What to do? They depended upon me, trusted in me. Not only was I their master of mysteries, but I was their war chief.
Now, at the beginning of our second winter, we were snug and warm. We had much dried meat and many seeds, and we had corn. We had cut wood and piled it close at hand. We were prepared for winter, for storytelling time, and now our enemies had come and my people looked to me to save them, to keep them secure.
Always, I had planned to roam, to be free, to move as I wished, when I wished, but when one has a wife and children that is no longer possible, and when one has possessions he is as often possessed by them as possessing them.
Here it was warm and quiet, here was peace and comfort, here were my few friends.
But what could Ido?
First, to meet them outside. To hold them up in their march, to nibble away at their confidence, to lessen their numbers.
We had a good supply of arrows. We had extra spears. We knew the line of effective range for our bows. We had cut back trees and brush so any attacker must step into the open before he was within effective range of our walls. By night we had no such protection.
We had the small caltrops we had used before, and something else besides. During the summer, with something of this in mind, we had collected and dragged back to the fort many spined leaves of prickly pear and hedgehog or strawberry cactus. Knocking them loose and picking them up with forked sticks, we had piled many upon a skin and then dragged them back to the fort. Now, working in darkness and with forked sticks, we scattered them in the grass around the fort. The caltrops might stop a charge by horsemen, but these would stop men on foot wearing moccasins, which many of the Spanish soldiers now wore.
It was little enough. We had no protection against fire arrows, and they would certainly be used.
“We must rest now,” I said at last. “Tomorrow Keokotah and I will go out to meet Diego. Then we shall see.”
Now would my pistols be useful. There was ammunition enough to reload at least twice, and each pistol was good for twelve shots. It might be enough.
Yet even I, who am a good shot, will miss as often as I hit when shooting at moving, attacking enemies, some wearing partial armor. If I scored with even one-third of my shots I should be fortunate, fortunate indeed.
We slept, and on this night there was no red-eyed monster, and I slept soundly and well, but in the last gray light I slipped from under the robes and dressed quickly.
Bathing my hands and face, I gathered my weapons and started for the door. Komi was there, and for a moment we stood, holding hands and looking at each other. Then I took her in my arms. “Do not fear. I shall come back.”
“I do not fear, and when you come, I shall be waiting.”
Paisano was waiting. I put my crude saddle in place, mounted, and rode out the gate, which Itchakomi closed after me.
Trusting to Paisano’s keen senses, I started south, knowing the country but letting him pick his way. Riding, I kept alert for the smell of smoke from the campfire of Diego.
Dawn was sending its first crimson arrows into the sky before I caught the smell of smoke. Then crossing a low hill I saw the glow of fire. Drawing up, I studied the small camp.
Men were up and moving about, loading packs on animals. They were less than four miles south of our fort. I recognized the tall, lean figure of Diego and rode closer, calling him by name.
“Is it you, then?” He walked toward me and then stopped abruptly. “What—!”
“It is all right,” I said. “I ride a bull.”
Swinging down I walked forward, the great beast following me. Paisano had grown into a huge, powerful bull, more than six feet at the hump and weighing well over two thousand pounds, perhaps closer to three thousand.
Diego swore and then spat. “What next will you do? What next?”
“I’ll buy what you have to sell, if that is what you’ve come for. Unless you want a fight you’d better leave before Gomez comes. He’s not far behind you.”
“The Kickapoo told me. If he wants a fight he can have one.” He paused, looking into my eyes. “I cannot join you, but if he attacks me, and you should attack him at the same time …”
“It could happen,” I said, “but first the goods.”
Gomez was nowhere in sight when we reached the fort. We drove the pack mules through the gate, but I permitted only Diego and one man inside.
With two of the Natchee watching from the high ports, Diego displayed his goods. Four axes, four shovels, a crosscut saw, several bushels of colored beads, two dozen hatchets, and various other tools and equipment, including an adz. There were also three mule-loads of brightly colored cloth.
“Tools for your own use,” Diego said, “and trade goods.”
In my belt I had two dozen gold coins of Spanish origin, but I wished not to use them. My father had given them to me before we had parted at Shooting Creek, and I would hold them against some greater emergency than this. Yet there were hides we had, buffalo robes, and a few ingots of silver, melted down from the purest silver I could find while making balls for my pistols.
We bargained, but not too sharply on my part, for I wished him to do well. If he did well he would come again, and without him I had no source of supply.
At the end I threw in another ingot of silver, weighing almost a pound. “Come again, Diego, in the spring. We will make good trade, you and I.”
A voice called down from above, and Itchakomi said, “They come!”
When the soldier had driven the mules outside, Diego turned quickly to me. “A gift,” he said, placing a packet in my hand, “and if they find out I gave you this it is a hanging matter.”
In that instant he turned and ducked through the gates and was gone. Outside I heard a clatter of feet as they drove the mules away.
The gate swung shut and I took the package and went inside.
Keokotah was outside, away in the hills that he loved, and he would fight from there as he wished.
Placing the packet on the table, I looked to my guns, and then I climbed to the high ports to look down the valley.
Diego was nowhere in sight, so they must have fled up the canyon behind us. Gomez was outside. From the trees he called out. “Surrender now and we will let you go free! Lay down your weapons and come out!”
Long ago my father had said, “Never give up your weapons. I know of no case where weapons were surrendered that was not followed by a massacre.”
The packet on the table drew my attention. Opening it I looked down … gunpowder! Several pounds of it.
“Thanks, Diego,” I said. “Gracias!”
Chapter Thirty-Nine.
To Gomez I made no reply. Of one thing I was sure—no matter what other outcome this attack might have, one of us, Gomez or I, would die before it was ended. I wished only peace, and I felt sure that left to our own devices I could arrange a peace with the Utes. Only Gomez stood between us and the life I wished us to lead.
He shouted again, demanding our surrender. The skies were gray now, although heavy with clouds over the western mountains. The trees stood out, stark and black against the gray. The shadows of men, or rather their dark forms that seemed like shadows, moved at the edge of the woods and on the meadows below, reminding me of those other shadows, the dancing shadows in the cave.
Unbidden there came to mind the voice that had seemed to speak from where the skin-wrapped bodies lay. An eerie feeling as of some effort at communication had come to me, and standing alone in the silence I had asked if there was anything I could do.
A foolish thing, to speak into an empty cave where lay only the mummified bodies of the long dead, but as I had turned away I had heard, or had seemed to hear, a voice saying, “Find them!”
Find who? Where? Why?
Waiting in the darkness of the fort, the air soft with impending rain, I remembered, and was sad.
What had the dead left undone? Had they spoken? Or had the voice only been in my brain? Had there been some communicati
on, some desperate wish, some great desire that lived beyond death?
I, who might die this day, thought of that. What desire could be so driving, so compelling that it lived beyond death?
For me there could be but one. The safety of Komi and my child to be. Nothing mattered beyond that.
Was it so with them? Was this the wish of the nameless dead? But too many years, perhaps too many centuries, had passed. Their children and their grandchildren would have died long since, and yes, their great-great-grandchildren, for the bodies, I believed, had been hundreds of years old.
“Find them!”
Find who? Find what? Where?
Suddenly Komi was beside me, in her hand a cup of the coffee that had come with Diego’s trade goods.
“Komi? What do you know of the Ni’kwana? Who is he?”
“He is the Ni’kwana, the master of mysteries. What else?”
I shook my head. “I do not know, only—somehow he did not seem like an Indian. There was something about him, something different.”
“Ah!” She was silent, turning her own cup in her fingers. “I have heard—I do not know, but I have heard—he was not one of us. I have heard there was a people, a very few, who came to live with us long ago. He was the last of them.”
“You know nothing more?”
She shrugged. “They came from the river, long, long ago. I do not know whether they came from up or down the river, but they were priests, they were teachers. I do not know where they came from or when this was, only that they carne among us and taught many things. Our Ni’kwanas always came from that group. I do not know why that was, either.”
She paused. “My grandmother was one of them. She was related, somehow, to the Ni’kwana.”
Outside there was movement. I peered through a porthole in the palisade, but saw nothing.
“The Ni’kwana wished something more for you, I think. Why were you chosen to come west?”
She shrugged. “I was a Sun. It was I who could decide whether to go or stay. Only the Great Sun was above me, and he was unwell. It was my duty to come.”
“And the direction you chose?”
“The Ni’kwana directed me. He told me he knew of a place far to the west where we would be safe. He wished me to go and see.”
“It was where the river comes from the mountain?”
“No, it was beyond. It … it might be here, but I—”
My mind was busy, searching, examining, prying. There was something strange here, something eerie, something frightening.
The Ni’kwana was old. He was the last of his kind except for Itchakomi Ishaia, who was at least part of his blood. Did he wish to save her from something? Did he wish, and this thought came unexpectedly, her tofind something, someplace?
Was her trip west directed back into the past of his people? Was he trying to protect her from something he knew was inevitable? To bring her back to their beginnings?
I spoke of this, speaking softly. “You must try to remember, Komi. He was your teacher, but what did he teach? Was there something only for you? Some story? Some idea?”
“Find them!”
Was there a connection between the mummified bodies in the cave and the Ni’kwana? It was absurd. Yet—I shook myself. My mind was too busy. Too much imagination. I must forget all this and tend to the business at hand. My first consideration was survival. There would be time, I hoped, after that.
Find them—find what? People? Things? Places?
Had something been lost? People left behind? Were there some lessons to be learned, and left somewhere?
The Ni’kwana had said he expected an older man. My father, perhaps? But then he knew my father was dead. But he could not have known that when he left Natchez and his people. It could not have happened by that time. My father had died later. The Ni’kwana had come expecting an older man, but when he saw me—
How much of what followed had been accident and how much direction? Had he, somehow,wished me to find the mummies? But that was ridiculous.
What remained was that I was here, in this far place, and I had married Itchakomi. An Indian marriage, but in its form not unlike the common law marriages that were legal in England, or had been. It was little enough I knew of such things, but there had been talk at home around the table of an evening or beside the fireplace, talk of weddings, customs, all that sort of thing. I should have listened more carefully.
But what child in his later years does not wish he had listened when his parents talked among themselves, about themselves, their families, the way they had lived? So often we do not realize how much we could have learned until it is too late and there is no going back.
It was growing light. Again the call for surrender. Impatiently, I replied, “Gomez!” If you are so eager for surrender, why don’t you come and fight me? You and I alone.”
There was silence and then his voice cool, mocking. “As the challenged party, I choose the weapons. That is the way in civilized countries.”
“Why not? Belly to belly with pistols? Knives? Whatever you wish. Let us settle this, man to man.”
“Of course!” His tone was genial, yet mocking still. “I choose the weapons.”
“Choose them, then. If I win, your men leave now, at once.”
Gomez laughed. “And if I win? I take all!”
“And I will be the judge!“The voice was that of Diego. “Four muskets will cover your people, Gomez. If there is any attempt, during the fight, to take advantage, they will kill!”
Gomez walked down from the trees. There was a fine swagger to the man. He stood there in his coat of mail, hands on his hips, smiling.
“Pistols, then?” I suggested.
He laughed. “Not pistols, my fine friend! You shoot too well! No, we shall have swords! It will be a proper duel!”
Diego started to protest, but Gomez waved a dismissing hand. “You I shall take care of later, Diego. Sackett offered me the choice of weapons. He challenged me! So now we shall see how our buckskin savage does with a gentleman’s weapon!”
“Cover me,” I whispered, and stepped through the gate, which closed behind me.
“What would you know of a gentleman’s weapons?” I asked Gomez. “You are no gentleman. You are a coward, a betrayer, a slave dealer, and a pimp, who deals in women for other men.”
He started to speak and almost choked on his fury. Then he calmed down. “We shall see! Swords, my friend! Let us see how you do!”
Diego’s protest was brushed aside. Yet he called out to me. “Sackett! Think what you do! The sword ishis weapon!”
Perhaps it was, but there had been those hours and hours of fencing back at Shooting Creek when my father, Jeremy, and Sakim had all instructed me in the art. It had been nearly two years … still, I had been rather good, the best of them, in fact, except for my father.
Diego came down from the trees. “You may use my blade,” he said. Then leaning closer he said, “Think what you do! The man is a superb swordsman! He will make a fool of you and then kill you!”
I gripped the hilt of the saber. “A fine blade, Diego. I thank you for this. I shall try not to disgrace it for you.”
“Save yourself, Sackett. Run! I’ll not hold it against you! Get out before he murders you!”
“Murder? It is not easily done, amigo.”
“Are you ready, then?” Gomez called. “I want to kill you, and then I shall have the wench. She’ll make good trade back in Santa Fe!”
Sword in hand, I walked toward him. He would be good, probably very good, and I had never fought for blood with a sword. Fenced, yes. Hour upon hour, with some of the best, but this was different. This man intended to kill me or maim me.
Contemptuous of me, he would try to make a fool of me first. He would play with me as a cat with a mouse.
The earth outside of the gate was smoothly packed. Only in the grass lurked the caltrops and the prickly pear. There was room enough, a space at least forty feet wide and half again that long of smoothly
packed clay.
We moved out on the clay and I endeavored to appear awkward and unsure of myself. Yet at this moment I suddenly remembered my leg. Would it make a difference? I did not believe so. It was too late now to think of that. What I must do was to discover Gomez’ rhythm, the cadence of his movements. In fencing as in boxing timing and judgment of distance were all important, and the way an opponent moves and his reach must be quickly learned. My chance of victory would be greater if I moved at once, before he discovered I knew something of the art of the saber. Now he thought me what he had said, a buckskin-clad savage, to whom the use of the sword was completely foreign.
We circled, and I held my weapon awkwardly. Stepping in, I watched his step back and timed his movements. He was smiling now, a taunting smile. “I shall have her for myself,” Gomez said, “before I use her in trade.”
He was trying to anger me, to draw me in, so I did as he wished and made as if to attack, and then retreated as he attacked. His movements were wide, flamboyant and careless. My blade caught his thrust, parried, and slid along his blade. He moved even as my point touched his shoulder. He backed away, circling, looking at me with a question in his eyes. I had been too good on that one. He would be more cautious now. But he was not, he attacked again with wide-sweeping cuts and I retreated. He came on, suddenly impatient, yet I had taken his measure and caught him out of time. I thrust, quick, low, and hard.
Whether it found a break in his chain mail or drove through, I did not know, but my point went in, deep and hard. Cutting left with the edge, I withdrew sharply, and blood followed.
His face was ghastly. It had suddenly turned mottled and yellow and he staggered, trying to regain his poise. He tried an attack, but his timing was gone and I thrust again, this time at his throat. Turning the blade at the target I cut sharply left and laid open his throat. His blade dropped and he tried to speak. Then he fell over on his face.
There was a chorus of shouts and some wild yells. Looking up I beheld a circle of Indians, at least fifty of them on horseback, watching.
Keokotah came from the trees. “Utes,” he said. “Speak well.”
Jubal Sackett (1985) Page 30
