Blood gouted from the death wound and in a final try the Apache threw the stone-headed spear into the giant's back. Without an arm to balance, the throw was awkward, and with weakening vision, he saw the spear strike high in a shoulder and fall away. To his enemy it was but an insect bite, and although he tried to lunge with his knife, Juan-to's legs folded. Before death took his sight he knew the bitter gall of defeat and awareness that the gods had come to aid his enemies and destroy the Apache.
He did not know that he screamed a silent rage. He did not feel the bite of his tomahawks as they crushed or severed. He knew nothing of the points that jabbed or the clubs that sledged him. His eyes saw a dance macabre where dust caked beings leaped and cavorted as he brushed them away or stepped across them.
For a time a figure wove beside him but then he was alone and the dusty enemy were fewer. Later he overtook the last and felt the shock as his blade split the runner's skull and embedded itself deeply.
The act of freeing the tomahawk cleared the red fires only a little, and he rushed among the bodies searching for movement or hint of life. Nothing moved and awareness began a cautious return.
With reason, exhaustion also appeared. His lungs labored and his arms hung loosely with the weight of the bloody tomahawks. His legs quivered in weakness and threatened to betray him. Long had it been since the madness of battle had seized him, but its ancient familiarity hurried his return and as he remembered, his eyes searched frantically for The Blackhawk.
His brother lay face down, his hatchet buried in an Apache chest. Broken, his other arm lay awkwardly twisted and from that unprotected side an Apache spear had driven nearly through his body. The Hawk had moved little and the dead lay around him like sticks of a fire.
Gone was his brother, his only friend. Gone was the mighty Blackhawk whose spirit had given him new heart and new will. Forever silenced was the voice and mind that was as his own. Unnatural thickness pained The Warrior's throat and mists blotted his vision. He turned at the sound of an anguished groan, only to recognize it as his own despairing voice. True had been the Hawk's vision. Truer than any he had known, but despite the glory of it, a place of emptiness grew and firmed forever in the heart of The Warrior.
He chose to sit, slumped and without will on a grass clump near the Hawk's body. Dully he wondered if any Apache had escaped. If they had, he did not care, and if one or more reappeared he doubted his spirit could rise to face them. To speak of Blackhawk's vision and possible death was one thing. To know it, was another, and the heart of The Warrior cried in longing for his friend. He supposed it always would.
The sun stood high before he roused to care for the Hawk's body. He withdrew the spear as carefully as if his brother lived. He rolled him over, closed the staring eyes, and loosened his grip on the hatchet. The time had stiffened Blackhawk's body, and The Warrior carried it carefully in his arms. The distance to their lookout was long and he rested often. When he gained the height he sat with his friend until the sun moved a finger or more, gathering strength and remembering how earlier this day they had talked and enjoyed, as though nothing could touch them.
Examining his own wounds had astonished him. Vast bruises darkened where clubs had struck and his flesh burned from numerous cuts and gouges. Behind a shoulder a heavy point had struck and blood had run to his loincloth. When he moved, his body ached, and overstressed muscles complained with twinges and throbbings.
Sound of movement nearby brought him up with tomahawks ready, but soon the woman with whom they had talked appeared carrying water and soft washing skins. He drank long and deeply before sloshing more over his head and shoulders. He thanked the woman with signs, and she nodded before turning to the body of Blackhawk. As though he could feel, she washed away the blood and dirt, handling the stiffening limbs as though they could suffer pain. Proudly, The Warrior watched. As long as they or their children lived, the Arapaho would honor this place, and long, long thereafter, the people of that tribe would remember and tell of the mighty Blackhawk who gave death to the Apache and saved the families of the Arapaho.
Strengthened, he returned to the place of battle to look with clearer eyes. He counted three hands of dead Apaches. Had another hand fled? He had seen only one escaping and that body lay close-by. On which of the others he had counted coups he could not remember and it did not matter. He took hair from each Apache to place at the feet of Blackhawk. He removed the Hawk's hatchet from the Apache's chest and found the iron knife. The Apache weapons were nothing and he left them.
The woman had been busy. She had clothed the Hawk's body and begun the hole The Warrior had prescribed for his burying. Although they had worn no paint for the battle, the Hawk had described the decoration he preferred, and The Warrior applied it now so that his friend would look his best on the trail to The Great Spirit.
Although the buffalo tribes rested their dead above ground, the Hawk would lie in the bosom of The Earth Mother; it was his people's way. The Warrior placed the Hawk with his hatchet in his hand and his bow and quiver beside him. The iron knife was returned to its sheath and he covered the Hawk to his chin with his sleeping robe.
Sight of the Hawk's worn moccasins protruding below the blanket brought unexpected dimness to his eyes and again choked his throat. He arranged the Apache scalps neatly at Blackhawk's feet and stood back to make certain that all was correct. As a last gesture he propped the black head a little higher so that he appeared asleep and covered the stilled features with the Hawk's spare loincloth.
The Warrior and the woman closed the grave and placed a single large stone to mark it. The woman disappeared down the slope as quietly as she had come, and The Warrior was again alone with his brother. He prayed long to The Great Spirit for his acceptance of the mighty Blackhawk. Then he spoke to the waiting spirit of Friend Seeker, urging him to also become the Hawk's companion. Afterwards, he tried to feel the newly freed spirit of Blackhawk but it was too soon and earthly memories rose in the way. In the dark he returned to their camp. He lay amid his pain and loneliness until the sun returned.
The Arapaho came. They counted the dead and circled to see if any had escaped. A few remained to dismember the Apache bodies while the rest rode in to count their survivors.
The Warrior saw through fevered eyes from his place beside the Hawk's grave. He heard the wailing begin as families reunited to count their losses, and later saw smoke rise and hunters ride forth.
The chiefs and men of importance were long in coming for they needed preparation. The Warrior did not care. When they appeared each spoke at length, with great feeling and occasional tears. Then The Warrior envied them and wished he too remembered how to cry.
After the speakers were finished and the smoke had passed many times, The Warrior rose painfully. Even those simple movements caused fresh blood spots to appear. Using only his hands, he told of The Blackhawk so that all would understand. His wounds belied his own claims to have done little and the listeners understood the way it had been.
He held himself tall as he told of his intent to leave this place of sorrow. His horse waited only his coming and he waited only their assurances that the grave of the Blackhawk would be honored and that his story would be remembered and passed to the children. Assurances given, he strode away, ignoring his agonies and keeping their memory of him strong with power.
Until beyond their view he rode erect, as though starting fresh, but later he sagged in pain and utter weariness. When the Hawk's final place lay close to the horizon he stopped and gazed almost unseeing while the late sun moved across the sky.
At last, he raised the bow of Friend Seeker in painful salute and turned away. To ease the throat thickness and soothe the pain he sang softly one of Blackhawk's stories of his youth and it helped —a little.
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Chapter 24: Age 41
Without Blackhawk he felt no direction. The wounds of his body healed, but his spirit was exhausted, and for suns he lay in his robes or dozed by his fire ashes. Neglec
ted were the stretchings, and even the horse grew restless from days within hobbles. When his thoughts touched his own people they slid across without catching. He felt no interest, his eyes remained dull, and too strongly the recent past lived in his mind. When he ate, the meat was tasteless and night dreams were blurred and without meaning.
And then, slumped by his fire, a different rustle roused him. Raising his eyes he stared through the smoke swirl into the eyes of a large hawk that had settled to pick scraps. Against the sun, the hawk appeared crow black with only fierce eyes breaking the silhouette. As startled as he, the hawk's voice seemed more a snarl than a cry as it gathered its body and was gone with only a breath of disturbed air to mark its departure.
It would be a black hawk. The Warrior's thought was cynical, and it had flown east. Too convenient, he disregarded it. Yet his eyes had barely fallen when a shadow passed low overhead so close the rustle of air across feathers was heard. It too was a hawk, and black against the sun, it drove eastward. The mate of the first, he thought, but a tingle touched his skin and he straightened, looking around alertly.
Did the sky have a peculiar color with the clouds shaped like fingers pointing east? A sudden wind gust swept powerfully through his camp blowing smoke and ashes eastward with unexpected strength. Even the horse stood looking to the east, but animals often faced away from a wind. The Warrior sighed within, wondering if his mind could accept a true sign if it were given.
The wind died, and just as soundlessly, another great hawk settled where he had seen the first. The heart of The Warrior leaped with the improbability of it. Hawks did not enter camps, yet two had come.
Unblinking eyes, as cruel as an eagle's, searched his through the fire smoke. Were they yellow like his brother's? Or did he only wish it to be so? With slow majesty the hawk unfolded a single wing and, like an arm pointing, it directed east. For another terrible instant the killer's eyes bored into his own before they turned and the hawk slid into the air and as easily as an arrow in flight the black figure disappeared—to the east.
Shaken, The Warrior considered the omen. Heavy with meaning had been the signs. When he had ignored the first, a second had been given. He brushed aside a temptation to test for a third. If The Sky Father again granted him attention he would not question.
He stood, looking about with new eyes. The horse faced him, it too ready to move on. He stretched, enjoying the familiar creak of sinew, feeling the pull of healed skin unaccustomed to movement.
He was called to the east. To his own people? Perhaps important things happened there. Perhaps he was needed as he had been so long before. Older memories swept aside the new, and he suddenly hungered to sit again near Friend Seeker and to drift blossoms across the resting place of Pond Lily. Perhaps Late Star still groused at his fire, though that seemed improbable. The valleys between the mountains would be the same and even at this distance he could remember the sweet smells and the rich taste of the raw earth.
He began the panther stretchings that he had neglected, deciding to build them to new heights as a gift to The Great Spirit for his attention. Later he would bathe in clear water and wash from him the last of the long sorrow. Blackhawk was on the great trail and might already have found Friend Seeker. If they could see, they would expect much of him.
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Before he reached the Iroquois, an Erie squaw shaved his scalp into a roach and painted again the contrasting black and white. The decoration was strange on skin long without paint, but its fearsome affect was betrayed by those who looked upon it.
His return took the summer, and the people of the Six Nations prepared for the arrival of the Frost Father. It was a good time to appear. Villages were assembling from the scattered hunting and fishing camps and councils were sitting to discuss the problems of clan and tribe. Throughout the winter they would talk, and he would sit among them until The Sky Father signaled new challenges for his warrior.
No longer would he wander the lands seeking combats that others should face. If there was honor he would clutch it, but of killing he had wearied. Unlike some who had fought often, the dead did not haunt his dreams. Most he could not remember and very few now seemed to have been important.
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He had returned! The Warrior was again among his people! Men repeated his stories with fresh voices, and the women felt safer in their lodges. Leaders, however, wrinkled brows in thought.
Long had The Warrior been away and most had thought him dead. The inevitable few who had claimed to know of his dying chewed their knuckles and muttered about look-a-likes and confusions of battle. Their credibility died with their lies.
To most he appeared the same, painted as remembered, the mighty body marked by scars, the silent visitations where few words were spoken. Those who knew him better saw change.
When they met, Tree Shadow counted more scarring, and the fires within The Warrior were banked. It was as though the eyes had seen too much, Tree Shadow decided. Where once flame had leaped with The Warrior's gaze, there were now hints of disinterest, of careful weighing, and even resigned acceptance.
With patience the Shadow worked from The Warrior parts of his western search. Not often in order, they blended into vast travels among strange peoples and exciting places. The Warrior spoke of a lake of salt and of valleys where springs boiled and steam clouds rose. He mentioned whites along a western sea and mountains that pierced the sky, but he avoided talk of the battles that had scarred him.
Long The Warrior spoke of The Great Spirit and it was plain that he had again found him.
"Always the signs were there, Tree Shadow, but I did not read them. Instead, I waited for the words of my youth. When they did not come, I believed The Sky Father gone, but he is here, in all things and in all places. Now I often know his wishes."
Before he journeyed north to hear the words at the great councils, he strode again the lands of his youth.
Gone were the people of the valleys. Whites had marked places with lodges made of logs and stump-dotted clearings that were bordered by trees girdled and leafless.
No longer did fishers visit the village of his childhood, and except for a few at Chit-chit on Cisna Run, the land was empty of his brothers. Late Star was buried near a great tree where he had swum as a child, and even E'shan, the point maker, had abandoned his oak on the Little Buffalo. Quehana, the maker of magic arrowpoints still hunted his valleys, but he lived almost as a white and The Warrior did not seek him.
On the mountain he tasted the earth and rested a day with the spirit of Friend Seeker.
To the Seeker he told his memories of his search for The Sky Father and asked that he watch for Blackhawk, if he had not already appeared. He explained the changes in the valleys before him because he could not be sure if those on the spirit trail could see all that occurred. Then he asked Friend Seeker to give wisdom to his eyes, for he was unsure of his path.
It was known that the great chiefs had traded the land between the mountains to the whites. Perhaps they would fight to regain it, for if the Iroquois had taken it once, they could do so again.
He wished to hear why the chiefs no longer needed the empty lands to protect their heartland, Whites tore and ripped The Earth Mother, and their guns made game scarce and wary. The stories Blackhawk told were fresh in his memory, and he would warn the chiefs against the pale eyes.
His travels were crowded with change. Even the great village at Shamokin was abandoned with its people gone to the west. Aughwick lay empty and some he had known had retreated beyond Kittanning on the Allegheny. There had been fighting between whites and even among tribes, but the Iroquois had remained at peace. The Warrior prayed that peace had not been the price of the empty land, for such a trade would lack honor.
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The Warrior listened, and upon occasion he rose to speak. At other times he seemed to brood in a silence menacing in its intensity. When he then spoke, his words cut like knives to the heart of the subject and were seldom welcome by the cou
ncilors.
Chiefs bargained in their talks. They savored wordy considerations, and they balanced reasonings on blade edges. They argued for the contest of it and bickered to hone long-held positions and to test themselves against the others. So long had they done this that the internal struggles to triumph at council dimmed the reasons for which they met.
Within the councils, pride and greed vied with the hunger for power, and to The Warrior it betrayed a sickness bleeding the soul of the confederacy. Where had the great councilors gone? Where were those who had seen clearly and fought the great battles that had given security and respect?
The Warrior saw men of small vision puffed by honors of easy attainment and little meaning. No great warrior chiefs sat at these councils. No heroes of important victories gave counsel here. Instead, old men, who had maneuvered with cunning, spouted words to justify positions which sought mainly to improve their own status.
Among them were small chiefs, now grown large, who had sent him to the Huron. Bloated with their own importance, they sat like circled frogs, croaking for attention. The Warrior could put no faith in their thought nor trust in their decisions. Self-serving and as deceitful as was necessary, they deserved no honors and The Warrior gave them none.
Yet through the winter he sat among the toads that spoke for his people, listening, and on occasion, adding his words.
When he spoke, there was veiled attention and ritualistic head noddings. When he had finished, the talk continued as though he had never risen.
Always he felt their thoughts upon him, but rarely could he catch an eye. As he openly appraised them, in secret they studied him. Sachem or chief, they feared him, for he was like a wolf among dogs. At any instant he could rage among them and none would live. Once, they had controlled, for he had been taught to serve and he had believed in their honor. Now the leash had been slipped and they could not be sure.
The Warrior (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series) Page 23