“No others?”
“No Indians lived close to us. They came to trade and sometimes we went among them for the same reason, or to hunt with them.”
“You do not take scalps. We heard that long before we met any of you, but we did not believe it. If one of our men falls in battle we take his scalp rather than let an enemy have it.”
“Our child will be a Sun?”
“He will. If it is a boy, only during his lifetime; if a girl, for always. With us rank descends through the woman. Is it not so with your people?”
“Rank descends through the man.”
“Hah! You must trust your women very much.”
“Some of us do.”
We walked on, and before us our valley opened and we looked upon the fort, our cornfield lying in the sun, and the wide meadows beyond where the long grass rippled in the slight breeze.
For a moment I stopped, considering. I must plant more corn, and melons as well. It was a rich valley, and here a man could build for the future. It was a wide land, a new land, and I was among the first to see it. Others would come. Oh, I had no doubt of that, for mine were a restless people, ever moving, ever seeking, ever reaching out.
They would come, and when they arrived I would be waiting for them. Some would have goods to trade, all would be needing food, advice, and knowledge of the country.
Now I had a child to consider, as well as a home for Itchakomi. But first, her sacred fire. We all are children of the sun. We had been given the sun to bring warmth and life to an otherwise dead world.
First, I needed to choose a place sufficiently impressive, and the rawboned mountain beyond our fort was such a place. I would clear a place of stones and debris, and then gather the fuel for a fire. And I would choose a day of bright sun, but first there was much else to do.
The Pawnees were gone. When time permitted I walked over their campsite and cleaned up what debris was left, little as it was.
Atop the mountain I cleared a spot of broken rock and debris, and then carefully constructed a cairn, or altar, using rocks that lay about, fitting them together with infinite care. The altar was four feet high and three feet to a side, with a large flat stone as the centerpiece. From trees not far away I gathered several old, long-deserted birds’ nests, and about them I laid a network of twigs and small branches and then larger, heavier pieces. At the outer edge of the pile I placed a part of a bird’s nest, several thin pieces of pitch pine, and shreds of bark. Unfortunately the wood of the white walnut could not be had, so I had chosen cedar instead.
Cedar was used in purification ceremonies in several tribes, and I believed it would be acceptable. We who are latecomers are forever curious as to the why of rituals, but the Indian asks no such questions. Having no written history or account of their rites, they have often forgotten the reason for certain rites, but the reason is not considered important. The ritual itself is enough. Many such ceremonies have continued for hundreds if not thousands of years. If Itchakomi would be happier with a sacred fire, she would have one, and her fire would be truly a gift of the sun.
With a wooden hoe carved by my own hands, I cultivated the corn. Often in the evenings I worked to create furniture for our house, and there was always much to do.
When the evenings were cool we walked out under the trees to look across at the Sangre de Cristos, bathed in the blood red of the setting sun, a red that lingered long after our valley was deep in shadow.
“What will your mother and sister be doing now?”
“Their home is in London now, I believe. They will be at home, or dressing to go out for the evening. I know so little of the life there.
“Brian will be with them, I expect. He will be quite the Englishman now, I believe. I wonder if he will have gone to visit the fens which were my father’s home. The fens,” I added, “are a vast lowland, some of it under water, but drained by many channels and openings. There is wild game there, many eels, geese, ducks, and pigeons, as well as deer.
“My mother returned to England with several valuable gems found in Carolina. She inherited property from her father, also, I believe. They will be well off.”
“Is it important to be well off?”
“It helps. Life is very hard for the poor, and for a young woman to marry well it is important that she have independent means. I believe young men think more of improving their position than of love.”
“Your sister will marry there?”
“I expect, but about Noelle, one does not know. She is a girl of independent mind. She will go her own way, like the rest of us.”
Deer had come from the woods and were grazing on the meadow before us. From where we stood I could see at least a dozen and several elk, bunched near some rocks some distance away.
Paisano came up from where he was feeding and stood near us, and I scratched his ear. He was huge now, a great shaggy bull that was like a puppy around us. Buffalo were considered stupid animals, but I did not find him so. I had, with some effort, convinced him to stay out of my cornfield, which I had fenced off with poles. Fences, I had learned, mean nothing to buffalo, who usually go where they wish, but Paisano had learned that the cornfield was off limits for him, and as there was no shortage of grass, he left the cornfield alone.
Winter was coming, however, and I resolved to cut some hay, enough to feed Paisano occasionally and to keep him reminded of where his home was.
There were tools we needed, but I dared not approach Santa Fe, where I would be considered an interloper and would be imprisoned and then sent down into Mexico for a trial, if I got one. Diego had implied he was interested in trade, but we had little to offer. We had some buffalo hides, as well as a few skins trapped the previous winter. This year I resolved to make a more thorough job of trapping.
Hand in hand, Komi walked with me to the fort. Keokotah was there, seated by the fire. The others were sleeping or busy with some of the many activities of our day-to-day lives.
For days now I had been watching the weather, and the days of mixed clouds and occasional rain seemed to be dwindling away for the time. When the sun was bright and the day hot I would bring the fire down for Itchakomi. Now there was something else of which I must know.
“Keokotah, long ago you spoke of the animal the Poncas call Pasnuta?”
He remembered only too well my doubts, and his features stiffened, his eyes blazing a challenge.
“I was wrong to doubt you. We who have not traveled this country as have you think such animals only appear in other, faraway places. I would have you speak of this animal.”
He knew nothing of my dreams or nightmares. These dreams were not like the occasional flashes of the future that had sometimes come to me, but I was disturbed by them. Was this a foresight of my hour of death? Was I to die impaled on a tusk or trampled under the feet of such a monster?
Keokotah did not answer but turned to the Ponca woman. “Tell him of pasnuta,” he said.
She came over to us and sat cross-legged on the floor. “Pasnuta beeg! Ver’ beeg! We kill pasnuta. Much meat at one time.”
“They surround the beast,” Keokotah said. “Drive him into a swamp or over a cliff or several will challenge him, seeming to attack, and while he looks at them others come from behind with spears.”
“Where do you find them?”
The Ponca woman shrugged. “Wherever. Out on long grass. In mountains. Who knows where? We find, we kill. Much meat.”
Her eyes lit with memory and remembered excitement. “Long winter, much, much cold! There is hunger in the lodges! Many long hunt, nothing! Spring no come! One day Running Bear, he find track. Beeg, beeg track! He say come, and many warrior go. They follow track. Push pasnuta in deep snow. They follow, follow, follow. Pasnuta get in deep snow, no can move good. Warrior surround.
“Pasnuta charge! He keel one. He throw one far, but that one fall in snow, not much hurt. They stick pasnuta with spear! Many spear! Much meat! No more hunger in the lodges.”
“Do
you see them often?”
“No many! One time many! Old man say so. In my life we keel three, maybe four.”
All the descriptions tallied. They were hairy elephants, huge creatures, some with tusks, some without. Once there had been many, now they found them but rarely. They were fierce, but not hard to kill when there were a dozen or more warriors.
Yance, when wandering, had come upon some huge bones near a salt lick. The flesh had long been gone, but the skeleton of the beast had been intact. Yance had brought back, with the help of some Indians, two large tusks that we had sold to a trader who came into the sound with his ship.
It seemed preposterous, but who could say what did or did not exist? And I had learned to trust Indian stories. Yet what did this mean to me? Why was I dreaming of the red-eyed monster? And why when faced with such a terror did I not try to escape?
So passed the days. We hunted and then smoked and dried what we did not eat. We gathered from the forest, from the mountain slopes and the meadows. We ate what was needed and saved the rest. We gathered fuel for the winter to come, and watched for enemies who did not come.
Yet there were signs that Indians came often to this valley. From the old trails we found, these Indians came from the west. They were not the dreaded Komantsi.
One day when returning from a hunt I climbed on Paisano’s back. He stood for a moment, but when I urged him on he walked off, unconcerned, carrying my weight easily. He had been handled much, had carried packs, and had been hand fed, so he had no fear of me. And he liked to be fussed over and scratched.
So I rigged a crude saddle that conformed with his body and devised a bridle that enabled me to guide him. An evening came when the sun set in all its red glory, painting the peaks with fantastic hues. From a ridge near our fort I watched the sunset and rode Paisano down to the fort.
Our Indians had not seen me astride him, for always I had mounted Paisano when well away from camp, and now they stood back and watched, awestruck. This was big medicine, and I knew it.
Komi came outside when she heard the excitement and watched me ride in. The time was right, for tomorrow would be a clear, bright day.
“Tomorrow, Itchakomi Ishaia, tomorrow I shall bring down fire from the sun.”
When morning came the sun was bright and I went early to the river and bathed. When I returned to the fort I built a fire of cedar chips and using an eagle’s wing, wafted the smoke over me. It was a cleansing rite used by Indians I had known, and I knew Itchakomi would know it for what it was.
Her religion meant much to her, and although our beliefs were not the same their roots were similar, and I would pay respect to what she believed.
When the time came to climb the mountain to the altar I had built she came forward with a crown of feathers to place on my head. The feathers were only on the forepart of the crown.
So in the hour before high noon I led the way, followed by Itchakomi, the Natchee, Keokotah, and the women to my altar, where I had laid the makings of my fire.
For a long moment I stood before the altar. Then I lifted my arms to the sun and stood for an instant, and then lowered them. In my hand I held the burning glass taken from the pocket in my belt. I brought the glass into focus and slowly moved it down until a pinpoint of intense light was on the gathered leaves.
An instant of the intense light, and then the leaves began to smoke. There was a low murmur of astonishment from behind me. The smoke lifted, and a black spot appeared on a dried leaf and began to widen. A small flame took hold and I nudged some dried moss close to the flame. It caught. The moss smoked, and then broke into flame. I slipped the burning glass back into its pocket in my belt and pushed the tinder closer.
The flame leapt up, the fire crackled, sticks caught fire. I stepped back and turned to Itchakomi. “The Sun,” I said, “has given us fire.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight.
We gathered our corn in the morning, breaking the thick ears from the stalks and carrying them in handwoven baskets to the fort. The ground was rich and there had been rain enough, and always there was sun. The best of the ears I put aside for spring planting, except for a couple that I hand fed to Paisano.
Along the mountainsides we gathered seeds, hunted, and watched the skies with wary eyes for the change we knew was coming. Our sacred fire had been moved from the high mountain to a cave, where it was sheltered from wind and rain. There we stored wood to keep the fire burning, stored it dry against the time of snow.
My pistols were loaded and there was powder enough taken from our enemies to load at least twice more. Working with the silver-lead ores from nearby I molded several hundred balls and stored them against the future.
Still I had found no sulphur, yet I had been told by Sakim that it occurred where there had been volcanic action, and many of the signs were near. A wandering Indian told us of a place far to the north and west, but there was no time for such a trek before snow fell.
Now darkness came before we were ready, and leaves began to fall from some trees, and fewer flowers were in bloom, only the lavender fleabane with the gold centers, fringed gentians, rabbit bush, and sulphur flower. The time of cold was coming, but the time of storytelling, too, when we would spend much time by the fire, remembering old tales from times gone by, and listening to stories the Indians told to their children. Soon Komi would be telling those stories to our child. It was a strange thought and a worrisome one. What did I know of being a father?
Of all things here I missed books the most. How I longed for something to read! The mind has no limits but those we choose to give it. The mind reaches out hungrily for learning, and mine now was finding too little upon which to feed. Each night I stirred Itchakomi to remembering, asking question after question to understand better her people, her religion, and her ideas, and I shared mine with her.
And then came an evening when the wind blew down from the Sangre de Cristos and our fire sputtered on the hearth. Venison broiled over the fire, and when Keokotah came in he walked at once to the meat and with his knife cut a thick slice. When he had eaten he said, “Now we fight!”
“What?”
“They come. All afternoon I have run to speak the message. Two come, but they come not together.”
“Two men?”
“No two men. Two parties, one to make trade, one to make war.”
The others gathered around. The Ponca woman put down her weaving.
“Diego comes. He has twenty pack mules. With him are six soldiers, two Indians. He comes to trade.”
“You know it is Diego?”
“I speak him. The other is Gomez. He comes with soldiers and with bad Indians. He comes for war.”
“How many?”
“Twenty men. He has four soldiers and many bad Indians. I think he wishes to catch Diego.” Keokotah paused to chew his meat. “I speak Diego. Now he knows of Gomez. He comes this way fast.”
There was silence in the room. We had enjoyed our weeks of peace, but we had known this time would come. Yet we were so few to defend against so many.
Would Diego fight beside us? I doubted it. He had come to trade, and to fight against his own people could be none of his planning, despite the fact he did not agree with them and disliked Gomez.
Diego had implied he was interested in trade, and he knew it would be good for the Spanish to have an outpost where they might resupply themselves when on forays against the Komantsi. With so many pack animals he would be bringing trade goods, but what did Gomez have in mind?
Itchakomi of course, but what else? Revenge, also, but that would not be enough. Gold? We had little gold, and of that he could know nothing. But gold was the overriding motive for all the Spanish exploration. He might assume that we had found gold.
Why else would we be staying here?
He would know the Pawnees were gone. He will believe we are alone. He will not know of our friends the Natchee who have joined us.
Yet we were few, and how were we to defend ourselves? I had but l
ittle ammunition, and the guns would no longer be a surprise.
“There are the Utes,” Itchakomi said.
It was a good thought, yet danger might lie with the Utes, an even graver danger than with Gomez, for this was considered Ute land and we had moved upon it. There were indications that they came to this valley and camped here, although so far we had seen none of them.
From the beginning I had hoped to make them allies, for we had heard they were traditional enemies of the Komantsi, but I had no idea where they were nor how to find them, and they might attack without warning.
The fire crackled, and outside a wind blew cold. We did not look at one another, each huddled with his own doubts, her own fears. Our enemies were many, and we were few.
The walls of our fort were strong, but Gomez would have planned for them. He was a shrewd, dangerous fighting man, irked by his previous defeat and undoubtedly determined it should not happen again.
We could escape now. We could fly to the mountains and hide, but that would mean the destruction of our fort and our food supply. It would result in our starving in the snow, and Itchakomi was pregnant.
We could expect no help from anyone. Whatever was done must be done by us. Yet what could we do? The few defenses used on the previous attack would be known to Gomez. There would be no attacks by horse-riding men this time. They would attempt to capture the fort and us, but failing in that they would use fire.
Fire … ?
“I will fight outside,” Keokotah said. “I no good behind wall.”
“As you will, but first come with me to meet Diego.”
Turning to Itchakomi, I said, “Itchakomi, you will be in command within the fort. Do you keep your Natchees to defend it with you. You they know, and you they will protect.”
“And you?”
“I shall go out, but I shall return.” It was in my mind to do them damage before they reached us. Yet how? What could I do?
My hand reached for Komi’s and we clasped hands in the shadows, watching the fire. I was not a man who spoke much of love, although I knew such speaking was treasured by women, but it was much in my heart and I thought of her always. Now, at this moment, I feared for her, and I feared what lay before us.
Jubal Sackett (1985) Page 29
