Broken Trail (13 page)

“Besides chickens, not a damn thing.”

“Stick your head all the way in?”

“And get it knocked off? From the racket the chickens are making, somebody else must be inside. We better wake the other men so we can surround the hen house.”

“The fellows won't be too happy with us, seein' as we didn't notice anything when we was supposed to be on guard.”

“We got no choice. I'll fetch them. You stay here to keep an eye on that window.”

Footsteps retreated. Peeking between two logs where the
chinking had fallen out, Broken Trail saw a man standing with his rifle aimed at the window opening. No escape that way.

When he turned his head, his eyes fell on the stone fireplace with its big chimney that reached all the way through the roof. Could they crawl up through the chimney? Well, they had to try.

Broken Trail crept from beneath the shelf. He freed Red Sun Rising's ankles and cut through the twisted kerchief that gagged his mouth.

“We're going up the chimney,” Broken Trail hissed. “You first.”

“Good.” Flashing a quick look that was almost a smile, Red Sun Rising crawled across the dirt floor into the open fireplace. In moments his body disappeared. Broken Trail heard a scraping sound from inside. Then a muffled cry, barely audible above the cackling of the fowl.

“I'm stuck.”

Broken Trail scrambled into the fireplace. Stretching up his arms, he felt two moccasined feet. With all his strength, he pulled, backing away just as Red Sun Rising landed with a thud and a shower of soot.

“My coat make me too big,” he gasped.

“Take it off.”

With a slash of his sharp knife, Broken Trail sent gilt buttons flying through the air. Red Sun Rising wrestled his arms from the coat sleeves and crawled into the fireplace
again. Without the coat and its wide shoulder epaulettes, he had enough room to scramble up and out.

Broken Trail sheathed his knife. As he started up the chimney, the padlock on the chicken house door clicked open.

FINGERS DIGGING INTO
the worn cedar shingles, they lay with their bodies flat against the roof. Despite the darkness, Broken Trail could see Red Sun Rising's eyes shining with excitement. Having come so near to death, he seemed ten times more alive.

Beneath them, so close that Broken Trail could have reached down to touch them if there had been a hole in the roof, men crowded into the space between the tiers of nesting boxes. Over the chickens' clamour it was hard to hear exactly what the men were saying, especially since all seemed to be talking at the same time. But the gist was clear.

“There's his coat.”

“But where's he gone?”

“Damn Cherokees set him free.”

“Blood calls to blood.” Broken Trail recognized Judah's deep rumble. “The hills are crawling with Cherokees. They knew we had him here.”

Broken Trail nudged Red Sun Rising. “Now! Before they think to check the roof.”

They wriggled over the shingles to the very edge. Here, it was only a man's height from the roof to the ground. Swinging their bodies over the edge, they dropped. They started running as soon as their feet hit the ground.

Broken Trail heard shouts and then a single rifle shot before he and Red Sun Rising reached the hillside. No one wasted another bullet. Pursuit ended within moments, as Broken Trail had expected it would. At night, no one in his right mind wanted to venture into a forest that he thought was swarming with Cherokees.

Silently Broken Trail and Red Sun Rising climbed the short distance to the sumac stand. Broken Trail plunged in first. Elijah caught him by both arms.

Seeing Elijah, Red Sun Rising stopped cold. He stared. “Who are you?”

“I'm his brother.”

“Brother? I not know…” Not finishing the sentence, he pointed toward the crest of the hill. “Trail that way. You follow me.”

Elijah was the only one whose feet made the slightest
noise as they climbed. Tripping over roots and snapping dry sticks under his boots, he stumbled after the others.

Near the top, Broken Trail glanced back over his shoulder. All he could see in the valley below were the flames of the bonfire, burning brightly again.

Red Sun Rising led them along a high trail that followed the contour of the hills. They walked for the rest of the night, and at sunrise descended into a wooded valley.

“This is far enough,” Red Sun Rising said. “They not catch us.”

Elijah, who looked the most in need of rest, sat down and leaned his back against the trunk of a massive oak just off the trail. Broken Trail and Red Sun Rising sat cross-legged, facing him.

Red Sun Rising peered at Elijah. “You're a redcoat. Where you come from?”

“I was taken prisoner at Kings Mountain. Moses rescued me.”

“Who?”

“That's my white name,” Broken Trail explained.

Red Sun Rising did not question this. He nodded. “You look like brothers.” He turned to Broken Trail. “Why you not tell me you go to Kings Mountain to find him?”

“I didn't know he was there. For three years I hadn't seen him or heard any word of him.”

Red Sun Rising appeared to accept this explanation. “So now you make a long trail together?”

“Yes,” said Broken Trail. “I'm going home. Elijah will travel with me most of the way.”

“It is good to have your brother with you on a long trail.” A look of sadness spread over Red Sun Rising's face. “I travel alone.”

“Back to Chickamauga?” Broken Trail asked.

Red Sun Riding sighed. “Back to Chickamauga. No scalps. No red coat. No horse.” After a moment's silence, he brightened again. “It is time for the fall hunt. Winter comes soon. But in the Moon of New Leaves, we fight again.” He raised his arm, flourishing an imaginary war club. “We kill the settlers who steal Cherokee land.”

Broken Trail wondered how Red Sun Rising managed to keep up his resolve, for every time he was knocked down, he seemed to rise again.

“Until we reached the farm where you and I stole the horses, I thought you were already back home in Chickamauga. What happened after you left Kings Mountain?”

“That day I go to find horses. No horses where we leave them. I think Over Mountain men find them first. So I go on foot, walk many days. Then I see one fine black horse in a paddock. I think I steal that horse. Ride him home.” He grimaced. “That was big mistake. Red coat very bright. White men see me.” He paused. “Big, big mistake. I think I go fast to the Land without Trouble.” He paused. “But then Yowa, the Great Spirit, sent you to help me.”

“Reckon he did,” Broken Trail answered, feeling grateful
that he had been able to repay Red Sun Rising for guiding him to Kings Mountain. He wished only that he could do more. “How far is it to Chickamauga?” he said. “If you need food for your journey, I have a little corn powder left.”

Red Sun Rising shook his head. “You and your brother keep it for your long trail. I am only one day from my home.” He hesitated. “It is good we meet again. You are all times my friend.”

“And you are all times my friend.”

Red Sun Rising rose to his feet. “If I start now, I sleep in Chickamauga tonight.”

“Don't go yet,” said Broken Trail. “Rest a while longer.”

“When I am home, is time to rest. Tonight I see my father and my mother. For sure, they think I am dead.”

“They will rejoice at your return.”

“I tell everybody how I make a friend. I say he is white, but one of us.”

Broken Trail stood up when he saw that Red Sun Rising was determined to leave. “Be strong,” he said, and clasped his hand. “May the unseen spirits guide you.”

“May Yowa watch over you and not place too many stones in your path.”

“Best of luck,” said Elijah, looking uncomfortable, as if he suspected that this was not exactly the right thing to say.

Red Sun Rising raised his arm in farewell, and then disappeared into the forest.

Elijah's voice broke the silence that followed. “His people
don't have a chance. The British have tried to keep the settlers in check. When the rebels take over, more and more settlers will come. They'll destroy the forest and push the Cherokees all the way to the Mississippi River. Thousands will die—people whose only crime is to live on land that somebody else wants.” His voice was utterly flat, admitting no hope. “As for your friend, he'll be dead within a year.”

Dead within a year.
The words rang in Broken Trail's ears. In an instant, his heart felt as cold and heavy as a stone.

“At least he will die fighting.”

“Is it worth it,” Elijah asked, “to die in a war already lost?”

“To die with honour is always a victory.”

“But does it help his people? I don't think so.”

Broken Trail did not argue. He sat down beside Elijah. “Red Sun Rising asked me to go to Chickamauga with him. He wanted me to join a war party against the settlers. I wish I could help his people. But not that way.”

“In the middle of a war, nobody seems able to see a better way. It's all killing, until one side or the other gives up. Then there's peace for a while, until it all starts over again. And I'll tell you what I think: the longer this goes on, the more the native people are going to lose.”

“In the north,” Broken Trail said, “the British are setting aside land for their Indian allies.”

“Ah, but in the north the Mohawks have a chief like Joseph Brant to negotiate not only for them but for the whole Iroquois Confederacy.”

“The Cherokees have Dragging Canoe.”

“Dragging Canoe is shrewd and brave, but he can't read or write, and he barely speaks English. He knows nothing about the world beyond his own mountains and forests. But Joseph Brant is an educated man. He writes letters and helps to draft treaties. He has been to England and met King George. The Cherokees have no one like that to lead them, a man who is at home in both worlds.”

Broken Trail did not answer. Looking down, he noticed a little patch of sunshine on the forest floor. A slender ray had penetrated the leafy canopy overhead. It reminded him of the quivering beam that had pierced the darkness of the cavity under the maple tree while he hid there after the fighting on Kings Mountain. That tiny light had been a sign, he had felt, that the Great Spirit had a plan for his life. Listening now to Elijah's words, he felt afraid of what that plan might be.

FOLLOWING THE RIVER
valleys in a northerly direction, Broken Trail and Elijah left behind the moss-draped trees of the south. Now birches edged the riverbanks, and the cool, crisp air was spiced with the scent of pine. Elijah thought they might be in Pennsylvania, but he was not certain.

Late in the afternoon, five days after Red Sun Rising had left them, they came upon a burned-out farm. It was a small homestead, just a couple of acres, with a swiftly flowing creek running through it. Only ashes and charred wood remained of the house and barn. When the boys poked in the ashes of the house, their prodding released the sharp smell of recent burning.

“No bodies,” Elijah said. “That's good. The folks who lived here must have escaped.”

“Or been carried off.”

“Cherokees?”

“Too far north,” said Broken Trail.

“Maybe it was neighbour against neighbour, like in the Mohawk Valley.”

“Like we were burned out, back in Canajoharie.” In his mind Broken Trail returned to the day that he had come home from school to find his family's home a smouldering ruin.

Elijah broke in upon his thoughts. “We should camp here tonight. There'll be trout in that creek.”

Elijah was right about the trout. They caught eight, using Broken Trail's bone hooks baited with salamanders from under a log. Half they grilled on green sticks for supper; the other half Broken Trail plastered with clay to be set later in the embers to bake for their morning meal.