn, translated. “Our chief wants me to introduce him. His name is Tecumseh, which means Shooting Star. This here is the land of where he was born, and he loves it better than any other place. He says it was stolen from him by Americans, who he calls Long Tongues.”

“Yeah, yah see, most Indians call white men Long Knives because of their bayonets. Tecumseh, though, he says they ain’t worthy of a warrior’s name. So he calls them Long Tongues, because all they do is flap their tongues and lie, lie, lie.”

This clarification satisfied Johnny, but made him nervous. “Well, thank Chief Shooting Star for inviting me to speak about me-self. Tell him that me name is John Chapman, a sower of seeds. I would be pleased if he chose to call me Johnny.”

Tecumseh spoke, and Ruddell explained. “He says that he knows who you are. Some days ago, you were on upper Owl Creek. This made our chief curious, and he wanted to see you for himself.”

Tecumseh spoke directly to Johnny, and then froze his expression while waiting for Ruddell to translate.

“The chief says that last night a witch’s fog fell over this valley, covering everything with knowledge. He says that a vision can travel for many miles through the fog.”

“I like that idea.” Johnny nodded and smiled. “It would sure save a lot of unnecessary talking if people could send messages through the air like that. What else does Chief Shooting Star know about me?”

Tecumseh said something that made the other Indians laugh, and Stephen Ruddell, too, although he was timid about translating it.

“Well,” he finally began, “our chief says that he knows that you don’t shit stones like a normal man. Instead, you shit pellets like a doe. We should call you Shits Like Deer.”

“I cannot say that would be much to me liking,” Johnny declared. “But all that I ask is that whatever ye call me, ye also say that I am a man of God, a man of peace, and unlike those so-called Long Tongues, I will never lie to ye.”

Tecumseh cut off Stephen Ruddell in mid-translation. He curled his lips, then spoke in English. “You look to be a fool, but you do not speak like one.”

Johnny chuckled, as if hearing these words confirmed a suspicion. “So you do speak English.”

“Yes. Ruddell taught to me your language, but speaking your English makes my mouth taste foul. English is for naming things, but Shawnee language is for describing things by sound. There are many Shawnee sounds that English does not know.” On a stump next to him rested a long-stemmed pipe carved out of antler. He lifted it and showed it to Johnny. “Consider... you use a word for this thing, pipe. That is a childish word. It sounds like a weepy girl. Puh—ayayayay-puh. This word for you means just a tube to suck smoke. We, Shawnee people, call it hobocan, pipe of peace, which was given to our people by Waashaa Monetoo so that we might burn sacred ksha’te to heal our hearts and souls. The hobocan lifts our dreams to heaven. You feeble Long Tongues cough when smoking ksha’te, like boys who cannot stomach men’s medicine.” Blowing into the pipe, Tecumseh added, “Now, let us smoke.”

Battle Panther took the pipe from Tecumseh and filled it with ksha’te, mixed with sumac leaves and some dogwood bark, lit it, and passed it around a circle.

Breathing it in triggered a sensation like lightning striking between Johnny’s eyes. “Have mercy!” He wheezed and passed the pipe.

The next Indian in the circle, the chubby one-eyed man, had maneuvered himself upright by leaning his belly against a stump. He snatched the pipe from Johnny, burped as he sucked on it, and blew the smoke back directly into Johnny’s face.

“That’s Lalawethika,” whispered Stephen Ruddell. “His name means Noisemaker, and he’s our chief’s drunk, half-blind brother.”

“Why that poor man,” Johnny said. He reached into his kerchief. “I have some dried trillium flowers. The tea is good for a gut-ache.”

While Johnny was rummaging through his possessions, though, Tecumseh tossed a bottle of whiskey to Lalawethika, who opened it with his teeth, spat out the stopper, and quaffed all in one motion. Tecumseh made a remark in Shawnee that Johnny didn’t have to understand to know was supremely insulting. Not only did he not take offense, but Lalawethika roared, suddenly fortified, and chugged liquor through of one side of his mouth while he smoked ksha’te through the other side.

Tecumseh unfurled a mat and sat in silent reflection for a moment. Soon he began to sing in a poignant baritone.

Half a dozen young women fanned around him, listening intently. One of them brought a pitcher of water and began washing his feet with her hair.

The chief held a note for longer than seemed possible, as if waiting for an answer from the sky. When at length he took a breath, the rest of the tribe cut loose.

Battle Panther slapped a hollow log with the blunt end of a tomahawk, while other braves contributed to the percussion with hand drums and turtle shell rattles. Several squaws rose and began dancing in synch with the drumming, while Tecumseh sang as if he was trying to start a fire with just his voice.

Lalawethika contributed a sputtering fart to the celebration and stomped both feet to announce that he was feeling better and ready to dance. No partners volunteered.

Amid the festivities, Johnny wished he hadn’t given away his whistle, so he might join them. Although he didn’t know the words to their song, he shouted “Hallelujah!” where it seemed appropriate. A couple of the squaws favored him with their attention, but he didn’t understand their behavior, laughing boisterously and making squatting motions. Then he understood: they were joking about him shitting pellets.

Eventually, Stephen Ruddell seemed to take pity on Johnny, and pulled him aside. They sat down together and finished the pipe.

“I am a-heading back east, to the cider mills in the Allegheny and Mongehela valleys, where I will gather apple seeds. Tomorrow, I should reach Chillicothe, and then I will cut across the Belpre Trail to Marietta. From there, I can catch a keelboat upriver to Pittsburgh.”

“If yah’d be goin’ thataway, yah might want to talk to my friend James Galloway, who lives just southeast of here. Yesterday, he told me that he wanted to hire somebody to carry a message for him to Marietta.”

“I’d be pleased to be of assistance.” Johnny wasn’t inclined to chat, though, for with all the excitement surrounding him, he just couldn’t remain seated any longer. He bounced onto his feet, slapped his hip, and started dancing like a native.

That night, Johnny slumbered on a sandbar by Deer Creek, having moved farther and farther from the encampment during the night to escape the thunder of Lalawethika’s drunken snoring. Finally, he solved the problem by plugging his ears with balls of black rock moss. Even with his ears plugged, though, he still heard the voice of his mother call him in the morning:

‘Johnny, wake yourself up.

This day won’t ever happen again, so don’t waste it.’

He returned to the Shawnee village just as sunrise colors leaked over the horizon. While waiting for the tribe to rise, he rubbed ashes from the campfire onto his feet, to toughen them up.

Four squaws lay sleeping outside of Tecumseh’s wegiwa, side-by-side in a fashion that suggested a sequence in which each, in turn, had waited to be summoned into the Great Indian’s quarters.

When Tecumseh emerged, he gently nudged them aside with an expression of benign exasperation, as if their overtures were inconvenient to him. He faced the sunrise, holding his knife in front of him so that its tip glinted, and let out a hearty whoop.

“I see that ye are feeling mighty frisky today, Chief Tecumseh,” Johnny remarked.

Tecumseh said, “Ne wes hela shamamo,” not so much in response as to make it clear that he did not wish to ruin his good mood by speaking English.

Stephen Ruddell, who’d volunteered to escort Johnny to his next destination, did not rise early as promised. Instead, he was among the last in the community to stir, surpassed only by the still-snoring Lalawethika. By the time that Ruddell appeared rubbing his eyes, he’d already missed breakfast of beaver tail and corn hominy, but he was content to sip a cup of dandelion tea and munch on hickory nuts. While all around him the Shawnee busied themselves with preparations for the day—the men for a hunting party, and the women sewing, weaving, and boiling hides—Ruddell took his time, blowing his nose and picking his teeth.

“I ain’t the most industrious man in this tribe,” he admitted to Johnny, “but so long as the chief’s brother is here, I’ll never be its most useless neither.”

After tending to his morning hygiene, Ruddell announced that he was ready to leave. The previous night, when he’d told Johnny that James Galloway’s farm was about a six-hour journey, he’d meant on horseback. Accordingly, he’d planned to let Johnny ride one of the tribe’s nags.

Ruddell threw up hands in the air. “Yah’re a queer one, that’s for sure. Don’t eat meat! Would rather walk than ride! What else don’t you do that normal men do?”

This was hardly the first time that Johnny had been told he wasn’t normal. Still, hearing this always mystified him. Everything he did seemed perfectly normal to him. “Have ye ever paused to consider that I might be the normal one, and everybody else is living in an unnatural way?”

Ruddell’s dismissive reply—“Sure, if yah say so.”—disappointed Johnny. As many times as he had asked that question, nobody ever took it seriously. Someday, Johnny hoped, somebody would answer him. He really wanted to know.

With Ruddell riding bareback upon an old cow pony, and Johnny half-running, half-walking, they traversed a rutted trail through a gently rolling, sylvan terrain, heading southwest into the upper Little Miami River valley. Wild turkey, abundant in the woods, followed Ruddell’s pony and picked at its scat. The men passed a few cabins, some fields that had been cleared but not yet planted, and a couple of abandoned Indian villages, which Ruddell explained had not been taken over by whites because before they’d departed, the Indians had placed a curse upon the land.

“Ain’t nobody who’ll admit he believes in no Indian curses,” Ruddell said. “But, still....”

A spur off the main trail led to James Galloway’s homestead. In the four years that his family had lived there, Galloway and his sons had cleared considerable acreage, although they’d tilled and planted just a few plots, and the limp corn was barely shoulder high at harvest time. In the center of the estate was a dusty yard, with a corral encircled by a post and rail fence, where two rather feeble cows browsed in a field of desiccated grass.

However, Galloway’s poplar-planked cabin—set on granite stones, with a two-room loft, double stone chimneys, and oiled paper windows on the front and back—was among the grandest domiciles Johnny had seen in the Northwest back country. He even appreciated how Galloway had left two sprawling oak trees on either side of the cabin, as if out of respect to the erstwhile forest.

A freckled ragamuffin wearing a short-dress, with her orange hair stuffed loosely under a bonnet, saw the two men approaching and, recognizing Ruddell, dashed to meet them.

Ruddell dropped to his knees to catch her. “How’re yah twistin’ today, Messy Becky?”

Little Rebecca Galloway squirmed out of Ruddell’s embrace and gazed over his shoulder. “Where’s Chief Te-cum-see?” she squealed. “Oh, please do say that he came.”

“Sorry, li’l girl. The chief ain’t here. I did bring somebody else, though. This here is Mister John Chapman.”

Hearing of the great Indian’s absence, the girl frowned and grunted. “Ohhhhh....”

Johnny reached into his kerchief and pulled out a piece of sorghum taffy, which he offered her.

Rebecca led them around the cabin and to the front of a woodshed, where the brawny, shirtless James Galloway swung an axe over his shoulder and brought it down hard on a chopping block, severing the head from a plump chicken.

The chicken’s head dropped into a pile of chicken heads, rabbit heads, squirrel heads, and raccoon heads. Meanwhile, its body rolled onto the ground, landed on its feet, and scampered for freedom, until it realized it was dead.

“Pick that up and clean it, would’ya honey?” Galloway said to his daughter. He spit into his palms, rubbed the bloody spray off his forearms, and turned to Ruddell. “What brings an Indian-lover like you onto my property?”

“This is only your property ’cause the Indians done got pushed off’n it.”

“True enough,” Galloway agreed, plugging one nostril and blowing out of the other. “But today I want no less than to be a friend to them Indians.”

Johnny stepped forward and stuck out his hand. “And inasmuch as we have not been introduced, sir, let me take this moment to say that me name is John Chapman, a sower of seeds. I would be pleased if ye chose to call me Johnny.”

Galloway possessed an axeman’s handshake, with a grip that could splinter a man’s forearm bones, and he squinted with steely, seen-it-all eyes as he sized up Johnny. “I’ve heard tell of you, Chapman. Last spring, settlers traveling upriver saw you by Cox’s Ripple, where the word is that you planted fruit orchards from seed. They say you aim to sell the seedlings to settlers. It ain’t the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard, but even so, most people seem to think that you’re crazier than a loon. No offense. They say that you put every seed in your mouth, fill your cheeks with spit, and swish it all around before planting it. Is that true?”

Johnny chuckled. “No sir. I might lick a seed or two, sometimes, if it looks dry, but as for soaking it in me own spit... t’would be plain foolishness!”

“Yes, indeed, but seed apples are a risky business, because they never grow true. Now, if you select trees for grafting—”

“Never!” Johnny stiffened. “’Tis wicked to cut up trees that way. Natural apples are God’s work and cannot be improved. Those who graft trees are guilty of the sin of pride!”

Ruddell intervened. “Mister Chapman is bound for Marietta. I recollected that the other day yah were lookin’ to hire a courier to take a message to someone there, so I figured that yah’ll might work out some arrangement.”

“Ah hah,” Galloway said. “Gentlemen, let’s go inside and discuss this thing.”

Inside Galloway’s cabin, his comely wife Rebecca—born Rebecca Junkin—tended a kettle simmering over a low fire in the hearth.

Johnny surmised that it was a hospitable abode, but a bit gloomy. At first, he wondered why they’d covered all the windows on such a clear, fresh afternoon, but momentarily he picked up a subtle scent of distress in the air, and he soon realized that upstairs in the loft, a brooding presence lay, somebody whose sadness was stronger than the light of day. He listened to the sound of a woman inhaling deep thoughts, but exhaling in a thin, despondent sigh, and Johnny shivered the entire length of his body with an empathetic pain.

He shook himself and turned to Galloway. “Ye say that ye have heard of me, Mr. Galloway, but I too have heard about ye.”

“Stories get told. I have heard that back in your ranger days, ye were shot by that renegade Simon Girty for no good reason at all. The story goes that the bullet blew through your shoulder and lodged in your neck, where it has stuck ever since, doing no harm except that sometimes when the weather is a-fixing to turn bad, it can cause cramps. Therefore, folks far and wide come asking ye for a weather consultation.”

Galloway winked at his wife, who shook her head. “There might be some morsel of truth to that. Even though I had that bullet cut outta me years ago, people still ask if it’s gonna rain, when’s the first frost coming, how much snow is gonna fall in winter, whether there’ll be flooding in the spring....” He lowered his collar and turned to show the men his scar. “That shot almost done me in, all right, but I’m content to leave my fighting days behind me. Today, I’m just a farmer who wants to live in peace.”

“Even peace ain’t safe these days,” Ruddell proclaimed. “More’n once, I’ve been shot at by some fool who thought that I was Indian. Some newcomers to these lands seem to shoot first, ask questions later.”

“The only way to keep from getting shot is to stay away from people with weapons,” Johnny said.

Galloway scratched his ear, as if trying to decide if what he’d just heard was wisdom or foolishness. He called across the table to his wife. “Rebecca, Mr. Chapman here is bound for Marietta. He has offered to carry a post for us. Perhaps this is a chance for you to—” He glanced upstairs at the loft. “—deliver that letter of yours.”

Mrs. Galloway gestured with her palm for her husband to speak more quietly. “Yes, that would be superb. We can pay you twenty cents if you get it there by Friday.”

While Mrs. Galloway retired to the front porch to compose her missive, the men chatted about James Galloway’s erstwhile adventures as a member of George Rogers Clark’s raiders during the Indian wars of the 1780s.

“Those were savage and malicious times,” Galloway recalled. “The troops raided Indian villages in Old Chillicothe and Piqua, burning the Indian cornfields, plundering their graves, defiling their women, and executing any prisoners who did not swear allegiance to the Lord Jesus Christ and the President of the United States. I am truly remorseful for any misdeeds, though. Whenever I recall those days, and my own brutality, I wonder why it took me so long to grow a conscience.”

Johnny nodded in understanding. “Thank God almighty that we finally have a chance at peace with our native neighbors.”

Mrs. Galloway returned to the room carrying a folded letter sealed with a drop of candle wax and pressed with her own ring. She handed it to Johnny as if, by doing so, she was relieving herself of great stress. “Please, deliver this message personally to the man whose name is on the front of the envelope.” She leaned closer to him and whispered, “He can be found at Picketed Point.”

The color returned to her cheeks. “Now, my dear Mr. Chapman, would you honor us by dining with us tonight? We are having boiled turnips with a nice pigeon pie.”

Johnny envisioned a flock of beautiful gray sentinel pigeons getting decapitated, dismembered, and eviscerated, then rolled into a pie with gravy, carrots, and potatoes—and his stomach took a sudden dip. He was careful not to let it show on his face, though, for meat-eaters tended not to be rational about the subject of their diet.

“No thank you.” Johnny bowed and begged her pardon. “I would prefer to be on me way, the sooner to deliver your very important letter.”

“But wait a minute,” Stephen Ruddell protested. “Just ’cause he’s leaving don’t mean that I couldn’t stay for supper. Ain’t nothin’ I love more than a good pigeon pie!”