It was a clear, cloudless day, and we had eaten well. It was a good time to lie in the sun and soak up some of the heat we had missed in the winter.
Itchakomi had walked out from the lodge, going toward the river that went from us down to the lower valley where our first home had been. She was still not far and I was watching her. Suddenly she turned and started back, and then she started to run.
“Keokotah!” I was on my feet, reaching for an arrow.
A warrior ran at Itchakomi. Then another sprang from the brush near her. My arrow took the first one, but then they were coming from everywhere. Dropping my bow, I drew my Italian pistols. Lifting the first gun, I took careful aim and fired.
The Indian at whom I shot was nearest to me. Another had already grabbed Itchakomi, but at the thundering report of my gun, all heads turned, our own people as well as theirs. In that instant when he was off guard, Itchakomi jerked free and stabbed the man who had seized her.
The man at whom I shot dropped in his tracks. Lowering the pistol for the load to drop in place, I lifted it and fired again.
My targets were standing, stricken with astonishment. Some of them had no doubt heard the Spanish guns but had not expected anything of the kind here. One by one I fired the guns, and three men were down before they took cover, the echoes of the first shot still racketing against the hills.
Itchakomi came to me, running.
In just that first moment of attack the effect had been catastrophic for them. Four men were down, two wounded, two dead. Itchakomi’s attacker, badly hurt, was crawling away. Then struggling to his feet he disappeared into the brush.
My guns had been a total surprise, but this attack was not over. They had retreated merely to take stock of the situation. I said as much to Itchakomi. “It is only the beginning. They will not be surprised next time.”
Back inside the lodge I reloaded my pistols. My powder horn was still more than half full, but I’d have to find a place to make powder.
How many were out there? I glanced around at Itchakomi. “How many?”
“Many! Too many!”
An Indian that I had wounded was starting to crawl away, but I let him go. I could not make out where my bullet had struck him. I had aimed simply for his body but thought I had shot low and right. That last had been a hurried shot, and I should not permit myself such waste. Each shot must score a kill.
All was still. The sun was warm, the snow melting. Soon it would be gone. I replaced my pistols in their scabbards and took up the bow.
Keokotah came to me as I emerged from the lodge. “They wait.” He paused, his black eyes sweeping the terrain before him. “I think they come soon.”
We waited, our men formed around in a circle, well into the woods near the lodge, waiting for an attack that was long in coming.
“I think they come closer,” Keokotah said. “This time no time. They come quick.”
I agreed, and waited, and waited.
My stomach felt hollow and my mouth dry. If they were many and they attacked from close in we might all be killed. I felt for my knife, for it would come to that. They would not attack from a distance this time, but would be upon us at once. My guns, if I used them, would get off no more than one hasty shot each. I dared not take a chance on having one wrested from me.
With night it would be cold again. They would draw off then, and build fires—
They came with a rush, and from close in. But our defenses were out, and their approach could not be completely hidden. One arrow left my bow. Then I dropped it and took to the knife. A big warrior leapt at me, and my knife ripped him up. Keokotah swung a club he had been carving. One of our men went down from a thrown spear, and the Ponca woman withdrew the spear and thrust it at the Indian who bent to take his scalp. She held it low with both hands and drove hard and the Indian tried to leap away, too late. I glimpsed her pin him down, saw his eyes staring up at her as his hands grasped at the spear.
It was hand to hand. Men fell. There was a scream. I was struck from behind and driven to my knees. I came up, fell, and rolling over, kicked a man away with my feet and came up. I was face to face with a short, powerfully built Indian who was amazingly agile. He slipped away from a knife thrust and swung his knife at me. Our blades clashed and when we came close I kicked him suddenly, catching him on the knee.
His knife ripped my tunic. My upward thrust cut a thin line along his chest and nicked his chin. We circled. Then somebody leapt on me from behind and my adversary lunged to finish me off. In that moment Itchakomi thrust a spear into his back. I fell, the man atop my back was gripping my hair in one hand, his other coming up with a knife to take my scalp. His hand gripping my hair gave my neck a fearful wrench, and I struck upward with my knife, stabbing him in the side. He wrenched hard on my neck again, wanting only that scalp, and I stabbed again. I felt the cutting edge of the knife on my hair and with a frantic lunge managed to throw him half off me. I came to my knees, driving a fist into his belly.
That broke his hold and he fell back and I leapt on him. He rolled to one side but not fast enough, and I sank the knife deep.
He wrenched free of me, bleeding badly, his face contorted with fury. He leapt at me, but this time I kicked him as he came in and he staggered back. His knees buckled under him then and he fell.
All around me there had been fighting, but suddenly it was over and they were gone. Bloody, gasping, I looked around. Itchakomi was standing in a corner near the lodge, a spear in her hand, its tip bloody.
The man I had fought was crawling away and Keokotah, bloody and bleeding, thrust a spear into him.
They were gone. Why they had broken off the attack, I did not know.
Two of our men were dead, and one had been scalped. A woman had been killed. Only Itchakomi and Unstwita were unwounded.
They had carried off their dead and wounded. How many we had killed, I did not know. Keokotah’s woman, a terrible bruise on her shoulder and a cut on her arm, was bathing the blood from his wound.
“They will come again,” Keokotah said, looking at me.
“Aye, and we must be gone.”
Amazingly, I was almost unhurt. There was a thin knife cut at the roots of my hair only an inch or two long and not deep and a few minor scratches. Keokotah had taken a blow on the shoulder that had left his right arm almost useless for the time.
“We will go now,” I said, “in the night.”
Limping and bloody, we gathered our few belongings and the little meat we had left. By the time we were ready to move it was dark. I knew only one place to go.
My valley.
TWENTY-EIGHT
We walked upon the mountains in the night. Limping, I led the way. Constantly we paused to listen for pursuit, but heard nothing. Often we had to pause because our lowland lungs were unaccustomed to the heights. Several times we stopped to rest.
At the first halt I went from one to the other, doing what I could to treat their wounds. It was little enough that I knew, but more than anyone there with the exception of Itchakomi. Surprisingly, she knew a good bit.
When morning came there was a dense fog, a mist lying low in the hollows of the hills. We followed a dim path, probably a game trail, and at first, for at least five miles, it was all uphill. Then the climb eased except for scrambles through boulders and the remains of avalanches that had swept down the mountain during the winter. Stiff, tired, and sore, we climbed, gasped for breath, and then pushed on.
The mist lifted away from us, revealing a world of broken granite and snow, with here and there a dwarf spruce struggling for existence against the wind and the ice. We sat down then and shared bits of jerked meat among us. There was little enough, but it was needed. A Natchee went back a few hundred yards to watch our trail while we ate.