Staying close to the willows I went back upstream, found a thick patch of forest, and went into it, moving quietly, scouting for tracks. I found none.
Beyond the patch of forest lay a wide meadow, and here I did find tracks. Five warriors again, no doubt the same ones. Whenever I could get a distinct print I studied it and filed it away in a corner of my mind for future reference.
The morning was bright and sunlit. From the slight elevation there was a splendid view of forest, meadow, stream, and pool. What a lovely land!
By noon I was traveling over a plateau, forested and still. Twice now I left marks on trees. I knew about what trace my relatives would follow, and now I was back in their area of travel. High on a tree I cut an A with my knife, cutting deep through the bark. The A was my mother’s initial and one not likely to be associated with us.
Three miles further I cut another. In each case I cut one side of the A a bit longer to indicate direction. It was an agreed-upon code, but one any of us would have understood after a little thinking.
It might be a year, two years, or twenty before I was followed, but whenever I was followed the route could be traced by a Sackett.
Further along, I cut another A and was about to extend one side of it when looking beyond the trunk of the tree I saw a vast gulf. Stepping around the tree, I halted.
There opened before me a long valley, extending off toward the south as far as I could see. To the north it seemed to end, from where I stood, in a group of low hills. This must be Sequatchie. There were glimpses of a stream running along the bottom. Meadows, trees, it was a fair land.
An hour later I looked down into an elongated bowl, a grassy cove of what must be more than two thousand acres. A quiet, secluded, lovely place!
This was where I would return. This would be my home. I started down a steep game trail and stepped on a fallen log that broke under me. I fell. My leg caught between two deadfalls and I heard a sharp snap. I lay still, trying to catch my breath. I started to move, felt an excruciating stab of pain, and looked down.
I had broken my leg.
NINE
For a long moment I lay perfectly still, my brain a blank. Then I began to think.
I was alone. I could expect help from no one. If anyone came my way it would be an enemy or a potential enemy, and there were wild beasts that might flee from a man but not from a helpless one. Wolves and cougars were very quick to sense when anything was injured and helpless.
My present position, sprawled on the ground among deadfalls and brush, was impossible. Despite the pain I had to move, I had to do something.
As near as I could see, my broken bone was not far out of line. I had never set a bone, although I had once seen my father do it for an Indian. Hooking my toe under a fallen limb I pulled slightly, and the bone seemed to slip back into place. Backing off from the trap I was in I cut several strips from a green branch and made a rough splint, tying it with rawhide from a small twist I always carried for rigging snares.
Several times I had to stop and lie still, my brow beaded with sweat. Then I would force myself to continue. Every movement brought excruciating pain, but I could not remain where I was. I had no water and no shelter, and very little of the buffalo jerky was left. Yet if I ate carefully there would be enough to sustain me for several days. I tried to recall what Sakim had taught me about broken bones, but beyond what I had done I could remember nothing.
One fact was stark and clear. I would be unable to travel for several weeks. I would miss my meeting with Keokotah. Moreover, even to get where there was water I must improvise some sort of crutch, but there was nothing nearby.
Using my longbow as a staff and taking a good grip on a lower limb of a tree, I managed to pull myself erect. With great care, using the longbow, I moved from tree to tree. In my first view of the grassy cove at the head of Sequatchie I had glimpsed what seemed to be a stream. Perhaps the same one that flowed the length of the valley. It was far away, yet if I could reach it at least one part of my survival would be arranged for. I would have water.
In such a condition, what would my father have done? He would have survived. So would I surive.
The hill was steep but slowly, carefully, I edged my way to the bottom. Here the grass was shoulder high, but among some debris from fallen trees near the base of the cliff I found some sticks, one of them of proper height had a branch that grew out on a slight curve. It would make an admirable crutch until I could fashion something better. I would need it, for there were no trees to cling to in the cove’s bottom unless I stayed to the edges, making my journey that much farther.
My leg was badly swollen by now and I had to slit the leg of my buckskin pants. It hurt and I cringed at each step. Twice I startled deer, but they were gone too quickly for me to bring my bow into play, even had I been able.
The sun was low in the sky before I was even halfway to where I believed I must go. Perhaps there was a curve of the stream that was closer but the tall grass prevented me seeing it. Yet fortune suddenly conferred a favor. I found a game trail.
It crossed the cove at an angle different from that I had been pursuing, but undoubtedly would lead to water. When darkness came I simply sat down. There was no going any further and I was brutally tired. My leg had swollen enormously with the exertion, and when I sat down I simply collapsed. I lay right where I was in the grass, making no effort at a camp. I got a piece of jerky from my once-heavy pack and began chewing on it. Fortunately it was very tough and took a lot of chewing. When I had finished with the jerky I slept, and if wild beasts prowled near me I did not know and scarcely cared.
When I awakened it was broad daylight and the sun was in my face. My leg had swollen to thrice its size and I slit my pants further and rolled the buckskin high, baring my leg. Getting to my feet was a desperate struggle and twice I fell back, each time sending a stab of pain up my leg. Yet at last I reached my feet and once more began hobbling toward the stream.
The skin beneath my arm where my crude crutch rode heaviest was raw. My leg hurt and my back seemed out of kilter. Desperately I wished to sit down but doubted if I could again get to my feet, so I struggled on.
My mouth was dry and I could scarce swallow. I had upon rising licked some of the grass leaves for the dew that was upon them but it was all too little. In all this struggle I had gone but a pitifully small distance, or so it seemed, but doggedly, desperately, I struggled on. That I had a fever, I knew. That my wound might be infected was possible, for the skin had been broken although the bone had not pushed through. Then my crutch went into a gopher hole and I pitched forward to my face in the grass. The pain was almost unbearable.
I lay there, all sprawled out, and then slowly began to pull myself together. I struggled to one knee and then pushed myself erect again. Grimly, I struggled on, and then when I was about to fall from fatigue I heard the rustle of water. There was some low brush and a few scattered trees, and then a grove that seemed to climb the hill.
The creek was there, flowing out of the trees, and when I stepped back into their shade I saw that the creek came from a cave.
Water and shelter!
There was a big old fallen tree near the entrance that made a perfect seat. Sitting down I shucked my small pack from my shoulders and carefully removed my guns and put them down behind a log with my bow and quiver. There were several broken branches about and a couple of them stout enough to make a decent crutch, but for a few minutes, with the water in sight, I just sat there, not wanting to move.