The other four boys rode their horses back to the center of the field and dismounted. Two of the horses were still turning from one side to the other. The old man looked at Zeb, as if he were disappointed in him. “It is no honor for a Choctaw brave to win if his opponent just gives up. Did you think that we would be pleased if you let Running Bear win?”
Zeb could hardly speak. “What do you mean?” he croaked.
The old man pointed down the field toward the goalposts, “Why didn’t you continue after your horse fell?”
That was a question he could answer. “I have been taught, sir, to take care of the horse, to be sure it is all right, to give it a little time to recover before mounting again. It could have pulled a tendon or broken a bone. Better to lose a few minutes. The horse is always more important than the race.”
The Alikchi looked at Zeb a long time, as if weighing what he was saying. Finally he nodded. “Everything the Choctaw brave does with horses,” he said, “he does with the knowledge that we have many horses. We breed them.”
He gestured toward the six horses. “These horses are of little importance to us except as food. We save them for these races and then we let the children play with them. In a contest, a brave must never give up. If his horse falls, he gets back on. If it is hurt, he tries to ride it anyway. If the animal cannot go on, the brave must finish the race on another horse. The horse is not important. Winning the contest is.”
The old man ran his eyes over the six contestants. “Running Bear and all the rest of us want to be sure that you were not giving away the race for some reason.”
“I would never do that, sir. I love to win.”
The Alikchi smiled. He seemed to be relieved. “Brave Horse,” he said, “you gentle the horse like a Choctaw. In many ways, you ride like a Choctaw brave. I am happy that you are an honorary member of the Choctaw Nation.”
The old man turned to Running Bear, speaking in Choctaw. Nashoba stood next to Zeb, translating what the old man was saying. “Running Bear, you have won the race! The Council of Chiefs will decide tonight if you will become the leading brave of the district.” He put a long leather thong around Running Bear’s neck. Tied to the thong were dozens of long hairs from a horse’s tail.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Kapucha
Hannah and Nashoba were standing behind the Alikchi. Hannah held Zeb’s clothes in a tight, neat bundle under her arm. She was smiling. Zeb had the feeling that the race was as important to her as it was to him. He suddenly remembered that he was standing there practically naked, wearing only the loincloth and the big belt.
He was still holding on to the leather thongs of the horse. He held them out. “Sir?” he asked. “What shall I do with the horse?”
The Alikchi shrugged his shoulders. “Whatever you like,” he said. “It is your horse. The riders who finish the race get to keep their horses.”
“But, sir!” Zeb said. “I can’t take your horse.”
The Alikchi frowned. “Why not?” he asked. “We have plenty of horses. If you want the horse, it is yours.”
Zeb reached up and stroked the sweat-streaked horse. “Well,” he said to the horse, “what do you think of that? You’re my horse. I told you I wanted a horse like you. Think I’ll call you Kapucha.”
The Alikchi stared at Zeb. “Are you sure you are not part Choctaw?” he said.
Zeb grinned. “I am now, sir.”
They were interrupted by the pounding of another drum, a hollow log with a piece of deerskin stretched across the opening. Hannah grabbed his hand, pulling him toward the sound. “C’mon,” she said, “you still have time to join the Eagle Dance.”
Zeb remembered the look on her face earlier when she had suggested that he might want to participate. He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I think I’ll just watch.”
They sat on the grass, he and Nashoba still in their loincloths. It was cooler now that the sun was going down. Hannah sat between them. For the first time since he had met Hannah, she seemed to be really happy.
Four groups of four men each approached the center of the field. They wore only loincloths and headdresses made of eagle feathers. Their bodies were covered with white clay. Each man carried an eagle feather.
The leading man of each group pushed a spear into the ground. Then, at the beat of the drum, each of the leading men began to dance, squatting down as low as possible and then leaping into the air. They hopped and then squatted and jumped again. When one of them became exhausted, he went to the end of his group’s line, and the next man performed the same series of squats, jumps, and hops.
“I’m glad they didn’t invite me to join in,” Zeb shouted over the noise.
Nashoba stood up and started walking toward the council house. He laughed. “Don’t worry,” he called over his shoulder. “Only certain braves are selected to perform the Eagle Dance. It takes a lot of practice and incredible stamina.”
Zeb turned and looked down at Hannah. She was smiling.
It was almost dark. Zeb could smell meat cooking. He looked toward the council house. Spirals of smoke rose from several cooking fires. He stood up. “C’mon,” he said to Hannah, “I’m starving!”
Hannah got to her feet in one graceful motion. “In the Choctaw Village,” she said, “the women serve the men, especially during the annual games. It would not be right for you to go to the cook fires and serve yourself. Just sit here for a few more minutes. I’ll bring you some food.”
She put his bundle of clothes on the ground and moved toward the cook fires.
He decided to change into his shirt and pants just the way everyone else did. He took off the loincloth and slipped on his pants. No one seemed to pay any attention to him. The dust in the air had mixed with the sweat on his body, creating rivulets of brown mud running down his chest and legs.
He was pulling his shirt over his head when he noticed a young girl in a beautiful Choctaw dress walking slowly toward him. She had the erect posture and smooth movement of the women Zeb had seen who were used to carrying heavy loads on their heads.
She wore a long deerskin dress which hardly moved as she strode. The upper part of the dress had a high neck, and around her waist she wore a wide belt made of thousands of tiny beads. A shawl covered her head. She carried a drinking gourd in one hand and a large piece of venison on a stick in the other. As she got closer, Zeb just stared at her. It was Hannah!
He couldn’t take his eyes off her. What a change from her ragged clothes! She offered him the gourd. He thanked her for the drink and put it to his lips. Sweet and rich, it tasted like ground-up corn and honey.
Now that the men had all been fed, the women were beginning to serve themselves. Hannah sighed. “At last,” she said. “I’m starved.” She handed him the meat and hurried back to the cook fires.
Zeb leaned back on his elbows. This is a lot like a church picnic in Franklin, he thought. The women prepare all of the food. They serve everyone else, and then they have a chance to eat.
After the meal, the older men sat together talking in low voices. As the stars began to show, a stillness settled over the scattered groups. The boisterous noise that was part of the games and the horse racing was replaced now by a quiet, low murmur, broken only by occasional squeals from the very young children still chasing each other.
He would have to be on his way tomorrow. He knew that Hannah wanted to go with him, but she was so safe and happy here. It would be even more risky for her to travel with him now. Not only were McPhee’s men somewhere on the road, but the sergeant was after him, too.
He looked up as Nashoba sat down next to him. “I hope,” Nashoba said, “that you and Hannah can stay a few days.”
“Won’t be any time for that. I really have to leave tomorrow. I want to talk with you about maybe leaving Hannah here, she—”
Nashoba held up his hand. “Wait,” he said. “I have a lot to tell you.”
“But the trip will be dangerous. She can go back with—”
<
br /> “I’ve already talked with her. I don’t think that anything will convince her to stay. She hasn’t seen her parents in more than six months. They think she’s dead.”
“I figured she’d feel that way,” Zeb said. “But it will be a little slower with Kapucha, and it will be harder now to hide than it has been—”
Nashoba interrupted again. “I have decided to go with you,” he said. “I know that trail very well. We’ll travel to Washington the way the Choctaw do. We use the Natchez Road only when we have to. No one ever sees us.”
“But I will want to stop at each stand to see if they have seen my grampa. He might be going north as I am going south.”
“We can easily do that.”
“There will be three of us then, with four horses.”
“The Miko has agreed to let us have all of the grain we can carry and all of the food we want as well. If you can get Kapucha to work as a packhorse, we can carry enough to feed ourselves and the horses for the whole trip.”
“Kapucha isn’t even broken in. There’s a lot of work still to be done.”
“I know. I know. You could ride him a bit more this evening, and then if we stayed a couple more days and the two of us worked with him, maybe….”
Zeb thought about it. Will it be possible to have Kapucha ready in just a couple of days? That will delay my search for Grampa. But with the grain, the horses will have more energy than if they depend solely on grass. We might be able to go a few more miles each day. And riding with Nashoba on the Choctaw trails, we’ll have a much better chance to get to Natchez safely.
“All right,” Zeb said, “let’s give it a try. We’ll get Hannah to work with us. She’s great with horses.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Homecoming
A week later, when it was almost too dark to ride, they saw the welcoming lights in the windows of the last stand on the Natchez Road, Mount Locust Inn. Zeb knew that this was a place where his grampa never failed to stay when traveling to or from Natchez.
After they set up camp in the deep woods, Zeb rode in alone to speak to the innkeeper. With its smooth, squared-off logs, glass windows, and long porch across the front, the inn looked like the home of a well-to-do farmer. A horse and buggy stood nearby.
Zeb slipped off Christmas and approached the porch stairs just as two men came out of the building. They were wearing city clothes—knee britches with high boots and a waistcoat over a white shirt. One man had on a hat with a tall crown.
Both men turned and stared down at Zeb. “Sorry, son,” the innkeeper said. “Got no room, but I can feed ya in about an hour.” The man with the tall hat turned to the innkeeper. “I must be on my way,” he said. “I have an important meeting in Natchez.” The innkeeper looked down at Zeb again. “I told you it’d be an hour till the meal is served. You can wait out back.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but I’m looking for my grampa,” Zeb said quickly, before the innkeeper could speak again. “His name is Daniel Ryan. He always stays here. I thought you might have seen him.”
The man in the tall hat seemed startled.
“Your grampa’s Cracker Ryan?” asked the innkeeper. “Well, I reckon you do look a bit like him, with all that hair. But I ain’t seen him in maybe three months.”
Zeb sighed and mumbled his thanks. Discouraged, he mounted Christmas. As the innkeeper went back into the inn, the man with the tall hat climbed up into his buggy and motioned to Zeb. Curious, Zeb walked his horse over to the buggy. The man turned in the seat and said to Zeb in a low voice, “Tell me the name of your uncle in Franklin.”
“Why, his … his name is Ira Hamilton, sir,” Zeb stammered. “But why—how do you—”
The man put up his hand. “I don’t have time to explain right now. But here is what you must do. Go down to the docks at Natchez Under-the-Hill when the cotton buyer is in town. Look for a bald man driving a big cotton wagon pulled by four draft horses. He knows where Dan Ryan is. You mustn’t tell anyone, and I mean anyone, what I have told you, or you may put his life in danger.”
“But Grampa’s alive? You’ve seen him?”
The mysterious man looked Zeb straight in the eye. “Be very careful down at Natchez Under-the-Hill,” he said. “It’s the most dangerous place on the Mississippi.” He snapped the reins and steered the horse onto the road toward Natchez.
Zeb watched as the buggy disappeared behind a clump of trees. He clenched his eyes shut. Grampa’s alive! I knew it! So happy he could hardly contain himself, he urged Christmas back up the trail and turned into the woods, weaving his way through the trees. Grampa’s alive! Grampa’s alive!
I wish I could tell Hannah and Nashoba, he thought. But I don’t even know who that man was or what he was up to. Maybe I’d better wait.
“Any word of your grampa?” Hannah asked as soon as Zeb rode into camp.
“No,” he said, turning his head away. “The innkeeper said he hadn’t seen him for months.”
Zeb didn’t sleep much that night. Before dawn he already had Kapucha loaded with the packs and Christmas saddled and ready to go. He wanted to take Hannah home as he had promised and then head straight for Natchez Under-the-Hill. He had to find his grampa before McPhee’s men did.
When Hannah awakened and saw Zeb, she jumped up and shook out her blanket. “I’m sorry, Zeb,” she said. “I should have been up early like you. I know how much you want to get to Natchez.”
After a quick breakfast, the three travelers set out before the sun came up. When the Natchez Road broke out of the forest, Nashoba was in the lead, his horse in an easy canter. Hannah was just behind him. They were riding on an open road just north of Washington. On their right, they could see the red brick buildings of Jefferson College glowing brightly in the morning sun. Live oak and magnolias stood in rows in a wide meadow.
Nashoba slowed gradually to a walk and then halted in front of the gate. Hannah slowed until Zeb could catch up. Kapucha followed on-lead carrying the heavy packs.
Nashoba swung his arm in a gesture that took in the whole campus. “This is the college I was telling you about, Zeb. I’ll stop here and find out what I can.”
Hannah started to turn Harlequin back down the road. “I’m less than an hour from home, Nashoba. I can’t stop now, even for a minute. You two stay if you want.”
Zeb tightened the lead on Kapucha and steered Christmas down the road after Hannah. “Thanks for all your help, Nashoba,” he called over his shoulder. “I’m going on with Hannah. Soon as I have a place to leave Kapucha, I’ll go looking for my grampa.”
Nashoba nodded and waved his hand. “Go on ahead,” he said. “I’ll try to get to Hannah’s house before you leave.” He waved again and cantered the horse through the open gate.
This stretch of the road had no shade at all. Zeb began to appreciate the dark forest. Hannah kept pointing to familiar things and yelling over her shoulder. Zeb couldn’t hear what she was saying, but he could hear the joy in her voice.
They turned down a long dirt road. Live oaks lined both sides, providing a welcome canopy of cool shade over their heads. Spanish moss draped from the trees.
On both sides of the road, cotton fields stretched as far as they could see, the plants white and heavy with cotton, ready to be picked. Black people pulled long bags between the rows, picking the balls of cotton and stuffing them into the bags. It looked just like the fields in Tennessee except that there were many more slaves here. The farms in the Natchez area were huge. Hannah said the people here called them plantations.
Zeb could see the town of Washington ahead. They passed several houses on both sides of the street, homes a lot like those in Franklin.
On both sides of the road, cotton fields stretched as far as they could see.
Hannah pulled up in front of a small, white house and jumped off Harlequin. She opened the gate and led the horse into the side yard, waving impatiently for Zeb to follow. Zeb slipped off Christmas, took Harlequin’s reins, and led the thre
e horses into the yard.
Hannah closed the gate behind them. She looked up at the side of the house and stood on her tiptoes trying to look into the open windows. White curtains moved in the gentle breeze, but it was dark and quiet inside.
Hannah ran around the house to the back porch. Zeb followed, leading the horses. Suddenly Hannah stopped, looking back at Zeb. She seemed unsure of herself, almost frightened.
She walked quietly up the steps and looked in the open windows, first on one side and then on the other. She bent down and peered through the curtains, shading her eyes with her hands. Something she saw inside seemed to overcome her fears. She ran back along the porch and pounded on the door.
Zeb could hear someone calling from inside. “All right! All right! I’m coming. I’ve told you not to pound the door like that! The doctor don’t like it.”
Hannah ran back and stood with Zeb in the yard, her fingers digging into his arm. A large black woman dressed in a faded cotton dress with a white apron jerked open the door. She looked surprised to see Hannah and Zeb in the backyard with the horses. She stepped out onto the porch and stood with her hands on her hips, looking down at them. “What do you boys want?” she shouted. “What are you doing back here?”
Then the woman paused, a puzzled look on her face. She walked slowly down the steps and out onto the neatly swept yard until she was a few feet away from Hannah.
Zeb could feel Hannah trembling. She looked up at the woman’s face. Suddenly the woman screamed. “It’s Miz Hannah! Miz Hannah’s come home!”
She reached out her arms, and Hannah lunged into her hug. Zeb heard a woman from inside the house, calling in a loud whisper, “Sarah! What is going on out there? What is all that racket? You know that Dr. McAllister isn’t well.”
When she came to the door, Zeb knew that she had to be Hannah’s mother: a beautiful woman with light tan skin and large black eyes. The woman was wearing an ordinary cotton dress, but her hair was braided in the Choctaw way.
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