“I need to clear my fusil,” Joseph Brown said when he returned to the station camp at dusk. The woodsman stepped to the edge of the clearing, and facing away from the canvas shelters took aim at a rotten pine trunk. “Looked like a fire feather,” one of his hunting companions said as he sliced a slab from a bear roast. Swamp Hollow, Old Northwest Territory, in the Year of our Lord, 1792.
After the six-point buck passed, the woodsman retrieved the buckskin pouch that held his folded journal pages. He dug deep, but the brass lead-holder was missing. With that discovery, the fascinating tale of that young buck was lost to the ages… Old Northwest Territory, three ridges east of the River Raisin, in the Year of our Lord, 1797.
A wheezy snort foretold of a deer’s approach. Although hushed, the distant cough-like blow traveled from the north island, up the rise and into the humble cluster of thorny bushes that grew tight around a tall oak tree. For any 18th-century woodsman, sitting with his back to that trunk, such a sound was unmistakable; it was mid-December, in the Year of our Lord, 1795.
Ten minutes passed. A patch of brown hair rippled in the slim space between two trees that towered at the edge of the big swamp. A grey squirrel hopped along one of the upper branches. A blue jay perched in a nearby wild apple tree. A doe stepped from behind one of the oaks–on the trail from the south island. There was ample time for the doe to travel from the north island to the south, but that scenario seemed a bit farfetched.
Two smaller does followed the first. The trio plodded beyond the great oak, then angled up the slope and disappeared to the southwest. Two gentle splashes off the north island confirmed the hunter’s suspicion; multiple deer were crossing the big swamp. The air was calm and crisp. Measured breaths drifted through the tiny branches that shielded the skimpy fortress. A hint of tannic acidity perfumed the glade, mixed with the scent of fresh turned earth from the cleared ground beneath the woodsman’s wool bed roll.
A button buck and a pencil-necked doe walked in front of the two tall oaks. They browsed and nibbled their way around the near side of the great oak. The little doe pawed for acorns twice. The button buck pressed on. He paused at the upper trail, looked back and uttered an ornery bleat. His sibling glanced up, then bounded uphill. They, too, vanished at the ridge’s crest.
“Chic, a-dee, dee, dee, dee,” a solitary chickadee sang as it inspected a red berry clinging to the thorny stem of a barberry. “Chic, a-dee, dee, dee, dee…” With no deer in sight, the little songster provided a pleasant diversion.
The bird flitted to a different bush. A deer’s hind leg moved, first seen over the chickadee’s back, to the north at the swamp’s cut bank. That deer lingered in the solemnity and shadows of a clump of cedar trees for longer than expected. The hind leg stepped out of sight, then a foreleg came into view, placed slow and with surety.
Some minutes later, a splash and a low, guttural grunt close to the clustered poplar trees at the north island’s northwest corner left little doubt that a buck of some size was making his way to the tangled swamp’s west bank. The big doe turned about and started uphill, angling away at a brisk walk. She crossed the second trail, then the mid-hill trail, rustling leaves as she went. Four strides above that trail, she stopped quick and looked downhill. Then a patch of side hair appeared in the cedars the doe just left.
“A clean kill, or a clean miss. Your will, O Lord.” The prayer’s thin vapor drifted into a barberry bush. The right index finger worked the trigger as the thumb eased the hammer back, done so many times by feel, until the sear slipped in the tumbler’s full-cock notch, all without a sound. When the doe peered uphill, the Northwest gun’s tarnished brass butt plate crept to the woodsman’s linen-clad shoulder.
With a small bounce, the doe continued to the north. The hair vanished about the time she glanced at the cedar clump. The turtle sight waited where she had emerged, but the handsome buck, at least three winters old, did not oblige. Instead, slow splashes in the creek told of a deer stalking north; he appeared a dozen paces out into the sedge grass, walking parallel to the doe, well beyond the Northwest gun’s effective distance…
Taking a high-percentage shot, well within the performance capabilities of not only the black powder arm but also the time traveler’s abilities, is the ultimate goal of every traditional black powder hunter. This is the responsibility a woodsman must accept, the moral code a tenant of the forest must live by.
Yet, experienced living historians know the 18th-century writings of a favorite hunter hero sometimes contain shots that were too risky by today’s ethical standards or not allowed by the hunting statutes. For example, here in Michigan taking a wild turkey with a round ball is prohibited—but Meshach Browning did it. Likewise, John Tanner would not have released a death messenger to pursue that odd-antlered buck, because he would have shot the first mature doe as soon as she stepped from behind the two tall oaks.
All of the deer that wandered over time’s threshold that morning were within the Northwest gun’s effective distance, save that seven-pointer with the damaged left beam. As moderns, as traditional black powder hunters and as living historians we must respect the game we pursue and do our utmost to effect a clean and humane kill. I harp on that a lot, which is why the principle of determining one’s “effective distance” weaves its way into so many of my missives.
Mixed into the backstory for John Tanner’s courtship of Mis-kwa-bun-o-kwa, Red Sky of the Morning, in “Plucking a Few Choice Words” was a story about Tanner shooting at a mark. His prowess with his firelock redeemed the family’s gaming loses:
“We staked every thing we could command. They were loath to engage us, but could not decently decline. We fixed a mark at a distance of one hundred yards, and I shot first, placing my ball nearly in the center. Not one of either party came near me; of course I won, and we thus regained the greater part of what we had lost during the winter.” (Tanner, 100)
Tanner doesn’t say whether he was shooting a rifle or a smoothbore. At a different time, under different circumstances in his narrative, he talks about owning a rifle and how his adopted brother damaged the barrel out of spite. However, most of his hunting exploits involve a smoothbore, and I strongly suspect he was shooting his smooth-bored trade gun that day.
Thus, for me, the sentence, “We fixed a mark at a distance of one hundred yards, and I shot first, placing my ball nearly in the center,” establishes the personal marksmanship level a returned white captive persona should strive for. That said, it is important to note that the others “…were loath to engage us…,” and after the smoke cleared, “Not one of either party came near me…” One might make the assumption that Tanner knew his own ability, and the others in the party knew theirs, as well. Nonetheless, the gauntlet lies in front of my moccasins.
While reflecting upon this lofty goal, I realized the bulk of my range practice centers on maintaining personal proficiency within the long-established effective distance for “Old Turkey Feathers.” I have taken longer shots at woodswalks or during the Fort Greeneville Match at Friendship. An animal’s life is not in the balance in such situations.
I also came to the realization that I rarely take a shot over 50 yards on the range anymore. I follow that practice while immersed in a simple pursuit, too. I don’t feel I need to reach out to 80 paces like I once did. However, after ruminating on the aforementioned passage, these practices have to change. Hitting the mark at 100 yards is the challenge Tanner presents.
Oh, I have a good idea where Old Turkey Feathers shoots at that distance, based on almost four decades of shooting the same gun. Twenty-five years ago (can it be that long?) I helped a black powder shooter sight in a new .54-caliber Hawken rifle he had just completed. The sights needed little adjustment for point-of-aim to match point-of-impact at 50 yards. About twenty shots later he found a suitable load that he was satisfied with.
On a whim, he took an empty gallon milk jug from the back of his pickup, hiked to the watering hole and filled it up. He continued on down range and set the jug in a hollow in the hillside, in front of a thick clump of cedar trees. He had a long stride, and said he counted 110 paces on the way back. The distance was close to 120 yards.
We loaded up. If I recall, his first shot was low, but with the addition of some “Michigan windage” his next three hit, then a miss. My first few shots missed, but not by much. Then I hit the jug high and rolled it back against a cedar tree. After his final hit, he said he had to try Old Turkey Feathers. I think he fired ten shots, and after the first few, he tickled the jug a time or too. We never hit it again, but we came real close. We quit shooting when it was so dark we couldn’t see the jug.
I forgot how much fun we had that night, and it was all unplanned. I thought about that session when I worked on the story of Tanner’s courtship. I know what skills I need to work on. After 25 years, the eyes will be a factor, too, but that makes little difference. Perhaps I will fare no better than Tanner’s competitors, and that’s okay, too. For me, the thrill is in sharing a sense of kinship with John Tanner and my other hunter heroes.
Give traditional black powder hunting a try, be safe and may God bless you.
David Graham watching his English Setter, Belle, work a Tennessee red quail in grassy cover. On that pleasant morning, Graham hunted with an 11-gauge, Civil War era percussion side-by-side. East of the Straits at Mackinaw, late 1860s…
Blue jays flew in from the west, the river side of the hill. At first three or four, all screaming and shouting at some unseen danger or disruption. The chastising crescendoed as more arrived. Msko-waagosh lost count at fourteen agitated birds, flying, swooping and dodging about. The returned white captive who spent his youth among the Ojibwe people did not move, did not turn around. Instead, he continued to peer through the space where the great oak forked into two big branches.
Raindrops pattered out a soft melody on damp oak leaves, a pleasant counterpoint to the blue jays’ ruckus. On the far side of the valley that lay below the wooded hill, a small whitetail buck sniffed an earthen trail. The deer presented no shot for the Northwest gun, not just yet. The woodsman’s body sheltered the flintlock’s precious priming powder as he waited and watched.
Despite the constant jaying, the buck never looked up or gazed about much. Ears flipped, the only outward sign of vigilance displayed by the forest tenant. Ahead of this deer and up the far slope a ways grew a large red oak. In the midst of the gentle drizzle, Msko-waagosh recalled his encounter with Lt. Lang.
The adopted son of an Ojibwe family was out hunting when he came upon the ranger from Fort Detroit dressing a fine deer. Firelocks clicked at the discovery, but both eased. A few words of broken English, the same of Ojibwe communicated no ill intent, then the returned white captive melted back into the hardwoods.
As the seven-point buck approached, Msko-waagosh wondered what ever became of the British Ranger from Fort Detroit…
One of the treats associated with researching the life of a hunter hero is stumbling upon human interactions with other individuals of historical note. Sometimes those people are famous, sometimes infamous, sometimes recognizable by the average person and sometimes known only to a handful of devout followers.
In a recent traditional black powder hunting blog post, “Plucking a Few Choice Words,” the emphasis was on understanding the backstory and the resulting consequences or rewards that surround a given journal passage. It is important to note, however, that each of the supporting narratives also represents “a given journal passage” in their own right.
Intermixed with the daily comings and goings of a backcountry hunter are a few gems that catch the eye of any reader. Who would not be interested in a passing mention of missing out on visiting Lewis and Clark?
“On going to Mouse River trading-house, I heard that some white people from the United States had been there to purchase some articles for the use of their party, then living at the Mandan village. I regretted that I had missed the opportunity of seeing them but as I had received the impression that they were to remain permanently there, I thought I would take some opportunity to visit them. I have since been informed that these white men were some of the party of Governor Clark and Captain Lewis, then on their way to the Rocky Mountains and the Pacific Ocean.” (Tanner, 98)
As a living historian broadens his or her research within a given time frame, such normal crossing of paths becomes more obvious and commonplace. In the months that followed the first reading of John Tanner’s journal, I acquired a copy of the narrative of one Daniel Williams Harmon, Sixteen Years in the Indian Country: The Journals of Daniel Williams Harmon.
At that time, my primary focus was the trading post hunter persona. Journals of fur trade clerks from the 1790s, especially those of the North West Company, garnered top priority as I searched out entries that dealt with specific hunting exploits that occurred in my chosen era and general geographical location.
Daniel Williams Harmon was born on February 19, 1778. He entered the fur trade in 1799 as a warehouseman for McTavish, Frobisher & Company. Simon McTavish was a controlling partner in the North West Company. In 1800, he became a clerk assigned to the Swan River District, just west of Lake Winnipeg. Now keep in mind, I had just finished reading Tanner’s journal when I came upon this nugget in Harmon’s journal:
“July 9, Thursday. Cam here an American who when quite a Child was taken from his Parents (who lived in the Illinois Country) by the Sauteux and with whom he has remained ever since and speaks no other language but theirs. He may now be about twenty years of age and is looked upon as a Chief, neither does he like that any one should speak to him about his Relations but he in every respect except his color resembles the real Savages with whom he lives and is said to be an excellent Hunter, and remains with an old Woman who soon after he was taken from his Friends adopted him for her son & he appears to be as fond of her and she of him as if she actually was his Mother.” (Harmon, 49)
I highlighted this passage, scribbled “Captive: Tanner?” in the margin and set about making one of my sticky notes to mark the page, lettering “John Tanner?” upon the edge the sticky stuff. When I finally contained my exuberance, I saw the teeny-tiny footnote “28a” reference at the end of the paragraph, and looking further discovered:
“It is generally assumed that this young man was John Tanner, who later returned to civilization and told his story in a volume entitled A Narrative of the Captivity and Adventures of John Tanner…”
Now here is where backstory research gets real touchy. The editor of Harmon’s journal, W. Kaye Lamb, included a footnote that appears to be based on historical research corroborated by more than one person. Over the years I have found this not to be the case, sometimes at the cost of great embarrassment on my part—and even with such learning lessons I occasionally suffer from “moccasin in mouth disease.”
One of the first clues was Harmon estimating Tanner’s age, and perhaps the easiest to verify. Harmon was born in 1778 and Tanner about 1780. These two children of the wilderness were about the same age, so Harmon noting Tanner’s age makes perfect sense. And about this same time Tanner says:
“In the ensuing fall, when I was something more than twenty-one years of age, I moved, with Wa-me-gon-a-biew, and many other families of Indians, to the Wild Rice.” (Tanner, 95)
The Wild Rice River is a tributary of the Red River which flows south out of Lake Winnipeg. The Swan River where Daniel Harmon’s post was located lies east of the Assiniboine River and flows into Lake Winnipeg. A few paragraphs before stating his age, Tanner says:
“…As several miles travel might be saved by crossing from this point on the Little Saskawjewun [Saskatchewan River] to the Assinneboin [Assiniboine River], I left the canoe, and having caught the horse [earlier Tanner said, “…found a horse which I knew belonged to the trader I was going to see”], and put my load upon him, led him towards the trading house [the “Red River trading house” at the mouth of the Red River at Lake Winnipeg] where I arrived the next day. (Ibid, 93)
Another example of the crossing of paths involves one of my favorite fur trade clerks, Duncan McGillivray who wintered at Fort George on the Saskatchewan in 1794 and ‘95. Both Duncan and his older brother William became principals in the North West Company. In the spring of 1800, Daniel Harmon notes:
“May 29, Thursday. Duncan McGillivray Esqre. (one of the Agents for the North West Coy.) came in the morning to St. Josephs from Mackanu, and soon after we embarked aboard our Canoes to come to this small Island, and as it is a fine calm [night] my fellow traveler and I intend to sleep in our Canoe.” (Harmon, 18)
Again, this is a passage that can stand alone for discussion regarding “daily practices.” But dear reader, please bear with me as I tie all of these gentlemen together. After wintering near the Red River, Tanner, and other hunters of their band began the journey back to Lake Huron and the trading houses at Mackinac Island.
“…we had now eleven packs of beaver, of forty skins each, and ten packs of other skins…” (Tanner, 50)
“When we reached the small house at the other side of the Grand Portage to Lake Superior, the people belonging to the traders urged us to put our packs in the wagons and have them carried across. But the old woman knowing if they were once in the hands of the traders it would be difficult, if not impossible, for her to get them again, refused to comply with this request. It took us several days to carry all our packs across, as the old woman would not suffer them to be carried in the trader’s road. Notwithstanding all this caution, when we came to this side of the portage, Mr. McGilveray and Mr. Shabboyea, by treating her with much attention, and giving her some wine, induced her to place all her packs in a room, which they gave her to occupy…” (Ibid, 51)
Tanner does not say which “Mr. McGilveray”—Duncan or William—was involved in this tale of intrigue, which continues on after this passage, of course. Duncan’s journal predates this happening, and I have not found a journal attributed to William to see if Tanner or Net-no-kwa is mentioned. On to the “research to-do list” with that one…
Near the end of John Tanner’s journal, he recounts another series of events that cannot go without mention. He has decided to return to “the states,” and seek out his family. Through the aid of friends and acquaintances, Tanner travels to Fort William, the North West Company post on the west end of Lake Superior, on to Sault St. Marie, then to Mackinac Island…
“Major Puthuff, the United States Indian Agent at Mackinac, gave me a birch bark canoe, some provisions, and a letter to Gov. Cass at Detroit. My canoe was lashed to the side of the schooner, on board which I sailed for Detroit…In five days we arrived…”
“…I took Major Puthuff’s letter in my hand, and having learned from the Indians in which house the governor lived, I went toward the gate, till a soldier, who was walking up and down before it, stopped me. I could not speak English so as to be at all understood, but seeing the governor sitting in his porch, I held up the letter towards him. He then told the soldier to let me pass in…” (Ibid, 235)
“The governor gave me clothing to the amount of sixty or seventy dollars value, and sent me to remain, for the present at the house of his interpreter…” (Ibid, 236)
So here we have the crossing of paths of yet another historical figure of great significance, Lewis Cass. Cass was Michigan’s 2nd Territorial Governor, appointed by President James Madison in 1813. Governor Cass resigned in 1831 to become the Secretary of War under Andrew Jackson. He was Secretary of State for James Buchanan, a United States Senator and he ran for U.S. President, losing to Zachary Taylor in 1848. It would be interesting to find out if Major Puthuff’s letter of recommendation for John Tanner is tucked away among Governor Cass’ personal papers—interesting indeed…
Give traditional black powder hunting a try, be safe and may God bless you.
“…And behold, I am with you always, until the end of the age.” (Matthew 28: 20)
A downy woodpecker rapped three notes, “Tat-a-tat-a-tat.” Two followed, then three again, then two…
An unseen cardinal called to the east, off by the isthmus that divides the nasty thicket. “Tsu, tsu, tsu, tsu” was its four-note song. After a slight pause, the songbird’s melody moved south, but still four notes long…
Two Sandhill cranes passed overhead, just over tree-top high. The big wings swished and whooshed. The cranes chortled softly to each other as they flew on to the River Raisin, swollen beyond its banks from heavy spring rains. Perhaps those two spied the humble woodsman standing beside the young red oak tree, gazing upon the weathered wigwam?
“Kee-honk, kee-honk, yonk…” Goose music resonated through the river’s bottomlands and drifted into the hardwoods where the returned white captive stood. A mallard hen squawked, too, but for some reason its message did not fit the joyous chorus of the dawning.
“Tat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat.” The woodpecker resumed its percussive search for a morning meal on a dead, barkless branch, in the direction of the big geese, at the edge of the woods, in the Year of our Lord, 1797.
The time seemed right. The forest tenant placed the pe-be-gwun’s mouthpiece to his lips and offered a gentle, steady breath. A new melody, comprised of improvised notes, surrounded the wigwam. The woodsman mimicked the cadence and volume of the bird songs; he knew he could not duplicate their tone and did not try. Instead, Msko-waagosh concentrated on playing the mystic rhythm of the birds of the forest…
In 2012, in those dismal November days after epizootic hemorrhagic disease decimated our whitetail herd, the persona of a returned native captive, Msko-waagosh, “Red Fox,” sprung to life. In the ensuing weeks and months, a fair amount of research time centered on the narratives of James Smith, Jonathan Alder and John Tanner. Most days, Native American flute music played in the background as I read and studied. For me, the instrument’s haunting tones sooth my soul, just as the simple sounds of the forest do.
One evening last summer I read a sentence from John Tanner’s narrative aloud to Tami. I was looking for something different, but as so often happens little gems pop up when a living historian least expects it. I knew the passage was there, I just hadn’t weighed its significance:
“I then dressed myself as handsomely as I could, and walked about the village, sometimes blowing the Pe-be-gwun, or flute…” (Tanner, 103)
She smiled and said, “Then Msko-waagosh ought to learn to play the flute.”
“It’s all I can do to get a proper note from a single wing bone turkey call,” or something close to that was my response as I put off her suggestion.
In the spring of 2001, flute maker and noted recording artist Tommy Lee helped Tami pick out her first Native American flute. He selected a dark-stained, 5-hole instrument from his display racks at the Dance for Mother Earth Powwow, held at Crisler Arena on the University of Michigan’s campus in Ann Arbor. The flute was tuned to the key of “G” in the minor pentatonic scale that typifies traditional Native American flutes.
The flutes were always Tami’s bailiwick. She played; I listened and enjoyed. Tami has a “camp basket” made of woven vines, and when we pack for Friendship, an outdoor show, or a black powder shoot, one or more flutes find their way into the basket. When the spirit moves her, she sits and improvises on a flute.
Over the years, we’ve come upon other Native American flutes, often in the strangest of locations. Tami always asks permission to play a flute offered for sale. On one such occasion, she tried several High Spirits flutes that were lined up in a glass display case in a small shop. An aromatic red cedar bass flute in the key of “Low D” offered forth unbelievable notes that filled the store with peace and tranquility. It had to come home with us, and it is one of her favorite love flutes.
On Friday evening at the Woods-N-Water News Outdoor Weekend, held in mid-September at the Eastern Michigan State Fair Grounds in Imlay City, Michigan, the show stays open until 9 pm. It was dark. Flickering candles and glowing lanterns lit the canvas tents in the primitive skills area as show guests thinned out.
Tami started playing the Tommy Lee flute at dusk while I spoke with guests. I sat down next to her about fifteen minutes before show closing. She paused, smiled and spoke of how busy the show had been. Then she reached into the vine basket, retrieved a flute and handed it to me. “John Tanner played the love flute, and you should learn.”
I enjoyed those minutes, enough so that I spent a couple of evenings watching how-to videos for playing the Native American flute. A common thread running through the instructions emphasized “playing from the heart.” A few weeks later a small, slim package arrived containing a used flute won in an online auction. This High Spirits Kestrel flute in the key of “High D,” is only 15 inches long, the perfect size to stash to the left of my work area.
Setting time aside to learn to use the wing bone call just never happened, until I placed the single bone among the pencils to the left of my keyboard. When I paused to think through a problem, I found myself picking up the wing bone and offering a few “clucks of advice.” I planned to do the same with the kestrel flute. To me, it doesn’t sound like this idea is working, but Tami says, “Your notes are improving.” I think she feels obligated to offer kind encouragement to a hopeless case—we’ll see…
Tanner’s life story was originally published in 1830. Native American words, in Tanner’s case a dialect of Ojibwe, were sounded out and written as they sounded. With that in mind, I consulted my copy of A Dictionary of the Ojibway Language by Frederic Baraga.
Bishop Baraga’s original work was published in 1853 and titled A Dictionary of the Otchipewa Language, which demonstrates the difference in spellings. The word he records for “flute” is “pi-pi-gwan,” sounding close to Tanner’s “pe-be-gwun,” the difference being common pronunciation from a given region (Baraga, 105). In addition, the current Ojibwe People’s Dictionary lists “bi-bi-gwan” as the word for a flute. Again, the variance of spelling is probably attributable to dialect.
The history of the flute is just as elusive as the proper pronunciation. Oral tradition versus a written history is part of the problem, at least when speaking of the Native American instrument. Flutes go back thousands of years, take many forms and appear in many world cultures. Most histories of the Native American flute pull up short at 1823, the date of acquisition of a wooden Native American flute collected by Giacomo Costantino Beltrami as he explored the headwaters of the Mississippi River. This flute appears to be the earliest known example attributable to Native American hands.
The Museum of the Ojibwe Culture in St. Ignace, Michigan, displays a small three-hole flute, or “whistle” as they label it, fashioned from a hollow bird bone. Ancient bone flutes existed in multiple cultures, and even today Native American performers use a small bone flute to imitate song birds within a musical score.
The noted ethnologist, Frances Densmore spent her entire life documenting Native American culture. Her first book, Chippewa Music, published in 1910 offered a detailed analysis of 200 Ojibwe songs. In 1929 she published Chippewa Customs, which dealt with all aspects of the Ojibwe culture.
Addressing the making of musical instruments, Densmore included a photograph of a six-hole Ojibwe flute made by Tom Skinaway complete with Skinaway’s instructions using his hand as a measuring device to locate the air chambers and sound holes. Unfortunately, Densmore did not list dates for the flute shown, her discussions with Tom Skinaway or Ojibwe flutes in general. (Densmore, 166-167)
If my chronology is correct, Tanner’s cited pe-be-gwun reference is from 1806. Thus, melding a Native American love flute into the portrayal of Msko-waagosh is period correct—using a modern flute is not, however. Several contemporary makers produce flutes similar to the one Skinaway made. I played a Butch Hall “G” minor flute made of aromatic red cedar that morning, which somewhat resembles Skinaway’s instrument.
It is conceivable a traditional black powder hunter might modify such a flute to imitate a century’s old instrument. The better course, and a key underlying premise to living history, is to follow Skinaway’s instructions and attempt to duplicate an Ojibwe flute such as Tanner might have used. As always, available time is the big obstacle, but the project is penciled on this living historian’s “to-do list…”
Give traditional black powder hunting a try, be safe and my God bless you.
A game trail crossed into the Pigeon River. A lady of the forest checked the mud for tracks. Moments later a young white-tailed deer snapped a twig on the river’s west bank… Old Northwest Territory, in the Year of our Lord, 1796.
