That broke his hold and he fell back and I leapt on him. He rolled to one side but not fast enough, and I sank the knife deep.
He wrenched free of me, bleeding badly, his face contorted with fury. He leapt at me, but this time I kicked him as he came in and he staggered back. His knees buckled under him then and he fell.
All around me there had been fighting, but suddenly it was over and they were gone. Bloody, gasping, I looked around. Itchakomi was standing in a corner near the lodge, a spear in her hand, its tip bloody.
The man I had fought was crawling away and Keokotah, bloody and bleeding, thrust a spear into him.
They were gone. Why they had broken off the attack, I did not know.
Two of our men were dead, and one had been scalped. A woman had been killed. Only Itchakomi and Unstwita were unwounded.
They had carried off their dead and wounded. How many we had killed, I did not know. Keokotah's woman, a terrible bruise on her shoulder and a cut on her arm, was bathing the blood from his wound.
"They will come again," Keokotah said, looking at me.
"Aye, and we must be gone."
Amazingly, I was almost unhurt. There was a thin knife cut at the roots of my hair only an inch or two long and not deep and a few minor scratches. Keokotah had taken a blow on the shoulder that had left his right arm almost useless for the time.
"We will go now," I said, "in the night."
Limping and bloody, we gathered our few belongings and the little meat we had left. By the time we were ready to move it was dark. I knew only one place to go.
My valley.
Chapter Twenty-Eight.
We walked upon the mountains in the night. Limping, I led the way. Constantly we paused to listen for pursuit, but heard nothing. Often we had to pause because our lowland lungs were unaccustomed to the heights. Several times we stopped to rest.
At the first halt I went from one to the other, doing what I could to treat their wounds. It was little enough that I knew, but more than anyone there with the exception of Itchakomi. Surprisingly, she knew a good bit.
When morning came there was a dense fog, a mist lying low in the hollows of the hills. We followed a dim path, probably a game trail, and at first, for at least five miles, it was all uphill. Then the climb eased except for scrambles through boulders and the remains of avalanches that had swept down the mountain during the winter. Stiff, tired, and sore, we climbed, gasped for breath, and then pushed on.
The mist lifted away from us, revealing a world of broken granite and snow, with here and there a dwarf spruce struggling for existence against the wind and the ice. We sat down then and shared bits of jerked meat among us. There was little enough, but it was needed. A Natchee went back a few hundred yards to watch our trail while we ate.
Their faces were gaunt and tired, their wide eyes staring emptily upon nothing. A cold wind blew off the peaks, and I shivered. This was not the way I had hoped to come to my valley.
Rising, I walked down the path, and then waited for them to rise and follow. The Natchee watching our back trail came in. "There is nothing," he said, "or nothing that can be seen. There is mist covering our valley, mist in the passes."
Halting a half mile further along, I looked back at my straggling band. How did I, Jubal Sackett, a loner, come to be in this place with these people?
A cold wind stirred the limbs of a spruce near me and whined softly through a crack in the rocks. I shrugged my shoulders against the cold of the wind and beat my hands together. Slowly, the others were catching up.
There was a creek cut across our path not far ahead, and there we would build a fire, rest, and eat what we had.
We had been coming downhill for some time now, very slightly at first, but then the descent had grown steeper. The creek was free of ice, the water chuckling along over rocks and gravel, clear and cold. We gathered broken branches and bark for a fire. Building it, we gathered close. The Ponca woman, the best fisherman among us, went to the creek away from us.
I had not eaten when the others had. There was too little food as it was, and I was strong enough to survive. When I looked up at the mountains there was black rock, perhaps wet from melting snow, and a lone golden eagle swinging on wide wings against the sky and the snow.
A thin waterfall, thin from here at least, perhaps forty feet wide where it was, fell from rocky shelf to rocky shelf, mostly melting snow. By late spring it would be only a trickle. Now the mountain was stark and beautiful, a place for no man or animal, just for the clouds and eagles.
I brought sticks for the fire and added fuel. I watched the affectionate flames reach out and clasp the sticks in a fiery embrace, destroying what they loved.
My legs were tired. My back ached. I sat on a fallen tree and looked back the way we had come, rough, broken, and almost treeless.
The Ponca woman came to me in her black moccasins. She was a wide woman who smiled rarely but never complained. She pointed across the way at the mountains. The ones the Spanish call the Sangre de Cristos. "Caves," she said. "Big!"
"You have been here before?"
"With Ponca," she said. "My people hunt."
"Thank you," I said. "We will go to the caves."
She did not linger, but returned to her fishing, and by the time the sun was high had caught a half dozen fish. It was a help.
Keokotah killed a ptarmigan. I saw nothing, but I thought of Itchakomi. She would wish to go home now, back to her own people and the warm weather beside the Great River. Well, I was a loner, anyway. And there were always the mountains. The thought brought me no comfort.
Keokotah came to me where I sat beside the stream. "Caves no good," he said, "too much climb. Big hole inside. No good place for sleep."
The thought of climbing high among the rocky peaks did not appeal and I said so. "We'll go up the valley," I said, "find a place there."
"I see many tracks. Deer, elk, buffalo, turkey." After a moment, "Your buffalo here. He look for you."
Tired as I was I walked out on the grass beyond the creek. The buffalo was there and I went to it, standing beside it and scratching its ear. "If you're going to stay with us," I said, "I'll put you to work."
The thought had come suddenly, but the more I thought of it the better I liked it.
A few minutes before dark one of the Natchee killed an elk. We ate well that night, and for once I sat long beside the fire.
Itchakomi came and sat across from me. "My people say they go home," she said suddenly. "Grass come soon. Much water in river. They go home quick."
If they went, she would go. She would return to their home on the Great River.
For a moment my heart seemed to stop beating. I waited a moment and then said, "It will not be easy to get past the Conejeros, and Kapata will be waiting."
She merely looked at me, saying nothing.
My mind struggled with the problem of how they could reach the Great River by way of the Arkansas without being seen. It would need a roundabout route unless ... unless they could reach the river before it emerged from the mountains and ride it all the way down.
"I shall find a way to get you back," I said.
She arose abruptly and left the fire. I started to speak, but all I saw was her back as she retreated. I sat for a few minutes, puzzled over her abrupt departure.
Women! I'd never understand them.
When I had been sitting there for several minutes Keokotah came to me. "Look," I said, "they wish to go back. They will ride the river down."
On the clay at the river's edge I made a mark. "Here is where the river comes from the big canyon. South of there and back in here ... that was our first camp. Now we have crossed to the west and we are in a long valley that's roughly north and south. It seems to me that if we went up the valley we could get to that river in the canyon before it reaches open country. They might slip by during the night."
He looked at the rough plan I'd drawn and put his finger at the head of the valley we were in. "What
is there? We do not know."
Of course he was right. And the water through that canyon would be rough. Yet rough water was to be preferred to the Conejeros and Kapata. The more I considered the idea the more logical it seemed.
What was the matter with Itchakomi? She was their leader, and if they were going to return--
I spoke of this to Keokotah. He glanced at me out of those cool black eyes and said, "Maybe she no wish to go. Maybe she think you try to be rid of her. Maybe she think you think she too much trouble."
That was ridiculous. She was no trouble at all! Of course, if I had not become involved with them I might now be much further west, and might have had no trouble with the Conejeros, and certainly none with Kapata. But the possibility that she might not wish to return was nonsense.
She was a Sun, a person of importance among her people. She had come west to find a place for her people, and aside from the Conejeros this was a good place. The snow had almost gone from what I thought of as my valley. It was, I guessed, more than twenty miles long and four to five miles wide. There were several streams and the runoff from the mountains, and the valley was sheltered from the worst of the winds.
When morning came we moved north, but when we camped that night on a creek near the edge of the mountains, Keokotah came to me. "Maybe no good," he said.
"It's a beautiful valley," I objected. "It is higher, and they would have to learn to plant different crops than they are used to, but I think it is a good place."
"Much trail," he said, gesturing back the way we had come. "I find Indian path, very old. Much Indian walk that path. Maybe he no like people here."
"Conejeros?"
"No Conejeros. I think maybe Ute. Very strong people. Live in mountain valleys. Very strong."
The place we had found was a good place, and the valley was fertile. As the grass began to turn it green, I could see from the variety of plant life that the soil was rich.
"We will go no further," I said. "This is where we will stop."
The location was one that was easily defended, tucked into a corner of the mountains on the east side of the valley. It was a place well supplied with water.
As soon as we went into camp several of the Natchee left to hunt.
"We must find how far it is to the river," I said. "Tomorrow, I think--"
"You stay," Keokotah said. "I go."
There was a yearning in me to see what lay to the north, but it was also necessary that a fort be built, a place we could defend in case of another attack.
A stream emerged from a canyon to flow down into the valley, and at one place the stream fell over some rocks in a small waterfall of about three feet. Nearby were some tumbled boulders at the crest of a small knoll, a flat place atop the knoll surrounded by trees at one side of the canyon but overlooking the valley.
It offered a site for a group of lodges, water from the waterfall, and protection from the boulders and trees. With two of the Natchee men I set to work to build a rough shelter to take care of us while we built a stronger cabin.
The Natchee who had gone hunting returned with two deer and several sage hens. By the time they came into camp a crude shelter for the night had been built and we had dragged several dead trees across gaps among the boulders to make a stronger wall.
Itchakomi was busy and she avoided me. Several times I started to speak, but each time she turned away and went off to some other area, avoiding me, or seeming to. Irritated, I decided if that was the way she wanted it, she mighty well could have it. So I avoided her.
Keokotah would not be back for a day or two, so that other question need not arise.
Yet I slept ill. The night through I turned and tossed, getting no decent sleep at all, and when morning came I took my weapons and went up the canyon behind our fort. It was a fairly deep canyon and led back into the mountains. There was still much snow in the shaded places, and here and there boulders in the stream were icy. When I returned it was dusk and meat was cooking. I went to the fire and chose a piece for myself and sat down near the fire.
Itchakomi was across the fire from me. After a moment, she spoke. "Keokotah has gone to find a way?"
"He will find a way to the river. The water will be rough and fast, but I believe your people might slip by your enemies, passing them at night."
"You will go with them?"
"No." I looked up at her. "My place is in the mountains, so I will stay. The river is called the Arkansas and some other names as well, but it flows into the Great River. Your people can get home without trouble. Unstwita can lead them. He is a good man."
She looked at me then, for I had not mentioned her leading them. I avoided her eyes, feeling uncomfortable. Until I had spoken I had not thought of it myself, but why had I not mentioned her? Was it not her place to lead? Would she not lead if she was going back.
"There is always danger," I said, "but Unstwita is a good man. He is both wise and brave."
"It is my place to lead."
She spoke and I was silent, chewing on a piece of meat. Then I said, "You will go with them?"
"Do you want me to go?"
There it was, right out in the open. How could I answer that?
"I would miss you," I said it reluctantly, hesitantly, yet realizing as I spoke that what I said was true. I would miss her, and I would not see her again. That gave me a pang, and I moved sharply at the thought. Then I said, "But I cannot ask that you stay. You are a Sun."
There was amusement in her eyes. "And you are not even a Stinkard." She paused. "You are a yeoman. Did a yeoman never marry a princess?"
"Never! If she did she would no longer be a princess. Or so I believe."
"Then I shall no longer be a Sun."
Our eyes met across the fire and I took another fragment of meat, slicing it with my knife.
"To me," I said, "you will always be the sun, the moon, and the stars."
The fire crackled, and a low wind stirred the flames. I added sticks to the fire. "I am strange to your ways," I said, "and you to mine, but what you wish will be done. Then we shall go south to where the Spanishmen live. There will be a priest there."
"That will be dangerous?"
"It is worth the risk. I would have it done so it is right with both your people and mine."
I went down to the stream and dipped my hands in the water, washing them. When I stood up she was beside me.
"When you wish to go to the mountains," she said, "you may go, and if you wish it, I will go with you, and when you make your camp, I will cook your meat, and when you wish to sleep, I will prepare your bed. Where you go, I will go."
Chapter Twenty-Nine.
Quickly grew the grass, and quickly came leaves to the trees. Scattered along the green hillsides the golden banner bloomed, and here and there entire hillsides turned to cascades of their yellow flowers. There were sand-lilies, too, and occasional pasque-flowers.
We all walked together, for we were few, and had no knowledge of what might lie before us. Also, there was talk among the women of a wedding. I caught them looking at me, laughing among themselves, and was embarrassed. How a bridegroom was supposed to act, I did not know, nor anything else of their marriage customs.
Itchakomi had spoken of me wearing the oak and she the laurel, but what that implied I did not know. Nor could she find laurel here, so far as I knew. I had not seen it in these western mountains, although back in the Nantahalas there were often whole hillsides blushing with its pink blossoms.
Keokotah, who had found the way, led us along the eastern side of the valley to a creek that ran into a canyon. Through this canyon we must make our way, and there was danger there, a fit lurking place for enemies.
Itchakomi walked with the women, and they did not walk in silence. There was much chattering and laughter.
Once, when we had halted to rest, Unstwita came to me. "It is better I go with them," he said, reluctantly. "I have wished to stay."
"They will need you," I said. "Tell the Ni'kwana
that I did as he asked. Tell him I shall do my best to make Itchakomi happy."
"I will tell him. And I shall return."
"Return?"
"I have come to the mountains in doubt. I find them ... I find them a place for the gods to walk."
"Return, then. We shall be here, but if we leave I shall mark our way so--" I showed him the Sackett A. "You will find us."
"I will find you." He held out his hand suddenly, as he had seen me do. "You are my chief. I will follow no other."
There was a trail of sorts along the canyon. It crossed and recrossed the turbulent little creek, winding among boulders and trees below the canyon walls. We stepped carefully around stones and lifted fallen branches from across the way. We would return this way, and a little work now would make the path easier. If we did not return, it would be easier for someone else.
It had been my father's way to remove obstructions, to repair washouts in old trails, to leave each trail better than he had found it. "Tread lightly on the paths," he had told me. "Others will come when you have gone."
That was how I would remember my father. There was never a place he walked that was not the better for his having passed. For every tree he cut down he planted two.
We came at last to a place beside the river, a swift-flowing river that would become even swifter as the canyon walls narrowed. We came to an open place where aspen grew upon the slopes, and scattered cottonwoods along the river itself. We came to a place where drift logs had beached themselves on the gravelly shores. Stripped of their bark their gaunt white limbs were like skeletons among the boulders polished by the rough waters.
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