As they turned the horses to ride south down the trail once more, they could hear Captain Morrison issuing orders. “Return to the fort, Sergeant Scruggs. You are no use to me with that hand, and you are no use to me if you cannot obey a direct order. If you want to buy a horse in Yowani, that is up to you, but you will use your own funds. No army reimbursement. You will also replace the cost of that horse.”
The sergeant began to say something, but the captain interrupted. “No, Sergeant, we will not discuss it now. Remember also that you are responsible for that saddle. You will have to carry it until you can arrange for a mount. That is all, Sergeant!” Zeb and Hannah kept the horses at a walk until they were out of sight of the camp. It was impossible to move at a faster gait holding the skewered pigeons.
Zeb motioned to Hannah to stop. “We’ve got to find a better way. We’ll never make time this way, and I don’t want to meet up with the sergeant in Yowani.”
Hannah turned toward him, and Zeb sensed that she wanted to say something but was reluctant to say it. “Go ahead,” he muttered. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have made an enemy of him.”
Hannah shook her head. “No,” she said. “I don’t think you could have done anything to avoid it, unless you had fallen off Harlequin before the five minutes were up.”
Hannah looked at him shyly. “What I wanted to say, Zeb, is that you were very brave back there. I was so scared…. You were trying to keep their attention so I could slip away, weren’t you? But I couldn’t have left you there….” She turned her head away.
She sighed and changed the subject. “Why don’t we put these pigeons in the cook pots and wrap them back up in the bedroll? That’ll keep ’em warm, and we’ll be able to make time.”
They packed the pigeons, licking their fingers as they covered the pots. They longed to stop and eat, but it was too risky with the sergeant right behind them. Hannah rode just ahead. Zeb was able to move Christmas into a comfortable pace that nearly matched Harlequin’s fast walk. Hannah turned and smiled at Zeb. “This is like riding a rocking horse.”
In pl aces the trail was wide enough to ride side by side. “Hannah,” Zeb said, “you ride better than anyone your age I know. Bareback too! Where’d you learn?”
“I used to spend all of my time with the other children at the Choctaw villages. We rode bareback every day with a leather noose over the horse’s muzzle. Then Father bought Suba for me and I learned how to ride with a saddle and bit.”
They had traveled for a while, when Hannah raised her hand. Putting her finger up to her lips, she motioned to Zeb to stop and listen. Zeb heard a noise unlike anything he had ever heard before. They walked the horses slowly forward, ready to turn around and gallop away from the first sign of danger. Christmas was prancing sideways and snorting, something he often did before a race.
Hannah sat back and looked up, staring at the trees. She signaled Zeb and pointed up over her head. The trees were filled with pigeons! Hundreds of thousands of pigeons! The branches of the big trees were bent with the weight of the birds, their bodies blocking out the sun.
Zeb felt a wet drop on his cheek, another on the back of his hand. Bird droppings! He urged his horse forward. “Come on!” he shouted. “Let’s get out of here.”
They rode for almost an hour before they were beyond the pigeon’s roosting place. Hannah stopped at the first creek they saw, hopping off Harlequin to wash her face and rinse out her hair. She stood up and patted Harlequin. “We’re going to have to wash the horses when we stop tonight.”
A few pigeons rested in the trees not far from where they had stopped. Hannah stood still and looked at them more closely. “Beautiful bird,” she whispered. “Almost pink. Long tail and blue-gray head. Much bigger than the pigeons in Natchez.” Hannah looked around again as if suddenly recognizing something. Zeb was about to laugh at her wet face, until he saw that they were tears running down her cheeks. “I know about this place,” she said. “The Choctaw call it Pachanusi, The Place Where the Pigeons Sleep—The Pigeon Roost.”
“Why are you crying?”
“We are so close to my home,” she said, wiping the tears from her face with the back of her hand. “I’ve been trying not to think about my mother and father. I was sure that I would never see them again. Now they are only a day’s ride away. I just can’t wait to see them.”
Hannah stood still and looked at the pigeons more closely.
They rode on, stopping only when the sky began to turn red with the setting sun. They camped in a little clearing well off the road. Zeb took the saddle and packs off Christmas, hobbled both horses, and let them graze. He spread out the canvas and the blankets and, finally, he and Hannah were able to eat the pigeons.
As soon as Hannah finished eating, she licked the fat from her fingers and then took the diary out of Zeb’s saddlebag. She made a quick sketch of the pigeons, and then she began to write in her diary. She had been doing that every night since the Duck River. Zeb wondered what she could be writing, but he remembered his promise never to look at what she wrote unless she asked him to.
He looked over at Hannah. She was almost home and he was more than halfway to Natchez and his grampa. Somehow, though, he felt a little sad.
He unfolded the saddle blanket and stretched out on it, his head resting on his hands. He looked up through the trees at the evening sky. “Grampa would never have killed all those pigeons,” he said. “Captain Morrison says they will never run out, but if everybody kills as many as the captain and his men did, someday there won’t be any left.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Walking Wolf
The narrow trail to Natchez had become much broader, wide enough now for a team and wagon. Zeb and Hannah passed open meadows and even fenced fields, definite signs that people lived along this part of the Natchez Road. Hannah had Harlequin moving as fast as he could go. She kept looking back at Zeb.
She turned the horse to go through a gated entrance and then pulled him to a sudden halt. The gate was closed.
When Zeb came alongside, she motioned toward the buildings, but she wasn’t saying anything.
Zeb was about to dismount and open the gate when an old Choctaw carrying a musket galloped toward them. He wore the tattered and worn homespun clothes of a white farmer. The horse, a sleek bay, moved easily. The Indian swung the musket until it pointed at Zeb. “Stay on your horse!” he demanded.
He looked at the two of them, and then looked up and down the Natchez Road behind them. “Who are you, and what do you want?”
Harlequin danced around, but Hannah pulled him up alongside the gate. Hannah leaned toward the old man. “Isushi, is that you? I’ve never seen you without your deerskin coat. It’s me, Hannah!”
The Indian winced. He swung his head quickly, checking the Natchez Road again.
Hannah cried out, “Isushi, don’t you know me? You used to help me get up on my horse. Isushi! Don’t you remember? It’s Hannah!”
She touched the horse with her heel. She turned so that she was facing Zeb. “Isushi taught me to ride and how to hide in the forest. His name is Choctaw for fawn—a deer so young, he still has his spots. No one can see him in the forest.”
Isushi stared at her face. Suddenly, he sat back on the horse and shouted, “Hannah! It is you! Where have you been? What happened to you?”
Hannah hung her head and spoke to him in Choctaw.
The Indian glared at Zeb and then looked at Hannah carefully. “Are you all right, Hannah?” he asked. “Not hurt?”
Hannah nodded, “I’m all right, Isushi.” She pointed her chin at Zeb. “That’s Zeb. He saved me from the Mason gang. He is almost as fearless as a Choctaw warrior.”
The old man looked at Zeb again and then turned and stared at Hannah.
“Isushi, it’s so good to see you,” she said. “Will you open the gate? I am anxious to see my mother and father.”
The old man shook his head. “Your mama and papa are not here anymore, Hannah.”
&n
bsp; “What happened to them?” she cried, her horse startling at the sudden noise.
The old man held up his hand. “They’re all right, far as I know, Hannah. They waited three months for news, hoping that someone was holding you for ransom. But they didn’t hear anything at all. They moved back to Washington.”
Hannah sagged against Harlequin’s neck. “But I was so hoping to see them today,” she despaired.
“You can stay at the Yowani Council House,” the old man said. He pointed toward the cluster of buildings behind the gates. The one near the entrance was built like a farmhouse; it was covered with cedar shakes, weathered pewter-gray. The others were made of sawed logs. “No one is allowed in the Research Center grounds right now,” the old man said. “There is no more medical research here.”
They rode down the Natchez Road about a mile to a log cabin in the center of a clearing. Hannah rode slumped over, letting the other horses lead. The three of them dismounted and led the animals to the water trough near the simple, open stables almost hidden behind the cabin.
Hannah walked Harlequin into a paddock. She took off his bridle and rubbed his neck. After throwing some hay in a feeder for him, she hung up the bridle and then went to the trough to wash her face.
Zeb knew that she was terribly disappointed. Her parents were probably alive, and she had reached Yowani and was safe with people she knew, but there was still a long, dangerous trip between Yowani and Washington. She probably wonders if she’ll ever see her parents again, he thought.
Zeb led Christmas into the paddock with Harlequin. He spoke quietly as he removed the bedroll, the saddle and blanket, and then the bridle. “Get some rest tonight, Christmas. I’ll see that you get a good ration tonight and tomorrow. We may not see much more than grass from here to Natchez.”
Isushi was watching him, as if he still weren’t sure of him. “Did you learn that from a Choctaw brave?” he said. “Only the Choctaw talk that way with horses. I have never seen a white man do it.”
Zeb nodded. “My grampa does. He might have learned it from some of his Choctaw friends, though. Just seems natural, that’s all.”
Zeb patted Christmas, and he and Isushi walked around the council house to the entrance. A tall Choctaw, not much older than Zeb, opened the door. He stepped back. He seemed surprised to see them. He looked first at Isushi and then at Zeb. “Who is this?” he growled to Isushi. “Why did you bring a white man to the council house?”
“His name is Zeb. He saved Hannah’s life. He rides like a brave. I knew you would want me to bring him here.”
“Hannah is home?” he cried.
“Yes. She is all right, not hurt. She is cleaning up.”
The young brave eyed Zeb warily and then stood with his arms outstretched as if to hug Zeb. He seemed to guess that Zeb was unsure of what to do. He dropped his arms and stuck out his hand and took Zeb’s in his. “Choctaw braves do not normally shake hands; we hug.”
“His name,” Isushi said, turning to Zeb, “is Nashoba Nowa, The Walking Wolf. Everybody calls him Nashoba.”
“Sorry about the formal introductions,” Nashoba said. “Among the Choctaw, it is wrong for a warrior to tell another his name. Someone else must do it.”
He dropped Zeb’s hand. “Tell me about Hannah.”
“She’s at the horse trough, washing her face. She’s—”
Nashoba leaped off the porch and started around the building. Isushi and Zeb followed close behind him. “Hannah!” he shouted. “You’re back! You’re safe!”
Hannah turned just as Nashoba reached her. He picked her up and swung her around. Hannah screamed, “Nashoba! Nashoba! I thought I’d never see you again.”
They switched from English to Choctaw and back to English, both talking at the same time. Hannah was smiling again.
The four of them walked around the building, Nashoba and Hannah talking and laughing. Hannah ran up the steps to the council house porch. She suddenly stopped and turned, looking down at the three of them. Her face turned red. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Nashoba, this is Zebulon D’Evereux. He saved me from the Mason gang, he—”
Zeb interrupted. “Hannah escaped from the Mason gang by herself. We’ve been traveling together since Franklin.”
Nashoba climbed the steps and opened the door, motioning for them to go into the council house. Zeb stopped at the door. His grampa had told him how important the council house was to the Choctaws. Whites were usually allowed to enter only when there was a treaty to be discussed. Nashoba called from inside the building, “Come in! Come in! You are welcome here.”
Zeb stepped inside and looked around. It was just one large room. Two small openings served as windows.
Nashoba stood in the sunny part of the room next to one of the windows. Hannah stared at him. “Nashoba,” she said. “Why are you wearing worn-out homespun pants and that old deerskin jacket?”
Nashoba looked over at Isushi as if he wondered how much to tell her. “We had a very bad sickness here, Hannah. Many people died. Since your father left, we didn’t have anyone to tell us what it was. The Alikchi, the head medicine man, closed the station and then told us to burn all of our clothes and blankets. He said that is what your father would have done.”
Nashoba looked down at his clothes. “I pulled these out of the throwaway box. Your father left behind a box of outgrown clothes discarded by the staff of the Medical Research Center. He always kept the clothes until he found someone who needed them.”
He pointed to the old Choctaw. “Isushi and I have been trying to guard the Research Center from the Kaintucks and the outlaws. For a while it was impossible. We lost almost all of the horses and most of the special cattle your father brought here. But now that word has spread about the sickness, we aren’t bothered much.”
Hannah grabbed his arm. “Suba! They took Suba?”
Nashoba shook his head. “No, your father and mother took four horses, including Suba and a packhorse loaded with laboratory equipment. They went back with an army patrol.”
Zeb looked around the room once again. No furniture except for a simple table and chair next to one of the windows. One of the walls had a number of shelves filled with books. A book was open on the table. Nashoba apparently had been reading when they arrived. Nashoba went over to the table, slipped a long feather in the open pages, and then closed it.
“Do you read?” Nashoba asked. When Zeb nodded, Nashoba waved at the books on the shelves. “I have read all of those on that side. Now I am reading John Locke and Jean Jacques Rousseau on the natural rights of man.” He picked up the book he had been reading. “This book also contains the Constitution of the United States and the Declaration of Independence. ‘We hold these truths to be self evident,’ he quoted, ‘that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness….’”
Zeb didn’t know what to say. The Indians were not treated as “equals.” He wondered if they ever would be. He moved toward the bookshelves. “You’ve done a lot of interesting reading. I envy you these books.”
Nashoba looked at him for a moment. “Thank you,” he said. “You are welcome to read any of them while you are here.”
“I’m surprised you have so many.”
Nashoba said in a quiet voice, “I have applied for admission to Dartmouth College, in New England.”
“Admission to college? Where did you go to school?
Nashoba smiled at Zeb’s enthusiasm. “I studied with my father whenever he was here. He spent part of every year with us. He always came with a saddlebag full of books for me.”
“And now he has brought you books to get you ready for college?”
“No. He was unable to come. He’s visiting the Creeks. He expects to meet with Tecumseh and Tecumseh’s brother, the Prophet. His friends at Dartmouth College sent a package of books with a note saying that they will continue his commitment to me.”
“D
oes he work at Dartmouth?”
Nashoba nodded. “He is doing research among the People, learning the various languages and keeping detailed information on the similarities and the differences in the music, the dances, the games, the ceremonies, the religions, even the food.”
“The People?”
“Yes, the People, the Okla. That is what we call the various Nations: the Chickasaw, the Creek, the Cherokee from around here; and the Shawnee, the Iroquois, and others from the north. We don’t use the word Indian.”
He put the book back on the table. “If attending Dartmouth is not possible, I shall apply for admission to a new school, Jefferson College, in Washington. That is less than two hours easy riding from Natchez, about a week to ten days from here.”
Nashoba turned to face Zeb. “Speaking of clothes, you may want to see if you can find something in the throwaway box.”
Zeb looked down at his pants. They were short, but they didn’t look too bad.
Nashoba smiled. “Maybe nobody told you that the seam is out in the back. You’re just too big for those pants.”
Zeb reached around and felt the torn seam. When he glared at Hannah, she giggled. “What good would it have done to tell you?” she asked.
Nashoba pointed to a huge wooden box in the corner of the room. “We moved all of the safe clothes in here. Pick out what you need, and then Isushi will show you a spot in the creek where you can wash.”
Zeb tilted the heavy lid of the box against the wall and began to sort through the clothes, holding some of them against his body for size. He dropped the clothes that were too small for him on the wooden floor.
Nashoba pulled out a pair of pants and a shirt. “Hannah,” he said, “you ought to pick out some clothes, too. That dress you’re wearing is worn out. Boys’ clothes might be best.” He held them up for her to see. “These were all dyed with butternuts, the color of dead leaves. Wearing these you can travel in the forest and not be seen.”
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