For four days we worked, rolling rocks into place and settling them into the earth for a foundation, building a quick wall of defense so we might have time to build better, and further back.
Keokotah—like any other Indian—was unaccustomed to hard manual labor. Always he had been a hunter and a warrior, so I left the hunting and the scouting to him. He was willing to help, but he lacked the skills and the slights necessary. There was little in the life of an Indian that demanded labor of the kind needed. Some Indians built stockades, but these were the work of many people working together. The lodges of the Kickapoo were, I understood, though I had not seen one, domed affairs made of bark laid over a framework.
Building was not new to me. At Shooting Creek we had built largely and well, with the aid of men who knew much of such things, of notching logs and fitting them, of working with axe, saw, and adz.
Now I had planning to do as well as building, and several times I sat late by the fire drawing a rough plan on a piece of aspen bark.
The low hill where we intended to build was the source of a spring whose water trickled down to a small stream that flowed northeastward into a canyon. The top of the hill was mostly open, but I rolled the few scattered boulders to the outer edge of the hill to form part of a wall. There were trees growing and I trimmed their lower branches, constructing my house to use the trees as posts for added strength. Having no axe—only the hatchet I carried as a tomahawk—I had to choose from among the many downed trees the ones most solid and seasoned.
The top of the knoll made for good drainage, and again I used the device of cutting notches into the living trees to support my roof poles.
By nightfall I had the frame of the roof in place for a house of several rooms and considerable space. Around the perimeter of the hill I had rolled rocks to fill natural gaps in the rocks that rimmed the hill. It was a good defensive position with a view to all approaches.
During the days that followed I worked unceasingly, from dawn until dark and often long after dark, sitting by the fire to carve spoons, cups, and trenchers, the large wooden platters from which we would eat, just as they did in England.
Keokotah hunted far afield, eyes alert for enemies. He brought in a deer, an antelope, and several sage hens. He found no tracks of men but several of the huge bears of which we had heard. “Leave them alone,” I advised. “We don’t need meat that bad.”
West of our valley were the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, so named by the Spanish, as we had learned from Diego. They were a long, high ridge beyond which lay another, much larger valley. Keokotah had seen it from afar.
The Ponca woman, sturdy and quiet but always busy, found a granary in a natural rock shelter. An overhang had been walled in, leaving only a small window for access, and had been made into a storage place for grain. Some scattered corncobs lay about, all very small, but on the floor of the granary we found a half dozen cobs that still had grains of corn and maize.
With a sharp stick she made holes, and into each she dropped a kernel of corn. How old the corn was we had no idea, but we hoped it would grow.
Here and there we found signs of previous occupation, where some unknown people had lived for a time and passed on.
Every day I worked to build the cabin and to make our small fortress stronger. There were solid logs enough to build the cabin, and many for the stockade. Those logs in contact with the soil had usually rotted or begun to rot, but many had fallen across other logs and had only seasoned and grown stronger.
It was, I suppose, brutally hard work, but I’d been accustomed to little else, and manhandling the logs into position, sometimes rolling them, sometimes turning them end over end, simply took time. As a matter of fact, I enjoyed building. I always had.
Keokotah was ever restless, wandering the hills, scouting the possible trails, alert always as we all were. Each night when he came in we talked of what he had seen and where he had been. Occasionally, taking time off, I scouted the country myself.
Spring passed slowly into summer, and the cabin walls were up. A steeply slanted roof to shed the snow was in place. The meadows and hillsides were scattered with flowers now, Indian paintbrush, sunflower, larkspur, locoweed, and the ever-present golden banner.
Twice I ventured up the gulch, scouting my way, careful to leave no tracks, a simple thing for there were many rocks. Always, I tried to keep under cover and not to frighten any of the wildlife that might betray my presence. I found no moccasin tracks, or pony tracks, either.
We hunted far out, and often I took Paisano with me. Paisano was the name I had given the buffalo, who seemed happy to accompany me anywhere. He often carried packs for me, following me around like a puppy, a huge puppy, however, for he seemed to grow larger with every day. He would follow no one else, although he did allow Itchakomi to touch him.
We gathered roots and leaves and wild strawberries as soon as they began to appear. We smoked and dried venison, preparing for the winter to come.
It was well into the summer before I found the cave. It was well hidden, just a hole in the bottom of a small hollow behind some brush. A sage hen I had shot had dragged itself into the brush before dying and when I went to retrieve it and to recover my arrow I bent over and found myself looking into a black hole under a rocky ledge.
Taking up a small stone, I dropped it into the hole. It fell but a few feet. I tried again, with the same result. Taking my bow, I reached down and touched bottom, extending the bow and my arm, at no more than four to five feet.
I kindled a small fire and made a torch. Leaning down, I held it into the cave. I found myself looking into a room roughly oval and about ten feet wide but all of twenty to twenty-five feet deep. Several openings suggested further passages. The formation was limestone. I lowered myself into the cave, excited by my discovery. I scraped the wall with a bit of rock, bringing down a grayish-white dust.
Saltpeter!
Having nothing in which to carry it I took none with me, but crawling out I took careful sightings on nearby landmarks to find the exact spot again. Charcoal was easily had, so all that remained was sulphur.
Several times I had seen indications of ore while hunting, and at least one good outcropping that looked to be silver. And lead was often found in conjunction with silver.
Now I must conduct a serious search for sulphur, and if I could find it I could make my own gunpowder, as we had at Shooting Creek.
Excited, I started back to camp. Keokotah was awaiting me among the rocks. He stood up as I approached, Paisano following.
“I find tracks,” he said.
I stared at him. “Indians?”
He spat. “Kapata!” he said. “He come, stay in rocks over there.” He gestured toward the entrance to the gulch. “He watch, watch a long time.”
Well, we had been expecting him. We had known he would come, yet—
“He come again. I think he come soon. He come for her, and he come for you!”
THIRTY-ONE
Itchakomi had come out from camp. “I see him,” she said. “You saw him?”
“He thinks he hidden, but from lodge I see him. He does not see me, as I am inside. He is not alone.”
Well, I had not believed he would be. So now we must be prepared. Our season of peace was over, even though it had been a watchful peace.
As we ate, I considered the situation, and was not happy with it. Desperately, I needed more powder and more lead for bullets. My guns were loaded, and there might be enough powder to load them one more time.
Not a mile from the lodge I had discovered a ledge of silver and lead, and I was less interested in the silver than in the lead at this point. I now had niter, and there was charcoal from our fires and more to be burned. Sulphur I needed.
We had arrows, and at every available moment, seated by the fire or on lookout, we worked at making more. Our life was to be guided by the skills of our hands, and all we would have we must either find or create ourselves from materials at hand. Fortunately, I had never known any other way of life. At Shooting Creek we had had utensils from the ships, but never enough. Most of what we had we made.