Fear No Evil

by John Gordon Davis

  She wanted to spread her hands in appeal and cry it out loud; but she only whispered, ‘They’re coming for you, Davey. For all of you. For God’s sake, Davey, I’ve seen the hunters. I’ve seen the type of brutes they are. At Devils Fork and in Erwin … And what about those other men who descended at Devils Fork? O God!’ She stared at him, tear stained. ‘Where do you think they are now? How long before they come back? …’

  thirty-eight

  Dawn spread across the mountainous treetopped horizon, making silhouettes of the animals shuffling along the high Appalachian Trail. And coming in the opposite direction were the silhouettes of two men.

  Both carried bedrolls and knapsacks. The first was about fifty years old, gray haired, with hooded eyes in a square, intelligent face, and he strode along the trail with the confidence of a man in his own element. His name was Thomas Underwood, and he was partly Indian. Down in the pretty little Indian town of Cherokee he owned a prosperous store called The Medicine Man.

  The man behind him was almost seventy years old, but he too walked easily along the high rough trail. He was tall and carried himself with dignity. He had a hooked nose, and the skin was stretched tight across his broad-boned face; his eyes were wise. His name was Nathaniel Owle, and he was the elected chief of the Eastern Cherokees.

  Davey Jordan and Tom Underwood each lengthened their stride when they saw each other, and they hugged when they met.

  ‘There he is,’ Tom Underwood was beaming. ‘There you are, Davey!’

  The sun was tinging the bulbous clouds, shafting between the mountaintops down into the misty valley. A little fire had been built in the middle of the trail on the ridge of the Great Smoky Mountains, a tin can simmered. A hundred yards away the animals rested in a long ragged line, and Elizabeth sat beyond them. The four men were cross-legged around the small fire. They were waiting for Chief Owle to speak.

  When he did, it was with a slow judicial clarity and the dignity of a wise man who was accustomed to being listened to. He spoke in English.

  ‘I would prefer to speak in Cherokee—not because it’s more expressive, but because of the remarkable occasion. After all, it is the language of these mountains. Not enough of our people speak it today. Nor even know the alphabet that Sequoyah gave us. This is a grave pity. Our language is about the only heritage left to us.’ He paused a long moment, then said regretfully, ‘We have taken the white man’s ways as thoroughly as he took our lands—and our lives, and finally our dignity.’ He paused. ‘It’s important to recall these things this morning, when considering this remarkable request. I am not harking back unnecessarily when I repeat, The white man stole our lands and our lives. And finally our dignity as well.’

  He stared out over the cloud tops. After a moment he went on. ‘But history is written. Four thousand of our people died on that dreadful Trail of Tears. Only a handful of our grandparents managed to hide so deep in these mountains that the troops could not find them. Only that little tract of land down there is what remains to us of our vast domain.’ He turned his head and looked at them. ‘And this, my friends, was only yesterday: only in my grandfather’s day. Yet all across this mighty land of America, there are white men who owe their wealth to their inheritance from their fathers, and from their fathers’ fathers, and even fron their fathers before them. The right of ownership is sacred under American laws; why is it that they did not apply the same sacred laws to us? I find this very puzzling.’

  No one moved.

  ‘So, now I am chief over a handful of people who have no birthrights as white Americans do, as do members of every other race of man who has been allowed under American laws to descend upon our shores and seek their fortunes, and to pass those fortunes on to their sons, since the days of the Pilgrim fathers. A tiny nation of store owners is what we have become. We cannot enter our own mountains except as tourists. And now, to my astonishment, a white man has come to us, bringing magnificent animals—but as a fugitive from the very American laws that stole our land, that impoverished us … that made us fugitives in our own mountains. And you ask me for help.’

  He turned slowly to Davey, and for an instant a twinkle entered his eye.

  ‘You’re a clever man, Davey Jordan. I remember you, better than you remember me, I’m sure. I remember you as a boy, riding that pony of yours over from Bryson to Cherokee, barefoot and without even a bridle. We all marveled at that, how you could control a pony without even a bridle. It used to follow you around like a dog when you dismounted at Charlie Buffalohorn’s house. And that pony used to gallop like the wind. You were asked how you did it, and you said that the pony was your friend. You always had a dozen dogs following you.

  ‘And I remember the way you could handle snakes, and birds.’ He smiled. ‘Once there was a black bear kept in a cage for the tourists to see, you remember?’ His old eyes twinkled again. ‘So one night you and Charlie snipped the wires and let it free. And there was a great deal of trouble, and you finally had to pay twenty-five dollars compensation to old Eberhard Ross for his bear, plus you had to ride your pony bareback and bridleless in front of his store every weekend for a whole summer to attract the tourists. We all thought you were a funny boy, but then your father was Birdie Jordan, and we said, “like father, like son.” We said he had the gift of tongues of the animals.’ He smiled. ‘We had a joke about your family, in Cherokee: One day your mother complained to your father about the smell all the animals caused in her house. Your father said, “Why don’t you open the windows?” And your mother replied. “What? And let all those birds come in?”’

  All four men smiled, and Davey felt his eyes burn, remembering his father.

  ‘So you have inherited your father’s gifts. And more. But that is not why I say you are clever.’ He paused and looked at him. ‘You are clever because you did not come to me first, before you stole these animals, to ask for my help. If you had, I would have thought that you were crazy, and told you so. I would not have believed that you could do it, anyway. And as a chief, I would have told you not to break the law … Instead you told only Tom Underwood, knowing what a trouble-shooter he is, a born daredevil and woodsman from way back who would gleefully plead your cause.’ He smiled. ‘And he has done so, with great eloquence. He has got the whole of Cherokee on your side—as Eric Bradman seems to have got half of America on your side. You seem to have captured the heart of the world.’ He looked at him, with amusement. ‘Now you have presented me with this extraordinary feat before you ask for help.’

  He paused. They waited.

  ‘You have asked for men, to help you foil the government’s attempts at recapturing these animals.’ He looked out over the mountains. ‘I cannot do this for you, Davey.’

  They all stared at him. He turned slowly back to Davey.

  ‘As chief of the Eastern Cherokee Nation I cannot be an accomplice to your crime. I must abide by the laws. Nor do I have a mandate from our Council of Representatives to help you.’ He looked at him wisely. ‘That is the chief of the Eastern Cherokees speaking. Remember I said that.’

  Davey nodded earnestly.

  ‘But as Nathaniel Owle, store keeper in Cherokee, I say this: you shall have all the help I can muster as an individual.’

  A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. The others were smiling widely.

  ‘And, as chief, I promise you this: I shall raise my voice loud. I shall go myself to Washington, if necessary, to plead with the president to let those animals, be … to re-create, in this small corner of the world, something of the glorious freedom that these magnificent mountains used to have.’ He paused, then shook his head. ‘It would be a wonderful symbol! A gesture … of generosity of spirit. Of compassion. Of human kindness. I think it would be wonderful to have these animals living in our mountains. And in some way it would partially compensate us for the rights we were denied. …’

  part nine

  thirty-nine

  The British Airways terminal at John F. Kennedy airport was
jammed with thousands of people. Journalists and television men from all over the world had come to witness the arrival of Stephen Leigh-Forsythe from Africa. Crowds overflowed onto the sidewalk and the road; there was chanting and singing; a roar of voices and a mass of placards bobbed above the heads. The atmosphere was electric with a kind of derisive festivity.

  People seemed divided into two main camps: the antizooers who were hostile to the man coming from Africa, and the other camp equally hostile to them. Both sides carried posters—‘Zoos are Concentration Camps,’ ‘Put the People in the Zoos,’ ‘God, not Man, made the World,’ ‘Davey Jordan the Liberator’; and ‘Releasing Zoo Animals is Cruel,’ ‘Everything in its Proper Place,’ ‘Davey Jordan is a Monster,’ ‘People and Animals Make Bad Bedfellows,’ and even ‘God gave Man Dominion over the Animals, Genesis, Chapter One.’

  These two public tempers had spread across America. Street demonstrations had spread like a rash: outside zoos; outside pet shops that sold imported animals; outside animal dealers’ offices, hunting-equipment stores; outside offices of magazines such as Fur Age Weekly, Shooting Times, and Field & Stream; and particularly outside stores that sold furs. Indeed, a fur fashion parade held at Saks had been interrupted by egg-throwing demonstrators, and as a consequence another show was canceled at Bloomingdale’s. Bricks were thrown through the windows of the two largest furriers in New York. In Washington there had been renewed demonstrations outside the Japanese and Russian embassies, protesting against their whaling, and outside the Canadian and Norwegian embassies, protesting their annual slaughter of seal pups.

  There were guitars, and singing swelled through the crowded concourse of JFK, and the rhythmic clapping of hands to a new popular ballad called ‘The Great Free Smoky Mountains.’

  Stephen Leigh-Forsythe came into the crowded VIP lounge where Professor Jonas Ford was waiting for him, and a barrage of cameras flashed.

  Whatever the newsmen had been expecting they were surprised. For instead of a Stewart Granger figure in a leopard-skin banded hat, or perhaps a hard-bitten John Wayne type, they saw a fresh-faced man in his mid-thirties, with unruly blond hair. His face was tanned, but not etched with signs of a rugged life. It was almost boyish. Altogether he looked disarmingly charming. He was slightly above average height, dressed in a neat but functional khaki safari suit. He did indeed have a leopard-skin banded hat, but he carried it politely and it looked functional and well-worn. He was followed by four Africans in their best go-to-town clothes. Beside Forsythe walked a portly, gray-haired American in a sober business suit, who had obviously taken control. The press were held back a few yards by a rope cordon.

  ‘Professor Ford? How do you do?’ He grasped the bewildered Ford’s hand. ‘I’m Marvin Isaacs of the Trans-Continental Literary Agency here in New York, and I represent Mr. Stephen Leigh-Forsythe. Mr. Forsythe, this is Professor Jonas Ford.’

  Forsythe shook hands with an open smile. ‘How do you do?’ Ford shoved his glasses up on his nose.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand. Why does Mr. Forsythe have a literary agent?’

  ‘I flew out to Kenya to offer Mr. Forsythe my services,’ Isaacs explained. ‘I will be negotiating all his literary, film, television and related contracts arising out of his agreement with the government to recapture these animals …’

  Ford was astonished. ‘Now look here,’ he began, ‘we’re not turning this thing into a circus …’

  ‘Of course not,’ Forsythe said quietly.

  ‘Of course not,’ Isaacs confirmed soothingly. ‘But Mr. Forsythe is perfectly entitled to write a book afterwards, and I have persuaded him to do so.’

  Ford was incredulous.

  ‘Now look here! I’ll have you know that I’ve been approached by half a dozen newspapers and publishers, offering me large sums of money to write books and stories about this—and I’ve sent them all packing! I refused to profiteer in this tragedy. And I’m damned if I’ll let you turn it into some kind of Hollywood spectacular …’

  ‘After the operation is finished,’ Marvin Isaacs broke in, ‘my client is perfectly entitled to write a perfectly honest historical account, Professor Ford. Afterwards …’

  Ford glared at Isaacs. Forsythe looked above the dispute, but he was embarrassed.

  ‘Well,’ Ford said gruffly, ‘until then he has a very important and demanding job to do—for which he is being exceedingly well paid.’

  ‘And quite properly so,’ Marvin Isaacs said coolly.

  ‘Well …’ Ford cleared his throat. ‘Welcome to America. Let’s get out of here. We’ve got a conference with the wildlife department tonight. After that we fly straight on to the Smokies. I’ve already set up a camp on the edge of the mountains. I want to start work first thing tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I would like,’ Forsythe said quietly, ‘a decent night’s sleep. So would my men.’

  Ford blinked. ‘All right,’ he conceded. ‘Of course. We’ll get the briefing with the wildlife people over with straight away.’ He switched subject. ‘Can you tell us how many helicopters you’ll want?’

  ‘Helicopters?’ Forsythe smiled. ‘One. Just for lifting.’

  ‘Very well. We’ve arranged for three.’

  ‘Send the others back.’

  ‘Anything else? Guns, for instance?’

  ‘I’ve brought my own.’

  ‘Very well.’ Ford patted his hip pocket. ‘Let’s go …’

  ‘May I introduce you to my men?’ Forsythe suggested.

  ‘Can that wait? All these damn press people here …’ He glanced at his watch.

  Forsythe said quietly, ‘My men would appreciate it. Professor. They’re rather formal with strangers, and they’ve come a long way.’

  Ford cleared his throat again.

  ‘Of course. How do you do?’ He nodded at the black men.

  Forsythe turned and spoke in Swahili. The first African came forward, beaming shyly.

  ‘Jambo, America.’

  The cameras flashed.

  ‘He says, “Greetings, America.”’ Forsythe was determined to take his time. He spoke Swahili again, and the African beamed shyly. ‘My name is Ben-i Majuju. I am-i the chief tracker.’

  ‘Ben Majuju is one of the best trackers in the world, in my opinion, Professor. He has eyes like the proverbial eagle, and he can smell animals long before he sees them.’

  ‘How do you do?’ Ford said. Another African stepped forward grinning from ear to ear. ‘This is Mr. Mpondo, or Sixpence. He is also a first-class tracker. He is a “Flanker,” which means that he is a sharp-shooter—he walks on my flank, to protect us from ambush by dangerous animals.’

  ‘How do you do?’ Ford said again.

  The third African stepped forward. He was six feet and eight inches tall, and he was unsmiling. He spoke in Swahili and Forsythe translated: ‘“Jambo. I do not speak English. My name is Samson. I am a flanker too. I am Maasai.”’ Samson nodded curtly, then stepped backward. Forsythe explained. ‘The Maasai are a nation of cattle herders and warriors. A Maasai boy has to kill a Hon, with a spear, single-handed, before he is elevated into manhood.’ Marvin Isaacs whispered something; Forsythe nodded and said, ‘Samson has killed seven lions with a spear.’

  ‘How do you do?’

  There was a murmur from the reporters who heard. The last African stepped up to Ford. He was tubby, round-faced and beaming.

  ‘Jambo! My name is-i Gasoline Ndhlovu. I am-i the cooker-boy, but-i I can also do everything-i.’ He burst into giggles.

  Forsythe grinned. ‘Gasoline can do everybody else’s job, too, Professor. But an army marches on its stomach and a good cook’s important.’

  ‘How do you do?’ Ford was becoming impatient. ‘Well, let’s go, we’ve lots to do …’

  ‘Professor,’ Isaacs said, ‘I think that the ladies and gentlemen of the press would like to meet Mr. Forsythe …’

  Ford glared at him and touched his glasses irritably.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘there�
��re plenty of pressmen down in Cherokee, if that’s what you want, too damn many for my liking!’ He tapped his watch. ‘This is the taxpayers’ money we’re spending …’

  Then I think,’ Isaacs said firmly, ‘that the taxpayer would like to see the man they’re getting for their money.’

  forty

  Sheriff Lonnogan did keep his county clean, as his election posters said. The out-of-town rowdies passed through pretty damn quick, and if they stopped for longer than it takes to fill up with gas they had Sheriff Lonnogan chewing gum in their ears. The sheriff had a favorite line for them, which was also one of his election slogans: ‘Man hunting is the best sport I know.’

  Which had not sounded too good when they had unmanacled him on the banks of the river. Sheriff Lonnogan had been shaking with outrage when he met the folks of Hawkstown in his office. ‘I had them all trapped right there in the river, cut off on both sides, under the gun!—Which is a hell of a lot more than Professor Ford with the whole goddamn national guard ever managed to do, ain’t it? And I could have shot that injun in the leg for resistin’ lawful arrest, but I ain’t no cold-blooded gunslinger. And then he attacks me,.and still I would’ve got him, except that sumbitch Jordan comes sneakin’ up and clubs me from behind. That can happen to anybody. I ain’t got eyes at the back of my head!’

  The local newspapers printed it sympathetically, but there had been a lot of sniggering. Worst of all had been Eric Bradman’s television footage of the episode: the famous Bradman, tongue in cheek, earnestly questioning the sheriff who was uncomfortably lashed back-to-back with his fat son while somebody laboriously cut through his handcuffs with a hacksaw. And now, to add insult to injury, he had to watch Stephen Leigh-Forsythe on television. Lonnogan sat in silence with a face like thunder while his posse heckled the screen.

  ‘Whatya mean, everybody got to keep out the Smokies?’ Jeb Wiggins demanded. ‘Who the hell is this guy? Is he a duly-sworn law-enforcement officer? Has he suddenly been sworn-in as a deputy?’