It was very quiet in the cave. One of the women was preparing a buckskin, rubbing bone marrow into the hide to soften it and then rubbing it with a piece of sandstone. She was very quick and skillful and I watched her work. The woman wore black moccasins. I spoke of this.
“She is a Ponca who married one of our men. She was returning from the east with her father, who had been seeking the home of his ancestors.”
“I have heard of them.”
“They are good people, a strong people.” She gestured away to the north. “Their home is there … far away.”
At Shooting Creek my father, who wished to know all, collected what information he could gather from the Indians who came to trade. He or Jeremy Ring would talk long with the old men and women about their lives and their neighbors. Several had told us of the Ponca and of their kinfolk the Omahas, Otoes, and Osages.
“Will you go home again?” she asked suddenly.
“I do not know. I do not think so. I have dreams, too, but my dreams do not come at night when I sleep. They come by day when I am alone upon a hillside or when I lie down before I sleep. I dream of what I wish to do, what I wish to be.”
“To be?”
“It is not enough todo, one must alsobecome. I wish to be wiser, stronger, better. This—” I held out my hands, “this thing that is me is incomplete. It is only the raw material with which I have to work. I want to make it better than I received it.”
“It is a strange thought, but I like it.”
We sat without talking then until I arose and left the cave. Outside, darkness lay all about me, excepting only the dead white field of snow and the bright stars overhead. Looking about me, I shook my head. What kind of place was this? Shelter, yes, but no more than shelter. A man should have a home, a place of his own.
When I returned to the cave Keokotah was there. “He go, ver’ fast. He go south.”
“I wonder if he’ll make it?”
“He make it. He strong.” Keokotah looked up at me. “He will come back for her. Bring many mans. You see.”
“She will be gone before the first grass,” I said, shrugging.
He looked at me as if I were a child. “You think? Maybe you fool.”
Irritated, I replied. “She’s a Sun. They need her back yonder. And she wants to go back. Those are her people. That is her home.”
He gathered his blankets about him and lay back on the robes.
All through the night the silent snow sifted down, covering deep the land. Our tracks, his tracks, all tracks were gone and the snow piled deep around us.
The Natchee had returned from their hunt with only an antelope. Our meat supply was dwindling and they were not accustomed to hunting in the snow. Their eyes showed their fear, for the land and the weather were strange to them. There were no gentle forests here, no hanging moss, no bayous. These rivers were frozen hard, these forests deep with snow, and the animals were bedded down, waiting out the cold.
We had hung a buffalo hide over the cave mouth to keep the cold out and the heat in.
Building the fire to last the night, edging heavier chunks together, I lay back on my own blankets and thought of tomorrow. For the moment I was the leader here. I was the responsible one.
The snow was soft and deep. I would have to make snowshoes. Turning on my side I stared into the fire. Outside the wind moaned, the buffalo-hide curtain stirred and a sifting of snow blew in.
Shadows moved upon the walls. Had I left those other shadows behind? Or had they come with me from the cave where I had discovered them?
If they were with me I hoped they could help round up some game. I hoped they were friendly shadows. After all, I had only paid my respects to the dead; I had not disturbed them.
Suppose an enemy came in the night? So soft was the snow there would be no sound of walking, no sound of movement. When one lies awake in the night one thinks of many things, and I thought now.
Tomorrow I must go out, and I must bring back meat. We were not suffering now, but the winter before us was long and cold.
What of that huge hairy animal of which Keokotah had spoken? The pasnuta, which looked like a hairy elephant? I smiled into the darkness. Well, if there were such a thing, I needed to meet it. It might provide enough meat to last out the winter.
Where could he have gotten such an idea?
The fire crackled, and the heavy curtain stirred in the outside wind. My eyes closed and I slept, only to dream of coming face to face in the snow with a great, awesome creature, three times the size of a buffalo, a huge, hairy beast with curling tusks and red eyes, coming toward me, coming at me—
I awakened in a cold sweat. The fire had died to coals and I lay shivering, thinking of the monster of my dream, those tiny eyes, red with fury, coming at me.
I added fuel to the fire and then laid back and shivered. Just a buffalo, or a couple of red deer. I wanted nothing more than that, for I wanted to come come back to—
My eyes flared open. To what? What did I have to come back to?
I wanted meat. I wanted a successful hunt. I turned over, trying to keep the cold from seeping under my coverings. I wanted nothing more … nothing more.
Then I slept, fearing the hairy monster would return, but he did not. Only dawn came, cold and aware. Icy cold and still.
Chapter Twenty-One.
Reaching over, I laid some sticks on the coals. Then I lay back and waited for a little warmth to come into the cave. It was very cold, and it would be cold and still outside, a time for extreme care if a man would survive.
How long the cold would stay with us I could not guess, but we would need meat. We had given some to Gomez when he left, and seventeen people can eat a lot. Keokotah knew cold weather, for his experience was from a country far to the north. My only experience with cold had been a couple of brief forays into the north when I was a boy and some time spent in the high mountains.
No game would be moving in this cold. Bears would be hibernating, or at least sleeping in their dens. To find game I would simply have to stumble upon it. In the deep snow I had an advantage.
Several days before I had cut some willow wands from beside the stream and had kept them close to the fire to thaw out. Now I took one of these and bent it slowly and carefully into a rough circle and tied it. Then I tied rawhide strips across the circle and soon had shaped a couple of crude but very useful snowshoes of the bear-paw type. Later I would make better shoes, when there was time.
Taking them to the cave mouth I tied them on. Then taking my bow I started out, moving with care and where the going was easiest.
Every step needed to be taken with caution. An injured man in intense cold has small chance of survival. Rocks and fallen logs are apt to be slippery, so were best avoided. My chances of finding game were slight, but there was a patch of forest across the valley, several miles away, where we had not hunted. Deer would be bedded down in deep snow. My only chance was to startle one and make the kill before it could escape.
It was very still. The snow squeaked underfoot. I took my time, knowing that to perspire might mean to die. Perspiration can, when a man stops traveling, freeze into a thin film of ice next the skin. When I had gone about a mile I stopped in the shelter of three massive ponderosa pines, studying the terrain ahead and scanning the open area between the entrance to the valley and myself.
Soon I started on again, and when I reached the forest I stood still, looking all about me for places where deer might bed down. In good weather they preferred to be under some trees with a good view before them, but now they would have thought only of shelter from the wind.
Being alone I had no one to watch for the telltale white spots on nose or cheekbones that are the first signs of frostbite, so I covered my nose with my mittened hand. My face was stiff and raw from the cold. After a bit I moved deeper into the forest, stepping with care.
Several times I checked what experience told me were likely places for deer, but found nothing. After resting briefly,
I started on. There were occasional bird tracks on the snow and once a flurry of tiny tracks and a few spots of blood. A weasel or a marten had caught some poor creature.
The morning slipped away and the afternoon began. Soon I must return if I were to make it before dark.
Swinging wide I skirted a patch of aspen, remembering how well many animals liked the aspen or the plants that grew in its shelter. The trees were bare of leaves and from a distance looked like a cloud lying upon the mountainside. The dry branches whispered in the slight wind. I turned toward an opening between aspen and scrub oak, and started forward.
The elk came off the ground almost under my feet, lunging erect, snow falling from it. It lowered its antlers at me but then thought the better of it and started away.
My bow came up, the arrow in place. I let fly. It was not the target I would have chosen but there was no time. The arrow caught it in the neck, close behind the ear, and sank deep. The elk stopped, quivered, then fell. I ran forward, feeling for my knife.
Yet as I stepped astride the elk it came up in one last lunge, came up under me so I was astride, and it sprang forward. One hand grabbed an antler, another plunged the knife. It glanced off a shoulder bone and almost stabbed my thigh, but the second thrust went home solidly. I need not have bothered, for the poor beast was dead. It fell under me and I sprang free. My bad leg folded under me and I went into the snow.
For a moment I just lay there. Then slowly I gathered myself, retrieved my bow and knife, and set about skinning the elk, getting the best cuts of meat before it froze solid.
By the time I had finished it was dark. I gathered the meat in the elk hide and then got back into my snowshoes, which I had removed for the skinning, and started back. Emerging from the woods I looked across the valley at what was now only a dark line of trees and mountains without division or feature.
For some time I had traveled in the forest, intent only on finding game, but how far west had I hunted? Before me was only a wide field of snow, and beyond was the blackness of forest and mountain. The caves were right across that field, but my burden was heavy, the snow was deep, and it was bitterly cold. If I missed my direction by but a few yards I might wander half the night finding my way. I might die out here in the cold. How cold it was I did not know, but it was far, far below freezing.
Bowed beneath the great load of meat I started across the wide stretch of snow, angling a little toward the east. I blew on my fingers. I took a step and then another, plodding slowly and carefully because of the crude snowshoes.
A wind stirred the snow. It blew a little, ceased, then started again. Snow picked up and blew in a brief flurry. I knew I would see no light unless someone happened to come outside, a slight chance at this hour.
I needed at least an hour to cross the open snow with the burden I had. Icy snow rattled against my clothing and nipped at my cheeks. I stopped, thrust my bow into the snow, and beat my hands against my legs to restore circulation.
Something black appeared on the snow just ahead of me. I stared, it moved—a wolf!
Where there was one there would be another, and another.
Without a doubt they had smelled the meat and the fresh blood. And these were wolves with little knowledge of man aside from Indians, and my smell would be different. I pushed on, walking straight at the wolf.
It wavered, hesitated, and then fled off a dozen yards further. Under the great burden of meat from the butchered elk I could move but slowly, ponderously. Pausing at the edge of the woods I sniffed the air. I should catch a smell of woodsmoke.
Nothing.
Should I bed down right where I was? Build my own fire and prepare to defend my meat against the wolves?
But if I did not return, Keokotah or some of the others might come out to look for me. The Natchee were unfamiliar with intense cold, and some might be lost. Turning clumsily to look behind me, I saw a wolf crouched in the snow not fifty feet away!
Gesturing with my bow, I tried to warn it away, but the lure of fresh meat was too great. The wolf ran off only a few feet and stopped.
To move at all I had to keep from under the branches, because of my towering burden. Also, I wished to avoid snagging my snowshoes on a branch or root under the snow.
Where was I? The cave might be only a few yards distant, but I had no idea where or in what direction to turn. Again I gestured at the wolf.
Wolf?
There were two of them together now, watching me. They sensed something was wrong.
The stream! If I could find the stream … it had to be close. I shifted the weight of meat. I was carrying enough for three men, but to leave it in the snow would be to leave it for the wolves, and how many times would I make such a kill? Hunched far over, I worked my way along the wall of the forest, seeking an opening.
The wolves kept pace with me. I shouted at them, and hoped my voice would carry to the caves.
Nothing.
Nor did the wolves pay attention. They had the smell of blood in their nostrils, and the smell was coming from me. Despite the intense cold they were hunting, which meant they were probably not just hungry but starving.
Turning about with the heavy pack was cumbersome, but I had to keep looking around. There was no guessing when one of the wolves might decide to leap.
The bow was a poor weapon against them. My guns were hard to get at, and I hated to waste a shot in the vague light. Yet it was a gun I would have to use. Pushing back my coat, I fumbled for the butt of my right-hand gun. I would have to take off the mitten, and in the cold my exposed hand would quickly freeze.
Carefully, I edged along the woods. One of the wolves moved closer, and I stepped out threateningly. It leaped back, wary again.
Something moved at the edge of the woods! Another wolf. Suddenly one of them howled, but not one of those close to me. I plodded on, avoiding projecting branches, thinking only of—
There was a break in the wall of trees, an opening! I swung a wide, sweeping blow in the direction of the wolves and then went into the wide opening.
Ice! I was walking upon ice, so I had come to the stream. The caves would be close-by for the stream swung close. I crossed the stream and mounted the far bank, trying to remember such a place.
There had been an opening upriver from the caves. I started to turn and suddenly something struck me a mighty blow from behind. I fell face downward into the snow, and my bow fell from my hand.
A wolf had sprung on me from behind, landing on the pack of meat and knocking me down. I fought to get hold of my knife. I couldn’t get a gun into action.
The other wolves had leaped on me now, but they were fighting to get at the meat, wrapped in the elk hide. My knife was out. I ripped at the wolf nearest me and there was a startled yelp. Then from somewhere there was a shout and a sound of running feet. I stabbed again, missed, and felt teeth rake my exposed wrist.
With a tremendous effort I got to my knees. There were men all about me, and the wolves were gone.
Somebody had a hold on my arm and was helping me to my feet. With the weight of meat it was a struggle, but I made it. Somebody lifted the burden from my back, unfastening the rawhide with which I’d bound it to me.
Another hand shoved my bow at me, and I took it. Limping, I followed them into our cave. The Indians crowded around.
Keokotah lowered my pack of meat to the floor. “We hear wolves fighting. We come.”
Exhausted and cold, I sank down by the fire. Itchakomi was there, her eyes wide and dark, looking at me.
“We needed meat,” I said.
Nobody said anything. They had opened my pack and given meat to the people from Itchakomi’s cave.
“We fear for you,” Itchakomi said. “You gone long time.”
“It was cold,” I said, “cold.”
There was meat enough for several days, but we could not expect a kill such as this very often. It was going to be a long and a hard winter. Of course, had the Indians been there they would have taken much mor
e of the elk than the chunks of meat that I had saved.
“Your woman of the black moccasins,” I said, “told me her people hunt west to the mountains and then down the mountains to a great peak near here. Each year they do this.
“Then they hunt back across the plains to their home, which is near the Great River. When they return you could go with them to the river and then down the river to your home.”
She looked at me for a long minute and then she got up and left the cave.
I would never understand women.
And why shouldn’t she go? After all, the Poncas were reported to be friendly, and she could cross the plains under their protection. She would be safer by far with a whole tribe than with her few braves.
It seemed reasonable to me. Of course—
I went to my robes and lay down, exhausted. The cold bothered my leg, but it always pained me when I did too much.
Tired though I was, sleep came slowly, and I found my thoughts wandering back to Shooting Creek Valley and my family. Pa was gone … I could find no words to express the emptiness that left with me.
Ma was in England, if she lived, and Brian and Noelle with her. How different their lives would be! And how far from me! Did they think of me sometimes? Did they remember the good times we’d had together?
What was England like?
Easing my leg, I tried to find a more comfortable spot in the robes. Keokotah was sleeping, and the fire burned low. Why had Itchakomi left me so abruptly? Was it that I reminded her of what awaited back there? Or because she knew she must wait until spring brought grass to the hills and water to the streams?
Dozing, I opened my eyes, raised up, and added sticks to the dying coals. Out there tonight I’d nearly tossed in my hand. I might have fought my way out of it, just might have, but the odds were all against it.
And who would have known or cared? My family would not have known. Under the robes I shifted and turned, restlessly. Why could I not sleep?
Yet after a while I did sleep, but only to dream of the great red-eyed monster with the curving tusks that had come charging upon me from the brush. I awoke in a cold sweat once more and it was long before I slept again.
Jubal Sackett (1985) Page 17