Jim Long-Knife

Thirteen-year-old Jim Hudson thumped a melon with practiced fingers, then pulled it from the vine and laid it in a pile with the others. He wiped his hot forehead with his sweaty shirtsleeve, turning with a smile toward his mother. “Look, Ma!” he called, “See how many melons we have. And how fine the turnips and corn look.”

Ma Hudson, her rifle across her knees, was sitting on a large stump in the little clearing. She turned at the sound of Jim’s voice, and smiled wearily at her towheaded boy. “Yes, Jim. We’ll have plenty to eat this winter, I’m thinking.”

Jim moved on to another vine and glanced along the row to where his father was kneeling. Ma pushed her sunbonnet back over her faded yellow hair and resumed her watch into the wilderness surrounding the clearing.

All during the spring and summer the Hudsons had worked in this fashion. Jim and Pa had planted their crops and enlarged the clearing by felling trees, while Ma had sat ready with the Kentucky rifle, and looked for hostile Indians.

This year of 1777 was a fearful one for Kentucky settlers. Some had been captured or killed by Indians; others had returned to Virginia discouraged by repeated Indian attacks. The Hudsons, however, had not been molested and Pa Hudson was determined to stay on his land. It was the first farm he had ever owned; he loved every inch of this lush Kentucky wilderness. He and Jim continued to gather melons. Jim worked faster than his father, because each time Pa moved from one vine to another, he had to pick up his rifle lying close by on the ground.