Homecoming, page 7
Davy shuddered to think how long it would be before he saw Tennessee again. Unless he acquired another horse, he’d be a candidate for a rocking chair by the time he got there. Unfortunately, in that neck of the woods, horses were as scarce as hen’s teeth.
“What you thinking, Red Cheeks?” the maiden inquired as they crested a rise. Below was a narrow valley divided by two streams.
“Nothing much,” Davy fibbed. To tell the truth invited her to point out that he need not return home at all, and he’d had quite enough of that, thank you. “Let’s locate a spot to make camp. Looks as if we get to spend another night together.”
A gleam came into Wawaneechotinka’s eyes. “I be glad,” she said.
Davy wanted to kick a stump. He didn’t know which was worse, matching wits with Kiyo Kaga or with her. In a way he should be flattered that Wawaneechotinka had set her sights on him, but it created all sorts of complications he would rather not deal with.
He recollected his grandpa saying once that when a woman threw her noose over a man, there wasn’t much the man could do except stand there and let her tighten it or run like hell. Davy would have lit out long since if not for the fix she was in.
Soon they came to a clearing beside a stream. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, but that didn’t stop Davy from studying the heavens and announcing, “We might get some heavy rain before dawn. I’d best see to it that you’ll be comfortable.”
“Rain?” Wawaneechotinka said quizzically, scanning the firmament. “I see no sign.”
“Trust me,” Davy said as innocently as could be. “Tennesseans are famous throughout the country for being able to read the weather better than anyone else. Why, there was a widow lady once over to Greene County who was so good at predicting the weather, she could do it for a whole year in advance. Folks would come to her from miles around. One farmer paid her a visit every January regular as clockwork to learn what the weather was going to be like during planting season in late April and May.”
As Davy talked, he busied himself gathering long limbs from under a nearby tree. He had quite a pile before Wawaneechotinka took notice.
“You plan make big fire?”
“This is for the lean-to,” Davy revealed. “You’re going to be as warm and snug as an old bedbug tonight.”
“That be nice,” Wawaneechotinka said, her sly grin reappearing.
It was all Davy could do not to bust a gut. She figured that she had him right where she wanted him, but she was about to learn that he could be as clever as a fox when he had to be. Whistling softly, he erected the lean-to in record time, and stood back to admire his handwork. It wasn’t much to boast of, lacking sides as it did, and with the branches that formed the shelter spaced too far apart to keep out any rain.
“Here you go,” Davy declared, escorting her by the elbow inside. She stooped and sat, then patted the ground beside her.
“There not much room. You and I must sleep close.” Wawaneechotinka pressed her hands together to show exactly how close.
“Wouldn’t think of it,” Davy said, moving around to the other side of the fire. “A true gentleman would never intrude on a lady’s privacy. I’m sleeping out here where I can keep my eyes peeled for the Fox war party.”
Wawaneechotinka’s fine spirits were gone with the wind. “If you not sleep inside, I not too.”
Davy adopted a hurt expression. “After all the trouble I went to on your behalf? That would be terribly rude. Most white folks would take it as a sign that you didn’t like them.”
“I like you,” Wawaneechotinka declared without thinking.
Davy had her dead to rights. Casually reclining on his left side, he commented, “Then I know you’ll do what’s proper and sleep in there like you should.”
It was a long night. Wawaneechotinka sulked for hours. Davy could tell that she was picking her brain for a way to beat him at his own game. When along about midnight he suggested that they turn in, she gave him a look that would have withered a petrified tree.
Having been married twice and having three sisters to boot, Davy was well aware that womenfolk sometimes did not accept defeat as graciously as they ought to. So he was not the least bit surprised when Wawaneechotinka spent half the night tossing and turning and sighing and every so often slapping the earth.
Daybreak found them up and on their way, the maiden still sulking. Davy paused frequently to check their back trail, but saw no hint of pursuit.
The sun was directly overhead when they rested at a ribbon of a creek, the water so clear and pure that drinking it was like quaffing the nectar of the gods. Davy was on his belly, gulping the crystal cool liquid, when the heavy stomp of something big approaching rapidly from the rear brought him to his feet in a rush.
With Wawaneechotinka at his side, Davy darted into undergrowth that bordered the game trail they had been following. He guessed that an elk was as thirsty as they were. A low nicker proved him wrong.
Davy’s sorrel pranced into the clearing and looked around. Its sides were flecked with sweat and grime. Its legs bore scores of nicks and abrasions. Burrs were tangled in its mane and tail, brush tangled in the reins. Yet that animal was the finest horse Davy had ever beheld. Forgetting himself, he burst from concealment and nearly spooked it into running off.
“Hold on, fella!” Davy said, getting a grip on the bridle. “It’s me.” He stroked its neck, scratched behind its ears, and nearly had the sorrel calmed down when Wawaneechotinka stepped into the open. One whiff of her scent and the horse shied and tried to bolt again. Davy clung on, talking softly while rubbing it, and in due course the sorrel was as tame as ever.
“How he find us, Red Cheeks?” Wawaneechotinka asked in a rare moment of near-flawless English.
“He’s part bloodhound, I reckon,” Davy said proudly. He’d heard stories about dogs and cats that traveled great distances to find their owners, but he’d never heard tell of a horse tracking its master down as this one had done. When they got back to Tennessee, he was going to treat it to a week of rest and all the sweet hay it could eat.
“Now we can make good time,” Davy said. But he was the only one happy at the news.
The sorrel deserved a rubdown. Davy stripped off the saddle, which had come partly loose. Large blisters covered one shoulder where the leather had chafed the hide. He lanced each blister and applied a cool mudpack.
Wawaneechotinka acted as skittish around the horse as it was around her. She hesitantly touched it a few times, and once was bold enough to rub its neck.
“So big. So strong. Why horses let people ride them?”
“For the same reason dogs and cats take a shine to folks,” Davy said as he pried a burr from the sorrel’s mane. “Some critters just naturally get along with us. Some don’t.”
“Is right, you think?”
No one had ever asked that question of Davy before, and he cocked an eyebrow at her, not quite sure of her meaning. “Right how? Do you mean is it right for us to keep dogs as pets and have horses tote us all over creation?”
“Yes.”
At that moment the sorrel affectionately nuzzled him, nearly dumping him off his feet. Chuckling, Davy responded, “There’s your answer. If cats didn’t want to roost in our laps and purr themselves silly, they’d fight shy of us. If dogs didn’t like our company, they’d all live off in packs in the wild. And if horses didn’t like to be rode, they’d buck us off and stomp us to death.” He paused to tickle the sorrel’s chin. “Some do, mind you. But by and large I think the Good Lord meant for us and them to get along, or He wouldn’t’ve put us all on the same planet.”
Wawaneechotinka gazed across the pristine valley. “White men dig in earth to plant seeds. I have seen them.”
More puzzled than ever, Davy said, “Farming, we call that. What about it?”
“Is wrong. People must not wound our Mother.”
At last Davy saw where her trail was leading. Some tribes regarded the Earth as their literal and supreme Mother and worshipped her much as his kind did the Creator.
“Man in dress want us to plant seeds,” Wawaneechotinka went on. “Him say we never go hungry again. Him say we plant many things, eat many things.” She gestured at the wilderness. “But we not go hungry. We have what he call wild rice and onions and more. We have berries. We have fish and deer and moose. Our Mother give us all food we need.”
Davy was not about to argue with sentiments like those. He knew firsthand the marvels of nature’s bounty. An experienced backwoodsman, he never needed to go into town for a single thing if he did not want to. The woods supplied all he needed. In that respect the Ojibwas and he were a lot alike.
“My brother be angry with man in dress,” Wawaneechotinka explained. “So him go off to teach Winnebagos, and they kill him.”
The priest should have left well enough alone, Davy mused. Some Indians didn’t take to having the white man’s beliefs shoved down their throats, even on so simple a matter as tilling the soil.
The sorrel had been rubbed from head to hooves, so Davy threw on the blanket and saddle and mounted. Wawaneechotinka had to be coaxed up, then glued her full form to his.
“I like this, Red Cheeks.”
“Figured you would.”
“Long way to village,” she mentioned, quite pleased that it was the case. Her breath prickled his neck. “Who know what maybe happen?”
Davy Crockett applied his heels, wishing that his horse was gifted with the speed of a shooting star. Come to think of it, even that wouldn’t be fast enough if Wawaneechotinka took it into her head to employ her feminine charms to their full effect.
It reminded Davy of something his pa once said. “Mark my words, son. There are three natural forces against which men are downright helpless: hurricanes, tornadoes, and willful women.”
“What’s a body to do?” Davy had asked.
“With the first two, just hunker down and wait them out. Sooner or later hurricanes end and tornadoes go elsewhere.”
“What about willful women? There must be something we can do there.”
Until he started courting, Davy never had understood why his pa threw back his head and laughed.
~*~
Flavius Harris was idly doodling in the dirt with a stick when a ruckus broke out at the south end of the village. He jumped to his feet, praying it was Davy and the pretty filly. A wigwam blocked his view, so it was a while before he saw three warriors, at the head of a large crowd, guiding his dun.
It startled Flavius. He didn’t see how the men had gotten the horse to the island without it getting wet, yet it was as dry as tinder. There had to be a secret trail, he realized, a link to the mainland that would be worth his while to discover.
Keekweechiweepinank stepped from a dwelling and met the trio. After a lengthy palaver, the Ojibwa leader and those assembled came toward the post.
Involuntarily, Flavius backed up until he bumped against it. Quelling an uneasy feeling, he cleared his throat. “Something I can do for you?”
The chief had a red blanket over his shoulders. Sweeping it aside, he indicated the dun. “This animal be yours, white man?”
“That it is,” Flavius admitted. “What of it?”
The hapless dun was much the worse for wear. Mud caked it clear up to the brisket. Its tail was so tangled that it would take a week of Sundays to brush it straight again. A deep gash on the right foreleg below the elbow was coated with dried blood. On its flank were long scratch marks.
Claw marks, Flavius judged them, either from a lynx or a bobcat. Out of concern, he advanced to inspect the wounds, and was rudely shoved by one of the warriors.
Flavius came close to throwing himself at the culprit. “There was no call for that, you cussed heathen!” he fumed. “I only want to take care of my horse, is all. Can’t you see that it’s been hurt?”
“You care for this animal?” Keekweechiweepinank asked in a tone that implied he found the likelihood hard to believe.
“What a stupid question!” Flavius snapped. He knew he might be digging his own grave, but he no longer gave a damn. He was sick and tired of being treated as if he were pond scum, of being pushed and prodded and looked down on just because the color of his skin happened to be different from theirs. He barreled past the warrior who had shoved him, and gently ran a hand over the dun’s scratches. They were not particularly deep. Whatever had attacked the horse had either been too small or too slow to get a firm grip. None of the slashes, thankfully, was infected. He reached for the cinch, and was lightly jabbed in the back by a lance tip.
“What you do?” Keekweechiweepinank asked. “Maybe try to escape?”
Flavius tapped the saddle. “Ever worn a pair of tight moccasins too long? This has been on him since your men captured me. It should come off.” Heedless of the risk, he swatted the lance aside and hastily undid the cinch. A warrior took the saddle from him as he lowered it. The same with the saddle blanket.
“We keep them for you,” Keekweechiweepinank stated.
“You hold all the cards,” Flavius replied, boiling with resentment. He checked the dun’s back and all four legs. It was weary and sore and no doubt hungry, but it was better off than he was. One more day and he’d be crow bait.
The Ojibwas observed everything he did with great interest. Kawakatusk had arrived, and huddled with Keekweechiweepinank. When they turned, the leader stepped up to the dun and rather timidly patted its neck.
“I want you teach me ride, white man.”
Flavius could have been floored with a feather. “Why should I?” he countered. “You’re fixing to make wolf meat of me in another sleep, or have you forgotten? Teach yourself, Mr. High-and-Mighty.”
Keekweechiweepinank, surprisingly, was not offended. “I let you live as long as it take. Is that good?”
Flavius was all set to call the chief every nasty name he could think of when a keg of black powder went off inside his head. Here was the answer to his prayers! The Ojibwas would have to untie him in order for him to do the job right, and once free he could make his bid to escape. Forcing himself to stay calm in order not to arouse their suspicions, he asked, “Why this sudden interest in learning to ride?”
Keekweechiweepinank was gaining confidence with every stroke. He placed a hand on the dun’s muzzle, then slid it onto its nose. The horse snorted and nipped at his fingers, missing by a fraction.
Afraid that the chief would change his mind if the dun kicked up a fuss, Flavius said, “Don’t take that personal. Some horses don’t like to be touched around the mouth, even those used to a bit.”
The Ojibwa leader was examining his hand. “My interest not sudden,” he answered. “When I was boy, white men come to our village. Trappers on horses. Ever since, I want to ride as they did. I want to understand why your kind like it so much.”
Flavius snickered. “What’s to understand? Riding horses sure beats riding porcupines.” Soothing the dun, he commented, “This animal is tuckered out. That’s why it is so irritable. Let me clean it up and feed it, and come morning I’ll give you your first lesson.”
Keekweechiweepinank glanced at him.
“Keep me under guard the whole time if you don’t trust me,” Flavius said, knowing full well the man didn’t. “After I’m done, I’ll show your warriors how to hobble it so it won’t run off on you in the middle of the night.” The real reason, of course, was that he did not want the dun running off on him before he effected his escape.
“We do as you say,” Keekweechiweepinank said, and relayed instructions to the three warriors who had brought the dun to the village.
The crowd dispersed. Flavius was thrilled to the bone when one of the men untied his ankle. The trio hovered over him like bees over a flower, ringing him at all times. But they did not interfere when he took the dun to the lake to wash off the mud and treat the scratch marks. Nor did they object when he walked the horse to a tract of grass so it could graze.
Flavius had a hunch that there was more to the chief’s request than Keekweechiweepinank let on. He was not going to pry, though, and risk antagonizing Keekweechiweepinank when he was so close to ending the nightmare.
True to his word, Flavius demonstrated how a horse should be hobbled. His guards then returned him to the post and secured the rope to his leg.
That night, it was next to impossible to sleep. Flavius pondered until the wee hours, plotting ways of making his break. All involved an element of risk. Yes, he might take an arrow in the back for his effort, but he would rather go down fighting than be butchered like a hog at Easter.
Flavius did not realize he had dozed until the cry of an infant brought him around shortly before the sun rose. He was so nervous that his legs shook as if he had the ague. So much was literally riding on what would happen that he was as tightly strung as a fiddle.
The old lady with the cane brought him a bowl of mash for breakfast, which was unusual. Normally she fed him in the evening. This time she’d also added strips of meat, which he slipped into his pocket. They would come in handy later when he was on his own in the wilds.
It galled Flavius that Keekweechiweepinank did not show up until the middle of the morning. By then his nerves were frayed to the breaking point, so much so that when the leader came up behind him and spoke, Flavius nearly jumped out of his skin.
“I am ready if you are.”
Flavius composed himself, saying, “I was beginning to think you had changed your mind.” Attending the chief were the same three warriors from the day before as well as several dozen curious Ojibwas, among them Kawakatusk and Tokawonda. Flavius had to hide his annoyance. The more who were there, the more difficult it would be for him to get clean away.
Keekweechiweepinank himself untied the rope. Flavius made a show of rubbing his leg to restore circulation. Secretly, he scoured the perimeter of the village for the trail that had to be there. Yet as near as he could tell, at no point was there a connecting link between the island and the mainland.
