There had been a brief shower earlier in the day, but now there were no more signs of rain. Tomorrow should be a clear day. Waiting, listening, I heard nothing. It was like many other nights.
Starting to go inside, I stopped suddenly. Had that been a sound? My heart seemed to slow, and my ears strained for the slightest sound. Slipping an arrow from my quiver I held it ready. It was very dark, yet from an opening in the logs, I peered out into the darkness, waiting.
There was a faint stir in the grass. An animal? My eyes could find no shape, no deeper shadow.
Then I saw them! Several shadows moved at once, coming toward us. I notched an arrow and waited. Distance was hard to estimate in the darkness, but I believed they had almost reached the edge of the area where we had scattered our miniature caltrops.
Should I call Keokotah and alert the others?
They needed sleep, and perhaps, just perhaps, they would not be needed. I lifted my bow, waiting.
They were closer now. I could make out dim shapes. Suddenly there was a startled, barely suppressed cry of pain. A figure lunged upward, and I loosed my arrow.
My target was scarcely thirty yards off, bulking black, and my arrow went true. He straightened up, I saw his hands grasping at his chest, probably at the arrow.
Others ran forward and right into our field of caltrops. In a moment they were leaping about. I tried another arrow but doubted if it reached a target. Then the night was silent except for a faint moan.
For an hour I waited, but there was no further sound, no further movement.
The arrow in my hands was returned to its quiver. I waited, paced the enclosure, and then finally went in and lay down upon my blankets. I doubted they would come back, for they had run into something unexpected and would have to decide what to do about it.
Tomorrow we would make even more caltrops. We had sown the grass with needles, and they had yielded us a minor victory.
Something moved beside me. It was Itchakomi. “What is it?” she whispered.
I told her in whispers, and after a bit we fell asleep.
Morning came, bright and clear, and we were out looking over the grass. I saw my arrow lying some distance out. The first arrow had gone straight to its target and had evidently still been in the warrior when they carried him away.
Looking out over the valley that fell away to the west of us, but ran north and south, I thought again that we had come upon one of the most beautiful spots in the mountains, and here we would stay. Kapata might try, but he would neither kill me nor drive me from this place, nor would whatever others came, Indians or Spanish. I wished no trouble with either, but here I had found my home.
How long before others of my kind came west? There was much land still in the east, but there would always be some restless one, some wanderer who would want to see what lay beyond the Great Plains.
Our corn was coming up! Our first crop and if we could keep the deer from it we would have a bountiful harvest. We had found wild strawberries and raspberries. There were several other kinds of berries whose names we did not know, and there was other wild fruit. We would make pemmican, and we could dry some of the fruit.
We found blood upon the grass, blood where the man I had hit had fallen. Had I killed him? Or was he only wounded? It made little difference to us, yet I hoped he was only wounded—not from a sense of mercy, but simply because a wounded man would be a burden to them.
For those who had attacked me when I had done them no wrong I felt no mercy.
We had won a small victory, but Kapata was a wily man and a fearless one. He would be back.
Always there was the need for fresh meat. We had supplies within our fort, but they were intended for winter and if we ate them now the winter would be a starving time. Moreover, we had other enemies. The Komantsi were coming, sooner or later, and of course there was Gomez.
From a ridge a mile to our south I collected some silver and lead ore from an outcropping. That it was largely silver mattered little. Whatever the value of the silver might be, it was worth more to me in the shape of bullets.
Sulphur? Where was I to find sulphur? In some volcanic formation or perhaps a mineral spring. Butwhere?
Keokotah returned from his hunt with three sage hens. He had found only old tracks of deer. Returning he had found moccasin tracks. They had come down from the east, keeping undercover until they had seen the skulls I had hung over the trail. There the tracks were confused.
“Much talk,” Keokotah explained. “Many track, much moving! Nobody like skulls!”
Again I went to look for sulphur, but also to hunt. I found nothing. Too many Indians were moving about, and the game had been frightened away, had gone to the higher mountains, where I must go. Some of the peaks were volcanic, and I might find sulphur.
The next day when Keokotah started out, two arrows came at him. One cut a small gash in his shoulder, but the other missed. And they let themselves be seen. The implication was plain. They would kill us if we emerged, or we would die of starvation if we did not.
“Your medicine strong,” Keokotah said. “The braves are far from home. He has not brought them victory. Soon they go.”
Well, maybe. But we were eating food we had planned to eat in the coming winter. Moreover, their presence and their hunting would drive the game to the high mountains and the far meadows, game we needed to survive.
“I am going out,” I said. “I am going after Kapata.”
I did not wish to go. I did not want to hunt and kill, but they were there, holding us close. I did not think they would attack our fort again, because of my medicine skulls and because of their experience with the caltrops, but neither could we hunt or gather food against the coming winter, and my people looked to me, their chief.
We were here because of me, and if when winter came we starved, it would be because of me. Other enemies might come, but now there was Kapata and he was our enemy, my enemy, and the enemy of my wife.
I was going after Kapata.
Chapter Thirty-Two.
Thunder grumbled among the peaks when I went into the night to kill Kapata.
Itchakomi stood by the door when I walked out, and she said, “Come back, Jubal.”
I kissed her lightly and replied that I would, and indeed, I hoped to. Yet when a man walks out with weapons his life is suspended like dew upon a spider’s web, and well I knew the men I went against. Whatever else they might be they were warriors all, men who lived to fight and who found glory only in victory.
Catching a glimpse of a tall pine against the sky I chose my way with care not to tread upon one of my own caltrops in the darkness. When beyond the area where they lay I went softly into the wet woods and walked like a ghost from tree to tree, letting my moccasins test the way before resting my weight so as to break no stick in the night and give warning that I came.
We knew not their camp, only the possible location, so I must walk softly.
There had been a brief early shower, but now real rain was coming and soon the forest would be drenched. They would be keeping to shelter on this night, and their fire if not out would be dying.
For the first few minutes sight would be limited, but by the time I had been out an hour my night vision would be excellent. I circled wide, taking my time. If I surmised correctly, they would be near the mouth of the gulch. There was an area there where during a rain several small streams came down the mountain.
Before coming out from the fort I had gone over the route in my mind and had studied the possibilities for camping. They would want to be near water, of course. They would wish to be hidden, yet in a place easy of access. As I had gone in and out of the gulch a number of times when hunting or exploring I knew what their choices would be.
The place I chose to look was a small bench from which our fort would be visible by day. There was a seep nearby and a number of big, old trees. There was an overhang of rock, a sort of wind-hollowed cave that would provide shelter from the rain.
Mo
ving carefully along a hillside I had once crossed in stalking a deer, I crouched in the trees to look over the bench. A small fire smoldered near the overhang and I could see the bunched bodies of sleepers.
The fire had been built where others before it had been, under a waterworn crack that allowed the smoke to escape, a sort of natural chimney in the rock.
The idea came gradually as I sat studying the layout. Not twenty yards from the cave a small stream trickled down among the rocks, its nearest approach to the cave being on a level with the top of the overhang. The stream veered off to the east, but the ground near it sloped to the west. At one time the stream must have flowed that way.
Why not again?
Easing back from my vantage point I went up the slope through the trees. Crouching in the darkness beside the stream I studied it and made up my mind. Keokotah was sure the Indians who had come with Kapata were losing their enthusiasm. Kapata had failed to give them the quick victory expected, and they had not taken the scalps they wanted. Maybe we could discourage them some more.
Following the trough where the stream had flowed in the long ago I came to its banks. What I had was just an idea. The stream was no more than two feet wide and perhaps a foot deep or less. As always there were fallen trees lying about. Choosing one, I upended it and tipped it across the stream. It fell with a splash.
Lifting another, I dropped it in the water alongside the first, making a crude dam. Instantly the water was diverted and started down its old channel. It ran along swiftly, dropped through the crack from which the smoke issued, and flooded the floor of the small cave.
A startled yell, and then another. The Indians scrambled out of the cave, filling the air with angry complaints. Squatting under a tree I watched for Kapata.
A few managed to save their blankets, although they were soaked. In the darkness I could not distinguish one from the other, so content with the mischief I had created I arose and skirted their camp in the darkness and then made my way to a quiet part of the forest where I remembered that some old deadfalls had created a sort of natural shelter large enough for a man. Arriving, I crawled in and slept.
Morning came with clear skies, and taking my bowstring from a dry inner pocket I strung my bow.
A smell of smoke led me to their camp, some fifty yards from the old one, which was still overrun with water. A pot was on the fire and a man bending over it. Lifting my bow I took careful aim and then let fly, the arrow taking him through the thigh just above the knee. He cried out, dropping the pot.
The others vanished as if they had been but phantoms, and I turned and went into the woods, moving swiftly away and around. When I next approached the camp it was from the bluff above the overhang cave.
No one was in sight but the Indian I had wounded. He had extracted the arrow, which lay on the earth beside him, and he was trying to stop the flow of blood from the wound. Nothing else moved and he had troubles enough, so I retreated back up the bluff a few yards, still keeping the camp in view.
After a while they began to filter back into their camp. I counted seven, including Kapata, who towered inches above all but one of the others. There was much grumbling.
Knowing I could not fight them all, I eased back up the slope and into the trees. What I wanted was to find Kapata alone, yet I had given them trouble. No one likes to endure discomfort, and if the Tensas could be disillusioned with Kapata’s leadership they might simply go home. Already they had been long from home and endured much.
When the morning sun broke through the clouds I watched a distant rainstorm far across the valley against the vast wall of the Sangre de Cristos. Above the rainstorm the morning sun had painted the peaks as those first Spanish must have seen them, when they called them the “blood of Christ,” for surely they were crimson as blood.
Lying quiet in the wet brush I waited for movement from Kapata’s camp.
It was he I wanted, none of the others unless they got in the way. They had come hunting me and deserved no mercy from me, yet I had no wish to kill any man who did not seek me out.
Smoke lifted in a thin, questioning column. From a pocket I took a twist of jerky and bit off a piece, worrying it with my teeth to get a proper bite.
A fawn came from the brush and with high, delicate steps went down to the meadow. Truly we needed meat, but I was after bigger game and did not wish to kill a fawn. Let it grow into bigger meat.
One of the Tensas came from their camp and went down to drink at the creek. He was too far off and I had no desire to give away my presence. He stood up, a quick, graceful movement, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked around slowly, once seeming to look right at me, but I was well hidden.
He was a lithe, fine-looking brave, probably not yet twenty.
Another Indian came to join him and they stood talking, with much gesticulation. That they were angry about something was obvious.
Enemies they might be, but I could not escape the beauty of the situation, the green backdrop of the mountains, the forest, the small stream sparkling in the sun, and the two Indians talking. No sound came, as they were too far off, but their manner was eloquent.
A movement caught my eye, a movement from the slope behind them, but closer. The merest stirring and then nothing. Puzzled, I waited.
The two Indians squatted on their heels near the water. One wore three feathers, the other but one.
That movement again, lower down the slope. Suddenly I knew!
Keokotah!
Startled, I half came to my feet. Did he know of the hidden camp? Or was he so intent on the Indians he stalked as not to realize the nearness of the others?
Crouching, careful to move no leaf, I went down the slope toward them, to get within bow shot before anything happened. When I had Keokotah clearly in view and not over fifty yards away, I squatted down in the brush with a log before me.
The Indians were on their feet now. They would return to camp. Sunlight danced on the water, and the aspens trembled. The Indians turned, and one died, an arrow in his throat. The other Indian had started on, unaware. Yet when he had taken two more steps he turned to speak and saw his companion lying dead in the trail.
The first Indian dropped to his haunches and then dove forward into the brush. Keokotah was quick, and his arrow went through the calf of the brave’s leg as he jerked it from sight.
There had been seven, but now there were six, with one wounded slightly. There was one in camp wounded, too.
Waiting in the brush, I saw no further movement and believed Keokotah had gone. Slowly, careful to move no leaf, I slipped back up the slope and circled for home. Our corn had grown tall, and circling through it I took time to pull a few weeds. It was not a large patch, but it would give us a few bushels of corn to supplement our meager diet. The earth was rich and our crop had grown well. When I looked up from the corn I saw smoke.
It was several miles away, back beyond where Kapata’s warriors had camped. It was a single finger of smoke, lifting skyward. As I looked, the column broke. A single puff went up, and then another.
A signal, but for whom? Not for the Tensas, of that I was sure. It was too far away and in the wrong direction.
The Komantsi? I felt a chill. Those dreaded Indians, destroying all before them. Had they found my valley or the trail of the Tensas?
When I was near the stockade, Keokotah appeared. He had a bloody scalp at his waistband. I had seen the Tensa die, but how had Keokotah scalped him? I pointed to the smoke. He nodded his head.
“Komantsi,” he said. “They come.”
His tone was grim and I understood why.
Itchakomi looked up when we came in and gestured toward a pot on the fire. We ate in silence, saying nothing. She had seen the scalp and needed no explanation.
At the meal’s end I bathed my hands at the stream and then went to her. “The Komantsi come,” I said. “We have seen their smoke.”
And I had found no sulphur.
To look for it was aut
omatic now, for it was ever in my mind. At night now I spent some time casting bullets, killing my mold time and again. But the balls were of no use without gunpowder.
Sulphur was sometimes found in old volcanic craters, for it appeared in the last stages of volcanic activity. Sometimes pockets of the crystals could be found, often contaminated with arsenic.
When darkness was almost upon us and visibility cut to within a few yards, I went out to move my caltrops, not wishing to mark their absence by a worn trail. It would be necessary to move them every few days if there was much going back and forth. The moccasins these Indians wore had thin buckskin soles, and the spines would penetrate them. Unless there was infection the wounds were not serious, but one was sufficient to keep an Indian inactive for several days.
Kapata was no longer mentioned. His presence and his danger were very real, but that of the Komantsi even more. We kept our fires to a minimum and were thankful that our fort was fairly hidden in the trees and brush. It could not be seen except from quite near.
On the second day after his taking of the scalp, Keokotah went again to the mountains. It was a day of low clouds and impending rain, yet he went, hoping for game. Uneasy, I remained in the fort, watching restlessly for enemies, working at making bullets, planning forays into the mountains to look for sulphur.
Often I thought of the Natchee who had returned. Had they gotten through? Had they ridden the rough waters down and slipped by the Komantsi and the Conejeros? Had they found their way back to their villages beside the Great River?
We might never know.
So far as I knew I was the first Anglo white man to come so far west. But who could actually know? Always there was some venturesome one who would not be content with the limits set by others.
When spring came we would put in our crop again, and once more we would take to the mountains and seek out the far lands. There was in me a driving wish to see, to know, to feel.
Westward loomed the mighty peaks of the Sangre de Cristos, mountains where the caves were, mountains I must explore. And beyond them? Who knew?
Jubal Sackett (1985) Page 25
