Behind him lay Wenro, Erie, Miami, and Shawnee. Kickapoo and Foxes had been met and from the south he had encountered wandering Chickasaw and Muskogee. By winter he had found the father of all rivers and chose to wait through the cold months before crossing. A great tribe called the Illinois lived along the river and among them he was given shelter.
Handsome were the Illinois, with land and power as great as that of the Iroquois. Yet, here too change was twisting old ways. Whites traveled the great river, and their guns gave power to some of little skill as their fire water destroyed the dignity of others. Here too great sickness had ravaged villages, and like the Iroquois, the Illinois were weakened as ancient ways died and new ones struggled for importance.
The Frost Father and his cousins of snow and wind were without spirit, and the winter was mild with little freezing. Because of it, there was no hunger, although old ones complained that they were fortunate since preparation had been poor.
Strangely, the people were wracked with coughs that included endless hocking and spitting. Councils were continually disturbed by the noise and interruptions. Few died, but many were weakened. Through it The Warrior remained untouched, which surprised none as he appeared above such annoyances.
From far came medicine men and powerful thinkers to see and make hands with the giant of the Iroquois. At times, there appeared men with whom he could speak, and although his reserve held like the turtle's shell, he enjoyed the exchanges.
Many spoke of a land across the Father of Waters, and from them The Warrior saw how it would be. First he would find a rolling country with some woods, but it would soon give way to a land without trees that stretched forever westward. Some claimed the great mountains lay a summer's march across the plains, but they had only heard that.
A few had seen the mountains from great distance and one, a Kickapoo, told of reaching them by following the rivers where game was plentiful. All knew of fierce warriors who lived on their horses and followed the wanderings of the buffalo. It was said that the horse hunters were as numerous as flies on a carcass and as merciless as wolves that tore at the entrails of the still living. When they were spoken of, medicine gourds were rattled and protecting signs were made.
The Warrior knew little of horses. He had seen them among French whites and the Illinois had a few. Their speed could be great, and in a place without trees, fleetness would replace concealment. Strange would be the sights across the great river, and although he waited with a warrior's patience, he could feel his real journey about to begin.
Until now, most had been as before, but beyond the river lay a different place and a people unknown to his experience. Among them, he would encounter new challenges. He could sense it. Would he find there The Great Sky Father? He felt no answers, but he might ride upon the back of a horse, and to live beyond the protection of the forest would demand new skills. He wondered if without trees, the horse hunters could make fire? Truly exciting times waited only the sun's warming.
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The Father of Waters was best crossed before melting snow added to the current and broadened the river many times its winter flow. Then, giant trees swirled in the flood and a canoe could find no safety. The Illinois crossed infrequently and no longer claimed land on the western side, but buffalo came to the tree shelter along the river and hunters dared the river's dangers to find them.
The hunters welcomed The Warrior's paddle in driving their log canoe across the swift current. Even then, they were driven far downstream before reaching shore. He repaid his passage by helping drag the heavy dugout far upstream so that on their return the hunters would land near their village.
A day's march to the north another great river joined the Mississippi. Buffalo were not often found between the rivers so the hunters crossed below it. For the Warrior it was also convenient; he could travel along the new river's bank until he chose to leave it to follow the sun's path.
For some days the land changed little. Trees thinned and the rolling hills were increasingly naked. It was a time of adjustment and it felt dangerous to be limited to the cover provided by brushy trees on lower ground.
As the Illinois had described, fire was made with dried buffalo dung, which was plentiful, although the great herds spoken about grazed elsewhere.
When the open plains lay beneath his moccasins, The Warrior was ready. He had met small family groups along the river who called themselves Oto. They rode ponies and dragged lodges of long poles and buffalo hide. The Otos were friendly and eager to exchange talk, but they too avoided the true horse tribes that wandered with the buffalo.
He strode on the sun's path, increasing his day's travel as there was little to see and no one with whom to meet. At times water was short, but the season was early and holes that would later be sun parched were deep with winter run-off.
Game was abundant and rabbits grew to great size. The Warrior took what he needed and moved on. He sang the old songs to break the wind's never-ceasing whistle and sent high his call to The Sky Father. No signs came, but he doubted The Great Spirit watched closely such an empty land.
Although he covered mighty distances the land marched before him and he was often all that lived as far as he could see. To the west no mountains rose and behind the great river seemed a dream barely remembered.
Small, even the powerful Iroquois nations would be within these lands. Unimportant appeared the squabbling at borders and petty raiding that had occupied his seasons. In The Sky Father's greatness such things could be beneath notice, and he wondered increasingly often if this discovery might not be The Great Spirit's message to him. By itself, that would make worthwhile the journey he had undertaken.
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Chapter 20: Age 36
The riders had been waiting in a wash where water sometimes ran. The steeply undercut bank had hidden them completely, and no horse scent or dust mote had given them away. When ready, they drove their small mounts up a slope and formed a line across his way.
The Warrior counted two hands of riders, small men, unpainted but with lances ready. Remaining expressionless, his pace unvarying, he held his forked stick high and closed the distance between them.
As one, the riders walked their horses forward and surprisingly there was talk among them. He excited their interest, but as they approached the small talk ceased and the horses drew tighter, barring his passage.
Expecting no response, The Warrior greeted them in Onondaga and then repeated in other tongues, but expressions remained blank. Again raising the messenger's stick he passed it before each face, catching the eyes before moving on. Certain that they understood, he ceremoniously drove the stick into the earth and began to speak with his hands. The riders' cold eyes shifted and read the hands with increasing interest. He told his name and how he came in peace from the rising sun, searching for knowledge and perhaps even for the sun's setting place.
As his thoughts took shape there was easing among the horsemen and as he finished, excited chatter spread and lances lifted. Nods of understanding were emphasized by short grunts and a few hands raised in the peace sign. Pleased, The Warrior showed his own open palm.
One, however, did not join the acceptance. A wiry man near the line's center shouted for attention and jabbed his lance threateningly in The Warrior's direction. His complaints were dismissed by his companions' shrugs and head shakings but he pressed on, his temper turning ever shorter.
As the rider fanned his anger, The Warrior waited expressionless, his hand remaining high in the peace sign. Infuriated by his companions' lack of support, the angry brave nudged his horse forward and disdainfully slashed with his lance at The Warrior's raised hand. The blow was awkward and could have been evaded, but there was insult in the attack. Instead, The Warrior snatched the lance behind its head and rammed its shaft powerfully backward into its owner's belly.
The lance fell free and the injured rider's grunt of expelled air matched the open-mouthed astonishment of his companions as The Warrior almost ca
sually embedded the captured lance upright beside his message stick.
Further enraged, the brave jammed his horse forward attempting to crowd his tormentor, but without momentum the horse's hard head merely struck The Warrior's shoulder.
The further insult to one protected by the message stick was too much. Anger cold as a snake's eye flushed through The Warrior, and like a stone club his clenched fist sledged the horse's skull with all of his terrible power behind it. The impact resounded like rock on rock, and the horse collapsed as though struck by lightning.
The suddenly dismounted rider crouched sobered and unbelieving beside his dead animal, and a moan of awe rose among the others. Still angered by the affronts, The Warrior jerked the heavy lance from the ground and with a swell of muscle bent it between his hands until it splintered with a crack that sent horses rearing and fighting their riders.
Visibly impressed, the horsemen settled their mounts and again raised their palms. A number made the sign of the black hawk and gestured to the west. A Black Hawk? How many by that name had he already met? Surely too many, but The Warrior hid his feelings, took up his stick and strode in the direction indicated.
The procession was not unlike others he had made into strange encampments. His escorts were hunters and an antelope carcass draped one mount's quarters. The horseless brave rode behind a companion, avoiding The Warrior's agate gaze and sullenly suffering his friends' unfeeling sarcasm.
At times The Warrior trotted and occasionally he ran with an effortless, ground devouring stride that brought the horses into a trot and caused lips to purse in admiration.
Occasionally, a brave attempted conversation but the words were unintelligible, and while riding hand talk proved awkward. At their village lived Blackhawk who, it appeared, was a mighty hunter and killer of enemies. Blackhawk would be pleased to see The Warrior, it was said, but judging the riders and their mounts. The Warrior expected no marvels.
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The village lay in a watered hollow that supported a small grove of aged cottonwoods. Boys guarded a horse herd on a further slope, and light smoke rose from small buffalo chip fires nourished between lodges. Squaws and children bustled about until their approach was noted, then most rushed to the grove edge to await their entrance.
One of the riders loped ahead to speak powerfully to the gathering. With much gesturing toward the hunting party, the words sparked excitement that seemed to The Warrior more than customary. When they splashed across the turgid run and approached the council grounds, village men called to him as though in recognition and squaws smiled and bobbed their heads as if pleased by his arrival. To The Warrior the reception was unusual. Its friendliness contrasted so sharply with the discourtesy of the now horseless brave that his interest roused.
Village elders assembled in the council circle that seemed common to every tribe. The formalities might vary or the chantings prove equally unintelligible, but the pipe invariably passed and smoke was blown in The Great Spirit's honor.
The Warrior waited as old men stroked their egos and proclaimed loudly in nasal voicings, probably about the usual subjects of ancient triumphs and heroic lineages. Eventually his own turn would come and through the language of hands he would explain his journey and again ask the unanswered questions that drew him ever westward.
The sun sank lower until it stroked the ridges but the soft tapping of a medicine drum and the yammering of speakers continued. A young brave barely distracted them as he placed chips on the fire and fanned a new blaze. There was comfortable familiarity that relaxed The Warrior's mind and raised memories of the many other camps among people he rarely knew.
Unexpectedly the drum silenced and the one speaking turned toward a youth who hurried forward excitedly pointing and calling the words that The Warrior had come to recognize as the Blackhawk. Attentions focused on the land fold that guarded the hollow's west bank, and after a moment the soft drumming of a single horse reached them. The hoof beats died beyond the ridge, and the council heard the mount snuffle before a sharper crack as its rider struck its rump and it loped away to join the guarded horse herd.
With the others, The Warrior waited in anticipation. Blackhawk had arrived and nerves tingled expectantly. When it came, the Hawk's entrance was dramatic, and The Warrior's breast swelled with the power of it.
Against the lowering sun a head appeared. Black and featureless, it rose on a wedged torso so gigantic it seemed to crowd the horizon. A bow span of shoulders tapered to a leaned waist framed by arms of immense muscular thickness. In silhouette, without definition, the figure assumed awesome proportions, and The Warrior sensed his spirit draw itself for challenge beyond experience.
A short and powerful bow was dwarfed within a mighty fist, yet as they appeared, the figure's legs were not the heavy pillars expected but the sculptured thighs, taut knees, and shapely calves of a strong runner. There was a fine balance of crushing power and agile quickness. Soot black against a failing sky, the effect was magical.
Something overpoweringly familiar brought The Warrior to his feet and his heart sledged at excitement unexpected within so common a fire circle. He found himself inhaling deeply and adjusting his stance—as though facing a formidable opponent. Yet, his senses detected no menace, and his mind struggled with a feeling of having long known the figure striding toward them.
Beyond the firelight the silhouette paused, as though it returned The Warrior's undivided interest, and the entire gathering hushed in breathless anticipation of a meeting of vast significance.
Then the moment was broken and the Hawk stepped to the firelight and into full view. Almost staggered, The Warrior strived for composure as old men made room and greeted the Hawk's arrival with high-pitched shouts and vigorous wavings. Blackhawk was truly named, for his skin was as black as fire soot, without shine, and adorned only by a multitude of scars that could match The Warrior's own.
The Warrior was humbled by the discovery. Late Star had spoken of men with black skin, but he had barely listened. He had known whites, but that The Great Spirit had chosen to make others as dark as the night now fired his imagination. The thought that he might even find men as blue as water or as green as pine flicked across his mind.
Eye to eye they stood, weighing the other's worth, while lesser men watched in awe. The Blackhawk's eyes glowed almost yellow in the firelight, and hair kinked but unbraided was tied into a single plume that lay thickly across a mighty shoulder.
The Hawk's nose arched strongly with a predatory arrogance strengthened by flared nostrils and prominent cheek bones. The neck was nearly lost within a swell of muscle that rippled with each movement, and The Warrior experienced again a rush of familiarity. Clearly he could not have encountered The Blackhawk or one like him, but he knew the man, knew him instantly as he had known no other. He could sense the Hawk's thoughts as they paralleled his own, and he could feel the other's breathing as he could his own. His grasp was on The Hawk's bow, as The Hawk's hand lay on the iron tomahawk at his own belt.
The empathy was consuming, but it was not until the Blackhawk's smile of awareness disclosed teeth as white and even as his own that revelation entered the mind of The Warrior. When he saw the Hawk, he saw himself. Their bodies were as one and only their skins differed in color and scarring. Where his bicep swelled, so did Blackhawk's and where the Hawk's body was ridged and iron-hard, so was his own.
They stood of a height, towering like gods among mortals, and the effect was not lost on those others. Involuntarily they drew away as though recognizing the right of the two to commune without distraction. Conversations died, and the spirit drum remained silent as even the squaws ceased and watched with awareness of a memorable event.
The Hawk again broke the moment with a short grunt of acceptance and turned to choose a seat within the circle, but for The Warrior the spell continued, and he was unaware that he had returned to the erect seating of council.
As the Hawk held an ember to the medicine pipe, old men chattered
into his ear and again his eyes glowed amber as they met those of The Warrior. Soon the tellers spoke of The Warrior's punishment of the hunter who had violated the message stick, and Blackhawk's lip curled as his eyes shifted to the guilty one lurking beyond the circle.
Did Blackhawk study him? The Warrior wondered. Did he too sense a bond between them, or did he see a potential foe waiting across the circle?
When he spoke, Blackhawk's voice was deep and his gestures were fluid, adding weight to his words. What he said pleased the council, and there were head bobbings and sounds of approval.
When ready, he spoke directly to The Warrior without hand signs. He tried many tongues but only a few words were familiar. With a shrug of disappointment Blackhawk began the hand talk, and at once his thoughts became clear.
"I am Blackhawk. It is said that you are called The Warrior." Raised eyebrows requested an answer.
"I am The Warrior, so named by my teachers, Friend Seeker and Late Star." The honored names were clearly unfamiliar to Blackhawk.
"It is said that with a single blow you killed the horse of Bent Rider." Blackhawk nodded toward the sullen brave. The Warrior chose not to answer, for the words were true, and the Hawk continued.
"Should The Warrior not replace that which he has destroyed?"
No smile broke the hard cast of Blackhawk's face, and in answering The Warrior remained equally impassive.
"Among all peoples, one bearing the stick of the messenger may pass unhindered. Is it not so within this council?" While some nodded agreement, The Warrior continued.
"Among many of honor, the companions of Bent Rider would have been his punishers." Though his eyes did not seek them out, the others of the hunting party became uncomfortable. "To strike one protected by the message stick is to strike all, for if the stick is not honored only the strongest will pass, and all will live in ignorance and fear."
The Warrior (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series) Page 19
