“There is always danger,” I said, “but Unstwita is a good man. He is both wise and brave.”
“It is my place to lead.”
She spoke and I was silent, chewing on a piece of meat. Then I said, “You will go with them?”
“Do you want me to go?”
There it was, right out in the open. How could I answer that?
“I would miss you,” I said it reluctantly, hesitantly, yet realizing as I spoke that what I said was true. I would miss her, and I would not see her again. That gave me a pang, and I moved sharply at the thought. Then I said, “But I cannot ask that you stay. You are a Sun.”
There was amusement in her eyes. “And you are not even a Stinkard.” She paused. “You are a yeoman. Did a yeoman never marry a princess?”
“Never! If she did she would no longer be a princess. Or so I believe.”
“Then I shall no longer be a Sun.”
Our eyes met across the fire and I took another fragment of meat, slicing it with my knife.
“To me,” I said, “you will always be the sun, the moon, and the stars.”
The fire crackled, and a low wind stirred the flames. I added sticks to the fire. “I am strange to your ways,” I said, “and you to mine, but what you wish will be done. Then we shall go south to where the Spanishmen live. There will be a priest there.”
“That will be dangerous?”
“It is worth the risk. I would have it done so it is right with both your people and mine.”
I went down to the stream and dipped my hands in the water, washing them. When I stood up she was beside me.
“When you wish to go to the mountains,” she said, “you may go, and if you wish it, I will go with you, and when you make your camp, I will cook your meat, and when you wish to sleep, I will prepare your bed. Where you go, I will go.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine.
Quickly grew the grass, and quickly came leaves to the trees. Scattered along the green hillsides the golden banner bloomed, and here and there entire hillsides turned to cascades of their yellow flowers. There were sand-lilies, too, and occasional pasque-flowers.
We all walked together, for we were few, and had no knowledge of what might lie before us. Also, there was talk among the women of a wedding. I caught them looking at me, laughing among themselves, and was embarrassed. How a bridegroom was supposed to act, I did not know, nor anything else of their marriage customs.
Itchakomi had spoken of me wearing the oak and she the laurel, but what that implied I did not know. Nor could she find laurel here, so far as I knew. I had not seen it in these western mountains, although back in the Nantahalas there were often whole hillsides blushing with its pink blossoms.
Keokotah, who had found the way, led us along the eastern side of the valley to a creek that ran into a canyon. Through this canyon we must make our way, and there was danger there, a fit lurking place for enemies.
Itchakomi walked with the women, and they did not walk in silence. There was much chattering and laughter.
Once, when we had halted to rest, Unstwita came to me. “It is better I go with them,” he said, reluctantly. “I have wished to stay.”
“They will need you,” I said. “Tell the Ni’kwana that I did as he asked. Tell him I shall do my best to make Itchakomi happy.”
“I will tell him. And I shall return.”
“Return?”
“I have come to the mountains in doubt. I find them … I find them a place for the gods to walk.”
“Return, then. We shall be here, but if we leave I shall mark our way so—” I showed him the Sackett A. “You will find us.”
“I will find you.” He held out his hand suddenly, as he had seen me do. “You are my chief. I will follow no other.”
There was a trail of sorts along the canyon. It crossed and recrossed the turbulent little creek, winding among boulders and trees below the canyon walls. We stepped carefully around stones and lifted fallen branches from across the way. We would return this way, and a little work now would make the path easier. If we did not return, it would be easier for someone else.
It had been my father’s way to remove obstructions, to repair washouts in old trails, to leave each trail better than he had found it. “Tread lightly on the paths,” he had told me. “Others will come when you have gone.”
That was how I would remember my father. There was never a place he walked that was not the better for his having passed. For every tree he cut down he planted two.
We came at last to a place beside the river, a swift-flowing river that would become even swifter as the canyon walls narrowed. We came to an open place where aspen grew upon the slopes, and scattered cottonwoods along the river itself. We came to a place where drift logs had beached themselves on the gravelly shores. Stripped of their bark their gaunt white limbs were like skeletons among the boulders polished by the rough waters.
Here we camped, and I looked about me, for it was here that I would marry, here that I would take a wife. Watching Itchakomi, I knew my father would have approved, and my mother also.
Had we been among her people or mine the preparations would have been great. The women would have prepared a cabin for us, and there would among my people have been much sewing, cooking, planning, fussing about, all dear to a woman’s heart. Here there was not the time, nor was it the place. We must make do, and perhaps make up later on for what was missed.
The Natchee people built a shelter of boughs, and the men went to the forests to find game for a feast. It was to be the wedding of a Sun, and I was not sure the people approved.
Tomorrow would be the day, so I did not go out to hunt but sat by the river and contemplated what was to be. If I was to have a wife I must have a home, and I must plan for the future. My valley was a good place, yet it was upon the path of migration for some tribes, a hunting ground for others.
We would be few, only Itchakomi, the Ponca woman, Keokotah and his woman, and myself. We would be too few to defend against an attack by the Conejeros, if they still existed, or their attackers. Yet I knew how to build a strong fortress, and would. It was something to think on. There was also the planting of crops, the gathering of seed, planning for the future. Much of this I had known from boyhood, for at Shooting Creek we had lived just that way. Only there had been more of us.
There was another defense, and it might work. Already some knew me as a medicine man. If I became a medicine man as well as a trader—
If strength could not win, one must use wit, if one has any.
Of oak leaves there was no shortage, but we had planned to use something else for the laurel until Unstwita returned from the hunt with a sprig of dwarf laurel found growing high on the mountain.
When the afternoon drew on I scouted around, making a sweep of the area, following the river down to look for tracks. But I found none. What I feared was an attack during the ceremony, and yet we had seen no recent tracks.
The morning dawned bright and clear. Unstwita had told me of the ritual and how it would proceed. When I went to the shelter they had erected for me, an old Natchee warrior waited within. He said, “Behold, you have come!”
Another old man and a woman entered then and after them, Itchakomi.
The old people asked us if we loved each other. When we had replied the old man stood beside her, representing her father. They tied oak leaves to a tuft of my hair, and Itchakomi carried a sprig of the laurel, as was the custom.
I said, “Do you want me as your husband?”
“Yes. I wish it very much and will be happy to go with you.”
In my left hand I carried the bow and arrow that signified that I would not fear our enemies and that I would provide for my wife and children.
She held the laurel in her left hand, in her right a sheaf of maize. The laurel signified that she would keep her good reputation, the maize that she would prepare my meals.
Having said she would go with me she dropped the maize from her right hand, and I t
ook it in mine and said “I am your husband,” and she replied, “And I am your wife.”
I took her to my bed, as the rites demanded, and said, “This is our bed. Keep it clean.”
The feast was prepared and we went together to eat of it. The others gathered around, with much laughter and talk. Only Keokotah was not there. He had slipped away from the festivities, but I knew why. We knew not the land, nor who might come, and one among us must be alert.
After the feast the Natchee began to dance, a slow, shuffling dance that I knew not, though I knew many Indian dances.
While the drum beat and the Natchee danced I said to Itchakomi, “You are sure?”
“I am.”
“If your people need you, we can go back. I will take you back.”
“My place is with you. The Ni’kwana knew this.”
“We will be much alone. There will be too few of us, but we shall build a strong fort. We will trade with the Indians.”
“What of the Men of Fire?”
I shrugged. “Perhaps they will come. That we must face when they do. I have my own fire,” I added, “and will use it if I must.”
“When morning comes, my people will go,” she said. “They will go back to Natchee, our home by the Great River, but they will always know there is a place for them if they wish to come.”
“Tell them,” I said suddenly, “to send a messenger to my people at Shooting Creek, to tell them I have found you and am happy.”
“It shall be done.”
There was a moon above the mountains, and a white glow upon the camp. The water rustled swiftly by, and the aspen leaves stirred restlessly, as always. The fire burned low and the drum ceased to beat and the Indians to dance. Beyond the leafy bower where we lay the red coals smoldered, and I knew that one of the Natchee or Keokotah would be watching.
How far were we from the fens of old England! How far from the Isle of Ely, whence my father had come, so long ago! Now I was here, where no white man was supposed to be, finding my own land in a world far from others. We would go deeper into the mountains. We would leave them all behind.
The Natchee would not have a dugout. There was not time. They would use a raft and go down the river upon it until they found my canoe, and then they would use both raft and canoe unless they were so lucky as to capture another canoe.
At dawn we helped them load their meat and the few things they possessed.
At dawn we saw them push off and watched them disappear, going down with the swiftly rushing waters. When they had gone we turned and looked around. Only five were left, in a land vast and lonely, a land where the only people of whom we knew were enemies.
We walked where the wind had blown and where the autumn leaves had fallen and rotted into soil, but there was color in the sky, and on the mountains the green lay dark where the spruce were and bright where aspen grew. We killed some sage hens and ate them, and we caught some fish from a stream. Then, on the night when we had almost reached the place we were to build, we saw a flash of light from down the long wet valley, a flash of sunlight from a blade, and then we saw them coming, six mounted men and twenty marching. Of the twenty, several were battered and bloody. Of the mounted, only two rode as if unhurt.
At dawn that day Keokotah had killed an elk, so we stood and watched them come.
At last they saw us and pulled up, looking warily. Knowing them for Spanishmen I stepped out with my right hand up, palm toward them. Slowly they came on and then drew up to look again.
I spoke then, in Spanish. They came on then and drew up, wary, wounded, weary of riding and holding themselves in the saddle.
“Get down,” I said. “We’ll make a fire. Have you eaten at all?”
“Not for two days,” their leader said. He was a tall man, lean and with a sparse beard. He bore his own share of wounds, two that I could see.
“You are Diego?”
Surprised, he looked at me. “We met a man of yours, fleeing ahead of you and bound for the settlements.”
His face shadowed. “Gomez!” he said. “Ah, that one is trouble!”
“We knew nothing of him. We fed him and he went his way, but with no liking for us, I think.”
“He likes only himself,” Diego said. His men had gotten down and come to the fire as to a cold spring. These were beaten men.
“You’ve had a fight, then? With the Conejeros?”
“With some others, strange Indians. They attacked us at once. I lost two men that first time and four since. They were hard upon us until we slipped away in the night.”
We were beside a small stream with trees close by and a good defensive position.
He noticed my guns. “Handsome pistols. I would buy them from you.”
“No. They were given me by my father. They are the best of their kind, made by a master in Italy.”
“I was apprenticed to an armorer,” he said. “I knew them at once. I knew the workmanship. You have a fine pair of pistols.”
He glanced at Itchakomi, standing beside me. “Your woman?”
“My wife,” I said, “by an Indian marriage, which I hold as a true one. You don’t have a friar among you? Or a priest?”
“He was killed, died well, too. A game man.” He glanced at me. “You wish to be married again?”
“I am a Christian,” I said, “although not a Catholic. I’d like to be married again by a Christian sacrament.”
“She’s beautiful,” he said simply, “and proud.”
“Among her own people, the Natchee, she is a Sun, a princess.”
“I can believe it,” he said.
He walked to the fire, and the Ponca woman passed him a bowl of broth made from the elk meat. He tasted it greedily and then, shamed, looked quickly around to be sure his men were eating. They were, but I liked him for it. The Spanishmen had been our enemies, but this was a man fit to walk upon the mountains.
“Sit you,” I said. “I’ll care for your horses.”
His hand came up sharply. “No! My men will do that. Nobody touches our horses!” Then more gently he said, “They are few and hard to come upon. We bring them up from Mexico, and the Indios have taken to stealing them. Soon they will be riding them against us.”
“Indians who ride?”
“I have seen a few,” Diego replied grimly, “and they ride well, too!”
He ate, and then looked at me. “English?”
“My father was. I am American.”
He smiled quizzically. “American? What is that? I have not heard the name before.”
“I was born in this land.” Pausing, I gestured to the south. “I shall set up a trading post. You are welcome to trade.’
“It will not be allowed,” he said. “This is Spanish land.”
“We are befriending you now, and could again. It might serve the Spanish well to have a friend out here, and not an enemy.”
He shrugged. “I do not decide. There are regulations from the king.”
He ate in silence until his bowl was empty. Then he cut a slice from a haunch of elk meat. “I will speak for you,” he said. “I think it a good idea.”
“Gomez hoped to reach the settlements before you,” I said. “He has plans of his own.”
“Gomez is always planning,” Diego said. “I know him.”
Keokotah had chosen a sleeping place for us among the rocks on a soft stretch of grass. We gathered there and left the Spanish by the fire. Most of them had fallen asleep right where they were, too tired to even think of defense.
We could even have stolen their horses.
Chapter Thirty.
Through the long day that followed, Diego and his men rested, and well they needed it. Haggard and driven, they had suffered a grievous defeat, but it was a time for learning. Here were men who had met strange Indians from the north—some of the Spanish were calling them Komantsi—and had fought them and escaped.
Diego had coffee, and he shared it with us. Over the fire we sat to talk, and Itchakomi sat with me.
“Fierce men who love to fight.” Diego looked over the rim of his cup at me. “They take no prisoners, want none. They want horses,” he added, “and they know how to handle them. If you stay here you will be killed.”
He sipped his coffee, his eyes straying again and again to the hills. “They were not many, but their attack was sudden, without warning. They came upon us at break of day. Only a few of us were armed and ready. An arrow killed our sentry and then they charged upon us.
“I had my sword, and when I had once fired my pistol, it was only the sword. Then they were gone, as swiftly as they had come.
“They attacked us again while we marched, and then again. After that we waited until night and moved away into the mountains. I hope we do not bring them upon you.”
“There will be tracks,” I reminded.
“We tried to leave none,” Diego said, “but with so many men and the horses …” he shrugged.
For a long time we were silent. Itchakomi moved away from the fire. We were making ready to go south to the place we had chosen.
She looked at me. “What we do?”
“Go back where we planned to build,” I said. “It is a good place.”
“You fear these Komantsi?”
“There are always enemies. These may be no worse than others.” I paused and then said, “Komi, I do not wish to take you into the wilderness until we are married.”
“We are not?”
“By your standards, yes. By mine, yes. But I wish a marriage that will be accepted by other Christians. My heart knows who is my wife, but other white people will not recognize our wedding. I wish it to be official, so no one will say you are just an Indian girl who shares my lodge.”
“Very well. We stay. We build lodge.”
Diego had fallen asleep by the fire. His men were lying about, also resting. “Sleep,” I said to Keokotah. “I will watch.”
There was no movement in our camp. All rested or were busy in one position. The horses had been taken into the willows near the stream where they were well hidden. I found a small knoll where I could move about among trees and rocks and yet remain unseen, and I moved rarely, only to look about, studying the hills for enemies.
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