NINE

For a long moment I lay perfectly still, my brain a blank. Then I began to think.

I was alone. I could expect help from no one. If anyone came my way it would be an enemy or a potential enemy, and there were wild beasts that might flee from a man but not from a helpless one. Wolves and cougars were very quick to sense when anything was injured and helpless.

My present position, sprawled on the ground among deadfalls and brush, was impossible. Despite the pain I had to move, I had to do something.  As near as I could see, my broken bone was not far out of line. I had never set a bone, although I had once seen my father do it for an Indian. Hooking my toe under a fallen limb I pulled slightly, and the bone seemed to slip back into place. Backing off from the trap I was in I cut several strips from a green branch and made a rough splint, tying it with rawhide from a small twist I always carried for rigging snares.

Several times I had to stop and lie still, my brow beaded with sweat. Then I would force myself to continue. Every movement brought excruciating pain, but I could not remain where I was. I had no water and no shelter, and very little of the buffalo jerky was left. Yet if I ate carefully there would be enough to sustain me for several days. I tried to recall what Sakim had taught me about broken bones, but beyond what I had done I could remember nothing.  One fact was stark and clear. I would be unable to travel for several weeks. I would miss my meeting with Keokotah. Moreover, even to get where there was water I must improvise some sort of crutch, but there was nothing nearby.  Using my longbow as a staff and taking a good grip on a lower limb of a tree, I managed to pull myself erect. With great care, using the longbow, I moved from tree to tree. In my first view of the grassy cove at the head of Sequatchie I had glimpsed what seemed to be a stream. Perhaps the same one that flowed the length of the valley. It was far away, yet if I could reach it at least one part of my survival would be arranged for. I would have water.  In such a condition, what would my father have done? He would have survived. So would I surive.

The hill was steep but slowly, carefully, I edged my way to the bottom. Here the grass was shoulder high, but among some debris from fallen trees near the base of the cliff I found some sticks, one of them of proper height had a branch that grew out on a slight curve. It would make an admirable crutch until I could fashion something better. I would need it, for there were no trees to cling to in the cove’s bottom unless I stayed to the edges, making my journey that much farther.

My leg was badly swollen by now and I had to slit the leg of my buckskin pants.  It hurt and I cringed at each step. Twice I startled deer, but they were gone too quickly for me to bring my bow into play, even had I been able.  The sun was low in the sky before I was even halfway to where I believed I must go. Perhaps there was a curve of the stream that was closer but the tall grass prevented me seeing it. Yet fortune suddenly conferred a favor. I found a game trail.

It crossed the cove at an angle different from that I had been pursuing, but undoubtedly would lead to water. When darkness came I simply sat down. There was no going any further and I was brutally tired. My leg had swollen enormously with the exertion, and when I sat down I simply collapsed. I lay right where I was in the grass, making no effort at a camp. I got a piece of jerky from my once-heavy pack and began chewing on it. Fortunately it was very tough and took a lot of chewing. When I had finished with the jerky I slept, and if wild beasts prowled near me I did not know and scarcely cared.  When I awakened it was broad daylight and the sun was in my face. My leg had swollen to thrice its size and I slit my pants further and rolled the buckskin high, baring my leg. Getting to my feet was a desperate struggle and twice I fell back, each time sending a stab of pain up my leg. Yet at last I reached my feet and once more began hobbling toward the stream.  The skin beneath my arm where my crude crutch rode heaviest was raw. My leg hurt and my back seemed out of kilter. Desperately I wished to sit down but doubted if I could again get to my feet, so I struggled on.  My mouth was dry and I could scarce swallow. I had upon rising licked some of the grass leaves for the dew that was upon them but it was all too little. In all this struggle I had gone but a pitifully small distance, or so it seemed, but doggedly, desperately, I struggled on. That I had a fever, I knew. That my wound might be infected was possible, for the skin had been broken although the bone had not pushed through. Then my crutch went into a gopher hole and I pitched forward to my face in the grass. The pain was almost unbearable.  I lay there, all sprawled out, and then slowly began to pull myself together. I struggled to one knee and then pushed myself erect again. Grimly, I struggled on, and then when I was about to fall from fatigue I heard the rustle of water.  There was some low brush and a few scattered trees, and then a grove that seemed to climb the hill.

The creek was there, flowing out of the trees, and when I stepped back into their shade I saw that the creek came from a cave.  Water and shelter!

There was a big old fallen tree near the entrance that made a perfect seat.  Sitting down I shucked my small pack from my shoulders and carefully removed my guns and put them down behind a log with my bow and quiver. There were several broken branches about and a couple of them stout enough to make a decent crutch, but for a few minutes, with the water in sight, I just sat there, not wanting to move.

When I did move I hobbled to the water, scooped up a handful and drank and then drank again. It was only three steps back to the log, and I went there, sat down, and dozed.

The sun was warm, the afternoon well along, but I had water and I had the cave.  Deep inside I had a feeling that I was going to make it. I hoped I would. So many plans, so many dreams, and all ahead of me.  And a woman I had promised to find.

Just before sundown I looked into the cave. It was large enough, and it was dry but for the place where the water ran. I crawled into a corner and slept.  When morning came I got outside to my log and took stock of my surroundings.  There was very little strength in me. I needed rest, treatment, and a food supply. If I was careful I had enough of the buffalo jerky left to get me through the week. By then I might be stronger. Sitting on the log I tried to plan my next step. There might be plants about that I could eat. From where I sat I recognized two or three. There were seeds I could gather, and I must get all within the area around me.

The opening of the cave was fairly hidden from any who did not approach closely, but activity was sure to attract the attention of anyone living nearby. Yet I had seen no signs of any Indian camp, although it was a sheltered and logical spot.

Again I dozed, or perhaps I just passed out. I did not know. My head buzzed and I felt lost and vaguely too warm. I peered at the plants but lacked the energy to rise and gather them. Fumbling with my pack I got out another piece of the precious jerky. I took a bite, and then with sudden awareness I reached behind me and moved my guns to a place atop my pack to keep them from the damp ground.  They were my most precious possessions, not only for what they could do but because they were given me by my father.

“Take them,” he had said. “You understand them well. Someday they may save your life.” He had paused, turning them in his hands to savor their beauty, their balance. “He who made these was skilled. He worked long and lovingly upon them.  If what we have heard is true he staked his future upon them.” The sun was warm and pleasant. I did not wish to move. My great, swollen leg was heavy and uncomfortable. Yet if I was to survive, I must move.  Slowly, with great effort, I got to my feet and limped to the water. It was painful to get down to drink, but I succeeded. Then I noticed some watercress growing nearby. I gathered some from the water and ate it. Then I took my guns and limped back to the cave. Suddenly, fearing what might happen if I became unconscious again, I hid the guns under some dead wood in a corner of the cave.  On the following day I succeeded in setting several snares. I had seen rabbits about and squirrels. I gathered some seeds from the edge of the forest. My leg was badly swollen, so I made a bark dish in which I boiled water, and taking a bit of buckskin cut from my pant leg I used it as a cloth to bathe my leg with hot water. If it would do any good I had no idea but it felt better afterward.  That night I slept better and in the morning heated more water, not only to bathe my swollen leg but to bathe my face and hands. I changed the splints on my leg and did a better job. Now what I needed was meat. If only—

There was a barely visible track near one of my snares! A moccasin track, a foot larger than my own.

For a moment I stood very still. My bow and my quiver of arrows were in the cave. I had only my knife, for when using the crutch I could not carry water back from the stream and carry the bow as well.  Was I being watched? Leaning down I dipped my bark container into the stream and then straightened up. Using my crutch I hobbled back to the log, near which I had a small fire. With two forked sticks and a bar across them I had rigged a place to suspend my bark dish above the fire. To prevent the dish from burning I must be sure the flames did not reach above the water level.  I hesitated. Should I go into the cave for my other weapons and so betray my hiding place? For I doubted anyone had discovered the cave’s existence, hidden behind trees and brush as it was.

Desperately, I wanted my weapons, but I controlled myself. Someone might be watching, but I must seem not to be aware of it.  Shaving a small corner of jerky into water I added some bits from cattails.  These were pieces cut from where the sprout emerges from the root. I added some watercress and some of the inner bark of a poplar. This stew I concocted was nothing resembling what a skilled cook might have created, but it was all food, and I needed whatever I could get.

Working about the fire I contrived to get on the back side of the log, using it as a work table on which to prepare my food, but ready to drop behind it if necessary.

Every move was painful and clumsy. There was no chance of swift movement, but I tried to use what cover there was from surrounding trees and brush to make myself as difficult a target as possible. Whether I was observed or not I did not know, but must carry on as if an enemy was out there, waiting.  When my stew was ready I ate it slowly, dipping it from the bark pot with a spoon shaved from a piece of wood, and a good spoon it was. Most of those used at Shooting Creek had been made by ourselves.

As I ate I considered my position. How long it would take for my broken leg to knit, I did not know. Wounds had a way of healing much faster in this mountain country. Very few festered or became troublesome, in part because of the fresh air, the scarcity of dirt, and the simple food. Sakim had told me that in the high mountains of Asia they rarely had trouble with festering wounds.  At least a month. I had that idea in mind, and it might be wrong, but I’d have to plan for at least that long and probably longer. Which meant I would need food. I would need meat.

The last of the buffalo meat, which Keokotah and I had carefully avoiding using, as it was dried and smoked and would keep, would carry me but a few more days.  Unless I could make a kill of a fairly large animal I was faced with starvation.

So far my snares had brought nothing, nor could I expect much from them.  Whatever I caught would be a help, but the herbs and plants I could find within the range I could cover with my broken leg would not last long. I was under no illusions as to hunting and gathering. I had practiced it and had known Indians who did. It needed a lot of walking and searching to keep even one person alive.  I had wished to be alone, to trust to myself only, but I had not bargained for this.

Yet as I slowly ate my stew, savoring every taste and taking my time, I considered the edible plants I had glimpsed. The trouble was that with my crutch I could do little, and my range was limited. Of course, I told myself, I would come to be more adept with using the crutch. It would become easier.  The necessity for keeping my presence hidden was another factor. It was not easy to search for food and hide at the same time. The floor of the cove was covered with tall grass, grass that would move as I passed through it, betraying my presence. To work around the edges under the trees would be more difficult. Yet that was what I must do. I dare not be caught out in the middle of the cove without a place where I could fort up if need be.  Behind the log I prepared a bed for myself. I had to hope they, whoever “they” were, would not know of the cave. I listened, straining my ears for any sound, pausing to listen from moment to moment as I worked. Finally, I lay down and took a short nap. It was coming on to dusk when I awakened.  I made coffee from chicory root, speculating on how quickly the plant had gone native. Indians had told me it was unknown to their older people, but had first been seen in what the Spanishmen called Florida.  Several attempts to establish western bases in the Carolinas had been made by the Spanish, and at least one outpost had been built and occupied by Juan Pardo for a time. It was very possible he had tried plantings of vegetables and herbs, but birds, the winds, and wild animals could easily have played a part.  My fire was small, the fuel dry wood, and I had placed the fire under a tree so the smoke would dissipate in rising through the foliage. The fire itself would have filled a small cup, no more.

The chicory tasted good, and when it was ready I carefully put out my fire.  The longing for home was in me and I thought of Shooting Creek and the good food that was there. I thought of Ma, away in England, and of Kin-Ring, my eldest brother, now head of the family. He would handle it well, for he was an able man. I eased my broken leg, and tried to find a more comfortable position. If they knew the fix I was in they’d come running. That was the Sackett way, but they did not know, and could not know, and unless I used my head I would die here, in this place.

Suddenly I decided I must have my weapons, even if I betrayed the cave. I must—

He was standing over me then, a spear poised for a thrust. Kapata!

And three others.

It was light enough for me to see his features, and to know that he meant to kill me. I had my knife, but I could not move toward him.  Kapata raised the spear.

“No!” One of the others lifted a hand. “Ni’kwana has spoken! He is not to be harmed! Ni’kwana has said this.”