Broken Trail (7 page)

IF BROKEN TRAIL DID
not trip over roots or bump into trees as he descended the hill, it was only because, in a mechanical, automatic way, his senses still worked. Yet he was not really aware of his surroundings until suddenly Red Sun Rising grabbed his arm and hauled him behind a large oak tree.

“What is it?” Broken Trail asked, jolted alert.

“Shh!” Red Sun Rising laid a finger on Broken Trail's lips. With a turn of his head, he motioned down the hill. “Look there!”

A flash of white. Something moved. It looked like a man wearing a white gown nearly to his knees.

“That's an Over Mountain man,” Red Sun Rising whispered.

“Dressed like a woman?”

“It's what they wear.”

“No uniforms?”

“They put on long shirts over their other clothes.”

Peering from behind the tree, Broken Trail saw, near the bottom of the hill, another white-shirted man, and then another, and another. The hillside swarmed with Over Mountain men advancing up the hill toward them. And that was not all. Mingled with them were just as many soldiers in blue uniforms.

“They not see us yet,” murmured Red Sun Rising.

“But they will. In a minute they'll be all around us. We can't stay behind this tree.”

Red Sun Rising pointed to a dense clump of low-growing junipers. “Hide in there. Hurry!”

Broken Trail pulled away. “No! I must go back. Warn the soldiers.”

“You crazy? They not listen to you. Too late anyway.”

Broken Trail hesitated. For his brother he would risk his life. But there was no way that he could reach the top of Kings Mountain without the rebels seeing him. And even if he reached the top and made the redcoats heed his warning, it would be too late.

He dropped to the ground and, on all fours, crawled after Red Sun Rising into the juniper clump. Here, as long as they
lay still, the low-arching branches with their thick needles would conceal them. Their deerskin clothing was almost the same colour as the fallen needles that covered the ground—a perfect camouflage.

They lay flat on their stomachs, the juniper's twisted trunk between their bodies and their heads so close together that Broken Trail could hear Red Sun Rising's quick breathing. Through the juniper's drooping branches, Broken Trail saw little of what was happening, but he could hear everything.

Silently the enemy climbed. The first rank passed the juniper clump. Broken Trail watched feet go by. Feet in army boots. Feet in moccasins. Wave after wave, from tree to tree, the rebel force moved up the hill.

With a sinking heart, Broken Trail thought of Elijah up there on top of Kings Mountain. In his mind's eye he saw him still piling rocks, heedless and unaware, setting one stone on top of another in that futile, half-hearted effort to build a barricade.

The rebels' advance halted. Through the juniper's branches Broken Trail saw a pair of sturdy legs in army boots little more than an arm's length from his nose.

He heard the thumping of his own heart, but no other sound. The waiting army held its breath. Not one whisper, not one cough broke the silence. The woods felt hushed.

The first crack of rifle fire came from the south side of Kings Mountain, a hundred yards away. Then noise exploded all around.

“Charge!” The shout was so close that Broken Trail jumped. “On them! Over the top!”

Up the hill the rebels swept.

So close to the plateau's edge, Elijah would be one of the first to face the charge. Unarmed. Or would he have time to grab his rifle? Broken Trail thought he heard his brother's voice in the shouting from the top. It could have been anyone.

“Fire!” came the command from above. Bullets clattered among the trees. The Loyal Americans were shooting back. Elijah, too? A piercing whistle blew. Men shouted. Horses whinnied. The whistle shrilled from a different quarter, then from somewhere else. That was the last time.

From above came a final hail of bullets. The shooting stopped.

Was it over? The battle had lasted no longer than it would take a hunter to skin a deer.

Broken Trail pressed his cheek against the carpet of juniper needles and fought back tears. He tried not to picture Elijah lying dead. Surely the Great Spirit would not have granted one brief glimpse of his brother, only to snatch him away again! It would be so unfair. But was life ever fair?

“Give no quarter!” came a shout. “Remember Waxhaws!”

Atop Kings Mountain, someone shouted, “Search the slopes! Use your bayonets! Don't let anyone get away!”

Broken Trail tore his thoughts away from Elijah. “We can't stay here,” he whispered to Red Sun Rising.

“Safer to stay. Maybe they not see us.”

“But if they do, we're dead. I'm leaving. I'd rather be shot running than stuck with a bayonet lying down.”

“Wait. We need a signal. You want help, you call me. I want help, I call you.”

“What kind of signal?”

“Saw-whet owl. Like this.” He whistled a mellow note:
“Too, too, too, too.”

Broken Trail imitated the sound.

“Good. Don't forget.”

Wriggling from under the juniper boughs, Broken Trail dashed to the nearest tree. Safe for the moment behind its trunk, he looked down the side of Kings Mountain. Where could he find a hiding place to crawl into until the men with bayonets had finished their search? A cave? A crevice?

At the bottom of the hill stood a huge maple, its heavy branches draped with moss. Dense brush hid the bottom of its trunk. He had seen other trees like that in the southern valleys, some with roots half exposed above the floodplain and a washout cavity underneath. He skidded down the slope over leaves slick with rain and dived into the tangle of green growth. Yes! There was a hole, and it was big enough. After crawling in, he reached outside to pull a curtain of vines across the opening.

If anyone tracked him here, he was doomed. But to detect this hole, a man would have to lie on his belly and pull the vines aside.

Broken Trail breathed a quick prayer to the Great Spirit,
not just for his own safety but also for the safety of his brother and of his friend. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw the tree's dark inner bark and a mass of spider webs. The cavity was large enough to be a hiding place for two people, although they would be cramped.

Beginning to relax, he inhaled a deep breath of clammy air. Under the rank, sour smell of decaying vegetation, he caught the scent of wolverine. He sniffed again. That unique, musky smell. Nothing else stank like that. His
oki
had not left him.

MEN WERE COMING DOWN
the hill, their feet crashing through the undergrowth. Crouching inside the cavity under the maple tree, Broken Trail held his breath.

“Use your bayonets,” someone shouted. “Don't let any of those redcoats get away.”

Broken Trail heard a scream. More shouts. More crashing about. Another command. The shouting and crashing went on and on. Tense and sweating, he prayed for it to end soon.

Finally a voice called out, “Back to the top. Looks like we're finished here.” A harsh laugh. “We've more to do up there before dark.”

The voices grew more distant, until the call of a mockingbird was the loudest distinct sound he could hear.

Broken Trail breathed more easily, and with every breath inhaled the lingering scent of wolverine. He felt safe knowing that his
oki
was watching over him. Without its help, he never could have found this hiding place.

Settling down to rest, he felt under his body something crumbly, like sawdust. It was soft, and neither wet nor dry. He would not like to be trapped in a washout cavity during a spring flood; but in early fall when water levels were low, the space was comfortable enough.

When he turned his head, he saw a slender beam of light that wavered in the darkness, piercing the leafy vines that concealed the opening of the cavity. His eyes fastened upon the light. Now and then, fluttering leaves blocked the little beam, but each time it reappeared in a moment. He reached out his hand so that it fell upon his skin, a quivering spot of light no larger than the nail of his little finger.

It was a sign, he thought. The unseen spirits often communicated in such a way, using something as natural as a ray of sunshine, a rainbow or a falling star to send a message. Looking at the trembling spot of light, he felt sure that it had been sent to give him hope. His mission had failed. The soldiers had laughed at him. His brother was probably dead. Yet at a time when all his effort seemed a complete waste, this tiny light had appeared in the darkness. It was not enough to make clear the pathways of his life, but it was
enough to give assurance that something was guiding his footsteps. He had been right to feel, on setting forth, that this mission belonged to him, just as his
oki
belonged to him. The Great Spirit, he saw now for the first time, had a plan for his life.

When the sun set and the little light vanished for the last time, Broken Trail closed his eyes. In the morning he would try to learn the fate of his brother and of his friend. Although his mind seethed with questions, his exhausted body demanded sleep. The last sound he heard was a cricket chirping almost in his ear.

That night the spirits sent a dark dream in which he saw Elijah, wearing his tricorn hat with its green badge, lying wounded on the battlefield among the bloodied corpses of many men and horses. Broken Trail tried to run to him, but it was as if his ankles were hobbled together and he seemed to be running in one spot, running and running, but still no closer. His throat ached with the vain effort to shout that he was on his way. Harder and harder he ran, knowing that Elijah would die if he could not reach him soon. Then, unexpectedly, Elijah rose up and stood with one arm raised, the palm of his hand turned forward in salute. Broken Trail saw that what had been a tricorn hat with a green badge had become a scalp lock from which three trophy feathers trailed. The face he saw was no longer Elijah's but Red Sun Rising's, painted red and black for war.

Broken Trail woke abruptly from his nightmare. To him
its meaning was clear enough. His brother needed him. Red Sun Rising needed him. He felt helpless, not knowing what he could do, and did not fall asleep again until it was nearly dawn.

Voices roused him. The voices were very close, right outside his hiding place. Through the vines he saw daylight. He lay still, listening.

“Well, Jed, we surely did a fine job yesterday.” The voice had a nasal twang.

“So we did.” This speaker had a deeper voice. “Every damn redcoat either dead or taken prisoner. We got 'em all.”

“Not all. There's plenty more where this lot came from.”

“What d'you mean, George? Did y'all see something suspicious?”

“Jed, it ain't what I already seen, it's what I know is coming. General Cornwallis, I mean to say. He'll likely get here tomorrow with the main army. When he does, I sure as hell don't plan to be around. I'm going home.”

“I'll travel with y'all,” Jed answered. “I figure my proper place is back in the Watauga Valley protecting my wife and young'uns from those damn Cherokees. Besides, I got a nice present to give my boy.”

“What's that?”

“Silver whistle.”

“Why, you lucky son-of-a-gun! Ferguson's silver whistle! I'll give you five pounds for that.”

“Not for sale.”

“Did you see who got his hunting shirt?”

“Who'd want it with eight bullet holes?”

“I would,” George answered. “I'd cherish every one.”

“Ferguson was a goddamn fool, riding around with that checkered shirt over his uniform. Just daring us to shoot him.”

“Well, we certainly obliged.” George laughed. “Right out of the saddle!”

“Benjamin Cleveland got his horse.”

“Cleveland! Pity the poor horse! Cleveland weighs close to three hundred pounds. You could make two Pat Fergusons out of a man that size.”