A stream emerged from a canyon to flow down into the valley, and at one place the stream fell over some rocks in a small waterfall of about three feet. Nearby were some tumbled boulders at the crest of a small knoll, a flat place atop the knoll surrounded by trees at one side of the canyon but overlooking the valley.
It offered a site for a group of lodges, water from the waterfall, and protection from the boulders and trees. With two of the Natchee men I set to work to build a rough shelter to take care of us while we built a stronger cabin.
The Natchee who had gone hunting returned with two deer and several sage hens. By the time they came into camp a crude shelter for the night had been built and we had dragged several dead trees across gaps among the boulders to make a stronger wall.
Itchakomi was busy and she avoided me. Several times I started to speak, but each time she turned away and went off to some other area, avoiding me, or seeming to. Irritated, I decided if that was the way she wanted it, she mighty well could have it. So I avoided her.
Keokotah would not be back for a day or two, so that other question need not arise.
Yet I slept ill. The night through I turned and tossed, getting no decent sleep at all, and when morning came I took my weapons and went up the canyon behind our fort. It was a fairly deep canyon and led back into the mountains. There was still much snow in the shaded places, and here and there boulders in the stream were icy. When I returned it was dusk and meat was cooking. I went to the fire and chose a piece for myself and sat down near the fire.
Itchakomi was across the fire from me. After a moment, she spoke. “Keokotah has gone to find a way?”
“He will find a way to the river. The water will be rough and fast, but I believe your people might slip by your enemies, passing them at night.”
“You will go with them?”
“No.” I looked up at her. “My place is in the mountains, so I will stay. The river is called the Arkansas and some other names as well, but it flows into the Great River. Your people can get home without trouble. Unstwita can lead them. He is a good man.”
She looked at me then, for I had not mentioned her leading them. I avoided her eyes, feeling uncomfortable. Until I had spoken I had not thought of it myself, but why had I not mentioned her? Was it not her place to lead? Would she not lead if she was going back.
“There is always danger,” I said, “but Unstwita is a good man. He is both wise and brave.”
“It is my place to lead.”
She spoke and I was silent, chewing on a piece of meat. Then I said, “You will go with them?”
“Do you want me to go?”
There it was, right out in the open. How could I answer that?
“I would miss you,” I said it reluctantly, hesitantly, yet realizing as I spoke that what I said was true. I would miss her, and I would not see her again. That gave me a pang, and I moved sharply at the thought. Then I said, “But I cannot ask that you stay. You are a Sun.”
There was amusement in her eyes. “And you are not even a Stinkard.” She paused. “You are a yeoman. Did a yeoman never marry a princess?”
“Never! If she did she would no longer be a princess. Or so I believe.”
“Then I shall no longer be a Sun.”
Our eyes met across the fire and I took another fragment of meat, slicing it with my knife.
“To me,” I said, “you will always be the sun, the moon, and the stars.”
The fire crackled, and a low wind stirred the flames. I added sticks to the fire. “I am strange to your ways,” I said, “and you to mine, but what you wish will be done. Then we shall go south to where the Spanishmen live. There will be a priest there.”
“That will be dangerous?”
“It is worth the risk. I would have it done so it is right with both your people and mine.”
I went down to the stream and dipped my hands in the water, washing them. When I stood up she was beside me.
“When you wish to go to the mountains,” she said, “you may go, and if you wish it, I will go with you, and when you make your camp, I will cook your meat, and when you wish to sleep, I will prepare your bed. Where you go, I will go.”
TWENTY-NINE
Quickly grew the grass, and quickly came leaves to the trees. Scattered along the green hillsides the golden banner bloomed, and here and there entire hillsides turned to cascades of their yellow flowers. There were sand-lilies, too, and occasional pasque-flowers.
We all walked together, for we were few, and had no knowledge of what might lie before us. Also, there was talk among the women of a wedding. I caught them looking at me, laughing among themselves, and was embarrassed. How a bridegroom was supposed to act, I did not know, nor anything else of their marriage customs.
Itchakomi had spoken of me wearing the oak and she the laurel, but what that implied I did not know. Nor could she find laurel here, so far as I knew. I had not seen it in these western mountains, although back in the Nantahalas there were often whole hillsides blushing with its pink blossoms.
Keokotah, who had found the way, led us along the eastern side of the valley to a creek that ran into a canyon. Through this canyon we must make our way, and there was danger there, a fit lurking place for enemies.
Itchakomi walked with the women, and they did not walk in silence. There was much chattering and laughter.
Once, when we had halted to rest, Unstwita came to me. “It is better I go with them,” he said, reluctantly. “I have wished to stay.”
“They will need you,” I said. “Tell the Ni’kwana that I did as he asked. Tell him I shall do my best to make Itchakomi happy.”
“I will tell him. And I shall return.”
“Return?”
“I have come to the mountains in doubt. I find them … I find them a place for the gods to walk.”
“Return, then. We shall be here, but if we leave I shall mark our way so—” I showed him the Sackett A. “You will find us.”
“I will find you.” He held out his hand suddenly, as he had seen me do. “You are my chief. I will follow no other.”
There was a trail of sorts along the canyon. It crossed and recrossed the turbulent little creek, winding among boulders and trees below the canyon walls. We stepped carefully around stones and lifted fallen branches from across the way. We would return this way, and a little work now would make the path easier. If we did not return, it would be easier for someone else.
It had been my father’s way to remove obstructions, to repair washouts in old trails, to leave each trail better than he had found it. “Tread lightly on the paths,” he had told me. “Others will come when you have gone.”
That was how I would remember my father. There was never a place he walked that was not the better for his having passed. For every tree he cut down he planted two.
We came at last to a place beside the river, a swift-flowing river that would become even swifter as the canyon walls narrowed. We came to an open place where aspen grew upon the slopes, and scattered cottonwoods along the river itself. We came to a place where drift logs had beached themselves on the gravelly shores. Stripped of their bark their gaunt white limbs were like skeletons among the boulders polished by the rough waters.
Here we camped, and I looked about me, for it was here that I would marry, here that I would take a wife. Watching Itchakomi, I knew my father would have approved, and my mother also.
Had we been among her people or mine the preparations would have been great. The women would have prepared a cabin for us, and there would among my people have been much sewing, cooking, planning, fussing about, all dear to a woman’s heart. Here there was not the time, nor was it the place. We must make do, and perhaps make up later on for what was missed.
The Natchee people built a shelter of boughs, and the men went to the forests to find game for a feast. It was to be the wedding of a Sun, and I was not sure the people approved.