Jubal Sackett (1985) s-4 Read online

  "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."

  "Bah! I--"

  The warrior lifted a spear toward Kapata. "Take the skin, but do not kill!" That much I understood although what followed I did not. There was a moment of fierce argument, but the others joined in against him. They had followed to get the crude map Ni'kwana had given me.

  One of the Indians stepped over to where my pack lay. It had been there for the food and the chicory, and the map was in the pack. Quickly, he dumped it all out, picking up the map. He shook it at Kapata and made a move to go.

  Grumbling, Kapata made as if to follow, but then he stopped. He looked at me and then kicked my leg. Agonizing pain shot through me but I did not wince. I merely stared.

  "Coward!" I spoke in Cherokee. "If I were on my feet--"

  "I would kill you!"
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  Deliberately, he stooped and picked the pieces of buffalo jerky from the ground, the few, carefully hoarded bits of food to keep me from starvation.

  One of the others spoke. I could make out but little of what he said but something about my leg, and leaving me to die. Then in Cherokee he said, wishing me to understand. "Let him die. Ni'kwana said no kill, so leave him, and he will die."

  They walked away without a backward glance and I was alone, and alive.

  I had a broken leg, and my last food was gone.

  What now, Jubal Sackett? What now?

  Cool was the wind. I huddled against the log as against another human and tugged my blanket around me. My leg throbbed and the night wind stirred the leaves.

  Chapter Ten.

  When morning came there were no stars, only low clouds and a hint of rain. My leg felt heavy and when I struggled to sit up there was pain. I sat, half leaning against the fallen tree. My head throbbed with a dull, heavy aehe and my mouth was parched.

  My carefully hoarded buffalo jerky was gone. Now I must hunt, no matter the risk. Today was not good for hunting, for most animals would be lying up. Knowing there would be rain, they would stay in their beds unless starving, and there was no chance of that now. The grass was green and there were spring flowers everywhere.

  All about was beauty, but the dull gray of the clouds was in my brain also. I felt heavy and tired. I had slept badly.

  Slowly, I tugged myself into a better position, ever careful of my leg. I forced myself to think, to consider. First, a fire, and some chicory. A hot cup might help.

  The forest was silent. The stream rustled along, making no unfamiliar sound. Hunting today would be all but useless. True, I might startle a deer from its bed, but I could never get my crutch dropped and my bow in action in time for a kill.

  After the chicory I would check the snares. One thing at a time, and I must fight despair. I must survive. After all, I was my father's son, and he had survived worse than this. Grasping a root, I pulled myself to sit on the fallen tree. Then for the first time I saw my crutch. It was broken.

  Deliberately it had been placed against the log, and then stepped on and snapped. I stared at it and then looked carefully around. As always in the forest there was debris, fallen branches, slabs of bark hanging down from fallen trees, leaves and brush. I must make a new crutch, and I must make it now, or I could not move. First, a fire.

  Carefully I took some shredded bark, a few broken twigs from the lower trunks of nearby trees, and some leaves from a dead branch and put together the makings of a small fire. With flint and steel I struck a spark, yet on this morning my hands were clumsy and I must have tried a dozen times before a spark landed in the leaves and shredded bark. It caught, smoked a little, and went out. Again I tried, and still again. Finally, when I was tiring from my efforts, a flame mounted and I added fuel.

  Hitching myself along the tree I then rolled over and, dragging my injured leg, crawled to the stream, where I dipped up water. Inching along, I crawled back to my fire, rerigged the forked sticks and bar from which I had suspended my bark dish, and shaved chicory from the dried root into the dish.

  When I had finished I was exhausted. My injury, the scarcity of food, and my exhausted condition had left me with little strength. Hitching myself into a sitting position against the fallen tree I rested, staring at my fire. From time to time I added sticks to the blaze.

  The loss of the map, if such it could be called, was no great problem. From boyhood we had traveled after only a glance or two at a hastily drawn sketch in the earth or wet sand to indicate streams, paths, and mountains. Every detail of the map was in my mind and I knew where I must go and what I must do. If I got out of this.

  The worst of it was that I would miss Keokotah. What would he do when I did not appear? Shrug, no doubt, and go on about his business. Traveling in wild country is never easy and many accidents can befall one. He knew that better than I.

  Yet I had come to like him. We were still wary of one another, and I particularly, for the thinking of an Indian is not like that of a white man. We grow from different roots, different beliefs, and different customs. But he was a strong, courageous man and a good companion.

  One is strongest when one is alone. Whenever there is a companion there is a certain reliance placed upon him, one's attention is shared, one leaves part of the alertness to him. This is a danger. Yet traveling alone is also ever dangerous, and even the most careful man can have an accident, as I had proved.

  When the chicory was hot, I sipped it slowly. My stomach was hollow with hunger, but the hot drink helped, and I felt better. Adding fuel to keep some coals alive I used a tree limb to pull myself erect. First, a crutch.

  Yet all the broken limbs I could see were twisted or rotted, and nothing on nearby trees was such as I needed. Using a shorter stick as a cane I hitched along to check my snares.

  Nothing in the first, nor in the second. For a time then, I rested. I lay on my back on the grass staring up at the sky through the leaves. I must not get too far from shelter, for the sky looked more than ever as if there would be rain. Yet tired as I was it was not in me to lie still when there was so much to be done. I drank from the stream and then using whatever handholds I could reach on deadfalls and trees, I struggled erect. My leg was stiff because of the splints, and walking with a cane was almost impossible.

  Again I studied the ground, the nearby trees, everywhere, to find a branch suitable for a crutch. Then I found one.

  The branch was long and straight and still a living branch, for which I was grateful. Green wood is much easier to cut than that which is dead and seasoned. With my knife I cut a notch near the tree trunk and then cut it deeper, working to both sides. Then I broke off the branch and cut loose what remained. Then I found a bent branch that I cut from the tree to make the top of my crutch. Now I must return for the rawhide string I had used in tying the piece to the top of my former crutch.

  It needed an hour for me to return the few hundred yards to my camp, and another few minutes to fashion my crutch. This was my third and by far the best. The first had been merely a branch found by chance, the second somewhat better. If I remained crippled longer I might become quite skillful. God save me!

  Returning I found a bed of saxifrage lettuce, and picked as many leaves as I could find, chewing on some of them as I made my way to camp.

  My coals were still warm and I nourished them back to life, ate some more of the leaves, and rested. I was exhausted and my leg hurt. The saxifrage, while it gave me something to chew and was said to be nourishing, did not satisfy.

  Crawling into the cave, dragging my leg behind me, I recovered my bow and arrows, leaving the guns where they lay. If I could not stalk a deer, I could at least wait where one might come en route to water. The chance was slight, yet I must have meat and it was better than lying here where nothing would come.

  Nearby was a meadow, and deer must cross it going to the stream. The grass was tall, yet there were places where it had been flattened by wind or rolling animals.

  Using my new crutch I hobbled out to a large old tree and sat down to wait. I judged my distance carefully and sighted several times at openings from which deer might come. Then I settled down to wait.

  The sun was still high and I dozed, waiting. I could expect no deer until after sundown, although there was always a possibility. At that time they would be feeding down toward water. They would drink, browse a little, and feed back to where they wished to bed down.

  Once, lying still and resting, I thought I heard a faint whispering of leaves as of something moving among them, but when I sat up cautiously and looked around I saw nothing. Nonetheless, I was disturbed. I slipped off the thong that held my knife in place.

  I was hungry. More than that, I was starving. I had eaten too little in the days before breaking my leg, and even less since.

  Just before me was a faint game trail down which deer and possibly other animals had come to drink. It wa
s upon this I placed my hope. Sitting up, I pulled myself back against the trunk of a good-sized tree, a position from which I could see anything emerging from the woods. I placed my quiver at hand and drew one arrow out for my bow. Another I placed close by in the event I missed or one was not good enough.

  From the position I was in, using the longbow was difficult, but it was my only chance. I waited, dozing a little as the time was still early. Suddenly I was wide awake.

  Something had moved near me!

  Carefully, I looked all around. I saw nothing, heard nothing.

  Something moved close by me. My eyes turned and looked directly into the yellow eyes of a giant cat.

  A panther!

  It was crouched, watching me. It was on my right, not thirty feet away, and there was no doubt as to its intentions. Had it been on my left loosing an arrow would have been easy, but I had to turn to my right, hitching my injured leg around, turning my whole body to face it. I wouldn't have a chance.

  The cat's tail was slowly twitching. I saw the shoulder muscles bunch. I turned sharply, feeling a stab of anguish in my leg, and I loosed an arrow just as the panther leaped. Then I fell.

  Turning sharply as I had I lost the support of the tree. I fell headlong to the ground, losing hold on my bow. Yet my fall was fortunate, for the panther overleaped. Spinning swiftly, it was at me with a snarl of fury.

  As I fell I had drawn my knife and as the beast leaped at me I drove sharply up with the knife. It cut into the cat's soft belly to the hilt.

  Claws tore at me, jaws reached for my head. I stabbed again and then again. I knew the claws were tearing me. The teeth ripped my scalp, I felt the cat's hot breath and I swung my left fist into its ribs.

  The cat sprang away, gasping. I could see blood along a shoulder where my arrow had cut the skin. The cat was bleeding, but maddened by pain and bloodlust it wanted only to kill.

  Desperately, I rolled over and as the cat leaped I rolled over again and came up sitting. The cat knocked me back to the ground, its teeth going for my throat. With my left hand I grabbed the loose skin of its neck and we fought, desperately, the cat to reach my throat, I to hold him back. At the same time I swung again with my knife.