Jennings Beckwourth winced as he shifted in his chair. “So now you come back home, hounds at your heels,” he said.
“I won’t be here long, Father.”
The elder Beckwourth twisted in his chair again, trying to find a comfortable position. More than forty years ago, when he was barely more than his son’s age, Jennings had taken bullets in his knee and his backside from the redcoats. Every movement now reminded him that he still retained those lead souvenirs.
“I paid for four years of schooling, and then got you that apprenticeship,” said Jennings. “Now what? It’s all going to be wasted?”
“Not wasted. But as you say, Father, the hounds are at my heels.”
“So where will you go then? Eh? Downriver and hide in the Louisiana swamps?”
“No, sir. General Ashley…”
“Ashley? Ashley? Is he trying aga
