But how many could see what I saw? How many would cross those plains, hunt the buffalo on its native grass, and penetrate the unknown mountains that lay behind me? This was my destiny, as I had known from the first. This land was mine.
Others would come. Oh, I knew they would come! There would be others like Pa, who could not rest for not knowing what lay about. They would seek out these lands until all was known, all was recorded.
The Indians? I shrugged. Many acres were needed to feed even one Indian, living as they did, but men would come who would grow grain where only grass grew. They would plant orchards and herd cattle and sheep, and they would provide for a still larger world, still more people. There were too many landless ones back in Europe, too many willing to risk all to better themselves, too many—
Something moved!
It was still far away. From where I sat I could see for miles, for all the while we had been moving we had been climbing, and all the land before me slanted away to the Arkansas River and from there to the Mississippi.
I saw it again, just a faint stir of movement down there that fitted no normal pattern. I longed for my father’s telescope, retained from his seafaring days. I chose landmarks so that my eyes could focus upon the spot again, and I went on with my work.
After a while I looked again, bringing my eyes into focus on the chosen landmarks and seeking out from them.
I needed only a minute or two before I had them again. A small party—how many I could not tell, for they were indistinct with distance. If they continued as they were going their path would cross the one we had used.
There was a stir behind me. I turned. Keokotah shaded his eyes to look. “What do you see?”
I showed him my landmarks and he picked the movement out of the landscape at once. Quicker than I had.
He stared for several minutes, looked away, and looked again.
“How many?” I asked.
“Ten … I think. It is Itchakomi,” he added.
“Itchakomi? How could you know that?”
He shrugged. “She has more than ten. Some are women. They travel slowly. They keep to low ground.”
I stood up and looked again. It needed a moment for me to find them. They were coming toward the mountains, and as we watched, Keokotah said, “They come back. Something is wrong, I think.”
“Come back? What do you mean?”
“You see? They are far out. Why, unless they have start home? And why do they come back to mountains? Something is wrong.”
It was a bit more than I was willing to accept, yet it could be true. Why, at this point, would they be coming to the mountains? Unless—
“Maybe they haven’t even been here yet,” I suggested.
He shrugged.
The rain clouds still lowered above us, but there had been no more rain. When we looked again we could see nothing. Our travelers, whoever they were, followed a riverbed, not a wise thing in this weather unless there was something they feared more.
Had they been cut off from the river by a war party? Or … had Kapata found them?
Keokotah watched while I slept. We would move again at night, getting closer to the mountains. Or that had been our plan. If that was Itchakomi, it was up to us to intercept her.
When I awakened it was dusk. Keokotah had folded the hides. Gathering them and our weapons we went down off the lookout point and found the trail we had been traveling. The only tracks were those of a deer.
We stopped and I looked toward the mountains where I wished to be going. But if that was Itchakomi …
“The Conejeros will come looking for us,” I said, “and will find them.”
“It is so.”
“We will wait,” I said. “If they walk by night—”
“They will.” He squatted on his heels. “She is much trouble, this woman. It is better to look at mountains. To find rivers. We do not need this woman.”
“I gave my word.”
It was many days since I had drunk chicory. I felt the want for it now, yet to build a fire was dangerous. I mentioned it and he shrugged and began putting together a fire.
When water was boiling we added the shavings from the root. I used it with care. Perhaps there was no more to be found. Perhaps it did not grow here. Keokotah had come to like it, too, and he watched as I added it to the water and put twigs into the fire. Ours was a very small fire, hidden from sight, yet it was a risk. I could not smell the smoke but I could smell the chicory.
We often had it at home, added to our coffee to make the coffee go farther. Coffee was hard to come by at Shooting Creek, and we used a lot of it.
Pa told me that in London there were shops, where men gathered to drink coffee and tea and to talk. Much business was done there, but there were those who believed the drinking of coffee sinful. Sakim had told me there were riots in Bagdad against the drinking of coffee.
Ours tasted good. I took my time, enjoying every drop, aware that it might be long before I had more.
Yet I should have been watching out for it. Who knows where it might grow? Such seeds might be carried far by birds or blown on the wind. It was a plant that made itself at home quickly.
We heard the footsteps before we saw anyone. Keokotah faded into the darkness, an arrow ready. I drew my knife.
She stepped from the darkness, and she was tall, almost as tall as I, and slender. She stood just for a moment and then she said, “I am Itchakomi, a Sun of the Natchee.”
“I am Jubal Sackett, a son of Barnabas.”
SIXTEEN
“What,” her tone was cool, “is a ‘Barnabas’?”
“Barnabas Sackett was my father, a man of Shooting Creek, and formerly of England.”
She dismissed me from her attention and turned to Keokotah. “You are a Kickapoo? What do you here?”
“We look upon mountains,” he said, “and he brings you word from Ni’kwana.”
She turned to me again as if irritated by the necessity. “From Ni’kwana? You?”
“We were asked to seek you out and to tell you the Great Sun is failing. He grows weaker.”
“He wishes me to return?”
“That was what he said, but I felt that he wished you to decide for yourself. He spoke first as Ni’kwana, second as a father.”
“He is not my father!”
“I said he spoke as a father. As one who wished you well.” Also, I added, “you have been followed by a man named Kapata.”
“Kapata?” Her contempt was obvious.
“He intends to wed you,” I spoke cheerfully, “and become a Sun, perhaps even the Great Sun.”
Her eyes were cold, imperious. “One does not ‘become’ a Sun. One is or is not a Sun.”
“I understand that does not matter to him. He has his own ideas. He will marry you and usurp the power.” I shrugged. “However, it is none of my business. I know nothing of your people or your customs.”
“Obviously!”
She turned her attention to Keokotah. “You know of this?”
“We met the Ni’kwana. He spoke with us. He spoke most to him.” Keokotah paused. “We have done what was asked. You may go.”
“I may go? You dismiss me? I shall go where I choose, when I choose.”
“Then please be seated,” I said. She looked at the fire where the chicory bubbled slightly. “We do not have much, but—”
“It is mayocup entchibil! I smell it from far!” She was no longer imperious but like a very young girl.
“She speaks of the ‘dark root,’ ” Keokotah said. “It is one way of speaking what you drink.”
Filling a cup made of bark, I handed it to her. She accepted it, and then a woman came forward and placed a mat upon the ground near the fire. Itchakomi seated herself and sipped the drink. Slowly the others came into the camp and gathered about.
Seating myself opposite her I waited until she had drunk from the cup. “Kapata is close,” I spoke carefully. “He has some of your people but more of the Tensa. They seek you.”
“He is nothing.”
“He is a strong, dangerous man.”
“You fear?”
“I? What have I to fear? He seeks you, not me. I shall be gone with Keokotah. You have warriors.”
This I said, but I had seen her warriors. Three of them were old men, well past their prime. They had come for their wisdom, not for their strength or fighting ability. Against the Tensa they would prove a poor match. Some of the younger ones looked able enough, but they were too few. I shifted uneasily. None of this was any affair of mine. I wished only to be away, and Keokotah felt the same.