We put twenty miles behind us before we made camp at a cove near a small creek, drawing our canoe well up into the willows and out of sight. Making a small fire of dry wood that offered almost no smoke, we ate some of the buffalo meat and stretched out on the grassy slope to rest.
From where we lay we could see upstream for almost a mile, and by turning our heads and looking through the willows we could see downstream for a short distance. It was a quiet, lazy time, but a time I needed to think, to plan.
If I was to find Itchakomi I must seek sign of their passing. The old man of the Cherokees might have told me something but I had forgotten to mention her to them. The Natchee had been friendly to the Cherokees, I remembered, and they might well have stopped at Hiwasee.
We had tales of Spanish men being westward, beyond the plains. I believed this to be true, but we did not know. Too little was known in England of what the Spanish were doing, and we in the colonies knew even less. From time to time the Indians brought stories of Spanish men to the westward, but far, far away.
Where would Itchakomi go? She was to seek out a new land for the Natchee, and such a land must be far enough away to provide escape from their enemies. There were fierce tribes to the north, such as the Seneca, so it was unlikely they would go far in that direction. The plains had to be where they would go, but would they stop there? What would invite them? Only that the plains were empty.
I spoke of this to Keokotah. “Where would you go?”
He had been lying on the grass and he sat up suddenly. “To the mountains,” he said. “I would go where mountains are, where water is, where game can be. I would find a place hidden from eyes.”
“And to get there?”
“I would follow a river, but not too close. Where water is, enemies can be. I would walk far from streams and come to them only at night, or before night.”
We talked of this and of many things. Keokotah was learning more English from me, and he had a quick intelligence as well as a gift for mimicry that helped him to learn.
“You English—” he said.
“English? I do not know that I am English,” I said. “My father was English, but I have never seen England. I know only America. I think I am American.”
“Why you American?”
“Because I was born here. I live here. All my memories are of here.”
“So it is with me, but I am Kickapoo.”
“You are Kickapoo, but you are also American,” I explained.
“You are American. You say I am American. What of Cherokee? What of Seneca?”
“They are Americans, too.”
He shook his head. “No Seneca is American. Seneca is Seneca and my enemy.”
“Far away in Boston there are people called Puritans. They are English by birth. They do not think as I do, but they are Americans, too.”
“They are not your tribe?”
“No.”
“Spanish men your tribe?”
“No.”
“Spanish men live in Florida. That is America?”
“Of course.”
“Then Spanish men are Americans?”
“Well—”
“You say Seneca are American. I say Spanish men are American.”
“It would be better if we forgot who is Seneca and who is Spanish and just remembered we are all Americans.”
Keokotah was silent. The idea was new to him and he was not prepared to accept it. But was I prepared to accept the Spanish, our traditional enemies, as Americans?
Keokotah spoke slyly. “Next time we meet Seneca, you tell him we all Americans. No need fight. You put down your bow. Put down your knife. You walk up to him and say ‘we all Americans.’ ”
“And—?”
“Your American scalp will hang in a Seneca lodge.”
“What if a Seneca came to you and said, ‘We no fight’?”
“I would take his scalp, cut off his hands and his genitals.”
“Cut off his hands?” This, I knew, was often done as well as other mutilation. It was a custom, and a barbarous one. “Why?”
He stared at me as if my words were those of a child. “If he has no hands he cannot attack me in the time after this. If he has no genitals he cannot breed sons to hunt me down. What else is there to do?”
I started to tell him white men did not do such things and then amended it. “It is not our custom.”
He shrugged. “You will have enemies waiting in the time after this, but I shall rest in peace.”
“But why not have peace here? Now? Would you not like it if you could walk in the forest without danger?”
“No. Soon Keokotah lazy, fat, useless. Indians cannot live without war. Until an Indian has taken a scalp he is nothing. He cannot get a woman, he cannot speak in council.”
“That, too, can change. In England most of the titled lords won their titles because of their ability at killing. A man was knighted because of his skill with weapons. Now often enough a man is given a title or knighted who would faint at the sight of blood.”
“The Kickapoo are strong because of our enemies. Deny us our enemies and we would grow weak. The Englishman taught me to pray to your Christian god,” he added suddenly.
“And you do?”
“Why not? All gods are useful. Who am I to say yours is not? The Englishman prayed, and he was strong in death. The Seneca who killed him sing songs of his courage.”
After a moment, Keokotah added, “If I make one last prayer I ask that your god grant me an enemy. If I have an enemy, even one enemy, I can be strong.”
“It need not be an enemy,” I protested, “any obstacle can do the same. Anything that makes one struggle to be stronger, to be better.”
“You have obstacle. I will have enemy. You grow strong in your way, I in mine.”
He was a most stubborn man, but a strong one. Yet as I protested I had to remember that England became great at sea at least in part because Spain built an armada.
SIX
We hid our canoe when the morning was bright on the water, and started inland. My father had put it upon me to find a new home for us and to spy out the land. For this I could not remain upon the water, but must explore. Besides, it was a strong craving in me to know what lay about me, and Keokotah felt as I did.
Rich were the grasses underfoot, and tall the trees when we came to them. There were numerous springs, yet not so many running streams, for this was limestone country, a place of many caves where the streams ran deep within them. Yet I began to see a reluctance in Keokotah, a hanging back at times, and he looked upon the hills with awe and seemed to wish to avoid the caves.
“The spirits of the dead are here,” he said, when I asked him the why of it. “They are all about. And there are caves where they sleep, not dead, yet not alive.”
“You have seen this?”
“I have.”
“Will you take me to them?”
“I will not.”
“I will make strong medicine,” I said, “medicine that will protect us from evil.”
That he had respect for my magic I knew, and I must keep him respecting it, but to do that it must be used sparingly and with care.
“I have much to learn,” I said, “and mayhap those who once lived here were of my people.” I did not know this was true, but knew the story of Prince Madoc of Wales, and suspected a connection.
Night was coming on when we spoke of this, and we made a small camp near a spring in a nest of rocks and trees. It was a hidden place and such as we needed, for we must make fresh moccasins from skins we carried. Moccasins did not last like English boots, but we were skilled at cutting out the patterns and shaping them to our feet.
What had Keokotah meant when he had said “they lived yet did not live”?
I knew the folly of asking direct questions, on some topics at least. I said no more, but waited, wishing for him to talk but knowing he would talk of these things only when the mood was upon him.
The night was very still. We sat late beside our fire building moccasins for tomorrow and other days. Knowing we had the time we each made several pairs, and I wished to wait and hope Keokotah would decide to speak.