She was not late.
She had a small pack on her back when she came out. Then she stepped into her snows hoes, and without waiting for me to break trail, she started west.
There was no protest I could have made to which she might have listened. There was nothing to do but follow. Due west of us was a range of towering peaks, but we had no intention of attempting that range at this time of year. Following the small river, we bore off to the south. There was a great valley further west, but beyond our reach at this time of year.
After traveling for a short distance I moved up to break trail, and Itchakomi yielded her place. It was heavy snow, very deep in places, and fortunately, it covered many obstructions we might have had to climb over or go around. We traveled no more than eight miles that first day and found shelter under a huge old spruce tree whose branches swept the top of the snow and were themselves loaded with snow. Close to the trunk the ground was almost bare of snow, as the branches around made a natural shelter and kept out the wind. We built a small fire, and we made our beds of other spruce boughs, she on one side of the fire, I on the other.
She watched me check my guns. "What are they?" she asked.
"Weapons of fire," I explained. "Weapons of thunder. I shall use them rarely."
"They are beautiful!" she exclaimed, as they were. The Italian gunsmiths were superb artisans. It was not enough merely to make a weapon, but it must have beauty also. These were hand carved and inlaid. Yet it was my bow upon which I relied for hunting.
Our fire scarcely disturbed the cold about us, its heat lost before it reached the lowermost branches of the tree. We huddled close, enjoying the comfort of its looks more than the little heat. We chewed elk jerky and talked but little.
"Tomorrow?" she asked.
"Tomorrow we will be there, and tomorrow we will hunt. We need much meat."
She knew that as well as I. "You do not hunt for meat in England?"
"They hunt for sport."
"But they eat what they kill?"
"Oh, yes! And sometimes meat is distributed among the poor. Those who do not have enough to eat."
It was very still. Somewhere, far off, a lonely wolf complained to the night. Tomorrow we would descend into a valley no white man had seen, and probably few Indians. One thing had been obvious since leaving the Mississippi--this country was sparsely settled. The various tribes were for the most part small in numbers and widely scattered.
Long after Itchakomi lay asleep, I was awake and thinking. The last thing I wanted was to get involved with a woman. There was time for that later. For the time being I wished only to make our hunt, get what meat we could, and get back to our caves. When spring came Itchakomi would go her way and I mine.
She was a beautiful woman. That was beside the case. I had been thinking too long of wandering this country, being the first white man to see much of it, just to see it all myself for the first time. Fortunately, I told myself, Itchakomi felt the same way. We each had our private concerns. She was easy to talk to for that reason, and she had the same feeling of responsibility toward her people that I did.
At daybreak I was awake quickly. I stirred up the fire and without waiting for her to do so, prepared some food. We talked little. The fire warmed up our small space, but not enough to melt the snow around us.
The long valley that stretched away toward the southeast was scattered with meadows and cut by intervening patches of forest. The meadows were white with snow, the trees drooping under a heavy burden of it.
We went down the mountain in the cold of morning, making no sound in the soft white snow. We did not talk. Our eyes and ears were alert for game.
Almost at once we came upon deer tracks, a lot of them. Four or five deer had moved down the mountain ahead of us. The tracks were fresh, made that morning.
West of us several peaks towered against the sky, and the valley lay open before us. Pausing beside some trees we looked down. Far away, moving in single file, we saw a line of buffalo. As we watched they scattered out, pawing into the snow to get at the grass. Nearer there were several deer.
"Wait," I spoke softly, as our voices would carry in that still, cold air. "The buffalo!"
We went on down the valley. This morning, in this valley at least, it was not so cold. We moved down, always keeping a clump of trees between us and the buffalo. When within a few hundred yards we stopped to rest. There was a shallow draw that led along behind the buffalo, and feeding close were a couple of cows.
Scanning the hills around and searching along the clumps of trees I saw no movement. There was no smoke. We seemed to be alone.
After a bit we moved out, and when I was within forty yards of the nearest buffalo I decided to chance it.
The cow was young but of good size. I waited an instant and then loosed my arrow. The cow took a step forward and then stopped, evidently puzzled. My second arrow was ready and I let go. The arrow struck home and the buffalo started forward again and then crumpled. One of the other buffalo lifted a hind hoof to scratch its jaw, looking backward as it did so. A moment later the buffalo was feeding quietly. We moved in, the buffalo moving off a little, and then we went to work, skinning out the animal we had killed.
The other buffalo moved away down the valley. Only the wolves hung about, staying off some distance but drawn by the smell of blood. They sat in the snow watching us, occasionally trotting around and coming nearer, then retreating. They were black, ominous figures against the snow and under a cold gray sky.
It was cold, very cold. We worked steadily, standing up at intervals to look all about us. We had seen no sign of Indians here, but in spring and summer this valley must be a beautiful place.
A little further south a stream emerged from a canyon, flowing down from the high mountains to the west. The stream seemed to flow eastward across the mouth of the canyon, but we were some distance off, although higher.
Itchakomi might be a Sun, but she was also an Indian woman. She worked swiftly and skillfully, wasting no time, no movements. I glanced at the meat. "It is almost too much," I said, "and we have a long way to go."
The buffalo had stopped and were feeding again not more than two hundred yards away. Just ahead of them was a stand of thick brush and trees. By following down a small watercourse I could slip into that patch and perhaps make another kill.
I took up my bow and looked around at her. "Will you stay with the meat?"
"I will stay. Have care."
As I moved toward the wolves they trotted off, and I went past them and down the shallow ravine. It was very still. I plodded steadily on until I reached the grove that began along the shallow watercourse I followed. Working up into the brush, I moved with care to make no sound. The buffalo were finding dried grass beneath the snow, and only an old bull stood guard. I was downwind of him, so he did not catch my scent. Nevertheless, he was uneasy.
Had he smelled the blood of our kill? Or was there something else about I had not seen?
Again I looked all around, my eyes searching close about me, then further out, and then further still. Each area I examined slowly, taking nothing for granted. If there was an enemy out there I wished to know it, but if he was nearby I must see him first. I found nothing.
Several buffalo fed nearby, two of them within thirty or forty yards of the trees that were my cover. Moving through the brush, careful to make no sound, I found an open place among the trees and crossed it. Now I was closer.
The big bull was not looking at me. Something off to my left held his attention. His head was up, his nostrils flared.
My eyes turned, swept the snow fields down the valley, and then stopped.
Several men were coming up along the edge of the woods, but it was a moment before I could pick the individuals out of the background. They were following close along the edge of the trees and may have just emerged from them. Three, four, ... five. Five men, whether Indians or not I could not say, but I was sure they were. The Spanishmen would not be out at this t
ime of year. We needed another buffalo, and their coming would drive the animals away.
Turning, I glanced toward Itchakomi. She was making the meat into packs to be carried and her head was down. She was at least a hundred yards off, still concealed from the men below by the grove of trees that concealed me also. I hissed, but even in that still, cold air the sound was too low to carry. I waved my hand and then my bow, hoping the corner of her eye would catch the movement.
She looked up suddenly, looking at me. I pointed with the bow and she picked up the packs of meat and came toward me.
"There are five warriors," I said, "coming up the valley. If we stay hidden they may not see us."
"We leave tracks here. If they come, they will see."
Leading the way, I went into the woods and chose a place where we were well hidden yet could watch them.
"We have help soon."
"Help?"
"My people. Six men come to carry meat. I speak to them."
Well ... that was thinking. But would they arrive in time and would they see these warriors before they were seen? We could not let them walk into an ambush. Glancing back up the valley I saw nothing. Even if they came now they would not reach us in time.
Of course, the strange warriors down the valley might turn off, but if they were themselves hunting, as seemed likely, they would be attracted by the buffalo.
They did not turn aside. They were coming on. They were Indians. My guess was they were Conejeros.
"Keep down," I advised, "and leave the fighting to me."
"I can fight."
"I do not want you hurt. Leave it to me."
"There are five."
"Soon there will be less."
We waited, hidden by the tree trunks and brush. I had a good view of them now as they trudged toward us, single file.
The big bull did not like it. He snorted and pawed snow and then began moving off. The other buffalo had stopped pawing snow from the brown grass and were starting to move, too. I glanced around again. No help in sight, yet I saw something else.
The wolves were gone.
Chapter Twenty-Three.
"No use to let them come too close," I said. "Do you stay back. This is for me."
I stepped from the brush and stood out upon the snow. I stood alone, waiting for them.
They saw me at once and stopped.
Those following closed up, and they stood staring at me. I knew their thoughts. Who was I? Was I alone? Would I dare to step out unless others were behind me? Was it a trap?
They could see my bow, and that I held it ready, an arrow in place but pointed down. There was a fine daring within me. Why was it that I, a peaceful man, always felt exhilarated at the thought of battle? Suddenly I was challenging, poised, ready. Everything in me invited them to come.
They shouted something I did not understand, but I did not attempt a reply. I did not think they would turn and go away. It was not their way, for these were warriors, these were fighting men.
They started forward and I waved them back. They stopped again. Then one among them, arguing fiercely with the others, suddenly stepped out and started toward me. My longbow would out-range theirs by thirty yards, perhaps more. I let him take three steps and motioned again. He came on, and my bow came up. I loosed an arrow.
The arrow went where I aimed, and struck through his thigh. A dead man they could leave, but a wounded man they must care for.
The warrior staggered and then fell. He tugged at the arrow, and I waited. The others gathered around him, shouting at me.
I stood my ground, another arrow in place. They were dark against the snow, perfect targets. One of them turned toward me and shouted again. I lifted my bow and he drew back. He had taken the arrow from the fallen man and he was looking at it. My arrows were black, with black feathers to aid their flight. The arrow was strange to them, and I was strange. At the distance they could not see that I was a white man, and my garb would tell them nothing.
They would not leave their wounded brother there to die in the snow, and to attack meant someone else would die. They were brave men but not foolish. Moreover they did not know who or what I was.
So far I had made no sound and they did not know what to make of me.
Taking up their wounded companion they began to move off. One of them turned and shook a spear at me, but I did not respond. That they would be back I had no doubt. When they had disappeared down the valley I went back into the woods and we gathered our meat. The burden I shouldered was enough for four men, but we had to be off, to find shelter for the night and a way in which to escape.
"You are brave," Itchakomi said.
"If we had been taken we would have been tortured and killed. If they had come close they might have taken me from behind while others approached in front. My only chance was to stop them at a distance."
She knew. My explanation was more for me. We Englishmen, if such I was, must have reasons for our actions even when the reasons are not always good ones. What I thought now was true. The Conejeros had a bloody reputation, but it was the way of many Indians to attack strangers unless their curiosity got the better of them.
When we had cached the meat in a small cave near a fallen tree, we built a small fire and ate of the meat. Before nightfall I killed a deer, adding its meat to that from the buffalo.
Our camp was in a good spot near the mouth of a small canyon that provided access to the mountains and the forest. It was a small cave and not deep, but it offered shelter from the wind. I gathered fuel, of which much lay about, for the fire. Night came with a cluster of stars among scattered clouds, and our fire was warm.
"They will return," I said.
She nodded. "And more of them."
"When were your people coming?"
"Tonight ... tomorrow. Just to pick up the meat and take it back."
"You should have stayed in camp. We might have been killed today."
She was amused. "I moved about. I made them think there were more of us."
So that was why they had been staring. They had known somebody was back there but not how many. So it was not me who had frightened them off, after all.
They would come back, of course. Indians did not take defeat lightly, and one of their own had been wounded. I got up and went outside to listen. Far off, a wolf howled and another responded. There was no other sound in the night.
The smoke of our fire, small though it was, could be smelled if they were downwind of it, but tonight the fire could not be done without. Their return tonight was unlikely. They would be making medicine before they came again.
The cave was small but warm enough with the small fire. Itchakomi was seated at the back, her head leaning back against the wall. In the firelight, as in any light, she was a beautiful woman. I looked away, and sat down where I did not have to see her. I would have liked some chicory to drink, but had none with me.
"What is it like, in England? At night, I mean?"
We had been talking much and her English had gotten better. She had discarded the few French words she used and much of the Cherokee, but sometimes she still reverted to Indian talk, which I had to translate in my mind.
"People are in their homes at night. They talk, they read books, sometimes they play cards. If they are in taverns they do the same, but they drink more in taverns, I think. I only know from what I have heard."
"It is a good thing? To read?"
"We all read at home. I more than any of the others, I think. There are books about everything, and my father and mother both read, so we grew up with books about. If it were not for their books we would know nothing of the Greeks, the Romans, and many others. Nothing but some ruins. The people of England thought the Roman ruins had been built by giants, until their books were translated and brought to England."
"I would like to read!"
"I will teach you." I said it and then swore under my breath. Why was I such a fool? I wanted to get away when the grass grew green again, I wanted
to walk the lonely buffalo trails and seek out the high places and lonely valleys. And here I was, promising to teach Itchakomi to read! What a double-dyed fool!
But she would forget about it. Spring was still a long time away. Or was it? I had lost count of the days. Anyway, it was probably just a notion. But I had better watch my tongue.
Crouching over our tiny fire in a cave far from anything in the world, I wondered about myself and those to come after. This was what I wanted, to come west, to seek, to find, to understand. Yet I was uneasy with my old feelings, the eerie sense that I walked in a world where others had walked, that I lived where others had lived. I did not believe in ghosts. I did not believe the dead lived beyond the grave. I did believe there was much we did not understand, but there had been a man in Virginia who had claimed he could communicate with the dead. The only messages from the dead that I'd heard had sounded as if they came from creatures that had lost their minds.
The uneasy sense of other beings having lived where I lived stayed with me. I did not know what to call the feelings I had. Second sight, some called it, but this went beyond that.
Itchakomi was watching me. "Of what you think?"
I shrugged. "I think others have been where we are. I think others have walked the trails, lived in the caves. And I do not speak of Indians."
"Your people?"
"No--not really. Just people from somewhere. I wished to come west to be the first but I am not the first."
"Does it matter?"
"No, I suppose not, only I would like to know who they were and how they got here and if they left behind any marks of their passing."
"You are not content to be. You ask who and why."
"And when."
"You are a strange one. And when you know, what then?"
"Perhaps I shall write a book. Or even a letter. Knowledge was meant to be shared. Do you not feel the same?"
"Knowledge is useful. Why share it? Use it for yourself. Why share it with others who will use it to defeat you?"
Sakim had shared his knowledge with me. So had my father's friends Jeremy Ring and Kane O'Hara. So had others. With whom would I share mine?
Jubal Sackett (1985) s-4 Page 18
