A Place Called Freedom (1995)

There, tied to a chair, was Peg Knapp.

Jay stared at her. This was a piece of luck! “Where the hell did she come from?”

“I found her on the road south of Staunton.”

Jay frowned. “Which way was she heading?”

“North, toward the town. I was coming out of town, going to Miller’s Mill.”

“I wonder how she got there.”

“I’ve asked her, but she won’t talk.”

Jay looked again at the girl and saw bruises on her face. Dobbs had not been gentle with her.

“I’ll tell you what I think,” Dobbs said. “They came almost this far but they never crossed the river. Instead they turned west. They must have abandoned their wagon somewhere. They went on horseback up the river valley to the Staunton road.”

“But you found Peg on her own.”

“Yes.”

“So you picked her up.”

“It wasn’t that easy,” Dobbs protested. “She ran like the wind, and every time I grabbed her she slipped through my fingers. But I was on a horse and she wasn’t, and in the end she tired.”

A Quaker woman appeared and asked Jay if he wanted something to eat. He waved her away impatiently: he was too eager to question Dobbs. “But how did you get here ahead of us?”

He grinned. “I came down the river on a raft.”

“There must have been a quarrel,” Jay said excitedly. “This murdering little bitch left the others and turned north. So the others must have gone south.” He frowned. “Where do they imagine they’re going?”

“The road leads to Fort Chiswell. Beyond that there’s not much in the way of settled land. Farther south there’s a place called Wolf Hills, and after that it’s Cherokee country. They aren’t going to become Cherokee, so I’d guess they’ll turn west at Wolf Hills and head up into the hills. Hunters talk about a pass called Cumberland Gap that leads across the mountains, but I’ve never been there.”

“What’s on the other side?”

“Wilderness, they say. Good hunting. Kind of a no-man’s-land between the Cherokee and the Sioux. They call it the bluegrass country.”

Jay saw it now. Lizzie was planning to start a new life in undiscovered country. But she would fail, he thought excitedly. He would catch her and bring her back—dead or alive.

“The child is not worth much on her own,” he said to Dobbs. “You have to help us catch the other two, if you want your fifty pounds.”

“You want me to be your guide?”

“Yes.”

“They’re a couple of days ahead of you now, and they can travel fast without the wagon. It’s going to take you a week or more to catch up.”

“You get the whole fifty pounds if we succeed.”

“I hope we can make up the time before they leave the trail and go off into the wilderness.”

“Amen to that,” said Jay.

40

TEN DAYS AFTER PEG RAN OFF, MACK AND LIZZIE RODE across a wide, flat plain and reached the mighty Holston River.

Mack was elated. They had crossed numerous streams and creeks but there was no doubt in his mind that this was the one they were looking for. It was much wider than the others, with a long midstream island. “This is it,” he said to Lizzie. “This is the edge of civilization.”

For several days they had felt almost alone in the world. Yesterday they had seen one white man—a trapper—and three Indians on a distant hill; today, no white men and several groups of Indians. The Indians were neither friendly nor hostile: they kept a distance.

Mack and Lizzie had not passed a cultivated field for a long time. As the farms became fewer, the game had increased: bison, deer, rabbits and millions of edible birds—turkeys, duck, woodcocks and quail. Lizzie shot more than the two of them could eat.

The weather had been kind. Once it had rained, and they had trudged through mud all day and shivered, soaking wet, all night; but the next day the sun had dried them out. They were saddle-sore and bone-tired, but the horses were holding up, fortified by the lush grass that was everywhere and the oats Mack had bought in Charlottesville.

They had seen no sign of Jay, but that did not mean much: Mack had to assume he was still following them.

They watered the horses in the Holston and sat down to rest on the rocky shore. The trail had petered out as they crossed the plain, and beyond the river there was not the faintest sign of a track. To the north the ground rose steadily and in the far distance, perhaps ten miles away, a high ridge rose forbiddingly into the sky. That was where they were headed.

Mack said: “There must be a pass.”

“I don’t see it,” said Lizzie.

“Nor do I.”

“If it isn’t there …”

“We’ll look for another one,” he said resolutely.

He spoke confidently but at heart he was fearful. They were going into unmapped country. They might be attacked by mountain lions or wild bears. The Indians could turn hostile. At present there was plenty of food for anyone with a rifle, but what would happen in the winter?

He took out his map, though it was proving increasingly inaccurate.

“I wish we’d met someone who knew the way,” Lizzie fretted.

“We’ve met several,” he said.

“And each told a different story.”