Jubal Sackett (1985) s-4

by Louis L'Amour

  My knife was ready, gripped in my right hand. He was lying parallel to me, and to stab he must rise up and strike with his right hand. I had known perhaps a thousand Indians and none had been left-handed. When he raised up to strike I would stab him, and it would be only an instant before he was aware of me.

  He must have been a young Indian with not too many warpaths behind him, for he had eyes only for his chosen point of attack. He raised up to his knees, spear poised to throw into my heaped-up blankets. My blade cut sharply back and up, the point going in below the middle of his rib cage, driving to the hilt.

  His eyes met mine in a moment of awful awareness. His spear was thrown as he took the blade. He realized death in that instant and I put my hand against his shoulder and drew back my knife. He started to cry out, but could not. His hand went back for a tomahawk at his belt but there was no strength in his fingers. He fell forward, made an effort to rise, then moved no more.

  The fire blazed up from a handful of leaves and sticks thrown upon it. An Indian lay dead near the fire. Nothing else moved. Wind stirred the leaves again, and the blaze dipped in obedience to the moving air. And then there was a long silence, while the fire crackled.

  A hand reached from the brush toward the fallen Indian's foot, but before I could rise to bring my bow into position an arrow drove through the air. The hand tightened convulsively into a fist and was withdrawn. And that was all.

  When morning came the two dead Indians lay where they had fallen. The warrior who had taken Keokotah's arrow was gone, the arrow with him.

  He looked at my Indian with approval and then gestured at the scalp. "You no want?"

  "No. It is not my custom."

  He did not hesitate, but took the scalp for himself as he had the other.

  "What if they come again?"

  "Their medicine bad. They go home now. He"--Keokotah indicated the Indian he had killed--"was chief. He dead. He medicine no good. Maybe pick another chief, maybe stay home. Two men die, medicine no good."

  "How many were there, I wonder?"

  He shrugged. "Maybe six, maybe eight. No more."

  They were of a tribe strange to us both, but there were many such, some even now disappearing. There were Indians my father had met when first he landed in Carolina who were no more. Wars with other tribes, diseases ... who knew what had happened to them?

  Keokotah stooped and cut the string that held a medallion on the Indian's throat. He held it out to me.

  It was a Roman coin. A silver coin of about the size of a nine-penny piece, dated in the third year of Antoninus Pius. The date and other inscriptions were much worn, so that I could not be sure but I figured the date to be about 137 after Christ.

  This was not the first Roman coin we Sacketts had come upon, for once before an Indian had traded us another coin dated only a few years earlier than the one I now had. The dates of both were close enough that they could have been carried by one man or one group of men.

  The coin did not surprise me. For every documented voyage there must have been a thousand of which no record was kept. What reason had the average ship's master or merchant for keeping records, especially when they might betray his sources of raw material or trade?

  Our travel was no longer swift, for if my people were to relocate so far from known sources of material they must find new sources. They would have to make their own gunpowder, which we had done for much of the time, but they would need lead, also, or copper, from which we had occasionally made bullets.

  Keokotah was sullen. He spoke little and I began to realize he did not wish to go to the cave. Moreover, when he did speak he often spoke of his own village, and I realized I might lose my companion. His own village lay not many days travel away to the north, and he had long been gone.

  At night I now built a small, separate fire, and over this I muttered prayers and recited doggerel learned from my parents. To Keokotah I was making medicine, preparing for entering the cave of the shadows. All this was pure mumbo-jumbo but I liked Keokotah and did not wish him to believe I made light of his fears. "Bad," I said to him, "much bad! Bad spirits!"

  The cave lay on the south side of a large river, but nearer a branch of that river which forked. He led the way, but he walked slower and slower.

  One night in a camp on a shelf above the river I said to him, "Keokotah, your home is near. If you go to the Far Seeing Lands with me it will be long before you again see your village."

  I had all his attention. "You could visit your village and meet me in the western lands." I took up a stick and in the clay I drew a line. "Here is the Great River, running north to south. Here," I drew a line joining it from the west, "is another river. It is almost due west from here toward the setting sun. Perhaps a little south? You could meet me there. I will return to the canoe, and will go to the Great River and then to this river.

  "It has been told me that this river," I indicated the one flowing into the Great River from the west, "flows down from the Shining Mountains. That river I shall follow westward.

  "It is also," I added, "the way Itchakomi was to go. If I am to find her I must seek signs of their passing."

  "The signs will be gone."

  "I do not think so. You see, Ni'kwana spoke to me alone. He told me of signs that were to be left for those to follow if Itchakomi did not return. I shall look for the signs."

  He hesitated for a long time and then he asked, "You do not want Keokotah with you when you face the spirits of the Shadow Cave?"

  "If he wishes," I said carefully, "but I think this is something my medicine is strong against. It is a trial for me." An inspiration came to me. "When you won your name, your totem, did you not go out alone to fast? To dream? So it is with me. The spirits tell me this I must face alone. It is for me. It is great danger for anyone else. If I come not to the place by the Great River you will know I have failed."

  Keokotah did not wish to leave me, but two things tugged at him: his desire to visit his village and his fear of the Shadow Cave.

  "I will go with you even though I fear," he said. "You are my friend."

  "My medicine will often protect all who are with me. In this case it will protect only me, I think. I must go into the cave alone.

  "Perhaps," I suggested, "you were sent to bring me this knowledge. Perhaps those who lie in the cave are my ancestors who have words for me. I do not fear the shadow things, for they know of me. I will go to them. Do you go to your village. In two moons you will meet me at the river of which I speak. I shall leave signs for you to follow."

  I held up the Roman coin. "This speaks to me across many years." I showed him the picture of the old man on one side and the young man on the other. "These were great chiefs long ago in a land far from here, but I know who they were and what deeds they did.

  "Those who lie in the cave may also have words for me. We shall see."

  We parted when the sun arose, and no more was said. Neither knew what lay between us and the river of which I spoke, but each knew he could find the other if he was there.

  I watched him go with sadness, for I have had few friends and did not know if I would have another.

  Now was my time of trial. I had said much to Keokotah because I desperately wished to see the cave where the bodies lay, but I had no faith in my charms against the shadow things. That was spoken for him, to put his fears for me at rest. I am no braver than any man, and the thought of entering the cave filled me with doubt and fear. Yet I am a curious man, and wherever I had gone I had had the feeling that I followed in the footsteps of others. This was a clue I could not, dare not, avoid. I must see, not only for myself but for that most sacred thing, the knowledge of others.

  In a world of many mysteries there are a few doors left slightly ajar for us to see. He who passes one of those doors may deny man knowledge precious to us. How long might men wait before another told of the cave? How many could know of it? The knowledge had been given to me. The mission was mine.

  If I could not sol
ve the mystery of those bodies I could at least report their existence.

  The opening of the cave was small, not easy to find, and such an opening as one might easily pass by, thinking it nothing at all.

  That night I made camp on a branch of a fork on the river. Tomorrow I would venture into the cave. Tomorrow...

  And when the morning came there were no stars, but only a flat black sky, and there was a smell of rain in the air. I broiled a piece of venison and ate slowly, making coffee from chicory. The wild plants grew along old buffalo trails and elsewhere. There were no blooms this early, but within a few weeks the bright blue flowers would be visible in many a corner and meadow.

  My fire burned low, a sullen flame that brought no cheer. I thought of the cave into which I was going and hesitated. Need I go? Why take the chance? I had never liked caves much, anyway. I gave myself excuses but none of them worked. The cave was there and I would see what it contained.

  When the fire was low and I had drunk the last of my chicory brew I gathered my few things together, put my fire out carefully, and made up my small pack. With my knife firmly in place and my guns ready, I took up my bow and started up the narrow, scarcely discernible path. Now for it, I told myself.

  Trees like black bars against the gray rock. Moss hanging, moss clinging. The track was slippery. If it rained I must be careful along here. Below there was a tangle of dead trees, trunks crossing trunks, all blown down by some violent gust long ago. It was a trap above which the track wound along. I could hear the water rustling by. Suddenly there was a crack in the limestone wall.

  Here it probably was then. I looked all around and saw nothing. A small flock of parakeets flew from one tree to another, in pursuit of some unseen food supply.

  The cave was not just as I had heard it was, but no matter. I had found it.

  Black and ominous. I gathered material for a torch but then thought of the candle I forever carried in my small pack. Such a candle can keep a man from freezing in a small space. I got it out, crouched low through the opening, and lighted it. I edged forward and then stood up.

  Before me was where Keokotah had built his fire. The remains of it as though it had just gone out. Some sticks lay close by to add to the fuel. The room was bare and clean, with nothing besides the fire and its ashes.

  My candlelight flickered on the walls but I saw no shadows but those that should be there ... or did I? I shook my head, angry with myself.

  Imagination! Was I a child to be frightened by ghosts? Or such a savage as Keokotah, who knew no better?

  Yet what did I know? Were there ghosts? Were there spirits? Who was I to say? All my life I had heard stories of such things. All my child's life I had been pleasurably frightened by such stories. We had longed for them and had begged my mother, or Lila, or Jeremy Ring to tell us such stories. Now they returned to haunt me.

  I looked at the small opening into the next room. Was that where the bodies lay, with their blue eyes watching? Were they dead? Were they even there? Or were they merely waiting, lying there, waiting for me to enter?

  Don't be a fool, I told myself. You're not a child. You are a man. You are not afraid of the dark or of shadows.

  What wasthat? Had something moved? Or was it some sound from outside? I drew my knife. What good was a knife against a ghost? Yet was this a ghost? What kind of creatures could they be? They were but bodies, and Keokotah had seen them.

  Carefully, I looked around again. I edged back toward the entrance hole and listened.

  Nothing.

  Again my eyes went to the walls. The candle cast few shadows, but against the limestone walls the candle gave much light. My eyes searched for shadows, not wanting to find them but not daring to miss them.

  The silent dead lay within that other room. They were the ones I had come to see.

  How long ago had Keokotah seen them? Suddenly I realized I did not know. Had it been just now? A few days ago? Or had it been months? Even years?

  I moved then, and something else moved. I was suddenly still, my heart pounding.Had something moved? Or was I dreaming? Had expectation created the sound? I took a step, and something else stepped.

  It was an echo, that was all. My footstep against these walls. How carefully clean it was! As if the floor had been swept, and not long since.

  My eyes went to the sticks left by Keokotah. They were neatly piled, and ready to be added to the fire, had there been a fire.

  But of course there had been. He had spoken of it, and the ashes were there. This was the fire that brought the shadows to life. Should I light it again? Should I make that experiment too?

  Ridiculous. I was not cold. I did not need a fire. Outside thunder rumbled. Maybe I would need a fire. It was going to rain.

  Well, it was warm and dry in here. I swallowed. It seemed warm, and that made no sense. Such caves were always cool, always almost cold. Had not I heard somewhere that caves kept an even, cool temperature?

  Regardless of that, this cave was warm. Almost as if there had been a fire.

  The hair on the back of my neck prickled and I felt my skin crawl. For a moment I looked at the gray, dead ashes. Suddenly, impelled by what impulse I know not, I bent over and touched the ashes with my fingers.

  They werewarm!

  Chapter Eight.

  I felt of them again. Soft, gray wood ashes but definitely warm.

  Well, why not? Was there anything so mysterious about that? I had come to the cave seeking an answer to a puzzle, but Keokotah had come seeking shelter, so why not others after him? And before?

  Again my eyes went to the entrance to the inner cave. I started forward and then stopped. There was a cobweb in the opening. Whoever had been using the cave had evidently not entered the inner cave at all.

  Brushing the cobweb away I ducked into the inner cave, holding my candle before me.

  The three bodies lay side by side, each wrapped in a neat cocoon of skins. They were very, very old skins and looked as if they might disintegrate at a touch. Two of the bodies were those of women, one obviously an old woman, one young. Their faces were shrunken, the skin on their hands and feet also. It was tight to the bone, but I could still tell that one had been much younger than the other. The third figure was that of a man who seemed to have been buried later than the first comers. His skin looked fresher, his face composed as though he had died in his sleep, yet his eyes were open and they seemed to be looking at me as if he were about to speak. I shuddered.

  Beside the first two bodies there was a woven basket containing grain. There was a jar nearby that had no doubt contained water or some other liquid.

  There were no weapons, nor was there any jewelry, yet I had a feeling that when the bodies had been left here there had been both.

  Slowly, I backed away, looking about me. This cave, too, was spotlessly clean. Obviously it had been swept. In vain I looked for some clue as to who these dead might have been or where they had come from. There was nothing, and I had no wish to examine the bodies. Far better to let them lie as they had for these many years.

  Years? Perhaps even centuries. The interior of the cave had a cool, almost cold temperature. It was dry. The warmth of the brief fire in the outer room did not seem to have penetrated here. I backed away, and the eyes seemed to follow me. At the opening, I paused, and something made me speak.

  "I shall leave you now, as you have been. Is there anything I can do?"

  No lips stirred, nor did the eyes blink. I shook my head. What was I expecting? Was I as superstitious as a child? Yet in the eyes of the young man there seemed to be a pleading, a longing, as of something unsatisfied.

  "I wish I could help," I said quietly.

  I crawled through the opening into the outer cave and gathered my few things. It was time to go. Yet I was slow in the gathering and felt reluctant to go.

  Suddenly a voice seemed to speak. "Find them!" it said. I turned sharply, my brow furrowed. Had I actually heard a voice? Or was it in my own mind?

 
; Find who?

  Itchakomi? Or was I to find someone else? Someone akin to those buried in the inner cave? Had someone spoken? Or had it been been imagination only? No matter. It was time to go.

  Slinging my pack and taking up my bow, I went out into the morning.

  For a moment I stood still, listening. Every sense alert for possible danger, for it was always nearby. I heard no sound, felt nothing, saw nothing but the quiet forest and the blue sky above.

  I moved out, found a trail, and began walking. As always I checked the trail to see what or who had passed. I found only the tracks of a deer and of birds and one place where a snake had crossed the path. I walked on into the morning. This was a new land for me, a land where few had been before me, and perhaps no white man after those in the cave back there.

  My mind worked on two levels, as always. One was alert for danger, aware of all my surroundings, missing nothing. The other was my own inner thoughts, and this morning I was puzzled about myself.

  Why had I chosen to come west? To explore new lands, I had told myself. To be the first to see, the first to experience. Yet was that all? I was uneasy with the explanation, feeling it was not enough. Was it not simply the desire to be on my own? To experience things for myself? Was I not escaping to myself?

  My father and older brothers had been complete and efficient men, grown so by the demands made upon them, so when living with them I had been content to follow, to accept their judgment, and to leave the responsibility to them. I was as capable as any of them, yet lived in their shadows. To go off by myself relieved me of that tendency to go along. It left all the decisions to me and the responsibilities to them.

  That might explain my actions in part, an effort to escape to myself.

  Yet there was something more. There was an unheard voice that was calling me westward, something beyond my father's urge to cross the far blue mountains. I did want, however, to see what lay beyond the Great River, beyond the Far Seeing Lands, beyond the Shining Mountains. Whatever else there was might be imagination or some strange communication from someone or something. I had no explanations for that. Sakim and I had often talked of that, and my father had spoken of it.