Broken Trail (22 page)

“I think we might… if he makes it worth our while.”

“What do you want from me?” Broken Trail asked.

“We'll settle for that rifle,” the man called Abel said.

“It isn't mine to give away. It belongs to my friend.”

“The same friend that's lying in the bush with his leg broke?” Abel snorted. “I reckon he'd give his rifle to save his life.”

Broken Trail hesitated. He had promised Spotted Dog that he would return the rifle. But the time saved might mean the difference between life and death.

“It's a bargain.”

“Are you sure we got room for him?” the younger man said.

“We can squeeze him in with the pelts.” He turned to Broken Trail. “Sit down. If you're going to join us, we might as well feed you. I'm Abel. My brother here is Seth.”

“My name is Broken Trail.”

Seth handed him a hot bannock, still on the stick. After he had eaten it, Abel gave him a filthy blanket. Rolled in the blanket close to the fire, Broken Trail drifted off while the brothers were still talking. Later, waking briefly, he heard snores from the other side of the fire and fell asleep again.

In the morning Abel and Seth loaded the fur bales into the canoe, making a space for Broken Trail to squeeze in. Sitting with his arms wrapped around his knees, he could barely move. But he was warm.

Soon the canoe reached the river mouth and entered the choppy, open water of Lake Ontario. Heavy with cargo, it rode so low that every wave threatened to swamp it. Spray soaked Broken Trail's face and hair and wet the fur bales piled around him.

Paddling became easier as soon as the canoe reached the islands where Lake Ontario flowed into the St. Lawrence River. Seth and Abel turned the canoe northeast in order to follow the channel that lay between Wolfe Island and the mainland, that being the shorter way. Broken Trail recognized the western tip of Carleton Island, before Wolfe Island hid it from his view, and he had a glimpse of the flag that flew over Fort Haldimand. Maybe Elijah was still there, a member of the garrison. Or had he been assigned to a different regiment and sent back to the Carolinas? Someday Broken Trail would have to search for him all over again.

Once past Cataraqui, the canoe, helped by the current, moved swiftly along the St. Lawrence River. Soon Broken Trail would be home.

What awaited him there? How many of the twelve who had set off on the war party were still alive? Maybe he and Spotted Dog were the only ones who survived. His thoughts turned to Young Bear, who at the age of thirteen had his
death song ready in case his first battle turned out to be his last. Broken Trail prayed that Young Bear had not been killed in the fighting, though he knew that it was now too late for prayer to help.

Darkness had fallen when Seth and Abel dropped him off at the Oneida village. Broken Trail handed the rifle to Abel, who cradled it appreciatively in his arms.

“Good luck, little Indian,” said Abel.

“I hope you reach your friend in time,” Seth added.

Stiff from sitting cramped so long, Broken Trail walked on wobbly legs through the opening in the palisade.

He hesitated before entering the Bear Clan longhouse, dreading what he was about to learn. But there was no time to spare. He lifted the corner of the hide covering that hung over the entry and stepped inside.

It was almost a surprise to see that everything looked so normal, with each of the six cooking fires burning in its proper place. And yet an unaccustomed stillness hung in the air. He heard no laughter, no chatter of conversation. This was a house of mourning. He saw grief on every face.

At the third fire pit, Catches the Rainbow was stirring something in a big pot. Maybe she felt him watching her, because she raised her head and looked directly at him. Her mouth opened, but he could not catch what she said. Everyone turned and stared at him.

Carries a Quiver rose from his spot beside the fire and approached, his arm upraised in greeting. His features did not move, but Broken Trail saw joy in his eyes.

“Ho! Broken Trail lives and has returned,” said Carries a Quiver.

“A couple of fur traders brought me back.”

A silent crowd gathered. And there was Young Bear in their midst, looking unharmed. Broken Trail's heart lifted, but this was not the time to show his gladness.

“Walks Crooked told us how you swam the river to cut the ropes of the Mississauga canoes,” Carries a Quiver said. “He told us that arrows and bullets flew like a blizzard. He was certain you had been killed.”

“The shooting came from two directions. I was caught in the middle, unable to reach the place where we planned to meet.” Broken Trail looked around, searching for other members of the war party. “Who else came back?”

“Black Elk and Young Bear arrived first. They came in a canoe loaded with baskets of rice. They had set out before the Mississauga sentry raised the alarm, and paddled all night. In the morning they stopped to wait for the others to join them. When none did, they realized that their canoe was the only one that had escaped.

“Today Swift Fox, Walks Crooked and Smoke Eater returned. They found one of the canoes that you had set loose to float down the river. According to them, the Mississaugas took no prisoners. Apart from you and these five, all the rest of the war party are dead. A terrible price to pay for a few baskets of rice.”

“One more survived,” Broken Trail said. “Spotted Dog is alive… or was when I left him.”

“You left him?”

“His leg was broken, and he's too big for me to drag or carry. I set his leg, then left him hiding not far from the Mississauga village. I came as fast as I could to bring help.”

“Did he have any food?”

“Pemmican. It may be gone by now.”

Carries a Quiver turned to a boy who stood near by. “Go to the other longhouses. Get Walks Crooked, Swift Fox and Black Elk. Tell them that Broken Trail has returned and that Spotted Dog lies hurt in the forest. Broken Trail will lead a rescue party to him. There is no time to lose. It must leave tonight.” He turned to Broken Trail. “You should eat something while the others prepare for the journey.”

Broken Trail took his place at Catches the Rainbow's fire. She brought him baked squash and stewed rabbit. As she watched him eat, her dark eyes shone with joy.

After gulping down the food, he climbed onto his family's storage platform, a wide shelf over the sleeping platform, where he quickly found a pair of his own leggings, a buckskin shirt and tall winter moccasins. By the time he had dressed, the canoes were ready.

Broken Trail paddled in the bow of Swift Fox's canoe. Walks Crooked and Black Elk were in the other. All night they fought the current and a west wind. As the sky changed from black to grey, they passed the mouth of the river that had borne Broken Trail south in Seth and Abel's canoe. Just after sunrise, they reached the outlet of the next river. There
they stopped and pulled up their canoes onto the sandy shore.

“Where are we?” Broken Trail asked.

“Just downstream from the Mississauga village,” Black Elk answered. He stretched to ease his muscles. “After we have eaten, we'll paddle upriver as close to the village as we dare and hide the canoes downstream from the willow tree.”

Swift Fox lifted a food basket from his canoe. He took out the pemmican bag and cut off a chunk of pemmican for each person. All except Walks Crooked sat down to eat, relaxing against the canoes. Walks Crooked took no food. He paced back and forth, his twisted foot leaving prints at an odd angle to those of his other foot. He did not look as if he wanted to speak with anyone.

While Broken Trail ate, he watched a raft of merganser ducks. They floated with their bodies so closely packed together that it appeared a person could walk across their backs and not fall through. When the ducks moved off in their compact formation, it looked as though they were being towed away.

Once or twice Walks Crooked threw a glance in Broken Trail's direction. His face was a frozen mask. Only his restless pacing betrayed the turmoil of his feelings. He looked afraid that his son would not be found alive.

BROKEN TRAIL HAD HIS
mouth full of pemmican when Walks Crooked stopped pacing. He stood in front of Broken Trail and stared at him. Feeling anxious under the scrutiny, he chewed harder, hoping that somehow this might ward off whatever questions Walks Crooked was thinking of asking.

Walks Crooked spoke abruptly. “Was my son in good spirits when you left him?”

Broken Trail kept chewing while he thought how to answer. He could not mention Spotted Dog's unmanly tears and certainly not his shameful confession. When he could put off answering no longer, he swallowed the thoroughly chewed-up pemmican.

“Spotted Dog was ready to meet death.”

Walks Crooked looked satisfied. “A warrior must always be prepared for death. But my son's
oki
will protect him. A golden eagle is noble and strong.”

Broken Trail said no more.

Now Swift Fox called the others together. He took a stick and drew a line in the sand. “This line is the river.” He drew a half circle beside it to represent the palisade and the dwellings it enclosed. “This is the Mississauga town.” Then he jabbed at a point downstream from the town. “Here is where we'll hide the canoes. Black Elk will wait there to guard them.

“As you know, I have searched out all the trails in the region of the Mississauga town.” He hesitated. In the moment of silence, Broken Trail knew that Swift Fox was remembering the two who had searched those trails with him—both killed in the battle at the willow tree. Swift Fox continued. “When we have made our detour around the town, Broken Trail will lead us to Spotted Dog. When we find him, we shall carry him to the canoes and be on our way.”

They pushed the canoes into the water and took up their paddles. There was little traffic on the river this late in the fall. Most traders had already transported their cargos of furs to Montreal. Only once did they meet a freight canoe travelling south. Sitting in comfort in the centre, a white man smoked his pipe while eight warriors paddled. The paddlers in the freight canoe scowled ferociously at the
Oneidas, whose bristling scalp locks identified them as foes.

“Mississaugas,” Swift Fox said. “It is fortunate for us that they are working for the trader. We four would have little chance against eight of them.”

The sun was directly overhead when they went ashore. After dragging the canoes into a willow thicket on the riverbank, they left them for Black Elk to cover with brush.

Swift Fox led them west and then north on a narrow path. They moved as silently as smoke through the trees. Chickadees, hopping among the branches, called cheerily to each other and paid no attention. If there had been a Mississauga sentry nearby, he would not have heard a rustle from the rescuers as they passed.

When they had completed their detour of the town, Broken Trail took over the lead. The place where he had left Spotted Dog was only a short way ahead. His throat felt tight as they drew near. What if Spotted Dog was dead? What if his body had been lying under the juniper's branches for days, exposed to the elements and unprotected from scavengers?

And then they came upon him, not lying under the juniper but sitting with his back against the trunk of the cedar tree, his splinted leg stretched out in front of him. His head hung to one side, and his eyes were shut.

Walks Crooked approached his son, knelt beside him, and gently touched his shoulder.

“Ho! Spotted Dog,” he said softly, “we have come to take you home.”

Spotted Dog opened his eyes.

“What?” His voice was faint.

“Swift Fox and Broken Trail are with me. We have come to take you home.”

Spotted Dog's face looked tired and ill. His bloodshot eyes seemed to have receded into their sockets, and his skin had an ashy hue. He whimpered, “Many days and nights passed while I waited. I was cold. I thought Broken Trail had left me here to die.”

“Why did you think that? I gave my word,” Broken Trail protested.

Walks Crooked examined Spotted Dog's left leg, seeing how it was bound with poles and packed with moss.

“Did Broken Trail set your leg? It is well done. Now we'll make a litter to carry you to the river, where Black Elk waits with our canoes. By tomorrow morning you will be home. With warmth, food and rest, you will soon be well.”

Spotted Dog shook his head. “Too late. At first I was afraid. But no longer. After three days and three nights of hiding under those branches, I wanted to see the sky. My spirit is ready for its journey to the Land without Trouble.”

“Do not speak of dying,” Walks Crooked said. “You will live to become a great warrior.”

Broken Trail stepped aside, his spirit troubled. Had he travelled so hard, brought the others all this way, only to see Spotted Dog die? After so much effort, he could not bear the thought that it would end in failure.