Broken Trail (5 page)

On the morning of the eighth day, Broken Trail sat beside a stream, nibbling the sweetened, powdered corn that the two
warriors had given him. When he had finished, he knelt and lowered his face to the water.

As he drank, the back of his neck prickled, and he had the feeling that he was being watched. His muscles tensed, and with a single motion he leapt to his feet and pulled his tomahawk from his belt. He saw no one. But suddenly a dry branch snapped.

Broken Trail had his tomahawk ready to hurl when a young warrior stepped, with his right palm raised, from behind a tree. The gesture meant peace, but the youth's face was painted for war, one side black and the other red. He would have looked fierce if the war paint had not been smudged and smeared, as if he had been crawling close to the ground through long grass.

The stranger was taller than Broken Trail, and older. Perhaps fifteen. He wore fringed leather leggings, beaded moccasins and a breech cloth but no shirt. Both sides of his head were shaved, and from his scalp lock dangled three trophy feathers.

He looked exhausted. Maybe he was hungry. Broken Trail held out his bag of corn powder. The stranger's eyes fastened upon it eagerly. Before taking it, he said something in a language that Broken Trail did not recognize, although it sounded a bit like Oneida.

The stranger ate a handful of corn powder and then washed it down with water from the stream. After he had finished, he tapped his chest. “Keetoowah.”

“Ah!” This was a word that Broken Trail knew. It meant “Cherokee.” The Cherokees were cousins of his people even though they were not part of the Six Nations of the Haudenosaunee. He tapped his own chest. “Oneida.”

The response was the usual grunt of disbelief. The Cherokee shook his head and pointed at Broken Trail. “Yengees.”

Broken Trail's brow knotted in a savage frown. His blue eyes had betrayed him again.

The Cherokee asked, “You speak English?”

“Yes.” Broken Trail hated speaking English, but he was glad that he and this young warrior would be able to talk to each other.

“Why call yourself Oneida? You are white.”

Broken Trail was tired of this question, but he answered patiently. “The Oneida adopted me. My name is Broken Trail.”

The Cherokee nodded, apparently satisfied with this answer. “I am Red Sun Rising.”

“That's a good name.”

“What you do in this country, so far from your home?”

“I'm on my way to Kings Mountain.”

“Why go there?”

Broken Trail hesitated. Should he tell this stranger about his mission? He knew that the Cherokees hated the white settlers in the mountain valleys. The settlers were treaty breakers, scoffing at treaties that the Cherokees had made in good faith. He decided to take a chance.

“I have a message to deliver to the English commander.”

“What sort of message?” Red Sun Rising lay stretched out on the grass, apparently feeling better now that he had something in his stomach.

“A warning that hundreds of Over Mountain men are gathering in a place called Watauga to attack his army. If I'm in time, the redcoats will give me a rifle.”

Red Sun Rising gave a low whistle. “A rifle! Do you believe that?”

“The captain who sends the message made that promise. It's in writing. I can read the words.”

“In writing …” Red Sun Rising looked impressed.

Broken Trail seized the moment. “Come with me. Be my guide.”

He half expected the Cherokee to laugh. Red Sun Rising wore three trophy feathers in his scalp lock—three enemies slain in battle. He was a real warrior. Why would he want to go on an adventure with someone like Broken Trail, who still wore his hair long, like a boy?

Red Sun Rising did not laugh. “Yes,” he said. “I help you. The English are friends of the Cherokees. They help us defend our land.”

“They do?”

“You never hear about Dragging Canoe, our great leader, and his blood brother, Alexander Cameron? Together, they fight the rebels in the Carolinas and Tennessee.”

“I reckon there's a lot I don't know.”

“You don't know best way through mountains. I show you.” Red Sun Rising sat up. He wiped his face with a handful of grass. As he looked at the red and black paint that had come off on the grass, he said, “Two days ago, we make war party against settlers who take our land. They ready for us. They kill everybody but me. Next time I get even. One scalp for every warrior they kill. Five scalps.” He held up his hand, fingers splayed. “But first I guide you to Kings Mountain. That is a long trail. Six days.”

“I need to get there in four. The captain told me I had twelve days to reach Kings Mountain. This is the eighth.”

Red Sun Rising stood up, his fatigue apparently forgotten. “We start now.”

RED SUN RISING LED
Broken Trail through a narrow mountain pass that he never could have found on his own. As he scrambled and climbed after his guide, he felt a growing sense of confidence now that Red Sun Rising was in charge, even though the Cherokee gave no assurances that they would reach Kings Mountain in time.

As daylight faded, they stopped beside a rushing stream where water tumbled over the rocks, cascading from pool to pool. A few low bushes grew here, but no trees. Broken Trail pulled his little bag of sweetened corn powder from his pouch and passed it to Red Sun Rising. After they had eaten and drunk, Red Sun Rising scooped up a handful of
coarse sand from the bottom of the stream and with it scrubbed his face, removing every trace of the smeared war paint.

“We rest here tonight,” he said. “In morning we go on.”

“Do you think we can reach Kings Mountain in three days?”

“We try.”

Drawing little encouragement from this answer, Broken Trail felt his hope for a rifle begin to fade. He would have pushed on without sleeping if Red Sun Rising had suggested it, despite the obvious peril of traversing mountain passes in the dark.

Red Sun Rising interrupted his thoughts.

“When you get that rifle,” he said, his voice full of energy, as if he had never entertained the slightest doubt, “you come with me to Chickamauga. That is my town. I tell my friends, Broken Trail looks white, but his heart is same like ours. You join our war party. We kill settlers. Take many scalps.”

Broken Trail hated to refuse Red Sun Rising, who was going to so much trouble to help him on his mission. He even liked the idea of joining a war party, but it was more important to return home as soon as he could. Besides, he was not sure that he wanted to kill settlers.

“Is every settler an enemy?” he asked hesitantly.

“Every one is our enemy. Every settler steals Cherokee land. Our chiefs make treaties. They give up much land. Settlers promise to take no more. They break that promise.
Our chiefs make a new treaty. They give more land. Settlers break promise again. Every time, they push us farther into lands of other nations. The Koasati and the Muskogees don't want us there. It's their land. Then our leader Dragging Canoe tells us, ‘Kill all the settlers before they push us into the Mississippi River.'”

“You can't trust white people,” Broken Trail agreed. “We Oneidas helped the rebels. But General Sullivan burned our towns anyway. Burned our fields. Left us hungry with nowhere to live.”

“Kill them all!”

With these words, Red Sun Rising lay down, rolled onto his side, and rested his head upon his folded arm. “Time to sleep,” he said in a voice so fierce that Broken Trail wondered what kind of dreams he was likely to have.

Lying down near him, Broken Trail closed his eyes. Though the stony ground was no more comfortable than the mountain ledge on which he had slept three nights ago, he dozed off quickly. And then he dreamed.

In his dream he was back in the forest glade of his spirit quest. As before, the wolverine walked out of the bushes and stood looking at him. It was just as big and shaggy and its teeth were just as sharp and yellow as when he had seen it in his trance. And the musky smell was just as strong. But this time the wolverine said nothing. After staring at Broken Trail for a few moments, it raised its head and walked away. As it disappeared into the undergrowth, it glanced back over its shoulder, as if inviting Broken Trail to follow.

He wanted to follow. But when he tried to rise, he could not move. He wanted to call out to the wolverine, but could make no sound. Suddenly he awoke. Opening his eyes, he saw Red Sun Rising lying fast asleep, but no wolverine was anywhere about. Gone again, he thought. Then he sniffed the air and smiled. Wolverine. There was no mistaking that pungent smell.

Settling down to sleep again, he let his mind linger over the recollection of his dream, hoping to slide back into it. But that one brief vision was all that the spirits allowed.

After one more day in the mountains, Red Sun Rising and Broken Trail descended into a valley, following a clear, wide track between wooded slopes. Broken Trail saw horses' hoof prints in the soft earth.

“Soon we come to settlers' farms,” Red Sun Rising said. “Over Mountain men.”

So far, Broken Trail had seen no sign of settlement, for there was nothing but forest on either side of the track. He was beginning to wonder where the settlers and their farms might be, when he and Red Sun Rising rounded a bend and he saw, down a short lane, a log cabin surrounded by tree stumps.

In the spaces between the stumps were the withered stems and the brown leaves of turnip and potato plants, as well as freshly turned soil where these root vegetables had been dug. But he saw no sign of a human being, a horse, a cow, a pig, or any other living creature. Everything was quiet. The
cabin door stood ajar. No smoke rose from the chimney. The sight gave Broken Trail a shivery feeling. Something was amiss.

“Nobody there,” he said.

“We look.”

They crept forward cautiously. Broken Trail clutched his tomahawk. Red Sun Rising had his knife ready. When they peered around the edge of the half-open door, Broken Trail smelled the acrid odour of a burnt-out fire mingled with the sweet, stale smell of blood.

From the doorway he saw a long plank table in the middle of the room. On the table sat the remnants of a meal. Flies clustered about ham slices on a platter. There were broken biscuits on tin plates.

Half under the table, clinging to each other, were the bodies of two little girls in matching homespun gowns. They appeared to be five or six years old. Twins, perhaps. Beside one table leg lay a cloth doll with tufts of yellow yarn for hair, and a happy smile embroidered on its face.

Broken Trail stepped into the room. Now he saw the rest.

Near one wall, a man wearing a grey hemp shirt and black breeches lay crumpled beside an overturned chair. Broken Trail flinched when he saw the bloody top of his head where his scalp had been.

Sprawled upon the hearth was the body of a young woman. She lay on her back, her face nearly as white as her apron. The blood in which she lay had dried almost black. A dead baby lay beside its cradle on the plank floor.

Every scalp had been sliced off. Blood was splattered everywhere.

“We're too late.” Red Sun Rising returned his knife to his belt.

Broken Trail could not take his eyes from the baby. It was so small. He wanted to pick up the baby and return it to its cradle. But he couldn't do that with Red Sun Rising watching, his dark eyes hard as stone.

“Come on. Let's go,” Broken Trail took a step backward, pulling his foot free from the stickiness on the floor.

“Not yet. Maybe we find guns.”

Red Sun Rising went into the next room, leaving Broken Trail staring at the baby.

When he returned, he was holding a straight razor. “No guns. Nothing good but this. Very sharp.”

“It's for shaving.”

Red Sun Rising's face creased in a grim smile. “When you get that rifle, I use this to shave your head, except for scalp lock. We put on war paint. We find plenty more settlers.” He waved his arm in a gesture that seemed to dismiss the five bodies. “Take many scalps.”

Broken Trail turned his face away. He crossed to the threshold and stood gazing out at the tree stumps and empty yard, for he could not bear to look any longer at the massacred family.

“Hurry,” he said. “Let's not waste more time.”

He walked out through the open doorway without looking back.

Those settlers had no right to steal Cherokee land. But it wasn't right, either, to kill helpless people while they were eating supper in their own home.

Whose side was he on, he wondered, when both sides were in the wrong? He wanted to help Red Sun Rising, but he did not want to be part of his war. Killing settlers was not the answer. There had to be a better way.