Faster and faster we went until suddenly the canoe shot around a point of rocks and plunged into a rocky defile where the river hurled itself against the rock walls, against great boulders, throwing water high into the air. Keokotah was a master, and crippled though I was I had great skill at handling canoes both in rivers and on the sea. The river roared and foamed about us. Dead ahead was a mighty shelf of rock fallen from the cliff above and we were thrown at it with what seemed tremendous force, and then the water whipped us away just as we seemed about to crash. Our eyes were blinded by splashing water as spray was hurled like stones into our faces. We dipped a paddle here and there, fighting for the south edge, which had seemed safest to Keokotah watching from above.
Suddenly the great whirlpool was just before us, and we whipped around it, but riding the high side toward the south we were flung free and in a moment were sliding downstream at a faster speed than I had ever traveled in a canoe. Then we were in swift but quiet water. Drenched in cold sweat I looked at Keokotah, but his back was squarely toward me and I could not judge his fear, had there been any.
We were in a deep canyon and found no place to escape the river. Chewing jerked venison we traveled on. It was after sundown when we came upon an island. Easing behind it, we found a small beach of gravel where he could draw up our canoe.
We prepared no food, nor did we talk. Exhausted, we rolled in our blankets and slept, and did not awaken until the sun was high.
There followed days of traveling the river. We fished, we hunted, we slept on the banks, and twice we had brief fights with strange Indians, but my longbow carried yards further than could their bows. In the first encounter, the Indians drew off after a man was wounded before they were within bow range. On the second occasion there was an ineffectual exchange of arrows, and then our lighter and faster canoe drew away from them.
We saw game everywhere—numerous deer and occasional small herds of buffalo. For mile upon mile we saw no human life or signs of any. Several times we saw bears fishing at the edges of rivers. They ignored us for the most part, one standing up to see us the better. After looking us over and deciding we were of no consequence it went back to scooping fish from the water.
The river turned north, and after a while we entered the Ohio, a much larger river. There was an Indian village near where the Tenasee entered the Ohio but we passed it at night. Dogs barked and a few Indians came from their lodges to look about. We were far out on the water and they saw us not. Some miles further we camped the night on a sandbar covered with willows, building a small fire for the smoke to keep the mosquitoes away, and at daybreak we were in the canoe once more. Ahead of us lay the Great River, which some Indians called the Mississippi.
My leg was now much better, and soon I would discard the crutch. Whenever possible I moved without it, trying to get the muscles working again.
Having no experience with broken limbs I had no idea when to get rid of the crutch.
The Mississippi, if such it was called, proved a different river. It wound and twisted through the land, carrying much debris, huge trees torn from its banks, once even a cut board, which puzzled us indeed. The other river for which we sought would be several days travel away to the south. How far I did not know.
Keokotah had been there, of course. He had waited there for me and had come looking only when he was sure something had gone wrong.
We camped on the Great River, on a sandy island partly made up of gigantic old trees that had drifted together, moored to the bottom by their own roots and branches. These were drifted trees from somewhere far upstream. Debris and mud had gathered about them, and an island had been created of several acres. Willows had grown up and some other larger stuff had started. No doubt the island would remain until some spring flood tore it loose and scattered its bits and pieces.
Our fire was going in a sheltered place behind great roots, and fish were broiling.
I said to Keokotah, “The Englishman? How did he come to be with you?”
Direct questions rarely brought a response. He shrugged, and stripped the backbone from a fish in his hands. “He good man.” He glanced at me. “Talk, all the time talk.”
“To whom?”
“To me. He talk to me. He say I am his brother.” Keokotah chewed a moment. “He come in canoe. Like yours. He not a big man. Smaller than you, but strong.”
After a few minutes of silence he added, “He cough, much cough. I think he sick. I say so.”
The fire crackled, and I added sticks. “He say he not well and he say, ‘You wrong. No sick. I die soon.’
“He look much at small packet.” He shaped a rectangle with his fingers. “Many leaves sewn at the back. The leaves have small signs on them. He looks at them and sometimes he smiles or speaks from them. I ask what it is and he say this is book and it speaks to him.
“I listen, no hear it speak.”
“The signs in this book spoke to him,” I said. “When you look at a trail in the morning, it speaks to you of who passed in the night. It was so with him.”
“Ah? It could be so.” He looked at me. “You have book?”
“At my home there were many books,” I said, “and I miss them very much.” I tapped my head. “Many books up here. Like you remember old trails, I remember books. Often I think of what the books have said to me.”
“What do books say?”
“Many things, in many ways. You sit by the knees of your old men and hear their tales of warpath and hunt. In our books we have made signs that tell such stories, not only of our grandfathers but of their grandfathers.
“We put upon leaves the stories of our great men, and of wars, but the best books are those that repeat the wisdom of our grandfathers.”
“The Englishman’s book was like that?”
“I do not know what book he had, but you said he read from the book. Do you remember what he read?”
“What he reads sings. I think he has medicine songs, but he say, ‘Only in a way.’ He speaks of the ‘snows of yesteryear.’ ”
“Frangois Villon,” I said.
“What?”
“That line was written by a French poet, a long, long time ago.”
“French? He say Frenchmans his enemy!”
“That was probably right,” I said, “but that would not keep him from liking his poetry. Did you never sing the songs of another tribe?”
He started to say no and then shrugged. “We change them. Anyway, they were our songs once … I think.”
“My leg is better. Tomorrow I shall walk without a crutch.”
“Better you walk,” Keokotah said. “I think much trouble come. I think we have to fight soon.”
We slept, and once I awakened in the night. Our fire was down to coals, and above us the stars had gone. The air smelled like rain and I thought of us alone in all that vast and almost empty land.
It was a lonely, eerie feeling. Alone … all, all alone!
I drew my blanket around my shoulders and listened to the rustling of the river.
It was a long time before I was again asleep.
TWELVE
Now I made ready my pistols. I did not wish to use them but the need might be great. My bow was ever beside me, an arrow ever ready.
Endlessly wound the river along its timbered banks, brushing the roots of leaning trees, heavy with foliage. Dead trees, uprooted far upstream, were a danger to birchbark canoes, and at no time dared we relax. Around each bend, and the twists and turns were many, might lie enemy Indians or some obstruction to rip our bottom out.
Yet there was beauty everywhere and we were lonely on the river. The forest was dark and deep with shadows where cypress trees were festooned with veils of Spanish moss. Water oak, hickory, tupelo gum, and many other trees clustered the banks, and hummingbirds danced above the water, opalescent feathers catching the light as if they played with their own beauty.
We startled a flock of ducks, and Keokotah killed one with an arrow. We lived on and off the river, catching fish, killing wood pigeons and geese. Often we saw bears, but they seemed more curious than aggressive. Ours was an easy life.