“This is Adam, a friend of our family,” Jimmy said, flexing his shoulders and rubbing his wrists, “who has been staying with us for a few days. I suspect I would have been beaten much worse if not for his and Rebecca’s intervention. We were forcibly brought here and made to leave Rebecca behind with Jeb Barnett and his men. They are supposed to be bringing her and some of my things, but…”
“I understand. You have much cause for concern with those men, although this place does not offer much more safety.” He motioned for Adam to turn and allow his wrists to be untied. When they were unbound, he offered his hand to Adam and said, “Osiyo, Adam.”
“Osiyo, Jesse. Are you saying there have been people mistreated right here in the fort?”
“Some quite savagely. Many have been beaten. There have been several wives and daughters taken by the soldiers and…,” he stopped, seeing the horror in Jimmy’s widened eyes. “There have been incidents, but I have heard it is worse in the other, more remote forts.”
“Then I must get to see Colonel Lindsey immediately and get a stop put to this. I’ll have him send an escort for Rebecca.”
“Lindsey heads the Georgia militia, and is not likely to find fault with Barnett and his men. You may find yourself thrown into his brig, or worse.”
“There must be something I can do. Someone I can appeal to for justice. To make sure no harm comes to Rebecca.”
“You could get released,” Jesse told him. “You are obviously not Tsalagi. They have no reason to keep you. If you were free, you could go back to Jimmy’s place and help Rebecca.”
“He may be able to get released,” said Jimmy, “but what good can a single, unarmed man be against those five thugs? He would be lucky not to be killed. The two of us were helpless against them before.”
“But this time,” said Adam, “they won’t know I’m there. I can sneak back and at least see that she is not being mistreated. If she is, I’ll find a way to get her away from them.”
“I am extremely concerned about my wife, but you would be risking your life. I cannot allow you to endanger yourself to that degree.” Jimmy lowered his head back into his hands and muttered to himself despondently.
Adam placed his hand on Jimmy’s shoulder. “I don’t see how you can prevent me,” he said resolutely.
Chapter thirty-seven
Sal awoke with a moan. He was laying prostrate, sharp bits of gravel grinding into his face, each effort to move greeted by an acute reminder of his battle with the river rocks. His bruised and battered body declared the rocks victorious; they had given him a thorough thrashing. Slowly and gently rolling onto his back, he felt a sickening ache in his groin where he suffered one rock’s particularly vicious assault. Ignoring his protesting shoulder muscles, he raised his hand to his face and began picking out the rock fragments that were embedded in his cheeks and forehead.
The sound of the rushing river filled his ears as he conducted a more thorough evaluation of his condition. He was hurting, bruised, and battered, but apparently he still had all his parts attached and no bones were broken. Flinching abruptly, he recalled the calamitous rifle shots and the wound that had been inflicted on Yonah. Rising judiciously to one knee, he turned toward the Cherokee, who lay motionless on the shore next to him. With great relief Sal detected the shallow rise and fall of the old man’s chest; at least he was still breathing. He carefully shifted Yonah’s position enough to inspect the gunshot wound. It was bleeding, but fortunately the cold river water had slowed the flow significantly. He tried not to move Yonah too much, fearing he would cause the bleeding to increase. He cautiously performed a cursory examination which revealed the wound was mostly superficial. It appeared that the rifle ball had been relatively small, perhaps twenty caliber, and had passed through the flesh of Yonah’s upper arm without striking bone, or worse, severing an artery.
“Good thing those boys were hunting small game, Tonto,” he said quietly to the unconscious Cherokee. “A fifty caliber slug probably would have taken a good chunk of your arm off.”
He searched his pockets and found his soaking wet bandana. Rinsing it thoroughly in the river, he used it to cleanse and bind the wound. Once he had the bandana in place to apply pressure, he gently rolled Yonah over onto his back, keeping his feet to the downhill side of the slight incline of the shore.
“Be a damn shame for you to wake up with all that gravel in your face, dude,” said Sal, rubbing the indentations left in his own forehead. “Keeping your shoulder elevated will help slow the bleeding. Let’s just hope you don’t go into shock, and that you didn’t crack your skull on that rock.”
He agonizingly rose to his feet, wincing from the pain that shot through his body as he stretched. Having done all he could for Yonah, he scanned the landscape to get his bearings. He could hear the roar of the waterfall downriver, and began walking in the direction of the sound. In less than a hundred yards he was standing at the top of the falls, looking over the edge at the churning plunge pool more than eighty feet below. It was a magnificent view, but glancing back at the spot where they had come ashore, he shuddered at the thought of just how close they had come to tumbling into that churning chasm.
He inspected the rocky cliff below his feet, imagining the painful climb down. He had been expecting to portage around this knickpoint, but he hadn’t counted on doing it with a damaged body. Fortunately for him it would be a while before Yonah was ready to make the descent. At least they didn’t have to carry the canoe. Suddenly, the severity of that thought struck him. He had no idea how much further it was to Yonah’s home, but walking was going to take a whole lot longer than a canoe ride.
Standing atop the rock he gazed into the flowing water, lost in thought, flexing the aching muscles of his arms. The events of the last few days had surpassed incredible. He remembered how eager he had been to complete the testing project, anxious to return to his familiar territory and activities. He chuckled as he thought about the excitement online role-playing games used to bring him. Even some of his more physical activities like biking, backpacking, even geocaching, which he previously considered demanding and exciting sports, seemed like childish play compared to his last few days. He realized that the experience of actual life and death situations and his first-hand involvement in the Cherokee struggle were affecting him much more strongly than anything else in his life ever had. It wasn’t fear for his life or pity for the Indians. Yes, he felt those emotions, but he was feeling something much deeper, almost an epiphany, as if he were transforming from within. He had been made acutely aware that he took too much of his life for granted. He was now more motivated than ever to correct that. In these past few days his priorities had shifted. The things he previously considered important now seemed trivial, and things he considered inconsequential had become essential.
These atypical insights befuddled him; he had never before felt compelled to make his life count for something truly worthwhile. He was uncharacteristically concerned for the wellbeing of his friends. Anxious to reunite with them, not just for the comfort of their friendship, but to ensure they knew his true regard for them rather than the uncaring front he usually conveyed. Looking down at the treacherous climb and considering the potential perils he had yet to face, he wondered if he would get the chance.
From this viewpoint Sal could see the river slowly begin to flatten and calm beyond the falls, before winding out of view around the next bend. He was looking southward, downriver, and evening was coming on quickly. To his left, the bottom of the descending sun was nearly touching the tops of the western mountains, its deep orange-red glow reflecting on the misty splashes of the waterfall, creating a brilliant scarlet spray of aquatic fireworks. He turned away from the falls and walked back to shore where he had left Yonah.
“For a moment I thought you had gone over the falls,” he heard Yonah’s voice, slightly breathless with suppressed pain, “but then I realized it had to have been you who dressed my arm.”
“Hey, dude, both of
us nearly went over,” said Sal, glancing over his shoulder to the top of the falls. “I’m happy you’re awake. Your arm doesn’t look too bad, but I was worried about the bash on the noggin you took when you smashed into that rock.”
Yonah pursed his color-drained lips. “Is that what happened?” he said, rubbing the knot on his head with his uninjured arm. “They both hurt like hell, but I’ve been hurt worse.”
“Yeah, well, you should lie still and get some rest, though.”
“I intend to.” He squinted at Sal. “You are not actually showing compassion for me, are you?”
“No more than I would for anyone, dude,” Sal snapped. “I just don’t want you to waste the effort I put into dragging your butt out of the river, that’s all.”
“It must have taken much effort,” said Yonah sincerely, looking out at the swirling rapids. “You had to fight that strong current to get us both to safety. It would have been much easier to only save yourself. I have apparently underestimated you, and I apologize for that. You have saved my life, and I am greatly in your debt.”
“You’re welcome,” said Sal, “but you’re not in my debt, man. I couldn’t very well let you go over the falls, could I? After all, I need you to find my way out of here.” He gave Yonah a wry smile.
“Which we need to do very soon. I do not wish to encounter those men in my weakened condition,” Yonah replied.
“I think it best if we just camp right here for the night,” Sal said. “If you move around too much it could open up your wound and start it bleeding again. Anyway, I’m pretty worn out. We should be safe from those rednecks on this side of the river. They probably figure we went over the falls.”
“I hope you are right, Squirrel-man. For now, you are in charge. If you wish to spend the night here, we must find something better than river rock to sleep on.”
“You’re telling me, dude,” said Sal, touching the pits left on his face by the gravel. “The weather is clear and it looks like it’s going to stay that way, so we won’t need a shelter. I’ll just gather up some leaves to make sleeping a little more comfortable. Only problem is that we might get kind of hungry since we lost all of our supplies.”
“There is a river full of food right in front of you,” said Yonah.
“I’m sure there’s plenty of fish, but how do you propose I catch them? I don’t think I’d have much luck trying to scoop them out with my hands.”
“You could try it Indian-style.”
“Indian-style, huh? I guess I could give that a try.” He picked up a fairly straight branch and began removing the leaves. “I managed to hold on to my pocketknife, at least.” He opened the blade and began to whittle the end of the branch into a point. “I’ll walk upstream a bit and try to find a pool with some fish in it, and see if I can spear one.”
“You could do that.” Yonah tried not to show his amusement. “But that would be the hard way.”
“What do you mean, dude?” said Sal. “I thought you said I should get some fish Indian-style?”
Yonah unbuttoned his shirt pocket and retrieved a small stick wrapped with a coil of string and a couple of hooks. “I did. But most Indians I know use a hook and line,” he said with a lopsided grin. He held out the fishing line to Sal. “Lucky this stayed in my pocket.”
“You’re a real joker, Tonto, you know that? A regular Native American comedian.” He grabbed the fishing line and tossed the branch aside.
Sal headed first to the woods, where he found plenty of dry leaves to use for bedding, then spent a few moments digging up worms to use for bait. He retrieved his branch-spear, to which he attached Yonah’s hook and line for a makeshift fishing rod. The fishing line was jute, spun from vegetable fiber. Monofilament was still an invention of the future.
He located a likely spot for fish along the river’s edge. It wasn’t long before he had a fish on, which he gently caressed to shore, careful not to break the delicate line. In less than an hour he returned with a couple of fish along with a few mussels he had pried from the river rocks.
Yonah nodded his approval at Sal’s catch. “I agree that the shooters are probably no longer a threat, but it may be prudent to avoid making a fire. We should try not to draw any more unwanted attention. Besides, my flint and char-cloth is lost to the river.”
“No problemo,” said Sal. “An awesome helping of sushi is one of my favorite meals.”
Sal cleaned and filleted the fish, and cracked open the mussels, letting the river wash away the waste, recalling Alice’s chiding about attracting bears. That first night of camping seemed so long ago.
After they had eaten, he insisted that Yonah allow him to check and re-dress the gunshot wound. He gently removed the bandana, washing it in the river and dabbing the wound to remove some of the caked blood. So far, there was no sign of infection, but it was still a nasty, open wound that continued to bleed.
Yonah pointed to a clump of flowers growing at the edge of the forest. “Gather some leaves from those flat-looking flowers over there.” Sal did as he was bid, plucking a handful of leaves from what looked like Queen Anne’s Lace, and brought them back to Yonah.
“This is called Woundwort,” Yonah said. “Some call it Yarrow. If you crush some of the leaves and mix it with some river water, it can be applied to the wound and will help stop the blood flow. It will also reduce the pain somewhat.”
Sal mixed the leaves and water, crushing them into a paste using rocks from the river. He applied the green poultice as Yonah directed, and once again wrapped the wound with his bandana.
“I hope that helps, old man. At least enough so you can sleep. I’ll check it again in the morning. For now, I think the best thing is for both of us to get some rest.”
He heaped the leaves he had gathered earlier and fashioned a sleeping area for them. He helped Yonah into a comfortable position, and then situated himself for sleeping. “Not exactly a memory-foam mattress, but it’s a hell of a lot more comfortable than those damn rocks,” said Sal.
Even with the padding of the leaves, he could feel every rock poking into his bruised body. His muscles still ached, and the thought of spending the next few days, maybe even weeks, hiking through the mountains, weighed on his mind. He was exhausted, yet he knew he was in for a restless night. “Probably a lot worse for old Tonto,” he thought, in a rare moment of compassion.
“I know you’ve got to be in a lot of pain, dude, but try to get some rest if you can.” He looked over at Yonah, whose only answer was a snore, already soundly sleeping. “Man, that tough ol’ bird probably enjoys sleeping on rocks,” he muttered to himself.
Sal closed his eyes and tried to ignore his discomfort. He focused on the sound of the rushing rapids, letting it drown out Yonah’s snoring, and eventually fell asleep.
In his dreams, he found himself back on the river, being accosted once again, this time by an entire army of guffawing yokels who stood on the banks of the river, drinking moonshine from brown jugs and bellowing foul invectives at him. He cursed them back with his usual vigor until he caught site of the weapon they were now leveling at him—a WW2 vintage Browning M2 .50 caliber machine gun. Probably could get those at the local Army surplus store, he dreamt.
He flattened himself in the canoe bottom as he heard the rat-tat-tat of the gun disintegrating the gunwale of the canoe, splinters of wood flying everywhere. He looked up to see Yonah sitting upright, impervious to the whizzing slugs flying around him. Yonah looked at him indifferently and said, “Must be squirrel season, white man.”
He screamed as the machine gun ate away more and more of the canoe, until he finally awoke with a start. He looked around in panic, disoriented, still hearing the sound of the gun. His panic subsided when he realized the sound was a woodpecker, pecking out insects for his breakfast from a nearby tree. His relief quickly turned to embarrassment when he noticed Yonah, already awake, staring at him.
“Bad dream?” Yonah asked nonchalantly. “Not altogether unexpected after our misadventure
yesterday. My own sleep was considerably restful and refreshing,” he boasted.
“Just that damn woodpecker,” said Sal, not bothering to elaborate. His heart was still racing from the nightmare. “Glad to hear you’re feeling a little better. How is your head, dude? Do you have any dizziness?”
“It aches and I have a large lump. No dizziness. I have the hard head of a Cherokee warrior.”
“That’s for sure. What about the gunshot wound?”
Yonah had already removed the bandana and was tentatively probing his wound. “It is better, but too large to be left open. I think I will need to use some of our fishing line and one of the hooks to place a few stitches. It will be awkward for me to do it with one hand,” he said with an inquiring look at Sal.
Sal shook himself fully awake and made his own examination of the wound. He could see that Yonah was right, it was going to take a few stitches to keep the gaping hole together so it could heal. “I’m not known for my sewing ability, but I’ll give it my best shot.”
Sal retrieved the fishing line and one of the hooks. He used a rock to grind off the barb and straightened it a little, leaving it slightly curved. He then threaded a short piece of the heavy fishing line through the eyelet. He washed it in river water, wishing he had a way to sterilize it. Sal was pretty sure antiseptic medicine hadn’t been considered yet—he wasn’t even sure if Lister had been born yet. Certainly no one had heard of using carbolic acid to sterilize a wound, although Yonah had probably been exposed to enough germs to be a lot more resistant to infection than he would be.
Sal wished he at least had a way to anesthetize the wound. He used cold river water to numb the area, but doubted it would help much once he began. He examined the area once again, visualizing the exact places he would make the stitches. He figured he would need at least three. That would mean six stabs to an obviously very painful wound, and then whatever fussing he would have to do to tie it off. He knew the Indian was a tough old dog, but he hoped this wasn’t going to be more than he could take.
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