Jubal Sackett (1985) s-4

by Louis L'Amour

  "I am going out," I said. "I am going after Kapata."

  I did not wish to go. I did not want to hunt and kill, but they were there, holding us close. I did not think they would attack our fort again, because of my medicine skulls and because of their experience with the caltrops, but neither could we hunt or gather food against the coming winter, and my people looked to me, their chief.

  We were here because of me, and if when winter came we starved, it would be because of me. Other enemies might come, but now there was Kapata and he was our enemy, my enemy, and the enemy of my wife.

  I was going after Kapata.

  Chapter Thirty-Two.

  Thunder grumbled among the peaks when I went into the night to kill Kapata.

  Itchakomi stood by the door when I walked out, and she said, "Come back, Jubal."

  I kissed her lightly and replied that I would, and indeed, I hoped to. Yet when a man walks out with weapons his life is suspended like dew upon a spider's web, and well I knew the men I went against. Whatever else they might be they were warriors all, men who lived to fight and who found glory only in victory.

  Catching a glimpse of a tall pine against the sky I chose my way with care not to tread upon one of my own caltrops in the darkness. When beyond the area where they lay I went softly into the wet woods and walked like a ghost from tree to tree, letting my moccasins test the way before resting my weight so as to break no stick in the night and give warning that I came.

  We knew not their camp, only the possible location, so I must walk softly.

  There had been a brief early shower, but now real rain was coming and soon the forest would be drenched. They would be keeping to shelter on this night, and their fire if not out would be dying.

  For the first few minutes sight would be limited, but by the time I had been out an hour my night vision would be excellent. I circled wide, taking my time. If I surmised correctly, they would be near the mouth of the gulch. There was an area there where during a rain several small streams came down the mountain.

  Before coming out from the fort I had gone over the route in my mind and had studied the possibilities for camping. They would want to be near water, of course. They would wish to be hidden, yet in a place easy of access. As I had gone in and out of the gulch a number of times when hunting or exploring I knew what their choices would be.

  The place I chose to look was a small bench from which our fort would be visible by day. There was a seep nearby and a number of big, old trees. There was an overhang of rock, a sort of wind-hollowed cave that would provide shelter from the rain.

  Moving carefully along a hillside I had once crossed in stalking a deer, I crouched in the trees to look over the bench. A small fire smoldered near the overhang and I could see the bunched bodies of sleepers.

  The fire had been built where others before it had been, under a waterworn crack that allowed the smoke to escape, a sort of natural chimney in the rock.

  The idea came gradually as I sat studying the layout. Not twenty yards from the cave a small stream trickled down among the rocks, its nearest approach to the cave being on a level with the top of the overhang. The stream veered off to the east, but the ground near it sloped to the west. At one time the stream must have flowed that way.

  Why not again?

  Easing back from my vantage point I went up the slope through the trees. Crouching in the darkness beside the stream I studied it and made up my mind. Keokotah was sure the Indians who had come with Kapata were losing their enthusiasm. Kapata had failed to give them the quick victory expected, and they had not taken the scalps they wanted. Maybe we could discourage them some more.

  Following the trough where the stream had flowed in the long ago I came to its banks. What I had was just an idea. The stream was no more than two feet wide and perhaps a foot deep or less. As always there were fallen trees lying about. Choosing one, I upended it and tipped it across the stream. It fell with a splash.

  Lifting another, I dropped it in the water alongside the first, making a crude dam. Instantly the water was diverted and started down its old channel. It ran along swiftly, dropped through the crack from which the smoke issued, and flooded the floor of the small cave.

  A startled yell, and then another. The Indians scrambled out of the cave, filling the air with angry complaints. Squatting under a tree I watched for Kapata.

  A few managed to save their blankets, although they were soaked. In the darkness I could not distinguish one from the other, so content with the mischief I had created I arose and skirted their camp in the darkness and then made my way to a quiet part of the forest where I remembered that some old deadfalls had created a sort of natural shelter large enough for a man. Arriving, I crawled in and slept.

  Morning came with clear skies, and taking my bowstring from a dry inner pocket I strung my bow.

  A smell of smoke led me to their camp, some fifty yards from the old one, which was still overrun with water. A pot was on the fire and a man bending over it. Lifting my bow I took careful aim and then let fly, the arrow taking him through the thigh just above the knee. He cried out, dropping the pot.

  The others vanished as if they had been but phantoms, and I turned and went into the woods, moving swiftly away and around. When I next approached the camp it was from the bluff above the overhang cave.

  No one was in sight but the Indian I had wounded. He had extracted the arrow, which lay on the earth beside him, and he was trying to stop the flow of blood from the wound. Nothing else moved and he had troubles enough, so I retreated back up the bluff a few yards, still keeping the camp in view.

  After a while they began to filter back into their camp. I counted seven, including Kapata, who towered inches above all but one of the others. There was much grumbling.

  Knowing I could not fight them all, I eased back up the slope and into the trees. What I wanted was to find Kapata alone, yet I had given them trouble. No one likes to endure discomfort, and if the Tensas could be disillusioned with Kapata's leadership they might simply go home. Already they had been long from home and endured much.

  When the morning sun broke through the clouds I watched a distant rainstorm far across the valley against the vast wall of the Sangre de Cristos. Above the rainstorm the morning sun had painted the peaks as those first Spanish must have seen them, when they called them the "blood of Christ," for surely they were crimson as blood.

  Lying quiet in the wet brush I waited for movement from Kapata's camp.

  It was he I wanted, none of the others unless they got in the way. They had come hunting me and deserved no mercy from me, yet I had no wish to kill any man who did not seek me out.

  Smoke lifted in a thin, questioning column. From a pocket I took a twist of jerky and bit off a piece, worrying it with my teeth to get a proper bite.

  A fawn came from the brush and with high, delicate steps went down to the meadow. Truly we needed meat, but I was after bigger game and did not wish to kill a fawn. Let it grow into bigger meat.

  One of the Tensas came from their camp and went down to drink at the creek. He was too far off and I had no desire to give away my presence. He stood up, a quick, graceful movement, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked around slowly, once seeming to look right at me, but I was well hidden.

  He was a lithe, fine-looking brave, probably not yet twenty.

  Another Indian came to join him and they stood talking, with much gesticulation. That they were angry about something was obvious.

  Enemies they might be, but I could not escape the beauty of the situation, the green backdrop of the mountains, the forest, the small stream sparkling in the sun, and the two Indians talking. No sound came, as they were too far off, but their manner was eloquent.

  A movement caught my eye, a movement from the slope behind them, but closer. The merest stirring and then nothing. Puzzled, I waited.

  The two Indians squatted on their heels near the water. One wore three feathers, the other but one. />
  That movement again, lower down the slope. Suddenly I knew!

  Keokotah!

  Startled, I half came to my feet. Did he know of the hidden camp? Or was he so intent on the Indians he stalked as not to realize the nearness of the others?

  Crouching, careful to move no leaf, I went down the slope toward them, to get within bow shot before anything happened. When I had Keokotah clearly in view and not over fifty yards away, I squatted down in the brush with a log before me.

  The Indians were on their feet now. They would return to camp. Sunlight danced on the water, and the aspens trembled. The Indians turned, and one died, an arrow in his throat. The other Indian had started on, unaware. Yet when he had taken two more steps he turned to speak and saw his companion lying dead in the trail.

  The first Indian dropped to his haunches and then dove forward into the brush. Keokotah was quick, and his arrow went through the calf of the brave's leg as he jerked it from sight.

  There had been seven, but now there were six, with one wounded slightly. There was one in camp wounded, too.

  Waiting in the brush, I saw no further movement and believed Keokotah had gone. Slowly, careful to move no leaf, I slipped back up the slope and circled for home. Our corn had grown tall, and circling through it I took time to pull a few weeds. It was not a large patch, but it would give us a few bushels of corn to supplement our meager diet. The earth was rich and our crop had grown well. When I looked up from the corn I saw smoke.

  It was several miles away, back beyond where Kapata's warriors had camped. It was a single finger of smoke, lifting skyward. As I looked, the column broke. A single puff went up, and then another.

  A signal, but for whom? Not for the Tensas, of that I was sure. It was too far away and in the wrong direction.

  The Komantsi? I felt a chill. Those dreaded Indians, destroying all before them. Had they found my valley or the trail of the Tensas?

  When I was near the stockade, Keokotah appeared. He had a bloody scalp at his waistband. I had seen the Tensa die, but how had Keokotah scalped him? I pointed to the smoke. He nodded his head.

  "Komantsi," he said. "They come."

  His tone was grim and I understood why.

  Itchakomi looked up when we came in and gestured toward a pot on the fire. We ate in silence, saying nothing. She had seen the scalp and needed no explanation.

  At the meal's end I bathed my hands at the stream and then went to her. "The Komantsi come," I said. "We have seen their smoke."

  And I had found no sulphur.

  To look for it was automatic now, for it was ever in my mind. At night now I spent some time casting bullets, killing my mold time and again. But the balls were of no use without gunpowder.

  Sulphur was sometimes found in old volcanic craters, for it appeared in the last stages of volcanic activity. Sometimes pockets of the crystals could be found, often contaminated with arsenic.

  When darkness was almost upon us and visibility cut to within a few yards, I went out to move my caltrops, not wishing to mark their absence by a worn trail. It would be necessary to move them every few days if there was much going back and forth. The moccasins these Indians wore had thin buckskin soles, and the spines would penetrate them. Unless there was infection the wounds were not serious, but one was sufficient to keep an Indian inactive for several days.

  Kapata was no longer mentioned. His presence and his danger were very real, but that of the Komantsi even more. We kept our fires to a minimum and were thankful that our fort was fairly hidden in the trees and brush. It could not be seen except from quite near.

  On the second day after his taking of the scalp, Keokotah went again to the mountains. It was a day of low clouds and impending rain, yet he went, hoping for game. Uneasy, I remained in the fort, watching restlessly for enemies, working at making bullets, planning forays into the mountains to look for sulphur.

  Often I thought of the Natchee who had returned. Had they gotten through? Had they ridden the rough waters down and slipped by the Komantsi and the Conejeros? Had they found their way back to their villages beside the Great River?

  We might never know.

  So far as I knew I was the first Anglo white man to come so far west. But who could actually know? Always there was some venturesome one who would not be content with the limits set by others.

  When spring came we would put in our crop again, and once more we would take to the mountains and seek out the far lands. There was in me a driving wish to see, to know, to feel.

  Westward loomed the mighty peaks of the Sangre de Cristos, mountains where the caves were, mountains I must explore. And beyond them? Who knew?

  A great valley, we heard, a greater valley by far than this where we lived. And beyond it? The sunlight glinted sometimes on snowcapped peaks, or so the Ponca woman said, of far-off mountains, incredibly high.

  Night came and the stars, but Keokotah did not come and our hearts were heavy. We did not speak of him nor of our fears, but each knew what the others thought and each knew the fear in his own heart.

  Yet he came! A stirring in the night, a faint sound at the door. I drew my knife and stepped forward to meet whatever was there.

  The door opened. It was Keokotah.

  "Ah!" I said.

  He looked at me. "They are gone ... gone!"

  "Gone? Who?"

  "The Natchee, the Tensas ... gone."

  "You mean they have given up and gone home?" This I had been expecting. The Indian does not like long, drawn-out battles. He wishes to do it quickly, get it done, and go home.

  "Gone ... dead. All killed."

  All? I could not believe it.

  "Who?" Although I knew without asking.

  "The Komantsi. They have killed them. Taken their hair."

  "Kapata, too?"

  "No Kapata. He is gone when they come, I think. I think he come back after. I see big tracks."

  Kapata!Would we ever be rid of him?

  Chapter Thirty-Three.

  They came down the canyon in a straggling line, two dozen of them at least, with three horses and a half dozen miserable dogs. Most of the men were wounded and some of the women, and all were about to fall from exhaustion. They stopped abruptly when they saw us, hesitating until I walked out to meet them.

  In sign language we told them we were friendly, and they explained they had been hunting buffalo across the eastern mountains when attacked. Their warriors had been scattered and the Komantsi had killed many. They were Pawnees, seeking a place to rest and gather themselves for another fight.

  The old man who came forward to meet me carried himself with pride. He was Asatiki. He had lost half an ear in some bygone battle, and his body was criss-crossed with ancient scars. The mighty muscles of his youth had turned to sagging flesh, but in his eyes the fierce pride had not dimmed.

  His people were beaten but not whipped, that I saw at once. They needed to recover from their wounds and make arrows for another fight. But they were ready to fight.

  My gesture included the meadow. "Stay. We are friends. If the Komantsi come we will fight them together. Only," I added, "do not kill the young buffalo you see here. He is a medicine bull. He is Paisano."

  The place they chose was several hundred yards from our fort, near a small stream and a stand of trees. They gathered sticks to build their fires and I went among them to treat their wounds.

  "I am Sackett," I said, "a man of mysteries." The simple treatments I used were adequate, and I had gathered herbs against such an event. Best of all, these were a strong people and the air was fresh and clean.

  In their own land they lived in earth lodges that would shelter twenty people or more, domed structures built upon a framework of timbers, but here they built of bark, for these were but temporary shelters.

  Asatiki had no memories of his people that went beyond the time of his grandfather. He could tell me only stories told about the campfire in winter.

  I spoke of the Tensa and Kapata. "That one i
s our enemy. If he comes among you, know him not. His medicine is bad. He carries the seeds of evil."

  My questions were about the Komantsi. "Strange Indians," the old man said. "I do not know them. They come to steal Spanish horses, but they attack all they see. They boast of many warriors to the north, many who will come. Maybe they speak true."

  He knew nothing more. There had been sporadic attacks before this, hit and run attacks by Komantsi seeking horses and stealing women.

  His people, the Pawnee, had a very old tradition that the Pawnee came from the southwest and once lived in houses built of stone. Another story had it they came from the southeast. Arriving in the land where they now lived, they encountered the Skidis, with whom they fought. Later, the two tribes became friends, intermarried, and became as one people.

  When we had talked much I asked about the yellow earth that both smelled and burned. There was such earth far to the southeast, he said. His Caddoan relatives used it for medicine. The old man had not been to the place where it was found, over a month of travel, but knew of it from other Indians.

  Our corn was growing, and the hunting had been good. A small herd of buffalo had strayed into the lower valley. Keokotah no longer spoke of his village, and when I spoke of it he said, "My village is here."

  Often I wondered about his visit to his own people at the time of my visit to the caves of the mummies. He did not speak of it, but I believed he had found himself no longer at ease among them.

  The Englishman had begun it. In his loneliness he had talked long hours with the boy, until the thoughts of Keokotah had made him a stranger among his own people.

  When alone Komi and I spoke of this, and she looked into my eyes and spoke of herself. "I, too, miss my people. Here we have no fire. There is no temple and no priest."

  "Are you not a priestess?"

  "I am."

  "There can be a sacred fire."

  "It would not be the same. Our sacred fire was a gift of the Sun."

  "Am I not a master of mysteries?"

  She looked long into my eyes, seeking the truth.