A Cherokee pointed at Keokotah. 'He is Kickapoo. What do you with our enemy?'
'When he is with me he is no enemy to the Cherokee. He is a great wanderer. Together we go beyond the Great River. Perhaps we shall cross the Far Seeing Lands.'
'The land is dead. There is no water. The grass is brown and old, and the rivers do not run.'
'I shall find water. My medicine is strong. For me the land will not be empty.'
The brave who said I had the Sackett face now spoke. 'I know him. It is he of the great medicine.'
They stood a little away from me. What they knew of me I had no idea, but it was no time for questions. 'I would walk in your village. I would smoke with your chiefs. I would sit down with your medicine man. When I am with you my medicine is your medicine.'
People had come out from the village and they stood back from us as we were escorted into the gate. The village, surrounded by a strong palisade, was a number of lodges roofed with bark. Outside one of the huts an old man sat cross-legged on a buffalo robe.
He looked up at me and then gestured that we be seated.
We sat opposite him and he took a pipe and smoked and then passed the pipe to me. I puffed and then passed it to the Kickapoo, who hesitated ever so slightly and then smoked and returned the pipe.
It seemed to me there was sly amusement in the old man's eyes. 'You are Sack-ett?'
'I am.'
The old man studied my clothing and then my longbow. Then his eyes went to the scabbards at my waist. 'What?' he asked.
'The voices of thunder,' I said, 'the voice that kills at a distance.'
The first Cherokee extended a hand. 'I will see.'
'They are medicine. I give them to no man.'
His eyes were hard. 'Perhaps we take?' he suggested.
'Many would die.'
'You would die!'
'Man was born to die. It is our promise at birth.' I looked at him coolly and tried to make it no threat. 'Do not hasten the time.'
The old man appeared to take no notice of what had been said. 'We of the Cherokee hear much of He Who Tells of Tomorrow. We hear of your great medicine.'
A fire blazed between us, just a small, flickering blaze.
'There is a magic on the wind, and there are spirits that wait in the shadows. They belong to no man but they sometimes favor we of the great medicine.' My hand moved over the fire, opening in a smooth gesture above the flame, but the fire suddenly turned blue and green.
The Cherokees drew back, muttering, but the old man did not move. 'Ah? I have heard of he who makes the fire change.'
'The spirits are kind,' I said, modestly. 'It is nothing.'
The old man was amused. 'My spirits are sometimes kind,' he said, 'although not in the same way.'
'I have no doubt,' I said. 'Beyond the blue mountains your name is known.'
'You go beyond the Great River? It is a far way, often bloody. Some have gone from here. Some returned. Many were lost.' He paused. 'It was from there the white men came, the white men who wore iron shirts.'
'White men in iron shirts? The Warriors of Fire?'
He shook his head. 'It was later. When I was a young boy. With my own eyes I saw them.
'He came to eat in our village and he was much hungry. When he came to leave we gave him food and he went quickly away. I was a boy then, and curious. I followed.'
We waited, and even the other Cherokees were curious, for the story seemed new even to them.
'He was weak, this white man. He had eaten, but still he was weak. Twice he fell down before he came to the fire where two others waited, so weak they could not stand. He gave them food.'
'They wore iron shirts also?'
'They did. Two carried bows such as yours, and one carried a spear. All had long knives. They ate. They rested. They went away. I watched them as they went.'
'Which way did they go?'
'Up the Great War Path. The Warrior's Path.'
'You did not follow?'
'For a little way. They met with two other men, also with longbows and also with long knives, but only one had an iron shirt. This one had killed a deer. He had meat with him, and I watched them eat again. When they started on I went back to my village.'
Five white men? Only the English used the longbow, and an Indian would remember the bows.
Who could they have been? The old man to whom I talked must be close to eighty, and it had been when he was a boy. Vaguely I recalled a story told by Jeremy Ring, my father's old friend, a story of some of Sir John Hawkins's men who had been left ashore in Mexico, and of how some of those men, not wishing to be imprisoned by the Spanish, had struck out to walk to the French settlements of which they had heard, not realizing how long a journey it would be. Yet three men had gotten through, walking to Nova Scotia in eleven months, from which place they were carried away to France and then to England. These could have been the men.
'You have come in peace,' the old man said. 'You will find peace here, and you shall leave in peace.'
'With my friends the Cherokee I would have it no other way.'
We were shown a lodge where we could sleep, but I knew that what had been said was spoken to me only. The Kickapoo would be left alone while in the village, but after that--
It was only then that I realized that the Cherokee who had wanted my guns had left the group before the old man had given us his permission to stay. That Cherokee would not be party to the old man's agreement. It was a thing to remember. Perhaps not intended that way, but who could be sure?
What of our canoe? Would it be safe? From the lodge to which we had been taken I judged the distance. Perhaps it would be well if we slipped away in the night, if that were possible. All we could do now was wait and see.
The village was larger than I had at first believed. There were many Indians about, and they had dogs, dozens of them, constantly moving around. Yet at night they would sleep. Or would they? Certainly they would be aware of us, and any movement at night might be considered unfriendly.
We would wait until day. We would eat, we would talk, and we would take our departure quietly, as guests should.
What happened after that was another thing, and we would be ready.
Keokotah seemed to sleep soundly, yet who could be sure? Long before daybreak I was up, my small pack prepared, my weapons ready. I expected no trouble within the village, but all did not like us here, nor had they all approved of the old man's welcome.
A voice from the door of our lodge spoke. 'Sack-ett?'
'I am here.'
'Come! It is time to go!'
Six warriors waited outside. We faced them, prepared for whatever would come. 'We are friends.' The speaker was a barrel-chested Indian of some forty years. 'We have come to see you safely on your way. Sack-ett has been a friend to our people. We are friends to Sack-ett.'
They formed on either side of us and walked with us to our canoe. Two men guarded it. Getting into two canoes they paddled beside us until we were well on our way. Finally, they backed water and let us go on ahead. The older Indian lifted his spear. 'Go in peace!' he said, and we did.
Obviously they had feared we would be attacked and had come to see us on our way in safety. Would our Cherokee enemies pursue? I doubted it. The warrior faction had made their position known in no uncertain terms, and it was unlikely that a few malcontents would dare oppose them.
But we were wary, as it is wise to be, trusting to nothing and prepared for anything.
My father's reputation had preceded us. He had been known as a brave and honorable man, often settling disputes among the Indians. Often they brought their sick or wounded to us for treatment that seemed beyond what their own medicine men could do. The place on Shooting Creek had become known among not only the Cherokees but other tribes as well.
