Jubal Sackett (1985) (35 page)

The Komantsi? I felt a chill. Those dreaded Indians, destroying all before them. Had they found my valley or the trail of the Tensas?

When I was near the stockade, Keokotah appeared. He had a bloody scalp at his waistband. I had seen the Tensa die, but how had Keokotah scalped him? I pointed to the smoke. He nodded his head.

"Komantsi," he said. "They come."

His tone was grim and I understood why.

Itchakomi looked up when we came in and gestured toward a pot on the fire. We ate in silence, saying nothing. She had seen the scalp and needed no explanation.

At the meal's end I bathed my hands at the stream and then went to her. "The Komantsi come," I said. "We have seen their smoke."

And I had found no sulphur.

To look for it was automatic now, for it was ever in my mind. At night now I spent some time casting bullets, killing my mold time and again. But the balls were of no use without gunpowder.

Sulphur was sometimes found in old volcanic craters, for it appeared in the last stages of volcanic activity. Sometimes pockets of the crystals could be found, often contaminated with arsenic.

When darkness was almost upon us and visibility cut to within a few yards, I went out to move my caltrops, not wishing to mark their absence by a worn trail. It would be necessary to move them every few days if there was much going back and forth. The moccasins these Indians wore had thin buckskin soles, and the spines would penetrate them. Unless there was infection the wounds were not serious, but one was sufficient to keep an Indian inactive for several days.

Kapata was no longer mentioned. His presence and his danger were very real, but that of the Komantsi even more. We kept our fires to a minimum and were thankful that our fort was fairly hidden in the trees and brush. It could not be seen except from quite near.

On the second day after his taking of the scalp, Keokotah went again to the mountains. It was a day of low clouds and impending rain, yet he went, hoping for game. Uneasy, I remained in the fort, watching restlessly for enemies, working at making bullets, planning forays into the mountains to look for sulphur.

Often I thought of the Natchee who had returned. Had they gotten through? Had they ridden the rough waters down and slipped by the Komantsi and the Conejeros? Had they found their way back to their villages beside the Great River?

We might never know.

So far as I knew I was the first Anglo white man to come so far west. But who could actually know? Always there was some venturesome one who would not be content with the limits set by others.

When spring came we would put in our crop again, and once more we would take to the mountains and seek out the far lands. There was in me a driving wish to see, to know, to feel.

Westward loomed the mighty peaks of the Sangre de Cristos, mountains where the caves were, mountains I must explore. And beyond them? Who knew?

A great valley, we heard, a greater valley by far than this where we lived. And beyond it? The sunlight glinted sometimes on snowcapped peaks, or so the Ponca woman said, of far-off mountains, incredibly high.

Night came and the stars, but Keokotah did not come and our hearts were heavy. We did not speak of him nor of our fears, but each knew what the others thought and each knew the fear in his own heart.

Yet he came! A stirring in the night, a faint sound at the door. I drew my knife and stepped forward to meet whatever was there.

The door opened. It was Keokotah.

"Ah!" I said.

He looked at me. "They are gone ... gone!"

"Gone? Who?"

"The Natchee, the Tensas ... gone."

"You mean they have given up and gone home?" This I had been expecting. The Indian does not like long, drawn-out battles. He wishes to do it quickly, get it done, and go home.

"Gone ... dead. All killed."

All? I could not believe it.

"Who?" Although I knew without asking.

"The Komantsi. They have killed them. Taken their hair."

"Kapata, too?"

"No Kapata. He is gone when they come, I think. I think he come back after. I see big tracks."

Kapata!Would we ever be rid of him?

Chapter
Thirty-Three.

They came down the canyon in a straggling line, two dozen of them at least, with three horses and a half dozen miserable dogs. Most of the men were wounded and some of the women, and all were about to fall from exhaustion. They stopped abruptly when they saw us, hesitating until I walked out to meet them.

In sign language we told them we were friendly, and they explained they had been hunting buffalo across the eastern mountains when attacked. Their warriors had been scattered and the Komantsi had killed many. They were Pawnees, seeking a place to rest and gather themselves for another fight.

The old man who came forward to meet me carried himself with pride. He was Asatiki. He had lost half an ear in some bygone battle, and his body was criss-crossed with ancient scars. The mighty muscles of his youth had turned to sagging flesh, but in his eyes the fierce pride had not dimmed.

His people were beaten but not whipped, that I saw at once. They needed to recover from their wounds and make arrows for another fight. But they were ready to fight.

My gesture included the meadow. "Stay. We are friends. If the Komantsi come we will fight them together. Only," I added, "do not kill the young buffalo you see here. He is a medicine bull. He is Paisano."

The place they chose was several hundred yards from our fort, near a small stream and a stand of trees. They gathered sticks to build their fires and I went among them to treat their wounds.

"I am Sackett," I said, "a man of mysteries." The simple treatments I used were adequate, and I had gathered herbs against such an event. Best of all, these were a strong people and the air was fresh and clean.

In their own land they lived in earth lodges that would shelter twenty people or more, domed structures built upon a framework of timbers, but here they built of bark, for these were but temporary shelters.

Asatiki had no memories of his people that went beyond the time of his grandfather. He could tell me only stories told about the campfire in winter.

I spoke of the Tensa and Kapata. "That one is our enemy. If he comes among you, know him not. His medicine is bad. He carries the seeds of evil."

My questions were about the Komantsi. "Strange Indians," the old man said. "I do not know them. They come to steal Spanish horses, but they attack all they see. They boast of many warriors to the north, many who will come. Maybe they speak true."

He knew nothing more. There had been sporadic attacks before this, hit and run attacks by Komantsi seeking horses and stealing women.

His people, the Pawnee, had a very old tradition that the Pawnee came from the southwest and once lived in houses built of stone. Another story had it they came from the southeast. Arriving in the land where they now lived, they encountered the Skidis, with whom they fought. Later, the two tribes became friends, intermarried, and became as one people.

When we had talked much I asked about the yellow earth that both smelled and burned. There was such earth far to the southeast, he said. His Caddoan relatives used it for medicine. The old man had not been to the place where it was found, over a month of travel, but knew of it from other Indians.

Our corn was growing, and the hunting had been good. A small herd of buffalo had strayed into the lower valley. Keokotah no longer spoke of his village, and when I spoke of it he said, "My village is here."

Often I wondered about his visit to his own people at the time of my visit to the caves of the mummies. He did not speak of it, but I believed he had found himself no longer at ease among them.

The Englishman had begun it. In his loneliness he had talked long hours with the boy, until the thoughts of Keokotah had made him a stranger among his own people.

When alone Komi and I spoke of this, and she looked into my eyes and spoke of herself. "I, too, miss my people. Here we have no fire. There is no temple and no priest."

"Are you not a priestess?"

"I am."

"There can be a sacred fire."

"It would not be the same. Our sacred fire was a gift of the Sun."

"Am I not a master of mysteries?"

She looked long into my eyes, seeking the truth.

"Did not the Ni'kwana see me as such?"

"Yes, but--"

"If a scared fire will make you happy, I shall give you such a fire. I will give you fire from the sun."

"You?"

"Soon, when the time is right, I will bring fire from the sun."

She did not believe me. "You do not worship the Sun."

"The sun gives life to all things. Without the sun this would be a dark, dead world. Perhaps," I added, "the spirit we worship is the same, and only the names are different. The message from He who rules over us all may come to each people in a different way."

Our family had had little to do with organized religion, although my father when young had gone often to a village in Lincolnshire named Willoughby. This was the same village from which Captain John Smith of the Virginia colony had come. There had been a young minister there named Wheelwright, considered a dissident, but my father had liked his ideas and enjoyed his preaching. My brother Yance, who had married a girl from the Massachusetts Bay colony, had told me Wheelwright had come over the ocean and was known there.

That night I began again the study of the stars. My father and Jeremy Ring, who both knew of navigation by the stars, had taught us much. Sakim had taught us more. How much Itchakomi knew I had no idea, but I was sure she had been instructed in such lore. To produce a sacred fire I must choose the right time and the right place.

We had much of which to talk, for Itchakomi was endlessly curious about the English way of life, and often I wished I had listened more when my parents had spoken of their lives before coming to America. It had all seemed so remote and so unimportant to our lives in the colonies.

The Pawnee were skillful hunters and often shared their kills with us. In the first days we fed them and they simply rested. One woman died of her wounds, and two of the warriors were long in recovering.

It was an opportunity to learn their language and I did so, not enough to speak it well, yet enough to exchange information and for general talk. Their villages, they said, were along another river north of the Arkansas.

We gathered nuts, roots, and berries against the winter's coming, and fuel, also. Always, at home or on the hunt, we were alert for enemies, but when they came it was not the Komantsi but the Spanish.

Keokotah saw them first, seeing the sunlight upon their armor when they were far away. We hid our women in the cave where I had found niter, a place difficult to find and easy to defend.

Old Asatiki came to me. His people were ready to fight. The Spanish had raided among them for slaves, something I knew was forbidden by their king, and the Pawnees wanted no more of it.

"Wait," I advised, "but be ready. We talk first. If talk is no good, we fight. But each choose a man, and at the first sign of trouble, kill him."

There were twelve soldiers in half armor and about twenty Indian allies of a tribe I did not know. There were two officers and a priest. One of the officers was Diego, but this time it was Gomez who was in command.

Gomez reined in his horse near me, his eyes going from me to the fort. It was an impressive building, that I knew, the stockade of upright poles and the fort itself large enough to house us all and in a dominating position.

"We went to your valley and did not find you," Gomez said.

"We have enemies," I suggested, "and you have them also. The Komantsi."

He shrugged. "They have not come against us. When they do we will grind them into the earth." He looked around. "Where is the woman?"

"Woman? Do you see women? We are warriors here."

Anger came quickly to him. He did not like being frustrated, and he was in a position of power. I was wearing my guns, but they were concealed beneath the poncho I wore. My only visible weapon was the spear in my hand.

"We have come for the woman you would not sell," he said. "All here belong to His Majesty."

I smiled. "And His Spanish Majesty has forbidden the enslavement of Indians."

His expression changed. "His Majesty does not understand conditions here. He will change that rule."

"At your behest? Since when does a minor captain instruct the king?"

His expression was not nice to see. " 'Minor' captain? We shall see." He gestured to his soldiers. "Take him. He will tell us where the woman is."

They started forward. I stepped back into the rocks where their horses could not easily follow and threw my spear. Gomez leapt his horse after me and the spear missed, striking a soldier behind him, glancing from his helm, and stunning him. Two soldiers fell, arrows in their throats, and suddenly the Pawnees raised up around them. One warrior leapt to a horse behind a soldier and wrapped an arm around his throat, wrenching him from the horse. As the soldier fell another Pawnee killed him.