How fared Itchakomi? Had their cave been discovered? Perhaps even now they were riding away with her. Listening, I heard no sound.
If we escaped this time I would begin a tunnel from the fort to that cave. In fact, a branch of that cave which we had not explored might come this way. A secret tunnel, such as my father had told me all castles had once had, a means of escape as well as a supply route if beseiged.
Outside there was a stirring, a movement. What could be happening?
An attack from more than one side? Crawling up ropes thrown over the wall? Explosives under the gate? One man boosting another? Ladders?
Slowly passed the minutes. Where was Keokotah? Had he been trapped somehow? My good sense doubted it. He was a ghost in the woods, a shadow in the night. I knew no one better at moving in silence, and I also knew he would be somewhere about.
Gomez would be thinking, deciding what to do. He wanted Komi, if not for himself, then as an offering for favors, and he had undoubtedly made promises to be given command of these soldiers. He had successfully returned home through the thick of winter, no mean feat in itself, and he had undermined the standing of Diego, superseded him in command, and now was back. He would not be driven off, and he would not give up easily.
By now he would be piecing together what had been witnessed through the gate during the brief moments it was open. He would be studying what had taken place, the shots fired and the fighting.
He would guess that I was alone or almost alone.
His next thought would be about the women. He would know there were at least three. For all I knew his Indians might have been lurking about, observing us, but in any event he himself had been in our caves in the other valley. He had seen Keokotah’s woman and the Ponca.
He was a shrewd, tough man, one not easily fooled.
Somebody was riding near the palisade. The rider drew up and in a quiet, conversational tone Gomez said, “I know you can hear me, Sackett, and I suggest you send the Indian girl out. If you do we will ride off and you’ll be free to do as you wish.
“I might,” he added, “intercede for you and try to get you a trading permit. All we want is one Indian girl.” He paused and when I made no answer he said angrily, “Don’t be a fool! What’s one paltry Indian girl? There are dozens about, just for the taking! Surely you aren’t fool enough todie for her?”
To have answered him, and I was not thinking of it, would have been to give away my position to the hidden Indian, wherever he was.
He waited. Then he shouted, “Don’t be a fool! Waste more of my time and you’ll pay for it! I’ll have you staked to an anthill!”
He would not try another direct attack. He had been sure of an easy victory, not knowing of the presence of the Pawnees. Now he had lost men, losses he could not afford, and his situation was perilous. To return to Santa Fe empty-handed would be a crushing defeat. His temper and his impatience had cost him lives, but victory he must have. If he was defeated here his enemies would destroy him in Santa Fe.
Again, I wished myself outside with Keokotah where I could observe what was happening and be free to move. In the darkness I could see but shadowy stirrings, but nothing at all now, for I dared not move.
How was my concealed enemy armed? Bow and arrow? A spear? A knife? If only a knife I could chance it but if he had either a bow or a spear he could strike from the darkness, and at the short range could scarcely miss.
Gomez must have a camp now. He would have built fires and his men would wish to eat, if they had not. He must have carried supplies, and those supplies would be vulnerable. Without them he could not persist in the attack or the search for Itchakomi.
Would Keokotah think of that? Indians, who depended less upon supplies in time of war, were less inclined to think of an enemy as vulnerable in that respect. The Indian at war lived off the country as he traveled, rarely having more than enough for a day or two. The Indian thought in terms of battles. He fought a battle and he went home. There was no thought of a continuing series of battles, for the obvious reason that he had no way of supplying an army in the field.
He rarely fought for hatred or revenge. He fought for glory. He fought to take scalps and to win victories of which he could boast. In the east the tribes associated with the Seneca who were calling themselves the Iroquois were fighting wars of extermination. We had begun to hear rumors of that before I left Shooting Creek.
Yet Keokotah was beginning to think much as a white man would. He had sat too long at the knee of his Englishman, and I prayed now that he might think of their camp and their supplies.
Our women had food for but three days, scarcely more even if they ate lightly. They could endure hunger, and there were few Indians who did not know it each season before the snow began to melt, when their hoarded supplies had been eaten and hunting was difficult and gathering impossible.
My eyes grew heavy, yet I forced myself to stay awake. Somewhere an enemy waited, and to sleep was to die.
Outside more enemies waited. Always before, wherever I might be I had known there would be a Sackett looking for me. No Sackett ever needed to feel alone, for others of the family would always come. That lesson our father had taught well, until it was second nature. But there were no Sacketts here. There was only Keokotah and the Pawnees.
I shook my head, blinking my eyes. They had almost fallen shut.
This could not be. I must move. I must hunt him down, this warrior who awaited me.
Slowly, carefully, keeping to deepest shadow, I straightened to my feet. My game leg ached from the cramped position I had held for so long. Listening, I heard no sound. The shadows were deep. Carefully, I lifted a foot, took a step, and put it down ever so gently. With infinite care, listening after every step, I began to search the shadows.
Nothing …
Again I moved, and suddenly, from outside and some distance away, a scream!
A long, protracted scream, a cry of sheer agony, the last cry of a dying man!
Who?
Keokotah? I did not believe it. Rather someone he had found. Keokotah could die, but if I knew him at all, he would die in silence.
Carefully I worked my way through the shadows, spear poised for use, my hand only inches from my knife. My grip on the spear was firm. I did not want it wrenched from my hands again.
Something? Something there in the darkness. I drew nearer, the spear poised for a thrust.
It was a man sitting against the building, something dark over his legs. Leaning closer I saw his head was over on one shoulder, his eyes were wide open, and he was dead.
Dead? He was the one I had sliced in the fight. He had run to open the gate and then retreated here, to die. The darkness across his legs was blood, for my blade had cut him clean across the stomach.
Angry with myself for being held immobile for so long by a dead man, I walked back across the yard to the gate. The bar was firmly in place.
From the high ports I could see their campfires, and from afar, smoke rising into the dawn from the Pawnee village. The Pawnees had drawn off and not attacked again. Why, I had no idea.
Komi and her companions would be waiting in the cave, wondering, not knowing. My fear was they would venture out and so reveal their hiding place, which was a good one, even if lacking the pleasures of home. And sorely did I miss her.
There was a stirring, a preparation in the camp of Gomez, nor could I make out what was taking place there except that they were readying themselves for something. An attack upon me?
Gomez himself was riding to the fort, but he was alone. Out of arrow range he drew up and called out, “Sackett? We are going after your friends, yonder! When we have destroyed them we will come back for you. Have the woman ready. If you surrender her now, you can go free.”
Which of course was nonsense. He was a vengeful man and would kill me in an instant if he had me prisoner. Or he would do as promised and stake me on an anthill.
“You have lost men,” I said calmly. “You will lose mor
e if you attack the Pawnees. You will return to Santa Fe with your tail between your legs like a whipped dog.”
“I will have her,” Gomez said. “I will have the woman.”
He turned his horse then rode off to join his soldiers, and I began to wonder why he had taken the trouble to inform me of his intentions. His men began to form up, and he put himself at the head of them. I wondered at the stupidity of the man. Fine soldier he might be, back in Spain, Flanders, or wherever the fighting had been, but you do not advertise your intentions when going out to fight Indians.
Several times he seemed to glance my way, and then I realized he was trying to lure me out of the fort to help my Indian friends, which could only mean that somebody waited nearby to move in the moment I moved out.
Carefully, my eyes searched the terrain, lingering on every clump of brush, every tree, ev—
There were two of them, two of his Spanish soldiers, and they were lying in wait not fifty yards from the gate. One held a musket in his hands and was obviously waiting for me.
In a land of Indians these men would not last long, for they were but poorly hidden.
I made ready my bow.
Chapter Thirty-five.
The morning was clear and beautiful. The sun was still hidden behind the eastern mountains, but the valley was lovely in the dawning light. A few smokes lifted their slim columns toward the sky, but aside from Gomez and his soldiers, nothing moved.
Far down the valley some low clouds lay, and a few white puffballs of cloud lingered against the blue sky, each catching a rosy radiance from the rising sun. The soldier who thought himself hidden in the brush was eager. He edged forward, musket ready to aim, waiting for me to emerge.
His eyes were upon the gate, yet when I straightened up above the roof parapet the movement caught his attention. His head turned and he saw me, bow bent, arrow drawn back.
For a stark, shocked moment he stared, and I loosed my arrow.
There is no good time in which to die, but he must have seen my figure outlined against the morning sky, with mountains and forest behind me. Who he was I did not know, nor whether he had been born in Spain or in Mexico. No doubt he was a good enough man in his own world, and it was a pity he had to come into mine, and not by his own choice, either.
His last glimpse of this world was of the sky at dawn and my dark figure above the parapet. Could he see the bow? Could he see the arrow in flight?
He came erect suddenly, clutching at the arrow’s shaft, his musket falling among the rocks. He tugged, staring at me and perhaps hearing the quick scurry of his companion’s feet as he fled. My second arrow missed the companion, and I saw the soldier I had shot fall over the rocks.
Then I went down the ladder and to the gate and opened it. The sun was higher, the valley bathed in light. There seemed to be a stir of movement down near the cave where Itchakomi waited. Shading my eyes, I looked and saw nothing.
Only imagination. Suddenly and from a distance I heard a wild chorus of yells and then musket shots and a scream from a wounded man. The Pawnees had been lying in wait and had attacked before the soldiers were halfway to their village. The sides must have been almost evenly matched as to numbers, but the surprise had been complete.
Coming to a higher bit of ground, I stopped. All was confusion, dust, occasional gunshots, and then silence. The dust fell, and men had died and left their bodies on the sun-blessed hills.
Some horsemen rode away, fleeing the fight. Others scattered on foot, pursued by Pawnees.
Gomez, if he lived, had failed again.
Walking on toward the fight I came upon a scalped Indian, one of those who had come with Gomez. Then I saw two Indians holding a prisoner. It was Diego.
“He is a good man,” I told them. “Let me have him.”
They merely stared at me.
“This one is a friend,” I assured them, but they continued to stare, clutching his arms.
Asatiki, the old warrior, came toward us, and I explained. “This one is good,” I said. “He is my friend.”
“He fought hard against us.”
“Aye, he is a fighter. He did what he was supposed to do, and no doubt did it well, yet he did not wish to come against you and told me so. It was the other one, the one of the gray horse. He was their leader.”
“He got away.”
“I am sorry for that. He is bad medicine. This one is not.”
“He is their prisoner.”
“Are you not their chief?”
“I led the war party. I am their chief. I cannot command, only suggest. Each is his own man. He comes and goes as he wishes. They followed me because they wished, not because I demanded it. He is their prisoner.”
Again I turned to them. “Will you sell him to me?”
They did not reply, just waited, looking at me. When the attack on the fort had first taken place and the gate had been briefly open a horse had been ridden through, its rider killed. That horse still stood there on the stone-flagged court. “I will trade a horse for him.”
It was a horse I dearly wanted. A horse could make a difference in many ways.
“Good horse?”
“One of the best.” I had no idea. The horse had looked good at the one glance I had thrown his way. I had had other things on my mind at the time and no time to waste, but what horse trader plays down his stock?
“An excellent horse,” I said, “very strong, very fast.”
“We see.”
Together we walked back to the fort, Asatiki with us.
“Wait,” I said when we neared the fort. “I shall bring him out.”
One thing I had seen in that hasty glance was a powder horn on the saddle, and I wanted that. In fact, I wanted the saddle as well. Hastily, I stripped saddle and bridle from the horse and rigged a hasty hackamore with a bit of rope. Then I led the horse outside. The powder horn, by its weight, was almost full.
They looked at the horse and walked around it. I waited. Had they seen it with its equipment they would have demanded all of it, as I would have done.
“The horse,” one said, “and a musket.”
Taking a firmer grip on the lead rope I turned the horse back toward the gate. “The horse is a good horse. Too good. It is an even trade, horse for prisoner. If you do not like it, take the prisoner and burn him.” I kept on walking toward the gate and as I started through one of the Indians spoke up. “We take! Give us horse!”
The other Pawnee threw Diego at my feet and grabbed the lead rope and started away.
“No good,” Asatiki said. “You get two, three prisoner for horse.”
“Maybe,” I agreed, “but I do not know the other prisoners. This man is a good man. Sometime,” I advised, “you have trouble. Speak to this man. If he can, he will help.”
Asatiki shrugged. “White man forget ver’ quick.”
My eyes met his. “Remember this, Asatiki. I did not forget this man. His people are my enemies. This man is not, and I remembered.”
Lifting Diego to his feet I cut his wrists loose. “Gracias,” he said, rubbing his wrists to restore circulation.
“Go inside and keep out of sight. They might change their minds.”
He did so, and I walked across to the man I had killed with an arrow. His musket was there among the rocks, and on his belt there was a powder horn. It was about half full. I retrieved my arrows as well and walked back to the fort.
Glancing back over the valley I could see Indians here and there, picking up what had fallen or gathering their wounded. It was time I went for Itchakomi.
“You have food?” Diego asked. “I am very hungry.”
There was jerky and I offered him some. “You stay here,” I said. “In a few days you can start back for Santa Fe. It will be safer then.”
“How many escaped?”
“Who knows? Several riders and some men who fled running.”
“He was a fool, that Gomez, but brave enough. He has fought in many wars but not against Indians. He
did not know. He thought to frighten them with a show of power.”
“Indians,” I said, “do not frighten easily. War is their way of life.”
My eyes went to the valley. The last thing I wished to do was to betray the hiding place where Itchakomi was hidden. When night came would be soon enough, and she would understand that the fighting was over. Some of them must have heard.
“Gomez would not listen,” Diego said. “He would ride boldly into battle. He would awe them with his presence and the boldness of his approach.”
“He escaped, I believe.”
“Of course. He is a realist, and dead soldiers win no battles. He led them into an ambush but he did not stay to die with them. Next time he will be wiser.”
“Maybe.”
Getting to my feet I said, “Do you lie down and rest, Diego. I shall be back soon. You are safe here.”
The Pawnees who had wandered about were drifting slowly back toward their own village. A moment I watched, and then I walked out, pausing now and again.
There were bodies to be buried and plans to be made. Also, I must put all my powder together and see how much I had. Not enough, but what I had would tide me over until I could find sulphur and make my own. If I was fortunate.
And I must think about the sacred fire for Itchakomi and how to bring it to her. How important it was to her I was only now beginning to appreciate, but to give her fire without ceremony would be empty. It must have the proper trappings of magic.
My valley lay green and lovely, falling away to the south, walled by mountains on either side. Up there were the caves of which the Ponca woman had told me long ago. Beyond those mountains was a mineral spring that might contain sulphur.
This was my land, the land that I loved, the wild land, the lonely land, where men had left no scars, no beaten tracks, no signs of their passing. These few bodies that now lay about would be buried, or if left would be food for buzzards, coyotes, and ants. Whatever those men had taken from the land they would now give back, and the eternal round of birth and death would continue.
Someday I might also have a son or a daughter, and we might sit together by the fires of winter while I told them stories of Barnabas, their grandfather, and of England whence he came. Sakim, too, must be spoken of, who came from the magic lands of the Arabian Nights. My father had told me the stories before even Sakim, but from Sakim’s lips they had had a special magic, for he was of their world. He had lived the life.
Jubal Sackett (1985) Page 27