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.'
Chapter 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.
Tomorrow would be the day, so I did not go out to hunt but sat by the river and contemplated what was to be. If I was to have a wife I must have a home, and I must plan for the future. My valley was a good place, yet it was upon the path of migration for some tribes, a hunting ground for others.
We would be few, only Itchakomi, the Ponca woman, Keokotah and his woman, and myself. We would be too few to defend against an attack by the Conejeros, if they still existed, or their attackers. Yet I knew how to build a strong fortress, and would. It was something to think on. There was also the planting of crops, the gathering of seed, planning for the future. Much of this I had known from boyhood, for at Shooting Creek we had lived just that way. Only there had been more of us.
There was another defense, and it might work. Already some knew me as a medicine man. If I became a medicine man as well as a trader--
If strength could not win, one must use wit, if one has any.
Of oak leaves there was no shortage, but we had planned to use something else for the laurel until Unstwita returned from the hunt with a sprig of dwarf laurel found growing high on the mountain.
When the afternoon drew on I scouted around, making a sweep of the area, following the river down to look for tracks. But I found none. What I feared was an attack during the ceremony, and yet we had seen no recent tracks.
The morning dawned bright and clear. Unstwita had told me of the ritual and how it would proceed. When I went to the shelter they had erected for me, an old Natchee warrior waited within. He said, 'Behold, you have come!'
Another old man and a woman entered then and after them, Itchakomi.
The old people asked us if we loved each other. When we had replied the old man stood beside her, representing her father. They tied oak leaves to a tuft of my hair, and Itchakomi carried a sprig of the laurel, as was the custom.
I said, 'Do you want me as your husband?'
'Yes. I wish it very much and will be happy to go with you.'
In my left hand I carried the bow and arrow that signified that I would not fear our enemies and that I would provide for my wife and children.
She held the laurel in her left hand, in her right a sheaf of maize. The laurel signified that she would keep her good reputation, the maize that she would prepare my meals.
Having said she would go with me she dropped the maize from her right hand, and I took it in mine and said 'I am your husband,' and she replied, 'And I am your wife.'
I took her to my bed, as the rites demanded, and said, 'This is our bed. Keep it clean.'
The feast was prepared and we went together to eat of it. The others gathered around, with much laughter and talk. Only Keokotah was not there. He had slipped away from the festivities, but I knew why. We knew not the land, nor who might come, and one among us must be alert.
After the feast the Natchee began to dance, a slow, shuffling dance that I knew not, though I knew many
