Itchakomi had asked me questions I’d never asked myself, and I suspected she had a lot more lying in wait for their proper moments. She was a disturbing woman, in more ways than one.
Pa, being the man he was, had laid a duty on me to sort of play godfather to the Indians. They were good people, with wise men among them, and customs suited to the country, but sometimes they needed an outside opinion or in my case somebody to act for an old gentleman not up to the trip we’d made.
More than that, I liked the Ni’kwana. There was something between us, and we had sensed it when we had come together. We could have sat down and talked from the first moment like old friends.
All right, so here I was. I’d found Itchakomi and delivered his message. Why was I hanging around? Because of the cold and the snow. Would I be around if it wasn’t for that? I shied from the question like a bird from a sudden move.
“There’s a wind blowing in this country now,” I said, “that’s going to blow a lot of change. The Indian way of life will be the first to go, I think, because the white man is part of that change, and most of them can’t see any way but their own.
“Pa, he was different. First off, he was raised in the fens and the life was different there, more independent and freer, and then he set up for himself and came over here.
“He didn’t ask anybody for permission to come. He got no grant from any king or great lord, he just came of himself and found land where he wanted to be.
“There weren’t many like him, but there were some, and the sons and daughters of those first ones were just as independent and free. The second generation moved out and set up for themselves away from the regular settlements. Their sons and daughters will be even more eager to strike out on their own. The king is just a name to them, and they will never have lived on any great lord’s estate.
“Some of them will cater to Indian ways, some will resist that. They will find land they want and set up for themselves and fight off anybody who tries to take it from them, be he Indian or white.
“Pa was one of the first of a new kind of man. Maybe not a new kind, because he was probably a lot like those who crossed the Channel with William of Normandy. Most of them had nothing, so they crossed over with William and took what they wanted from the folks already in England.
“The trouble is, they’ll do the same here. It’s the way of the world, just like the Conejeros came in here and killed off Indians who were living here and will try to kill us.
“If we wish to live we’ve got to try to kill them or enough of them so they will leave us alone. I don’t want it to become like it was with Pa.
“The Senecas fought him because he was a friend of their enemies, the Catawba. He whipped them so many times it became a matter of honor for every young warrior to have a try at us. I heard it was said in some villages that a warrior couldn’t call himself such unless he’d had at least one go at us at Shooting Creek. They’d come down the Warrior’s Path a-purpose.
“I don’t want to fight all my life. I am a man of peace, and when I’ve come back from wandering I want that log house in the meadow somewhere. I—”
“Alone?”
Damn it! There she was again! A man couldn’t—”That will be a cabin I’ve built myself,” I said, “mighty small, as it’s for one man.”
“Smaller than this cave?”
“Well—not exactly. I haven’t rightly figured the size of the place. It’s just an idea, anyway.”
“It should be larger,” Itchakomi said. “You might have a visit from a friend. Or even two.”
“Well … when it comes to that—”
My eye caught a movement from over where we had come into the valley. Keokotah was there, and he was waving something to attract my attention.
The only reason he would signal me was that the Conejeros were coming, or somebody.
“Keokotah is calling me. I’d better go.”
I wasted no time. Keokotah would not call for help unless he believed it was needed, and if he needed help, more than a few were coming our way.
I started running like a coward, happy to get into a fight I thought I could win.
TWENTY-FIVE
Keokotah was in the rocks and brush, where he had a good view of the trail into our valley. Much of the snow had melted, and the earth was muddy. Here and there were pools of water and patches of snow on the north slopes of hills. We could see the Conejeros coming and counted twelve.
We did not talk. Each knew what must be done and knew it would not be easy. Glancing back I could see some of the Natchee moving down to the brush along the creek, our second line of defense.
“I will take the last man,” I suggested.
Keokotah made no reply. He would fight his own battle, as I would. Each of us had his own skills and his own ideas on how to expend them.
They were a hundred yards off, the last man some fifty yards further, when I selected an arrow and bent my bow, waiting just a little longer. They came on. Keokotah slipped down to a better position. The last man had to round a boulder and to do so must almost face me. He was at least fifteen feet behind the next man when I let fly.
The years of training with the bow now paid their way, for my arrow took him in the chest and he fell back, his hands grasping the arrow, struggling to withdraw it. Keokotah’s arrow went into his man’s throat, and the man fell. The others vanished like a puff of smoke. An instant, and they were there—another, and they were gone.
One man I saw drop among some rocks, but knew he would not rise from the spot where he had disappeared, so I plotted in my mind his probable movements. They were trying to get into the valley, and he would use as much shelter as could be found. As I had come through that entrance myself I knew how the land lay. About thirty yards farther along from where he had dropped from sight was a gap in the cover. I knew he would make a step, perhaps two, before I could get on target, so I chose a place close to the edge of his next cover and waited.
A movement, and then he was in the open and running. My arrow caught him in midstride, just as he was about to disappear into the rocks. He missed a step, and then fell or dropped from sight.
Two down, and a casualty. I doubted the last man had been killed.
We would get no more chances here, and if we remained where we were we would be surrounded. Keeping undercover where we could, we ran, ducking and dodging, for the brush along the stream.
The Conejeros did not see us go, so they moved slowly, carefully. They had lost men. Would they believe their medicine was bad and leave? I doubted it.
At the nearest concealment I stopped and crouched to watch for them. Where Keokotah was I did not know, nor did I need to look. He was a fighting man and would be where he could be most effective.
Now came a time of waiting. The Conejeros were creeping closer, using all their wiles to come within striking distance without being seen. They could not know exactly where we were but could calculate as I had where their enemies were most apt to be.
They had the advantage of the attacker. We had a position to defend.
We knew how many they were. They could not know how many there were of us. Suddenly an Indian darted from one rock to the next, but he was gone from sight before I could turn, and he was closer.
Almost as if it were a signal, a half dozen others moved and vanished, still closer. An attacker suddenly raised up, but Keokotah was ready for him and the man dropped from sight. I did not see whether Keokotah had scored a hit or not.
Then for a long time, nothing happened. The sun climbed higher in the sky, and the air warmed. Suddenly I heard a startled cry and then a scream of pain.
It was at the other end of the line of trees, and the cry, I was sure, had come from one of ours. I worked my way undercover back toward the caves.