The trader was examining the pelts one by one. He and the warrior were conversing in a language unfamiliar to Broken Trail, although it had a familiar sound. Probably it was Seneca.
The trader acknowledged Broken Trail’s presence with a nod, and then returned to inspecting the furs.
Broken Trail walked over to the fireplace. He set his bed-roll and basket on the floor. First he warmed his hands and then turned around to toast his back while watching the negotiations. A burning log broke free with a shower of sparks and tall flames that cast a flickering light over the faces of the trader and the warrior.
The furs were lustrous in the firelight. But the trader did not look impressed by their quality. Frowning and huffing, he appeared to be pointing out dreadful flaws.
The warrior slumped as the inspection continued. There were more than twenty pelts in the pile. It seemed that not one was up to the trader’s standards. Yet when all had been examined, the trader must have said something encouraging, for the warrior smiled and began to point to the items he wanted: an axe, a pail.
Then the trader opened a brass-cornered box that rested on the counter. From it he took out a number of much smaller boxes.
Broken Trailer edged closer, wanting to see.
One after another, the trader opened the little boxes. Each contained tiny, bright beads, a different colour in each box.
The warrior pulled from his pouch a small drawstring bag. He opened the mouth of the bag, and with a metal scoop the trader filled it with beads. White, black, red, green, and blue, each colour in turn streamed into the bag. When the transaction was complete, both the trader and the warrior looked satisfied. The warrior picked up the tarpaulin in which the furs had been wrapped and folded it carefully. A gust of rain blew in when he opened the door to leave.
Broken Trail stepped up to the counter.
“My name is Broken Trail. I’ve come from Brant’s Ford in one of Thayendanegea’s canoes. He told me to leave it here. One of his servants will fetch it in a few days.”
“I’m Sylvester Logan. Just call me Logan.” The trader’s piercing eyes scrutinized Broken Trail’s face. “You don’t look Mohawk.”
“I’m Oneida.”
“White father, native mother?”
“Both white. Oneidas adopted me when I was ten.”
“Do you work for Brant?”
Broken Trail hesitated. “You could say that.”
“That’s fine. I won’t ask any more questions. Brant’s done plenty of favours for me. I’ll look after the canoe.” He paused. “What do you think of his town?”
“You just said you weren’t going to ask any more questions.”
“So I did. But I can’t help being curious. Brant claims his town is a model for the future. But Indians who come here to trade don’t like what he’s doing. They don’t want to be farmers. One here yesterday put it pretty well. ‘I want to shoot my meat, not raise it,’ is what he said.”
“Many warriors seem to feel that way.”
“Not just warriors. Women don’t like what he’s doing, either. My wife’s Seneca. She lives here at the trading post in greater comfort than she’s ever before enjoyed in her life. But all the time she talks about her childhood running free in the woods, picking berries, paddling her canoe. When she hankers for the old ways, I tell her she don’t know what she’s talking about. Anyone who tries to live in the old way will end up like those poor wretches you see all around here in Buffalo Creek.”
“Maybe Thayendanegea’s trying to change things too fast,” said Broken Trail. “He has all sorts of plans. Right now he’s sending me west to look for a warrior named Tecumseh who’s rallying tribes along the Ohio River.”
“Tecumseh’s doing that, all right! He’s also sinking settlers’ flatboats to keep them off the lands north of the Ohio. He’s making quite a name for himself.”
“Have you met him?”
“No. But I knew his father Puckeshinwa. He was a Shawnee war chief.”
“Tell me about him. I want to know everything about Tecumseh and his family so I can give Thayendanegea a full report.”
“I can tell you that Tecumseh’s mother was a Creek from Georgia. A frontiersman shot Puckeshinwa when Tecumseh was about six years old. He had an older brother and an older sister. A month after Puckeshinwa was killed, his widow gave birth to another boy. They call him Lolawauchika. It means Loud Mouth or Big Noise. I reckon he earned that name.”
“What about Tecumseh’s name? Panther in the Sky. How did he earn that?”
“He didn’t need to earn it. Puckeshinwa told me the story. He was pretty excited about how it happened. You see, his clan, the Sciotos, believe they have a guardian spirit in the sky. It’s a star they call The Panther. Well, the night Tecumseh was born, Puckeshinwa was sitting outside the birthing lodge looking up at the stars, just waiting for the baby to arrive, when suddenly a blazing star raced across the sky. At that same instant, the baby’s first cry came from the lodge. To Puckeshinwa, this was a sign. He insisted that the baby be given the name Panther in the Sky right from birth. He believed the boy was born for greatness.”
“Sounds like Puckeshinwa was right about that.”
“Probably so, if Tecumseh lives long enough. There’s a man in Fort Pitt, a land speculator, who’s offered one hundred dollars New York money for his scalp. That’s a high price for a young fellow seventeen years old to have on his head.”
“Does he know about the bounty?”
“I reckon so. Word gets around.”
Broken Trail stepped away from the counter. “Thanks for telling me all this. Just one more thing. Can you give me directions where I’ll find Tecumseh?”
“That’s not too hard. Head west along the south shore of Lake Erie. In about three days, you’ll come to Fort Presqu’Ile. Turn south. Keep going south. Four more days will bring you to Fort Pitt. That’s where the Allegheny River and the Monongahela River join to form the Ohio. Right from the start, the Ohio is a mighty big river. It flows northwest for some distance, then turns southwest and goes all the way to the Mississippi, but you won’t have to travel nearly that far. The Shawnees are concentrating on the upper Ohio. That’s where you’ll find Tecumseh’s band.”
Broken Trail hoisted his gear onto his back. He thanked Logan and stepped out into the rain. As he hurried through the refugee camp, he wondered how many of the people living in those wretched shacks would be dead before winter’s end.
CHAPTER 38
Shelter from the Storm
BROKEN TRAIL’S FOOD ran out two days after he left Buffalo Creek. He kept his eyes on a careful outlook for game. There was none.
He tightened his belt, but that did not fool his belly. As his third day on the trail wore on, he began to lag. He knew he could not keep going much longer unless he had something to eat.
The simple solution was to buy some food. He still had the money Thayendanegea had given him to pay a ferryman to carry Dark Cloud over the Niagara River. He expected to reach Fort Presqu’Ile before dark. Every fort had some kind of settlement grow up around it. There would be houses, a blacksmith shop, and an inn. Maybe even a general store. There he could buy biscuits and molasses, maybe even some cheese. His mouth watered at the thought.
The sky was dark with the threat of rain. Ever since he had left Buffalo Creek, the weather had varied from bad to worse. This day might turn out to be the worst yet. The rumble of thunder warned him to stop early to make camp. He could rig up his tarpaulin to give him shelter for the night. But he did not stop. He had had nothing to eat all day, and so he ignored the thunder and kept on going.
The forest trail widened to the width of a road, a muddy road rutted deeply by wagon wheels. Before long he came to the fort, its tall blockhouse peeping over the walls of the log stockade. Outside the fort was the village, just as he had expected.
As he entered the village, a lightning flash lit up the sky, followed by a crash of thunder. The rain came down, beginning as a few scat
tered drops and rapidly increasing to a downpour. His head bent, he slogged along the muddy road past a dozen houses and a blacksmith shop. Then he came to an inn.
Broken Trail stepped from the road onto the platform of planks that formed its porch. For a few moments he stood under the roof overhang, catching his breath, while the rain pelted down so hard he could not see the house on the other side of the road.
He pressed the door latch and, dripping like a wet otter, went inside. The interior was dark. After the clean, fresh smell of the forest, the stench of rancid grease and spilled beer took his breath away.
The room was crowded with men sitting at tables or standing around. He saw what must be the innkeeper, a fat man behind the counter, where oak kegs rested on wooden trestles and tin tankards on a shelf.
Broken Trail stepped up to the counter.
“I want to buy—”
Before he could finish, the innkeeper barked, “I don’t sell drinks to Indians.”
“It’s food I want, not a drink.”
“I don’t feed Indians.”
“I’m not begging. I can pay.” He was reaching into his pouch for his money when a tall man with enormous shoulders stood up. He swayed unsteadily, knocking over a chair as he advanced. He thrust his face at Broken Trail. His breath reeked of beer.
“You heard what he said. Get out! We don’t like your kind.”
Since the man outweighed him by a hundred pounds, Broken Trail decided to leave. He backed toward the door. “I don’t like your kind, either,” he muttered, but not until he was outside on the porch.
He stood under the roof overhang, his fists clenched, fighting back his anger. What should he do now? He could try the fort; he might find both food and shelter there.
The inn door opened. A man came out, looked around, saw him, and came toward him. Broken Trail swung his rifle around.
The man raised his hands. “Take it easy. I’m no enemy.”
Broken Trail lowered his rifle.
The man joined him under the overhang. In the gloom it was hard to make out his features. Black hair. A black beard. Broken Trail had not noticed him in the crowded inn.
“My name’s Joe. I came out to offer you food and shelter for the night.”
“Why should you want to help me?”
“Some Indians helped me once. They were Shawnees. Found me half frozen in the bush. Took me to their village. Saved my life. I vowed someday I’d return the favour.”
“Shawnees, you say?”
“That’s right. A hunting party on its way home. They could’ve taken my scalp. But they didn’t. I lived with them all one winter.”
“My name’s Broken Trail. I’m on my way to Shawnee Territory.”
“You picked a bad time to be on the trail and a bad place to stop. They hate Indians around here. But let’s not stand talking. Are you coming with me?”
“I won’t turn down an offer like that.”
He followed Joe through the rain, back along the road, and finally up to the door of a log cabin. Joe pushed the door open.
It was a one-room cabin with a stone fireplace, a cot, a table and a chair. A shaggy dog lying in front of the fireplace got up, stretched, and wagged his tail.
“That’s Trey,” said Joe.
Trey sniffed Broken Trail’s legs.
“We have a guest,” Joe said to the dog.
Joe blew the embers in the fireplace into flame and put on another log. Then he took two spoons from an open box and three tin bowls from a shelf. After filling the bowls with stew from a pot hanging over the fire, he set one on the floor and two on the table.
“You take the chair,” he said to Broken Trail. “I can sit on my bed.”
The stew was loaded with vegetables—potatoes, turnips, carrots—but short of meat. After they had eaten, Joe made a pot of tea.
As he drank his tea, Broken Trail asked, “Have you ever heard of a Shawnee named Tecumseh?”
“Who hasn’t heard about Tecumseh?”
“When you stayed with the Shawnees, did you know him?”
“That was seven years ago. He was a child. I don’t pay much attention to youngsters, but he stood out even then. A good-looking boy. Very bright. He had a brother and a sister in their teens. Father dead. Mother ran off. There was a little brother too. I haven’t seen any of them since.” Joe finished his cup of tea. “Reckon it’s time we turned in. Sorry I don’t have a bed for you.”
“I can share the rug with Trey, if he doesn’t mind.”
“He won’t mind sharing the rug. He’ll share his fleas, too.”
Broken Trail laughed. “I hope he’ll keep his fleas to himself.”
As he lay down beside the dog, he thought the day had ended well.
In the morning he was wakened by the creaking of the floor boards as Joe went outdoors. A moment later came the Whack! Whack! of an axe splitting logs
He got to his feet and stretched. His deerskin clothing, which had clung heavily the night before, was reasonably dry and no longer felt clammy against his skin. Broken Trail went outside.
When Joe saw him, he stopped chopping. He looked up and his eyes widened.
“Hey! You’re not an Indian!”
His words made Broken Trail feel like a fraud, as if he had accepted Joe’s hospitality under false pretences. Apologetically, he told the usual story of his life.
“No offence taken,” said Joe. “I’m glad to have the company. But see here, why didn’t you tell the innkeeper you’re white?”
Broken Trail shrugged. “Never thought of it. But I wouldn’t do that anyway. It wouldn’t be right, seeing as Oneidas raised me since I was ten years old.”
“Good answer,” said Joe. “You can’t beat loyalty. That’s what I think.”
“So do I, and I wish more people did,” said Broken Trail.
Joe split one more log. Then he and Broken Trail carried the wood into the cabin.
As they breakfasted on bread that wasn’t too stale, Broken Trail asked, “Where am I likely to find Tecumseh’s band?”
Joe’s directions were no different from Logan’s.
“Go straight south. You’ll pass a couple of ruined forts that were destroyed in the Pontiac Uprising. Four days will bring you to Fort Pitt. That’s where the Ohio River begins. Follow the river. It takes a bend to the northwest, and then it flows southwest. Watch for flatboats. When you see one, you can be sure the Shawnees have an eye on it, too. What they do is sink them before they reach the other side.”
“Is there any special place where flatboats cross the river?”
“They don’t exactly cross the river. Families cruise along the Ohio for days until they see a likely spot to settle on the far side. Then they go ashore and break up the boat for lumber to build a house.”
“If there’s enough lumber for a house, those boats must be big.”
“Big! They’re enormous. Imagine a barge fifty feet long. At the bow there’s a sandbox for the cooking fire. Then there’s a tent or hut where the family lives. Behind that, they pile up all their possessions. At the stern there’s a pen for their animals—a couple of horses, a cow, some pigs—all crammed together. You’ll know a flatboat when you see one.”
“It must be quite a sight.” Broken Trail stood up. He took from his pouch the money he would have spent for food at the inn and laid it on the table.
“You don’t have to pay.” Joe’s expression contradicted his words. The way he was looking at the silver coins reminded Broken Trail of a hungry robin ready to pounce on a worm.
“But I want to.”
“Well, if you insist …”
Joe gave Broken Trail half a loaf of bread to take with him. The rain had stopped, but the trees were still dripping with moisture as he set out.
CHAPTER 39
Panther in the Sky
THE SKY LIGHTENED. The clouds parted. A beam of sunshine warmed Broken Trail’s back as he walked along. It was the beginning of that false summer that came every year du
ring Freezing Moon, when the Great Spirit granted a last chance for hunters to increase their store of food for winter.
There were hills and marshes and rivers to cross. He passed two ruined forts, nothing left of them but charred timbers. After travelling for four days, he thought he must be getting close to Fort Pitt.
When Broken Trail came to a side trail leading west, he paid no attention. He’d been told that his way lay south to Fort Pitt. No reason to change direction. So he kept going. But as soon as he passed the side trail, something felt wrong. Then an osprey flying over his head gave a shriek and dropped a long, black snake at his feet. Broken Trail stood motionless watching the snake slither away. It must be a sign.
Suddenly he smelled the musky odour of wolverine, and he knew that his oki was protecting him from some kind of danger. But from what?
The answer came with a crack like thunder. The noise stopped him in his tracks. He looked up. A big spruce was falling toward him, crashing through branches in the path of its fall.
He took three quick steps backwards. There was a rush of moving air. The ends of the spruce’s branches brushed him as it landed. The tree quivered like a dying beast before it lay still, completely blocking his path.
For a moment he was too shocked to move. Of course he could go around the fallen tree. But should he? Age, wind, or termites could cause a tree to topple. Sooner or later, every tree must fall. But this particular tree had fallen at this particular time right across his path. On a day when there was no wind.
He sat down on the trunk of the fallen spruce, with the splay of roots on his left and the shattered ends of branches on his right. He needed a moment to pull his thoughts together. The sign was clear. His hand went to the amulet hanging around his neck. He knew what to do. The spirits were directing him to take a different path.
Broken Trail retraced his steps to the start of the side path. Following that path, he headed west. As he walked, he had the feeling that he was getting close to something. But he didn’t expect the river. Not yet.
He had covered no greater a distance than the flight of five arrows when the path ended, and there it was. There was no roaring of waters. This river was quiet and very wide. It must be the Ohio. The spirits had brought him to where he was meant to be.
The White Oneida Page 16
