Jubal Sackett

"These are higher, some of them."

"I loved the mountains! Nobody understood but the Ni'kwana. I believe that was why he chose me to come here."

"It was not an easy thing for a woman to do."

"I am a Sun."

The fire was burning low, the women worked, and firelight flickered on the walls, reminding me of the cave of the dancing shadows.

"Who knows what the Ni'kwana thinks? Long ago when I was small I used to tell him of my dreams." She looked over at me. "Do you have dreams?"

"Sometimes."

"We know there is a time after this because we see those who have died in our dreams. We are in the afterworld, and my mother is there and my father."

She turned to me suddenly. "What will you do when the cold is gone?"

"Go into the mountains. I want to see what is there."

"I told him of a dream. I told only the Ni'kwana. It was a dream of a boy. The boy walked on the mountains. He was alone, always alone."

"What did the boy do? Where was he going?"

She shrugged. "He was in the mountains. He walked alone. He did not do anything. Oh, yes! Once he met a bear."

"A bear?"

"A very large bear. I was afraid for the boy, but he spoke to the bear and the bear reared up on his hind legs to listen. The bear had a white streak on the side of his face, perhaps from an old wound. The bear peered at the boy who talked to him and then the bear got down on all four feet and went away."

It was very quiet in the cave. One of the women was preparing a buckskin, rubbing bone marrow into the hide to soften it and then rubbing it with a piece of sandstone. She was very quick and skillful and I watched her work. The woman wore black moccasins. I spoke of this.

"She is a Ponca who married one of our men. She was returning from the east with her father, who had been seeking the home of his ancestors."

"I have heard of them."

"They are good people, a strong people." She gestured away to the north. "Their home is there ... far away."

At Shooting Creek my father, who wished to know all, collected what information he could gather from the Indians who came to trade. He or Jeremy Ring would talk long with the old men and women about their lives and their neighbors. Several had told us of the Ponca and of their kinfolk the Omahas, Otoes, and Osages.

"Will you go home again?" she asked suddenly.

"I do not know. I do not think so. I have dreams, too, but my dreams do not come at night when I sleep. They come by day when I am alone upon a hillside or when I lie down before I sleep. I dream of what I wish to do, what I wish to be."

"To be?"

"It is not enough todo, one must alsobecome. I wish to be wiser, stronger, better. This--" I held out my hands, "this thing that is me is incomplete. It is only the raw material with which I have to work. I want to make it better than I received it."

"It is a strange thought, but I like it."

We sat without talking then until I arose and left the cave. Outside, darkness lay all about me, excepting only the dead white field of snow and the bright stars overhead. Looking about me, I shook my head. What kind of place was this? Shelter, yes, but no more than shelter. A man should have a home, a place of his own.

When I returned to the cave Keokotah was there. "He go, ver' fast. He go south."

"I wonder if he'll make it?"

"He make it. He strong." Keokotah looked up at me. "He will come back for her. Bring many mans. You see."

"She will be gone before the first grass," I said, shrugging.

He looked at me as if I were a child. "You think? Maybe you fool."

Irritated, I replied. "She's a Sun. They need her back yonder. And she wants to go back. Those are her people. That is her home."

He gathered his blankets about him and lay back on the robes.

All through the night the silent snow sifted down, covering deep the land. Our tracks, his tracks, all tracks were gone and the snow piled deep around us.

The Natchee had returned from their hunt with only an antelope. Our meat supply was dwindling and they were not accustomed to hunting in the snow. Their eyes showed their fear, for the land and the weather were strange to them. There were no gentle forests here, no hanging moss, no bayous. These rivers were frozen hard, these forests deep with snow, and the animals were bedded down, waiting out the cold.

We had hung a buffalo hide over the cave mouth to keep the cold out and the heat in.

Building the fire to last the night, edging heavier chunks together, I lay back on my own blankets and thought of tomorrow. For the moment I was the leader here. I was the responsible one.

The snow was soft and deep. I would have to make snow-shoes. Turning on my side I stared into the fire. Outside the wind moaned, the buffalo-hide curtain stirred and a sifting of snow blew in.

Shadows moved upon the walls. Had I left those other shadows behind? Or had they come with me from the cave where I had discovered them?

If they were with me I hoped they could help round up some game. I hoped they were friendly shadows. After all, I had only paid my respects to the dead; I had not disturbed them.

Suppose an enemy came in the night? So soft was the snow there would be no sound of walking, no sound of movement. When one lies awake in the night one thinks of many things, and I thought now.

Tomorrow I must go out, and I must bring back meat. We were not suffering now, but the winter before us was long and cold.

What of that huge hairy animal of which Keokotah had spoken? The pasnuta, which looked like a hairy elephant? I smiled into the darkness. Well, if there were such a thing, I needed to meet it. It might provide enough meat to last out the winter.

Where could he have gotten such an idea?

The fire crackled, and the heavy curtain stirred in the outside wind. My eyes closed and I slept, only to dream of coming face to face in the snow with a great, awesome creature, three times the size of a buffalo, a huge, hairy beast with curling tusks and red eyes, coming toward me, coming at me--

I awakened in a cold sweat. The fire had died to coals and I lay shivering, thinking of the monster of my dream, those tiny eyes, red with fury, coming at me.

I added fuel to the fire and then laid back and shivered. Just a buffalo, or a couple of red deer. I wanted nothing more than that, for I wanted to come come back to--

My eyes flared open. To what? What did I have to come back to?

I wanted meat. I wanted a successful hunt. I turned over, trying to keep the cold from seeping under my coverings. I wanted nothing more ... nothing more.

Then I slept, fearing the hairy monster would return, but he did not. Only dawn came, cold and aware. Icy cold and still.

Chapter Twenty-One.

Reaching over, I laid some sticks on the coals. Then I lay back and waited for a little warmth to come into the cave. It was very cold, and it would be cold and still outside, a time for extreme care if a man would survive.

How long the cold would stay with us I could not guess, but we would need meat. We had given some to Gomez when he left, and seventeen people can eat a lot. Keokotah knew cold weather, for his experience was from a country far to the north. My only experience with cold had been a couple of brief forays into the north when I was a boy and some time spent in the high mountains.

No game would be moving in this cold. Bears would be hibernating, or at least sleeping in their dens. To find game I would simply have to stumble upon it. In the deep snow I had an advantage.

Several days before I had cut some willow wands from beside the stream and had kept them close to the fire to thaw out. Now I took one of these and bent it slowly and carefully into a rough circle and tied it. Then I tied rawhide strips across the circle and soon had shaped a couple of crude but very useful snowshoes of the bear-paw type. Later I would make better shoes, when there was time.

Taking them to the cave mouth I tied them on. Then taking my bow I started out, moving with care and where the going was easiest.

Every step needed to be taken with caution. An injured man in intense cold has small chance of survival. Rocks and fallen logs are apt to be slippery, so were best avoided. My chances of finding game were slight, but there was a patch of forest across the valley, several miles away, where we had not hunted. Deer would be bedded down in deep snow. My only chance was to startle one and make the kill before it could escape.

It was very still. The snow squeaked underfoot. I took my time, knowing that to perspire might mean to die. Perspiration can, when a man stops traveling, freeze into a thin film of ice next the skin. When I had gone about a mile I stopped in the shelter of three massive ponderosa pines, studying the terrain ahead and scanning the open area between the entrance to the valley and myself.

Soon I started on again, and when I reached the forest I stood still, looking all about me for places where deer might bed down. In good weather they preferred to be under some trees with a good view before them, but now they would have thought only of shelter from the wind.

Being alone I had no one to watch for the telltale white spots on nose or cheekbones that are the first signs of frostbite, so I covered my nose with my mittened hand. My face was stiff and raw from the cold. After a bit I moved deeper into the forest, stepping with care.

Several times I checked what experience told me were likely places for deer, but found nothing. After resting briefly, I started on. There were occasional bird tracks on the snow and once a flurry of tiny tracks and a few spots of blood. A weasel or a marten had caught some poor creature.

The morning slipped away and the afternoon began. Soon I must return if I were to make it before dark.

Swinging wide I skirted a patch of aspen, remembering how well many animals liked the aspen or the plants that grew in its shelter. The trees were bare of leaves and from a distance looked like a cloud lying upon the mountainside. The dry branches whispered in the slight wind. I turned toward an opening between aspen and scrub oak, and started forward.

The elk came off the ground almost under my feet, lunging erect, snow falling from it. It lowered its antlers at me but then thought the better of it and started away.

My bow came up, the arrow in place. I let fly. It was not the target I would have chosen but there was no time. The arrow caught it in the neck, close behind the ear, and sank deep. The elk stopped, quivered, then fell. I ran forward, feeling for my knife.

Yet as I stepped astride the elk it came up in one last lunge, came up under me so I was astride, and it sprang forward. One hand grabbed an antler, another plunged the knife. It glanced off a shoulder bone and almost stabbed my thigh, but the second thrust went home solidly. I need not have bothered, for the poor beast was dead. It fell under me and I sprang free. My bad leg folded under me and I went into the snow.

For a moment I just lay there. Then slowly I gathered myself, retrieved my bow and knife, and set about skinning the elk, getting the best cuts of meat before it froze solid.

By the time I had finished it was dark. I gathered the meat in the elk hide and then got back into my snowshoes, which I had removed for the skinning, and started back. Emerging from the woods I looked across the valley at what was now only a dark line of trees and mountains without division or feature.

For some time I had traveled in the forest, intent only on finding game, but how far west had I hunted? Before me was only a wide field of snow, and beyond was the blackness of forest and mountain. The caves were right across that field, but my burden was heavy, the snow was deep, and it was bitterly cold. If I missed my direction by but a few yards I might wander half the night finding my way. I might die out here in the cold. How cold it was I did not know, but it was far, far below freezing.

Bowed beneath the great load of meat I started across the wide stretch of snow, angling a little toward the east. I blew on my fingers. I took a step and then another, plodding slowly and carefully because of the crude snowshoes.

A wind stirred the snow. It blew a little, ceased, then started again. Snow picked up and blew in a brief flurry. I knew I would see no light unless someone happened to come outside, a slight chance at this hour.

I needed at least an hour to cross the open snow with the burden I had. Icy snow rattled against my clothing and nipped at my cheeks. I stopped, thrust my bow into the snow, and beat my hands against my legs to restore circulation.

Something black appeared on the snow just ahead of me. I stared, it moved--a wolf!

Where there was one there would be another, and another.

Without a doubt they had smelled the meat and the fresh blood. And these were wolves with little knowledge of man aside from Indians, and my smell would be different. I pushed on, walking straight at the wolf.

It wavered, hesitated, and then fled off a dozen yards further. Under the great burden of meat from the butchered elk I could move but slowly, ponderously. Pausing at the edge of the woods I sniffed the air. I should catch a smell of woodsmoke.

Nothing.

Should I bed down right where I was? Build my own fire and prepare to defend my meat against the wolves?

But if I did not return, Keokotah or some of the others might come out to look for me. The Natchee were unfamiliar with intense cold, and some might be lost. Turning clumsily to look behind me, I saw a wolf crouched in the snow not fifty feet away!

Gesturing with my bow, I tried to warn it away, but the lure of fresh meat was too great. The wolf ran off only a few feet and stopped.

To move at all I had to keep from under the branches, because of my towering burden. Also, I wished to avoid snagging my snowshoes on a branch or root under the snow.

Where was I? The cave might be only a few yards distant, but I had no idea where or in what direction to turn. Again I gestured at the wolf.

Wolf?

There were two of them together now, watching me. They sensed something was wrong.

The stream! If I could find the stream ... it had to be close. I shifted the weight of meat. I was carrying enough for three men, but to leave it in the snow would be to leave it for the wolves, and how many times would I make such a kill? Hunched far over, I worked my way along the wall of the forest, seeking an opening.

The wolves kept pace with me. I shouted at them, and hoped my voice would carry to the caves.

Nothing.

Nor did the wolves pay attention. They had the smell of blood in their nostrils, and the smell was coming from me. Despite the intense cold they were hunting, which meant they were probably not just hungry but starving.

Turning about with the heavy pack was cumbersome, but I had to keep looking around. There was no guessing when one of the wolves might decide to leap.

The bow was a poor weapon against them. My guns were hard to get at, and I hated to waste a shot in the vague light. Yet it was a gun I would have to use. Pushing back my coat, I fumbled for the butt of my right-hand gun. I would have to take off the mitten, and in the cold my exposed hand would quickly freeze.

Carefully, I edged along the woods. One of the wolves moved closer, and I stepped out threateningly. It leaped back, wary again.

Something moved at the edge of the woods! Another wolf. Suddenly one of them howled, but not one of those close to me. I plodded on, avoiding projecting branches, thinking only of--

There was a break in the wall of trees, an opening! I swung a wide, sweeping blow in the direction of the wolves and then went into the wide opening.

Ice! I was walking upon ice, so I had come to the stream. The caves would be close-by for the stream swung close. I crossed the stream and mounted the far bank, trying to remember such a place.

There had been an opening upriver from the caves. I started to turn and suddenly something struck me a mighty blow from behind. I fell face downward into the snow, and my bow fell from my hand.

A wolf had sprung on me from behind, landing on the pack of meat and knocking me down. I fought to get hold of my knife. I couldn't get a gun into action.

The other wolves had leaped on me now, but they were fighting to get at the meat, wrapped in the elk hide. My knife was out. I ripped at the wolf nearest me and there was a startled yelp. Then from somewhere there was a shout and a sound of running feet. I stabbed again, missed, and felt teeth rake my exposed wrist.

With a tremendous effort I got to my knees. There were men all about me, and the wolves were gone.

Somebody had a hold on my arm and was helping me to my feet. With the weight of meat it was a struggle, but I made it. Somebody lifted the burden from my back, unfastening the rawhide with which I'd bound it to me.

Another hand shoved my bow at me, and I took it. Limping, I followed them into our cave. The Indians crowded around.

Keokotah lowered my pack of meat to the floor. "We hear wolves fighting. We come."

Exhausted and cold, I sank down by the fire. Itchakomi was there, her eyes wide and dark, looking at me.

"We needed meat," I said.

Nobody said anything. They had opened my pack and given meat to the people from Itchakomi's cave.

"We fear for you," Itchakomi said. "You gone long time."

"It was cold," I said, "cold."

There was meat enough for several days, but we could not expect a kill such as this very often. It was going to be a long and a hard winter. Of course, had the Indians been there they would have taken much more of the elk than the chunks of meat that I had saved.

"Your woman of the black moccasins," I said, "told me her people hunt west to the mountains and then down the mountains to a great peak near here. Each year they do this.

"Then they hunt back across the plains to their home, which is near the Great River. When they return you could go with them to the river and then down the river to your home."

She looked at me for a long minute and then she got up and left the cave.

I would never understand women.

And why shouldn't she go? After all, the Poncas were reported to be friendly, and she could cross the plains under their protection. She would be safer by far with a whole tribe than with her few braves.

It seemed reasonable to me. Of course--

I went to my robes and lay down, exhausted. The cold bothered my leg, but it always pained me when I did too much.

Tired though I was, sleep came slowly, and I found my thoughts wandering back to Shooting Creek Valley and my family. Pa was gone ... I could find no words to express the emptiness that left with me.

Ma was in England, if she lived, and Brian and Noelle with her. How different their lives would be! And how far from me! Did they think of me sometimes? Did they remember the good times we'd had together?

What was England like?

Easing my leg, I tried to find a more comfortable spot in the robes. Keokotah was sleeping, and the fire burned low. Why had Itchakomi left me so abruptly? Was it that I reminded her of what awaited back there? Or because she knew she must wait until spring brought grass to the hills and water to the streams?

Dozing, I opened my eyes, raised up, and added sticks to the dying coals. Out there tonight I'd nearly tossed in my hand. I might have fought my way out of it, just might have, but the odds were all against it.

And who would have known or cared? My family would not have known. Under the robes I shifted and turned, restlessly. Why could I not sleep?

Yet after a while I did sleep, but only to dream of the great red-eyed monster with the curving tusks that had come charging upon me from the brush. I awoke in a cold sweat once more and it was long before I slept again.

In my dreams it had been shockingly clear. The monster had seen me, known me for an enemy, and charged, blasting sound as from a great trumpet. I had not fled. I had stood my ground as if frozen in place. What was wrong? Why did I not flee?

Never had I been troubled with nightmares, but this dream came again and again.

Lying awake again in the cold of breaking day I stared wide-eyed at the roof of the cave. It seemed I was gifted with second sight ... Was this dream a premonition of some reality to come? Was that to be my end? Was I to die impaled on one of those curving tusks, or trampled into the mud and snow under those huge feet?

Above all, why did I not even try to escape?

I sat up, put sticks upon the fire, and dressed for the cold outside.

Chapter Twenty-Two.

A few days later Keokotah killed a deer and our snares netted a few rabbits, but with the winter only half gone we faced a starving time. To survive in wild country was never easy. Hunting had driven the wild game from the area. We had to go farther and farther afield, and the intense cold showed no sign of breaking. Even in the best of times, the gathering of nuts, roots, and herbs was a slow and painstaking business, requiring many acres to feed even one man, unless there were pecans or hazelnuts, neither of which would be available here. All such sources were now buried under deep snows.

All of us now wore snowshoes we had made ourselves. Sitting beside the fire at night, I had woven myself a pair of trail snowshoes, longer and more efficient for distance work than the bear paws I had made.

Keokotah snared some ptarmigan and I killed another deer. Itchakomi came to my fire. I was preparing moccasins and leggings for a longer trip. "What you do now?"

"I go far," I said. "Soon there is no meat, and we starve."

"My people are learning, but all this is new to them."

"It is all right." I gestured toward the west. "There is a valley over there. There might be buffalo."

"You will need help. If there is meat it must be carried. I will go."

"You?"

"Of course. I am strong."

"It will be hard, very hard. It is a long way, and I do not know the trail."

"We will find it."

"But you will need snowshoes!" I protested.

"I have made them. I have made snowshoes like yours. I will come."

I did not want her. What lay ahead, I could guess. To find a pass without snow would not be easy and with snow upon the ground, covering the trees and rocks, it might be impossible. It would be brutally hard, and I knew only too well that one misstep might mean the end of me. It would be difficult enough alone without having another to watch out for. Alone I could attempt things I might not dare with someone else following me.

"It is no place for a woman," I said. "It is better you are here. What if the Conejeros come?"

"You wish me to be here if they come?"

"You are a Sun. Your people will need a chief."

"Keokotah is here. My people know what to do."

I was a loner and worked best alone. With Keokotah it was different. We traveled together but we did not consult. Each went his own way, each of us knowing what to do and when to do it. I did not lead him nor him me. With a woman--

She got to her feet. "It is settled then. At daybreak tomorrow?"

I started to protest, but she was already leaving the cave.

I shut my mouth and swore. Behind me there was a dry chuckle, but Keokotah was not looking at me when I glanced around.

That night I did not dream. Once asleep I slept well and at daybreak was at the cave mouth. If she was late I would leave without her. I would take off so fast--

She was not late.

She had a small pack on her back when she came out. Then she stepped into her snows hoes, and without waiting for me to break trail, she started west.

There was no protest I could have made to which she might have listened. There was nothing to do but follow. Due west of us was a range of towering peaks, but we had no intention of attempting that range at this time of year. Following the small river, we bore off to the south. There was a great valley further west, but beyond our reach at this time of year.

After traveling for a short distance I moved up to break trail, and Itchakomi yielded her place. It was heavy snow, very deep in places, and fortunately, it covered many obstructions we might have had to climb over or go around. We traveled no more than eight miles that first day and found shelter under a huge old spruce tree whose branches swept the top of the snow and were themselves loaded with snow. Close to the trunk the ground was almost bare of snow, as the branches around made a natural shelter and kept out the wind. We built a small fire, and we made our beds of other spruce boughs, she on one side of the fire, I on the other.

She watched me check my guns. "What are they?" she asked.

"Weapons of fire," I explained. "Weapons of thunder. I shall use them rarely."

"They are beautiful!" she exclaimed, as they were. The Italian gunsmiths were superb artisans. It was not enough merely to make a weapon, but it must have beauty also. These were hand carved and inlaid. Yet it was my bow upon which I relied for hunting.

Our fire scarcely disturbed the cold about us, its heat lost before it reached the lowermost branches of the tree. We huddled close, enjoying the comfort of its looks more than the little heat. We chewed elk jerky and talked but little.

"Tomorrow?" she asked.

"Tomorrow we will be there, and tomorrow we will hunt. We need much meat."

She knew that as well as I. "You do not hunt for meat in England?"

"They hunt for sport."

"But they eat what they kill?"

"Oh, yes! And sometimes meat is distributed among the poor. Those who do not have enough to eat."

It was very still. Somewhere, far off, a lonely wolf complained to the night. Tomorrow we would descend into a valley no white man had seen, and probably few Indians. One thing had been obvious since leaving the Mississippi--this country was sparsely settled. The various tribes were for the most part small in numbers and widely scattered.

Long after Itchakomi lay asleep, I was awake and thinking. The last thing I wanted was to get involved with a woman. There was time for that later. For the time being I wished only to make our hunt, get what meat we could, and get back to our caves. When spring came Itchakomi would go her way and I mine.

She was a beautiful woman. That was beside the case. I had been thinking too long of wandering this country, being the first white man to see much of it, just to see it all myself for the first time. Fortunately, I told myself, Itchakomi felt the same way. We each had our private concerns. She was easy to talk to for that reason, and she had the same feeling of responsibility toward her people that I did.

At daybreak I was awake quickly. I stirred up the fire and without waiting for her to do so, prepared some food. We talked little. The fire warmed up our small space, but not enough to melt the snow around us.

The long valley that stretched away toward the southeast was scattered with meadows and cut by intervening patches of forest. The meadows were white with snow, the trees drooping under a heavy burden of it.

We went down the mountain in the cold of morning, making no sound in the soft white snow. We did not talk. Our eyes and ears were alert for game.

Almost at once we came upon deer tracks, a lot of them. Four or five deer had moved down the mountain ahead of us. The tracks were fresh, made that morning.

West of us several peaks towered against the sky, and the valley lay open before us. Pausing beside some trees we looked down. Far away, moving in single file, we saw a line of buffalo. As we watched they scattered out, pawing into the snow to get at the grass. Nearer there were several deer.

"Wait," I spoke softly, as our voices would carry in that still, cold air. "The buffalo!"

We went on down the valley. This morning, in this valley at least, it was not so cold. We moved down, always keeping a clump of trees between us and the buffalo. When within a few hundred yards we stopped to rest. There was a shallow draw that led along behind the buffalo, and feeding close were a couple of cows.

Scanning the hills around and searching along the clumps of trees I saw no movement. There was no smoke. We seemed to be alone.

After a bit we moved out, and when I was within forty yards of the nearest buffalo I decided to chance it.

The cow was young but of good size. I waited an instant and then loosed my arrow. The cow took a step forward and then stopped, evidently puzzled. My second arrow was ready and I let go. The arrow struck home and the buffalo started forward again and then crumpled. One of the other buffalo lifted a hind hoof to scratch its jaw, looking backward as it did so. A moment later the buffalo was feeding quietly. We moved in, the buffalo moving off a little, and then we went to work, skinning out the animal we had killed.

The other buffalo moved away down the valley. Only the wolves hung about, staying off some distance but drawn by the smell of blood. They sat in the snow watching us, occasionally trotting around and coming nearer, then retreating. They were black, ominous figures against the snow and under a cold gray sky.

It was cold, very cold. We worked steadily, standing up at intervals to look all about us. We had seen no sign of Indians here, but in spring and summer this valley must be a beautiful place.

A little further south a stream emerged from a canyon, flowing down from the high mountains to the west. The stream seemed to flow eastward across the mouth of the canyon, but we were some distance off, although higher.

Itchakomi might be a Sun, but she was also an Indian woman. She worked swiftly and skillfully, wasting no time, no movements. I glanced at the meat. "It is almost too much," I said, "and we have a long way to go."

The buffalo had stopped and were feeding again not more than two hundred yards away. Just ahead of them was a stand of thick brush and trees. By following down a small watercourse I could slip into that patch and perhaps make another kill.

I took up my bow and looked around at her. "Will you stay with the meat?"

"I will stay. Have care."

As I moved toward the wolves they trotted off, and I went past them and down the shallow ravine. It was very still. I plodded steadily on until I reached the grove that began along the shallow watercourse I followed. Working up into the brush, I moved with care to make no sound. The buffalo were finding dried grass beneath the snow, and only an old bull stood guard. I was downwind of him, so he did not catch my scent. Nevertheless, he was uneasy.

Had he smelled the blood of our kill? Or was there something else about I had not seen?

Again I looked all around, my eyes searching close about me, then further out, and then further still. Each area I examined slowly, taking nothing for granted. If there was an enemy out there I wished to know it, but if he was nearby I must see him first. I found nothing.

Several buffalo fed nearby, two of them within thirty or forty yards of the trees that were my cover. Moving through the brush, careful to make no sound, I found an open place among the trees and crossed it. Now I was closer.

The big bull was not looking at me. Something off to my left held his attention. His head was up, his nostrils flared.

My eyes turned, swept the snow fields down the valley, and then stopped.

Several men were coming up along the edge of the woods, but it was a moment before I could pick the individuals out of the background. They were following close along the edge of the trees and may have just emerged from them. Three, four, ... five. Five men, whether Indians or not I could not say, but I was sure they were. The Spanishmen would not be out at this time of year. We needed another buffalo, and their coming would drive the animals away.

Turning, I glanced toward Itchakomi. She was making the meat into packs to be carried and her head was down. She was at least a hundred yards off, still concealed from the men below by the grove of trees that concealed me also. I hissed, but even in that still, cold air the sound was too low to carry. I waved my hand and then my bow, hoping the corner of her eye would catch the movement.

She looked up suddenly, looking at me. I pointed with the bow and she picked up the packs of meat and came toward me.

"There are five warriors," I said, "coming up the valley. If we stay hidden they may not see us."

"We leave tracks here. If they come, they will see."

Leading the way, I went into the woods and chose a place where we were well hidden yet could watch them.

"We have help soon."

"Help?"

"My people. Six men come to carry meat. I speak to them."

Well ... that was thinking. But would they arrive in time and would they see these warriors before they were seen? We could not let them walk into an ambush. Glancing back up the valley I saw nothing. Even if they came now they would not reach us in time.

Of course, the strange warriors down the valley might turn off, but if they were themselves hunting, as seemed likely, they would be attracted by the buffalo.

They did not turn aside. They were coming on. They were Indians. My guess was they were Conejeros.

"Keep down," I advised, "and leave the fighting to me."

"I can fight."

"I do not want you hurt. Leave it to me."

"There are five."

"Soon there will be less."

We waited, hidden by the tree trunks and brush. I had a good view of them now as they trudged toward us, single file.

The big bull did not like it. He snorted and pawed snow and then began moving off. The other buffalo had stopped pawing snow from the brown grass and were starting to move, too. I glanced around again. No help in sight, yet I saw something else.

The wolves were gone.

Chapter Twenty-Three.

"No use to let them come too close," I said. "Do you stay back. This is for me."

I stepped from the brush and stood out upon the snow. I stood alone, waiting for them.

They saw me at once and stopped.

Those following closed up, and they stood staring at me. I knew their thoughts. Who was I? Was I alone? Would I dare to step out unless others were behind me? Was it a trap?

They could see my bow, and that I held it ready, an arrow in place but pointed down. There was a fine daring within me. Why was it that I, a peaceful man, always felt exhilarated at the thought of battle? Suddenly I was challenging, poised, ready. Everything in me invited them to come.

They shouted something I did not understand, but I did not attempt a reply. I did not think they would turn and go away. It was not their way, for these were warriors, these were fighting men.

They started forward and I waved them back. They stopped again. Then one among them, arguing fiercely with the others, suddenly stepped out and started toward me. My longbow would out-range theirs by thirty yards, perhaps more. I let him take three steps and motioned again. He came on, and my bow came up. I loosed an arrow.

The arrow went where I aimed, and struck through his thigh. A dead man they could leave, but a wounded man they must care for.

The warrior staggered and then fell. He tugged at the arrow, and I waited. The others gathered around him, shouting at me.

I stood my ground, another arrow in place. They were dark against the snow, perfect targets. One of them turned toward me and shouted again. I lifted my bow and he drew back. He had taken the arrow from the fallen man and he was looking at it. My arrows were black, with black feathers to aid their flight. The arrow was strange to them, and I was strange. At the distance they could not see that I was a white man, and my garb would tell them nothing.

They would not leave their wounded brother there to die in the snow, and to attack meant someone else would die. They were brave men but not foolish. Moreover they did not know who or what I was.

So far I had made no sound and they did not know what to make of me.

Taking up their wounded companion they began to move off. One of them turned and shook a spear at me, but I did not respond. That they would be back I had no doubt. When they had disappeared down the valley I went back into the woods and we gathered our meat. The burden I shouldered was enough for four men, but we had to be off, to find shelter for the night and a way in which to escape.

"You are brave," Itchakomi said.

"If we had been taken we would have been tortured and killed. If they had come close they might have taken me from behind while others approached in front. My only chance was to stop them at a distance."

She knew. My explanation was more for me. We Englishmen, if such I was, must have reasons for our actions even when the reasons are not always good ones. What I thought now was true. The Conejeros had a bloody reputation, but it was the way of many Indians to attack strangers unless their curiosity got the better of them.

When we had cached the meat in a small cave near a fallen tree, we built a small fire and ate of the meat. Before nightfall I killed a deer, adding its meat to that from the buffalo.

Our camp was in a good spot near the mouth of a small canyon that provided access to the mountains and the forest. It was a small cave and not deep, but it offered shelter from the wind. I gathered fuel, of which much lay about, for the fire. Night came with a cluster of stars among scattered clouds, and our fire was warm.

"They will return," I said.

She nodded. "And more of them."

"When were your people coming?"

"Tonight ... tomorrow. Just to pick up the meat and take it back."

"You should have stayed in camp. We might have been killed today."

She was amused. "I moved about. I made them think there were more of us."

So that was why they had been staring. They had known somebody was back there but not how many. So it was not me who had frightened them off, after all.

They would come back, of course. Indians did not take defeat lightly, and one of their own had been wounded. I got up and went outside to listen. Far off, a wolf howled and another responded. There was no other sound in the night.

The smoke of our fire, small though it was, could be smelled if they were downwind of it, but tonight the fire could not be done without. Their return tonight was unlikely. They would be making medicine before they came again.

The cave was small but warm enough with the small fire. Itchakomi was seated at the back, her head leaning back against the wall. In the firelight, as in any light, she was a beautiful woman. I looked away, and sat down where I did not have to see her. I would have liked some chicory to drink, but had none with me.

"What is it like, in England? At night, I mean?"

We had been talking much and her English had gotten better. She had discarded the few French words she used and much of the Cherokee, but sometimes she still reverted to Indian talk, which I had to translate in my mind.

"People are in their homes at night. They talk, they read books, sometimes they play cards. If they are in taverns they do the same, but they drink more in taverns, I think. I only know from what I have heard."

"It is a good thing? To read?"

"We all read at home. I more than any of the others, I think. There are books about everything, and my father and mother both read, so we grew up with books about. If it were not for their books we would know nothing of the Greeks, the Romans, and many others. Nothing but some ruins. The people of England thought the Roman ruins had been built by giants, until their books were translated and brought to England."

"I would like to read!"

"I will teach you." I said it and then swore under my breath. Why was I such a fool? I wanted to get away when the grass grew green again, I wanted to walk the lonely buffalo trails and seek out the high places and lonely valleys. And here I was, promising to teach Itchakomi to read! What a double-dyed fool!

But she would forget about it. Spring was still a long time away. Or was it? I had lost count of the days. Anyway, it was probably just a notion. But I had better watch my tongue.

Crouching over our tiny fire in a cave far from anything in the world, I wondered about myself and those to come after. This was what I wanted, to come west, to seek, to find, to understand. Yet I was uneasy with my old feelings, the eerie sense that I walked in a world where others had walked, that I lived where others had lived. I did not believe in ghosts. I did not believe the dead lived beyond the grave. I did believe there was much we did not understand, but there had been a man in Virginia who had claimed he could communicate with the dead. The only messages from the dead that I'd heard had sounded as if they came from creatures that had lost their minds.

The uneasy sense of other beings having lived where I lived stayed with me. I did not know what to call the feelings I had. Second sight, some called it, but this went beyond that.

Itchakomi was watching me. "Of what you think?"

I shrugged. "I think others have been where we are. I think others have walked the trails, lived in the caves. And I do not speak of Indians."

"Your people?"

"No--not really. Just people from somewhere. I wished to come west to be the first but I am not the first."

"Does it matter?"

"No, I suppose not, only I would like to know who they were and how they got here and if they left behind any marks of their passing."

"You are not content to be. You ask who and why."

"And when."

"You are a strange one. And when you know, what then?"

"Perhaps I shall write a book. Or even a letter. Knowledge was meant to be shared. Do you not feel the same?"

"Knowledge is useful. Why share it? Use it for yourself. Why share it with others who will use it to defeat you?"

Sakim had shared his knowledge with me. So had my father's friends Jeremy Ring and Kane O'Hara. So had others. With whom would I share mine?

The night was icy cold. Several times I awakened to add fuel to our fire, and with dawn I was ready to move. If Itchakomi's people were coming to carry meat, it was meat we must have. I dragged some broken tree limbs to the cave and then took up my weapons. Itchakomi was awake, and when she started to rise I said, "Rest, if you like. I shall go where the game is."

Without saying more I started off, moving swiftly. I saw nothing on the wide expanse of snow but the tracks of yesterday. As I moved I thought of yesterday. Itchakomi had probably saved me from a fight by moving in the brush behind me. The Indians, of course, thought I was merely bait for a trap and they had backed off, not from any fear of me but of what might await them in the trees.

The buffalo were feeding further west and south near the mouth of the canyon I had seen where a stream came in from the west. I moved swiftly, keeping to low ground, and when I was within sight, I paused to select my target.

Glancing back I saw a dot upon the snow. Itchakomi was following me. I did not know whether to be irritated or pleased, and decided I was irritated.

It needed five arrows to kill two buffalo, but I recovered four of the arrows, the other was broken when the cow fell. By the time I had skinned out the first Itchakomi was working on the second. This had been the work of Indian women forever, I suspect, and certainly she was as adept as I, perhaps more so. Being a Sun she had probably done little skinning, however. I glanced over at her from time to time, but she was paying no attention to anything but the task at hand.

By midday we had both animals skinned and the cuts of meat wrapped in the hides. By that time the other buffalo had ranged out of sight. There was nothing in the wide snowfield below and around us. The meat we had was too heavy to carry, and trying to cache it with wolves about would have wasted time. They would have smelled it and dug it out before we were out of sight.

Suddenly, Itchakomi spoke. Glancing around I followed her pointing finger. Several men were walking toward us from the upper valley.

It was probably the Natchee, but I was taking no chances. We retreated into the woods and waited behind some fallen trees.

It needed an hour for them to reach us. Four warriors and two Natchee women. Within minutes they had shouldered the meat and we were walking back to our cave, where we took up the meat from the day before.

The valley below was empty when we started for home, but I looked back often and prayed for snow to cover our tracks. Itchakomi was telling her people of the meeting with the Conejeros.

The snow crunched under our snowshoes and we paused from time to time, careful not to work up a sweat. Each time we looked back the valley was empty. Would they guess where we were?

We were crossing a small stream when Itchakomi broke through the ice, going ankle deep in the icy water. Often the warmer water of a spring in the stream bed will cause the ice to be thin. Now it was necessary to move swiftly. Picking her up bodily I set her down in deep snow. Then I began rubbing snow over her moccasins. She struggled with me but I spoke sharply. "Be still! It must be done!"

She subsided and I rubbed more dry snow on her moccasins. "It will blot up the water," I said, "but always you must act quickly. Very quickly."

After a moment we started on and she was very quiet. When she spoke she said, "We do not know the cold. We have much to learn."

"It is the same with me. I know only a little, but the dry snow soaks up the water very quickly before it can soak through to your feet. My father taught me that. He learned it in New Found Land, far to the north."

We trudged on, climbing higher and higher, and then turning east into our valley. It was good to be back, but I knew how short a time our meat would last. Much had already been eaten in feeding those who had come to pack it back. In fact, the two meals eaten on the way home had seriously depleted the result of our hunt.

Had we longer to prepare we might have laid up a sufficient store of meat to last through the winter, although most Indians faced a starving time before spring came. Few had sufficient corn or meat stored to last through the season.

The wood supply was down, so I went to the forest and gathered more, and then still more. Survival was a continual struggle, with no time for loafing by the fire.

Itchakomi's Natchee went often to the hills for game. The cold was new to them, but they learned swiftly, and often they found deer, ptarmigan, or rabbits. Buffalo did not range so high in the cold months. Bears, if there were any about, were hibernating.

Suddenly in the night I awakened. For a moment I lay wide-eyed and still, listening. What I heard was dripping. Also I suddenly realized that although the fire was down I was unusually warm.

Rising, I went to the cave mouth. Outside I could see patches of bare ground where the snow had already melted away. By daybreak it would all be gone. It was one of those warm, soft winds of which I had heard, and for a time at least the weather would be clear.

If the Conejeros were going to attack it would be now, while the weather was clear.

It would be tomorrow.

Chapter Twenty-Four.

Keokotah squatted by our fire. "Warm wind go," he said, "more snow come. You see."

Maybe. I knew nothing about the climate in this part of the country, and he knew a good deal, having grown up in the north country. Still, it looked to me like an early spring.

"No spring," he said, when I mentioned it. "This over soon, and then much snow, I think."

He stirred the fire and then turned the meat he had on a spit. "We go now," he suggested. "Go beyond big mountain."

"And leave them? What would they do without us?"

He shrugged.

The Natchee had learned quickly, and probably they could get along without us. Reluctantly, I agreed to myself that Keokotah was right, but we could not leave when trouble was coming. I said as much and he shrugged again.

Keokotah's girl went outside for fuel, and I watched her go, wondering about their relationship. Indian men often went on long hunts, and sometimes they returned, sometimes they did not. Their women found other men or lived alone, given meat by successful hunters. Was it that way with the Natchee? There was so much I did not know.

Leaning against the backrest I stretched my bad leg. Sometimes the cold made it ache. Aside from that and a slight limp it was as good as new. I could still run.

When I went outside, Itchakomi was there. She had cleaned her buckskin skirt and leggings. "You think they come?"

"Yes." I pointed toward the entrance. "Keokotah and I will be there. Your people should be in the trees along the creek and out of sight until they get close."

She looked over the ground sloping away from us. The plan was good enough and probably the only one. We could not stop them, but we might get one or two before they got through into the valley. After that it would be a fight, and there were too many of them.

"It is time to go," she said. "We must go to the upper valley."

"Wait. We may stop them this time. I do not believe there will be many this time."

Of course, I did not know, but I doubted many would come, thinking we were very few. We had little choice. A retreat to the upper valley would delay them only a little. They would find us, and where would we go then? If Keokotah was right and more snow was coming, we might be snowed in, our only retreat the high country beyond. It would be cold, and there would be danger of snowslides.

"It is a warming time," she suggested. "Does the grass come back now?"

I repeated what Keokotah had said, and she nodded. "I have heard of this. Long ago some people came to us from far up the Great River. They spoke of this. Is it so in your country?"

"In England? I do not know. My father spoke of a time when England was warmer than in his time. There had been vines growing grapes, and they made wine. Then it became colder and the vines did not grow.

"I think it was colder here," I said, "in far gone times. It was a time for the buffalo, who understand the cold. When the wind and snow blow hard they do not walk away from it. They bunch together and turn their heads to the wind, and their heavy coats are soon matted with snow and they are warm."

She stood beside me, a tall, lovely girl, wise for her years. I moved a step to the side, putting more distance between us. Her being close disturbed me, and I felt uneasy. Anyway, I had no time to think of women. I had much land to see. And I was happier when alone. I reminded myself of this. I had always been a loner.

Even with Keokotah I was a loner, for he walked with his own thoughts and we did not intrude. We were two loners together.

Keokotah was annoyed by staying on. He felt no duty to these people and he wanted to be away. Only the snow was holding him or holding us.

"What will you do," she asked, "when the grass grows green?"

My gesture took in the western mountains. "Go out there, I suppose. I want to see what is beyond the mountains."

"And then?"

My tongue touched my lips and I shifted my feet. Well, it was a sensible question, what would I do?

"I don't know. Find a meadow somewhere with a stream running and build a cabin, I guess."

"And then?"

She was backing me into a corner and I didn't like it. I was like a buffalo calf, cut off from the herd. I was hunting a corner to duck around or a place to hide.

"It would be a place where a man could hunt," I explained, "and sort of live off the country."

"Alone?"

"I've always been alone," I said, "even when I was with folks. I don't fit in with people, somehow. Books, now. I'd like to have some books."

She didn't push me any further and I was glad. I was feeling crowded and beginning to sweat a little.

"What of your brothers?"

"They were going their own ways. Yance had found him a woman and by this time Kin prob'ly has, too. A man has to blaze his own trail, and mine was to the west."

"I would like to know your brothers."

"You'd like them. Good men. My sister, Noelle, she went back to England with Ma. By now she's probably going to balls an' such, living the life of a real lady."

"I would like to meet her. I wish--"

"What?"

"I would like to see how it is over there. I would like to see the clothes your women wear."

"Most of them are kind of silly. Seems so to me, anyhow. Hair all done up an' powdered, fancy silk skirts. Pa said they could look mighty fetching, though."

"Could I wear those clothes?"

Well, I looked at her again. She could wear anything. With that figure and the way she walked--she was more like a queen than any queen I'd heard of.

"You could," I admitted, "and you'd be beautiful in them. You would turn every head in the place."

She was pleased, so I went on and told her more about the balls and such. Ma had told us about them, told Noelle most of all, but we had listened. She told about dancing and about clothes and the ballrooms, so I repeated it to Itchakomi. "There would be nobody as beautiful as you," I finished, realizing what I said was true.

It was easier talking about such things than about my plans. Whenever she got on that tack it set me to fidgeting because I hadn't really thought it out. I'd never thought that far ahead. I'd settle down somewhere, I supposed. Maybe with some Indians, as there was not much chance of a man getting by alone.

Or I'd go back.

But I wouldn't. I had known that from the beginning. My destiny was here, where the west was. Like I'd told her, I'd find a meadow somewhere with a stream flowing through it and I'd build a log house. Maybe more than a cabin. Might be things would get better with the Spanish and I could get some books from them. I would like to be reading again. There was so much I did not know.

The sun was warming things up and I looked toward the opening of the valley. I should be over there, waiting. Those Indians would come.

Yet I lingered. A man living off the country and in a land where there's risk at every hand does not get much time to contemplate himself. He has no time to speculate on the ifs and the buts of his life, nor to ask questions of himself and his motives. Each day is a day to live and in which to keep from dying, and a man's energies are directed out from himself and his thoughts as well. Contemplation is a leisure indulgence. It is for a man in an armchair or beside a fire in his own house. It isn't for a man whose every sense is attuned to sounds outside himself.

Itchakomi had asked me questions I'd never asked myself, and I suspected she had a lot more lying in wait for their proper moments. She was a disturbing woman, in more ways than one.

Pa, being the man he was, had laid a duty on me to sort of play godfather to the Indians. They were good people, with wise men among them, and customs suited to the country, but sometimes they needed an outside opinion or in my case somebody to act for an old gentleman not up to the trip we'd made.

More than that, I liked the Ni'kwana. There was something between us, and we had sensed it when we had come together. We could have sat down and talked from the first moment like old friends.

All right, so here I was. I'd found Itchakomi and delivered his message. Why was I hanging around? Because of the cold and the snow. Would I be around if it wasn't for that? I shied from the question like a bird from a sudden move.

"There's a wind blowing in this country now," I said, "that's going to blow a lot of change. The Indian way of life will be the first to go, I think, because the white man is part of that change, and most of them can't see any way but their own.

"Pa, he was different. First off, he was raised in the fens and the life was different there, more independent and freer, and then he set up for himself and came over here.

"He didn't ask anybody for permission to come. He got no grant from any king or great lord, he just came of himself and found land where he wanted to be.

"There weren't many like him, but there were some, and the sons and daughters of those first ones were just as independent and free. The second generation moved out and set up for themselves away from the regular settlements. Their sons and daughters will be even more eager to strike out on their own. The king is just a name to them, and they will never have lived on any great lord's estate.

"Some of them will cater to Indian ways, some will resist that. They will find land they want and set up for themselves and fight off anybody who tries to take it from them, be he Indian or white.

"Pa was one of the first of a new kind of man. Maybe not a new kind, because he was probably a lot like those who crossed the Channel with William of Normandy. Most of them had nothing, so they crossed over with William and took what they wanted from the folks already in England.

"The trouble is, they'll do the same here. It's the way of the world, just like the Conejeros came in here and killed off Indians who were living here and will try to kill us.

"If we wish to live we've got to try to kill them or enough of them so they will leave us alone. I don't want it to become like it was with Pa.

"The Senecas fought him because he was a friend of their enemies, the Catawba. He whipped them so many times it became a matter of honor for every young warrior to have a try at us. I heard it was said in some villages that a warrior couldn't call himself such unless he'd had at least one go at us at Shooting Creek. They'd come down the Warrior's Path a-purpose.

"I don't want to fight all my life. I am a man of peace, and when I've come back from wandering I want that log house in the meadow somewhere. I--"

"Alone?"

Damnit! There she was again! A man couldn't--"That will be a cabin I've built myself," I said, "mighty small, as it's for one man."

"Smaller than this cave?"

"Well--not exactly. I haven't rightly figured the size of the place. It's just an idea, anyway."

"It should be larger," Itchakomi said. "You might have a visit from a friend. Or even two."

"Well ... when it comes to that--"

My eye caught a movement from over where we had come into the valley. Keokotah was there, and he was waving something to attract my attention.

The only reason he would signal me was that the Conejeros were coming, or somebody.

"Keokotah is calling me. I'd better go."

I wasted no time. Keokotah would not call for help unless he believed it was needed, and if he needed help, more than a few were coming our way.

I started running like a coward, happy to get into a fight I thought I could win.

Chapter Twenty-five.

Keokotah was in the rocks and brush, where he had a good view of the trail into our valley. Much of the snow had melted, and the earth was muddy. Here and there were pools of water and patches of snow on the north slopes of hills. We could see the Conejeros coming and counted twelve.

We did not talk. Each knew what must be done and knew it would not be easy. Glancing back I could see some of the Natchee moving down to the brush along the creek, our second line of defense.

"I will take the last man," I suggested.

Keokotah made no reply. He would fight his own battle, as I would. Each of us had his own skills and his own ideas on how to expend them.

They were a hundred yards off, the last man some fifty yards further, when I selected an arrow and bent my bow, waiting just a little longer. They came on. Keokotah slipped down to a better position. The last man had to round a boulder and to do so must almost face me. He was at least fifteen feet behind the next man when I let fly.

The years of training with the bow now paid their way, for my arrow took him in the chest and he fell back, his hands grasping the arrow, struggling to withdraw it. Keokotah's arrow went into his man's throat, and the man fell. The others vanished like a puff of smoke. An instant, and they were there--another, and they were gone.

One man I saw drop among some rocks, but knew he would not rise from the spot where he had disappeared, so I plotted in my mind his probable movements. They were trying to get into the valley, and he would use as much shelter as could be found. As I had come through that entrance myself I knew how the land lay. About thirty yards farther along from where he had dropped from sight was a gap in the cover. I knew he would make a step, perhaps two, before I could get on target, so I chose a place close to the edge of his next cover and waited.

A movement, and then he was in the open and running. My arrow caught him in midstride, just as he was about to disappear into the rocks. He missed a step, and then fell or dropped from sight.

Two down, and a casualty. I doubted the last man had been killed.

We would get no more chances here, and if we remained where we were we would be surrounded. Keeping undercover where we could, we ran, ducking and dodging, for the brush along the stream.

The Conejeros did not see us go, so they moved slowly, carefully. They had lost men. Would they believe their medicine was bad and leave? I doubted it.

At the nearest concealment I stopped and crouched to watch for them. Where Keokotah was I did not know, nor did I need to look. He was a fighting man and would be where he could be most effective.

Now came a time of waiting. The Conejeros were creeping closer, using all their wiles to come within striking distance without being seen. They could not know exactly where we were but could calculate as I had where their enemies were most apt to be.

They had the advantage of the attacker. We had a position to defend.

We knew how many they were. They could not know how many there were of us. Suddenly an Indian darted from one rock to the next, but he was gone from sight before I could turn, and he was closer.

Almost as if it were a signal, a half dozen others moved and vanished, still closer. An attacker suddenly raised up, but Keokotah was ready for him and the man dropped from sight. I did not see whether Keokotah had scored a hit or not.

Then for a long time, nothing happened. The sun climbed higher in the sky, and the air warmed. Suddenly I heard a startled cry and then a scream of pain.

It was at the other end of the line of trees, and the cry, I was sure, had come from one of ours. I worked my way undercover back toward the caves.

If they could cut us off from the caves they would have our women, as well as our extra weapons, blankets, robes, and meat. Without them, survival would be a question.

Keokotah had had the same idea. We met undercover near the caves. "I think they go," he whispered. "I think snow come."

Glancing at the sky, I could see what he meant. During the last hour the sky had clouded over to a dull, flat gray.

Snow? This might be the time to leave. Falling snow would cover whatever tracks we would leave in the mud, and when they returned they would come upon only empty caves. No doubt they had hoped to surprise us, always a favorite Indian tactic, and as surprise had failed and their medicine seemed bad, they would most likely await another time. Finally we assumed that they had been wiped out by the Komantsi.

We had lost one man. He was a young warrior of the Natchee and he had been killed and scalped.

"Conejero no like," Keokotah said. "Natchee strange Indian. There be much talk now. Who is Indian? Where he from? How many strange Indian?"

Itchakomi was waiting in her cave. Explaining took only a moment. She asked no questions, simply spoke a few quick words to the other women and then to her warriors. We had known this time was coming, so were prepared. Within minutes we were leaving the caves behind, yet not without reluctance. They had been warm shelters, and when does a man leave a place he has lived without some regret? For each time some part of him is left behind. So it was with us.

We took one last look around. If anyone was watching they would see the direction we took, but there was no help for it.

"You sad," she said to me, her eyes searching mine.

I shrugged. "It was a good place. We were warm there."

Keokotah led the way, the Natchee followed, then came Itchakomi, and I was last, a rear guard, if one was needed.

The trail we took was narrow, and the way was hard. Here and there were spots of ice and places where the bank had caved. We walked warily, and I trailed behind, pausing often to study the back trail and to see if we were followed.

It was growing cold again. Night was coming. Uneasily, I looked about. We must take shelter quickly. The air had changed. A chill finger touched my cheek, and then another.

Snow! It was beginning to snow.

Keokotah needed no word from me. He led our people into the trees and quickly they began building a shelter. There were large trees close together where interwoven tops provided some protection from the snow. With our hatchets and knives we cut notches in the trees and laid poles from one to another. While three of us did this, the others gathered branches to lay across the top and to put down upon the sides. Our house was about thirty feet long, but not straight. It followed the trees we had used, most of which were six or seven feet apart. By the time the roof was in place the snow was falling heavily.

We slanted the sides out, lean-to fashion, and thatched them with spruce branches and slabs of bark from fallen trees. With all of us working, it was little time until we had our shelter and had gathered wood for the fire. We had left a hole for the smoke and soon had a fire going and meat broiling.

The snow fell thick and fast, covering our tracks. An astute tracker, one wily enough to think of it, might still find our tracks frozen in the mud under the snow. Not all Indians were good trackers, although all could track and had spent much of their lives doing it.

When there was time to look about I saw how well Keokotah had chosen, for our shelter was well back in the trees in an unlikely place and well situated for defense. In just a short time we had made it snug, and once we were inside and had a fire going we were warm enough.

The snow continued to fall. We would not be easily found.

Itchakomi and I began talking again. She was forever curious about English women and how they behaved themselves, what clothes they wore, and what they did with themselves.

Pa had talked much of theaters. He had never cared much for bull or bear baiting, but loved the plays, and a man named Will Kempe was a great favorite. So I told her of the theaters and of the innyards used as theaters when companies were on tour. Speaking of such things kept her from asking questions of me, questions that disturbed me and left me uneasy and asking questions of myself.

Pa had talked much of the theaters, for the England in which he had grown up was much given to playgoing, and the players were well known to everyone.

"What of the women? Were there no women in the plays?"

"No, not in England. Pa said there was talk of women players in Italy, but not in England. Boys played the parts of women."

She thought that was foolish, and when I thought on it, so did I, but that was the way it was.

She plied me with questions until I told her more than I knew, things Pa had told us, forgotten until her questions dredged them up. Memory holds much more than we suspect, I found, and began to wonder what else there was I had forgotten.

Outside the snow fell, and the others fell asleep, even Keokotah, who was curious in his own mind and wishful of knowing more of England.

"And did your father know the king?"

"My father? I should say not! Kings had nothing to do with yeomen and only a little, sometimes, with knights. That's as I understand it, at least."

"The Great Sun knows his people, knows every one," she told me. "Does your king have a Ni'kwana?"

"Sort of. I guess he might be like the chancellor or an archbishop. I don't know half enough about it." I spoke irritably, for I did not like to discover that I knew less than I should.

"You speak of a king, but did you not tell me that a queen ruled in England?"

"Queen Elizabeth. My father approved of her, although it was little she would have cared for one man's approval. However, as he says it she was a good queen."

"Was?"

"We are gone from there, although my mother is there, and a brother and sister, but in any case Queen Elizabeth is gone. There is a king now." I said it with some satisfaction. "King James is on the throne."

"Will you go back?"

"I cannot go back. I have never been. Also, this is my land. I shall stay here."

"I am glad."

Here we were, getting down to personal things again. "We'd better sleep," I suggested. "Tomorrow I must hunt again."

She seemed in no way disposed to sleep, and said so, but I spread my robes close to the edge of the shelter.

Spring was going to be late this year no matter how soon it came. The cold and snow trapped a man, keeping him within the lodge and close to women. Not that I disliked women, far from it, but I was not ready to set up my own lodge or stay in one place. There was a wide land out there no man had seen, and as Pa had longed for his far blue mountains I was longing to walk these Shining Mountains to their utmost limits.

Itchakomi had said nothing lately of returning, although if she returned now she might become the Great Sun herself. I spoke of that, but she was quiet, and before she got around to speaking I was asleep, or pretending to be.

When morning came the mountains were gone, vanished under a cloak of snow, their towering black peaks lost in a whiteness that covered all. Scarcely a dark branch showed or an edge of rock. It was still, the only sound my moccasins pressing down the snow, crunching into the silence.

For a long moment I stood and looked out over the land, my breath a white cloud. Hunching my shoulders against the snow I looked carefully around. There were no enemies I could see, and no moving game, only the snow, the ice, and the cold. I broke off a heavy branch, the sound like a pistol shot, and then another, bringing them back to the hungry fire, waging its own desperate fight against the chill.

This was a land for me, these mountains, this forest, these silent streams, their voices stilled only for the time.

Keokotah came out and stood beside me. "Is good," he said, "all this."

"It is," I agreed.

"When grass comes, what you do?"

"I shall walk along the mountain where the aspen grows, and beside the lakes where the moon goes to rest. I want to find the places where the rivers begin. I want to drink where the water comes from under the slide rock. I want to walk the way of the elk, the deer, and the bear."

"You are not elk or deer or bear. You man. What you do when your knees are stiff? When the earth no longer soft for sleeping? When the cold does not leave your bones? Who will share your lodge when the last leaves fall?"

Wind breathed among the trees. Some snow fell from the stiff leaves of an oak and from the spruce.

"What of Itchakomi? Such a woman walks with the wind. Such a woman must be fought for or stolen."

"She will go home to her people. She may be the Great Sun."

"Hah! You think she go back safe? You think she pass by the Conejero? The Pawnee? The Osage? She will be taken to some warrior's lodge. You see."

"So?" The thought made me uncomfortable, but I did not like to say so, or even think of it.

"You speak, she stay. I tell you this."

"It is not possible."

He shrugged. "I think you fool. Once in a lifetime a man finds such a woman. Once! I have watched her with you. She will keep your lodge if you speak."

"She is curious about our customs, as you are. She is not interested in me."

"Hah!"

A veil of snow lifted from a peak and hung suspended against the gray sky, and then sifted softly away as though it had not been. A chill wind stirred, and frozen leaves scraped against the stiff branches. Snow drifted down from the trees and I shivered.

"You my friend. I speak as friend." For a moment he was silent. "I have no other friend."

Neither of us spoke for a long time and then I said, "And what of you?"

"I have a man to kill, if you do not."

"What?"

"He is out there. He looks for us. He looks forher . If we do not find him first, he will find us. It is better to hunt than be hunted."

A chaos of granite lay at the foot of the mountain, covered now with snow. Lightning-struck trees showed their stark dead stumps against the sky. My toes were cold from standing, and I half turned to go. He looked at me coolly, waiting for some word from me.

Curling my toes against the cold, I shrugged my shoulders under the buffalo robe, seeing a dream slide away down the icy hill, and another born.

"Maybe you are right," I said. "Maybe I am a fool."

"He leave his mark. He leave his challenge."

Turning toward our lodge I looked back. "What do you mean?"

"The young Natchee who was killed. He no dead when scalp taken. He alive."

I still looked at him, waiting.

"He know who kill him. He leave a sign in the snow where he die. He leave one sign."

Everything in me waited. I knew before he said it. I knew what the sign would be and that when Keokotah spoke I must begin to seek, to hunt. And I did not want to hunt down any man.

"He left one sign:Kapata !"

Kapata? Well, I could make an exception.

Chapter Twenty-Six.

I am Itchakomi Ishia, a Daughter of the Sun, sent to find a new home for my people. This land is a good land. There is beauty here and much wild game, but there are enemies, also. The Conejeros are a fierce people, making war upon everybody. They would make war upon us.

We could defeat them, but many of our young men would die.

The Ni'kwana has sent this man to find me, to speak to me of returning. He has done so. But he says the Ni'kwana left it to me to decide, and the Ni'kwana has been my guide and teacher.

Why did he send this man to me? Why did he not say, "Come back, Itchakomi, come back to your land by the river"?

He left the decision to me. Why did he think I might not wish to return?

The Ni'kwana traveled far to meet this man, and then sent him to find me. What did the Ni'kwana know that I do not?

The Ni'kwana fears for me. He does not like or trust Kapata, and the Ni'kwana knows many things others do not.

Who is this man Jubal? What does he believe? What am I to believe? He speaks of marvels, of customs strange to us, of peoples far away of whom I know nothing.

Why have I not known of these people? He speaks of us asIndians . I do not know that name. The Ni'kwana has spoken of Spanishmen who came long ago, who killed some of our people and then went away down the Great River. We heard of such Spanishmen out upon the long grass, also, and one of them who ran away lived in our lodges for a time.

I do not know this man or his people. I do not know his tribe or where his home is. Jubal speaks of great houses in some land beyond the sea, of customs strange to us, but how can I believe him?

A sea is a great water. It is not a river. It must be like the great water we saw when long ago we traveled south with the Ni'kwana.

What manner of man is he? Will he walk among us for a time and then go away to his own people? I have heard men speak of his tribe. He is a Sackett. I am Natchez.

He says he is not a Sun. His father was a yeoman, but I do not know what that is. It is a good thing to be, I think.

He is a warrior and a hunter. Keokotah says he is very brave, that he fears nothing. I think it is good to fear some things.

He speaks of things strange to me, but I like to hear him speak. I listen and try to understand, but his words are not ours. I have learned much of his tongue but not of his meanings. To know words is not always to know thoughts. He speaks from his custom, I from mine. When I use his words I cannot speak the ideas I think. I do not make myself known.

He is a wise man, I believe, a Ni'kwana among his own people.

I am a Sun. What is my duty? To return to my people or to stay with this man who does not seek to know me?

I am a beautiful woman. I know this because I have seen myself in the Pool of the Moon's Reflection. Does he not see that I am beautiful?

Or is it that I am so different from the women of his people? Why does he avoid me? Am I not to his liking? Am I a bad taste in his mouth? A bad sound in his ears? What am I, a woman, to do?

He speaks of the Shining Mountains, and when he speaks of them his voice has a ring to it. The mountains were a far land of which he dreamed, and now he is among them, yet he has seen too little, he says. He wishes to wander down the days, through their forest and meadows and along their streams, but has it not always been so, that men prefer to wander and women to keep them close?

I could wander the far lands, too. I am not afraid.

He has terrible scars upon his head and upon his back and shoulders. I have seen his head when his hair falls a certain way, and I have seen his back when he bathed. He does not speak of the scars. He limps a little and has broken his leg. Keokotah spoke of that. He broke his leg when alone in the forest.

I am a Sun. Among my people I command men. Among my people I could choose whomever I wished, but he is not of my people and does not understand our ways, although he listens when I speak.

He does not know me. Should I return then to my own people? Should I leave him among his mountains and go back to my home beside the Great River?

I have walked beside him through the snow. I have helped to skin the buffalo he killed. Does he not see that I am a fit companion for him?

Keokotah has taken a woman. She is happy with him, but Keokotah also speaks of the far mountains. He is a Kickapoo and they are great wanderers. Are the Sacketts wanderers, too? The Natchee are not.

Kapata hunts for me. He has killed Atasha, who was a young warrior, although brave. Kapata has taken his hair, although they grew up together.

Kapata is fierce and strong, yet I do not fear him. If he tries to take me I shall kill him. I know the ways and he does not. There are ways secret to the Suns and known to no other.

Kapata does not understand the Natchee. He does not wish to understand. He has hatred for us because we have contempt for his mother's people, who are Eaters of Men.

I will go back. When the grass grows green again and the trees have buds. I shall go to my home beside the Great River. If Jubal Sackett does not see me I will take myself from his sight.

Why did the Ni'kwana send him? The Ni'kwana who knows all and sees all?

Thus I have been thinking. I have no one to whom I can speak. I am a Sun and we speak our thoughts only among ourselves. If I spoke to the other women here they would be ashamed for me.

It has been said here that I might become the Great Sun. This is against the tradition of our people, although sometimes when a Great Sun was very young a woman has ruled. If I returned now this might be the way of it, but when I look upon Jubal I do not wish to go back, and I think the Ni'kwana knew this would be so.

Among the Stinkards at this time there are few strong young men. Many have been killed in recent fighting with the Creeks, who were once our friends. Is it that the Ni'kwana wishes for my happiness? But Jubal does not see me. He will go away when the grass turns green and let me return to my village.

I do not know how I could become a bride here. I could teach him our way. He could fasten the oak leaves in his hair and I could carry the laurel. The people who are with me would know what to do, but he does not see me and I am alone.

I am a Sun, and I have pride. I cannot be humble with this man, nor do I believe he wishes it.

I cannot go to the women and tell them my thoughts, for I am a Sun. If he does not want me, why should I want him?

I should not, but I do.

He is the man for me, and I think the Ni'kwana saw this. I think it was in his mind. It was his duty to tell me I should return, but it was in his heart that I should find happiness. How could he know this was the man? Could he have foreseen it? The Ni'kwana often sees things before they happen, but perhaps he did not see it until he spoke with Jubal beside the fire.

It is hard to be a Sun. If I were a village girl it would not matter, but I have been taught from a time when very small what it is to be a Sun, but now I find it very lonely.

Jubal is a good man. I am no foolish girl to be taken by broad shoulders and a bold way. He is a quiet man, a thoughtful man, and he has been a good leader. He has guided us well. He must come of a strong people if such a one is only a yeoman and not a great lord. He has wisdom and judgment. He plans well, and when he hunts he hunts for others, as a warrior should.

I have watched him do what is needed. He wastes no time yet is never hurried. He limps but he does not complain. He is sure that each of us eats before he takes meat for himself. He stands aside when I enter the lodge, which is what a warrior must do for a Sun, but he stands aside for other women as well.

I have tried to learn his tongue. At first we had only some words of Cherokee, a few of his tongue, and a few of French or Spanish. Each tried to make the other understand with what words we had, and we did so. Now I speak his tongue much better, as does Keokotah, who knew English from before but had not used it for some time. I speak well now, but for some things I do not have words, and for some things there seem to be no English words.

I am alone and I am bitterly unhappy. I am a Sun and cannot show how I feel. I am afraid for spring to come, for he will go far away and there will be nothing but to return to my people. I love my people and have duty to them, but I love this man also.

The Ni'kwana can lead them until there is a Great Sun. They would need me but for a short time, and then I would be alone and have no man.

I have tried to let him see that I would be a good woman for him. I have walked with him in the snow. I have stood beside him when there was trouble. I am not a frightened woman. We Suns are taught to be strong and know no other way. We are taught not to fear what must be done and that each Sun is an example to all others of what a Sun is and must be.

When the snow began to melt I was like a frightened girl, for I thought he would go from me. So when the cold came again I was glad. Now I do not know how long the cold will last. Keokotah knows much of these things and says it soon will grow warm and leaves will bud again, and the ice will go from the streams and come into my blood, for he will go from me then and I shall be alone.

My heart is heavy with longing for what I do not have, yet I cannot show it for I am a Sun. I must be aloof, and hide my fears and my loneliness.

I will make myself more beautiful. I will make him see me.

What do the women of his people do when they are in love? How does a woman join a man in his land? Do they use the oak and the laurel as well? I do not think so.

Keokotah does not know. His Englishman never talked of that. I do not think men talk of brides and weddings and things that mean much to women. I do not think they speak of these things among themselves. I think they only speak of weapons, of hunting and war. Perhaps some talk of women, too.

He wears the claws of the cougar he killed, since Keokotah has given them to him. Only a great warrior could do what he has done, but he does not speak of it. At night beside the fire when the wind blows cold, our people tell stories of warpaths and fighting, and he listens but does not speak of what he has done.

When the Spanishman was here, the one called Gomez, he seemed suddenly jealous. I was pleased, perhaps foolishly.

Perhaps he does not know his own mind. Perhaps he does not wish to know.

I must make him see me.

Today the cold is not as great. No snow falls. The peaks are icy against the pale blue sky. He has gone to look over the other valley, but I do not think our enemies will come from there but from the valley that runs off to the south, where we killed the buffalo. That was where we were seen.

One of my warriors would have killed a young buffalo bull today, but Jubal would not allow it. He stopped the warrior, which made him angry, but then he walked out to the buffalo and went right up to it. He stood beside it and rubbed its head with his hand!

When he returned to us he said, "Never touch that one. It is a medicine bull."

The angry warrior was frightened when he knew what he might have done. The buffalo followed Jubal almost to our lodge, and then went away when he told it to. Jubal spent much time rubbing its back, talking to it.

The buffalo did not go away. I saw him again when the sun was low, standing in the snow, looking toward our lodge.

It is a good place. From a hundred feet away I could not see our lodge, and we have been careful not to make a path leading to it. We come out walking on stones and from the end of the small forest where it is. I believe we will stay here until the spring comes.

When darkness fell we were alone on the snow. I thought he might see me, but he only looked at the sky and the mountains.

"Tomorrow will be fair," he said. "We must be on watch. I think they will come."

He stood back and looked at our lodge and where it stood. "It is well hidden," he said.

Our eyes met and he looked quickly away. "You are a Sun," he said suddenly.

"I am a woman," I said.

He looked at me again and said, "Yes, you certainly are."

A little snow blew from a spruce, drifting down over us. "I must not keep you standing in the cold," he said. "Yours is a warmer country than this."

The buffalo bull stood watching us. "We killed its mother," he said. "It has no one else. Its mother disappeared and I was there."

"You are strange man," I said. I could believe he was a Ni'kwana among his own people, for he had power over animals. It truly was a medicine bull, for no buffalo ever, ever followed a man or let a man approach it.

We started back to the lodge, and then I slipped on the ice. I fell, and he caught me. For a moment he held me, his arm around my waist, and then he helped me get my feet on the snow, let go of me, and stepped back. His face was flushed. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"Oh, yes! It was the ice," I said.

I was all right. I was more all right than ever. I thanked in my thoughts the Indian girl I saw do that back on the Great River. It was a silly thing for a woman to do, especially when there was no ice.

Chapter Twenty-Seven.

Alone I sought a place among the silent peaks, following a frozen stream where snow on either side banked the trees to their icy necks. My snowshoes whispered on the snow, and blown flakes touched my cheeks with cold fingers. This was no place for men, but a place for gods to linger, a place to wait in silence for the world to end.

Pausing, I shivered, looking along the vast hollow between the peaks and across the valley beyond to even mightier mountains. It was a place of majesty and rare beauty, but there was no game here, no tracks of either animals or birds. The wind hung a veil of snow across the scene and then dropped it casually aside, as though it had not been.

My family could thrive in Grassy Cove. For myself, if someday I built a home, this valley would be the place for it. The thought came unbidden and unexpected, and I tried to keep it from my mind, but the valley lay there, a vast expanse of snow broken by trees, and a fringe of trees clung like eyelashes to the calm, still face of the mountains. To go further now would be foolish and no doubt time wasted, yet I did push on, to get a better glimpse of the valley.

Then for a long time I stood looking and thinking what it must be like with the snow gone and the valley all green with summer. It was a thing to think about. Then I turned, starting back.

What was I looking for? Another place like Shooting Creek? This was infinitely more vast, far more lonely, but a man could find a place here. I'd have to come back when the grass was green.

The way back was downhill most of the distance I'd come, and once far off I saw a deer floundering in the snow. The meat would be poor at this time of year and after a hard winter, but I would be glad of anything. It was growing late and I had miles to go.

In the late afternoon, the trees were black against the snow, the sky a dull gray, flat and cold to the horizon. If I had broken my leg in such a place as this I'd never have survived. So I moved with care, avoiding things that seemed to lie under the snow, whether fallen trees or rocks, one did not know.

Glancing up at the high shoulders of the mountain, its head sunk between them for protection, I knew no matter how quiet and serene it looked that there was endless war up there, a war of the winds from whatever direction, and they would be no gentle winds. As if to answer my thought, a veil of snow lifted from the mountain and blew itself away down the country. I shivered again and was glad when I came to the shelter of trees.

I did not like coming home without meat, for there would be hungry eyes looking for me and expecting more than I could give, but there was nothing. I had seen that one deer, far off, and nothing else. It was cold, too cold to be out, too cold for animals to be moving.

I took off my snowshoes and stood them near the opening and stamped the snow from my feet before I went in. There had been only a trail of smoke above the lodge, but inside it was warm and quiet.

Keokotah looked up when I entered and shrugged. He had been out, I knew, and had found nothing. Nor had the others.

No matter when spring came, it would not be soon enough.

Yet I thought of the valley. When the weather broke I would go over there. It was far away, not as close as it had seemed in all that endless white. I would find a trail where bears went, or deer. There might even be buffalo over there, although they did not favor the mountain valleys.

Itchakomi looked at me and there was something in her expression, something I could not place, but it left me uneasy. I went to my place and sat down, not asking for food. There would be little enough of that.

There was no talking in the lodge that day, and less moving about. From time to time one of us ventured into the cold to look for enemies, but they, too, must have been remaining inside.

When I ventured out just after daybreak a few stars still lingered. But the sky was clear, and when the sun arose, it was warm. By midmorning there were edges of melt around some of the rocks and on the south sides of the trees. By midday it was warm and quite pleasant. Two of the Natchee left at once to hunt down the valley, and two more went back to our former home.

It was a risk, but there might be game there, and none of us wished to starve.

Keokotah came to join me where I repaired my snow-shoes. "Now they come. The young men will be eager for war. They will wish to take scalps, to count coup, to win honors. You see it."

"We must be ready."

"You go among the mountains then?"

For a moment I stopped working and looked through the trees at the far-off mountainside. Would I go? I shied from the question.

"There is a valley over there," I gestured. "I want to see it."

"Only a valley?" There was amusement in his eyes. "Or a place to build a lodge?"

I flushed. "Well, it would be a good place. I just thought I'd have a look. After all, it's a place I haven't seen."

The days grew warmer, and the snow melted. There were slides in the higher mountains, and suddenly there were buds on the trees and a showing of green on the distant hills.

Spring was born with a trickling of water from melting snow and a dancing in the air. At home in Shooting Creek they would be opening all the doors and windows to rid themselves of bad air captured during the winter months, and hanging out the bedding, too. There were always times when doors and windows could be opened, but the circulation of air in the cabins was never good enough. We had no problem with that here, for soon the men were sleeping under the trees.

Keokotah was hunting in and around the scraggy peaks, and two of the Natchee had gone to the valley again.

One Natchee indicated my buffalo, feeding on the slope not far off. "Eat?"

"No," I said. "He's a friend, a pet."

"We hungry."

"There will be meat."

"No meat, we eat him."

For a moment I stared at him. "He has followed me because he trusts me. He eats from my hand. I will not have him killed."

Fortunately, Keokotah came back with a young bear. It was not enough for so many, but it took the edge from our hunger. The Ponca woman caught fish in the stream, now free of ice, and then Unstwita came back with meat from a big buck.

It was a clear, cloudless day, and we had eaten well. It was a good time to lie in the sun and soak up some of the heat we had missed in the winter.

Itchakomi had walked out from the lodge, going toward the river that went from us down to the lower valley where our first home had been. She was still not far and I was watching her. Suddenly she turned and started back, and then she started to run.

"Keokotah!"I was on my feet, reaching for an arrow.

A warrior ran at Itchakomi. Then another sprang from the brush near her. My arrow took the first one, but then they were coming from everywhere. Dropping my bow, I drew my Italian pistols. Lifting the first gun, I took careful aim and fired.

The Indian at whom I shot was nearest to me. Another had already grabbed Itchakomi, but at the thundering report of my gun, all heads turned, our own people as well as theirs. In that instant when he was off guard, Itchakomi jerked free and stabbed the man who had seized her.

The man at whom I shot dropped in his tracks. Lowering the pistol for the load to drop in place, I lifted it and fired again.

My targets were standing, stricken with astonishment. Some of them had no doubt heard the Spanish guns but had not expected anything of the kind here. One by one I fired the guns, and three men were down before they took cover, the echoes of the first shot still racketing against the hills.

Itchakomi came to me, running.

In just that first moment of attack the effect had been catastrophic for them. Four men were down, two wounded, two dead. Itchakomi's attacker, badly hurt, was crawling away. Then struggling to his feet he disappeared into the brush.

My guns had been a total surprise, but this attack was not over. They had retreated merely to take stock of the situation. I said as much to Itchakomi. "It is only the beginning. They will not be surprised next time."

Back inside the lodge I reloaded my pistols. My powder horn was still more than half full, but I'd have to find a place to make powder.

How many were out there? I glanced around at Itchakomi. "How many?"

"Many! Too many!"

An Indian that I had wounded was starting to crawl away, but I let him go. I could not make out where my bullet had struck him. I had aimed simply for his body but thought I had shot low and right. That last had been a hurried shot, and I should not permit myself such waste. Each shot must score a kill.

All was still. The sun was warm, the snow melting. Soon it would be gone. I replaced my pistols in their scabbards and took up the bow.

Keokotah came to me as I emerged from the lodge. "They wait." He paused, his black eyes sweeping the terrain before him. "I think they come soon."

We waited, our men formed around in a circle, well into the woods near the lodge, waiting for an attack that was long in coming.

"I think they come closer," Keokotah said. "This time no time. They come quick."

I agreed, and waited, and waited.

My stomach felt hollow and my mouth dry. If they were many and they attacked from close in we might all be killed. I felt for my knife, for it would come to that. They would not attack from a distance this time, but would be upon us at once. My guns, if I used them, would get off no more than one hasty shot each. I dared not take a chance on having one wrested from me.

With night it would be cold again. They would draw off then, and build fires--

They came with a rush, and from close in. But our defenses were out, and their approach could not be completely hidden. One arrow left my bow. Then I dropped it and took to the knife. A big warrior leapt at me, and my knife ripped him up. Keokotah swung a club he had been carving. One of our men went down from a thrown spear, and the Ponca woman withdrew the spear and thrust it at the Indian who bent to take his scalp. She held it low with both hands and drove hard and the Indian tried to leap away, too late. I glimpsed her pin him down, saw his eyes staring up at her as his hands grasped at the spear.

It was hand to hand. Men fell. There was a scream. I was struck from behind and driven to my knees. I came up, fell, and rolling over, kicked a man away with my feet and came up. I was face to face with a short, powerfully built Indian who was amazingly agile. He slipped away from a knife thrust and swung his knife at me. Our blades clashed and when we came close I kicked him suddenly, catching him on the knee.

His knife ripped my tunic. My upward thrust cut a thin line along his chest and nicked his chin. We circled. Then somebody leapt on me from behind and my adversary lunged to finish me off. In that moment Itchakomi thrust a spear into his back. I fell, the man atop my back was gripping my hair in one hand, his other coming up with a knife to take my scalp. His hand gripping my hair gave my neck a fearful wrench, and I struck upward with my knife, stabbing him in the side. He wrenched hard on my neck again, wanting only that scalp, and I stabbed again. I felt the cutting edge of the knife on my hair and with a frantic lunge managed to throw him half off me. I came to my knees, driving a fist into his belly.

That broke his hold and he fell back and I leapt on him. He rolled to one side but not fast enough, and I sank the knife deep.

He wrenched free of me, bleeding badly, his face contorted with fury. He leapt at me, but this time I kicked him as he came in and he staggered back. His knees buckled under him then and he fell.

All around me there had been fighting, but suddenly it was over and they were gone. Bloody, gasping, I looked around. Itchakomi was standing in a corner near the lodge, a spear in her hand, its tip bloody.

The man I had fought was crawling away and Keokotah, bloody and bleeding, thrust a spear into him.

They were gone. Why they had broken off the attack, I did not know.

Two of our men were dead, and one had been scalped. A woman had been killed. Only Itchakomi and Unstwita were unwounded.

They had carried off their dead and wounded. How many we had killed, I did not know. Keokotah's woman, a terrible bruise on her shoulder and a cut on her arm, was bathing the blood from his wound.

"They will come again," Keokotah said, looking at me.

"Aye, and we must be gone."

Amazingly, I was almost unhurt. There was a thin knife cut at the roots of my hair only an inch or two long and not deep and a few minor scratches. Keokotah had taken a blow on the shoulder that had left his right arm almost useless for the time.

"We will go now," I said, "in the night."

Limping and bloody, we gathered our few belongings and the little meat we had left. By the time we were ready to move it was dark. I knew only one place to go.

My valley.

Chapter Twenty-Eight.

We walked upon the mountains in the night. Limping, I led the way. Constantly we paused to listen for pursuit, but heard nothing. Often we had to pause because our lowland lungs were unaccustomed to the heights. Several times we stopped to rest.

At the first halt I went from one to the other, doing what I could to treat their wounds. It was little enough that I knew, but more than anyone there with the exception of Itchakomi. Surprisingly, she knew a good bit.

When morning came there was a dense fog, a mist lying low in the hollows of the hills. We followed a dim path, probably a game trail, and at first, for at least five miles, it was all uphill. Then the climb eased except for scrambles through boulders and the remains of avalanches that had swept down the mountain during the winter. Stiff, tired, and sore, we climbed, gasped for breath, and then pushed on.

The mist lifted away from us, revealing a world of broken granite and snow, with here and there a dwarf spruce struggling for existence against the wind and the ice. We sat down then and shared bits of jerked meat among us. There was little enough, but it was needed. A Natchee went back a few hundred yards to watch our trail while we ate.

Their faces were gaunt and tired, their wide eyes staring emptily upon nothing. A cold wind blew off the peaks, and I shivered. This was not the way I had hoped to come to my valley.

Rising, I walked down the path, and then waited for them to rise and follow. The Natchee watching our back trail came in. "There is nothing," he said, "or nothing that can be seen. There is mist covering our valley, mist in the passes."

Halting a half mile further along, I looked back at my straggling band. How did I, Jubal Sackett, a loner, come to be in this place with these people?

A cold wind stirred the limbs of a spruce near me and whined softly through a crack in the rocks. I shrugged my shoulders against the cold of the wind and beat my hands together. Slowly, the others were catching up.

There was a creek cut across our path not far ahead, and there we would build a fire, rest, and eat what we had.

We had been coming downhill for some time now, very slightly at first, but then the descent had grown steeper. The creek was free of ice, the water chuckling along over rocks and gravel, clear and cold. We gathered broken branches and bark for a fire. Building it, we gathered close. The Ponca woman, the best fisherman among us, went to the creek away from us.

I had not eaten when the others had. There was too little food as it was, and I was strong enough to survive. When I looked up at the mountains there was black rock, perhaps wet from melting snow, and a lone golden eagle swinging on wide wings against the sky and the snow.

A thin waterfall, thin from here at least, perhaps forty feet wide where it was, fell from rocky shelf to rocky shelf, mostly melting snow. By late spring it would be only a trickle. Now the mountain was stark and beautiful, a place for no man or animal, just for the clouds and eagles.

I brought sticks for the fire and added fuel. I watched the affectionate flames reach out and clasp the sticks in a fiery embrace, destroying what they loved.

My legs were tired. My back ached. I sat on a fallen tree and looked back the way we had come, rough, broken, and almost treeless.

The Ponca woman came to me in her black moccasins. She was a wide woman who smiled rarely but never complained. She pointed across the way at the mountains. The ones the Spanish call the Sangre de Cristos. "Caves," she said. "Big!"

"You have been here before?"

"With Ponca," she said. "My people hunt."

"Thank you," I said. "We will go to the caves."

She did not linger, but returned to her fishing, and by the time the sun was high had caught a half dozen fish. It was a help.

Keokotah killed a ptarmigan. I saw nothing, but I thought of Itchakomi. She would wish to go home now, back to her own people and the warm weather beside the Great River. Well, I was a loner, anyway. And there were always the mountains. The thought brought me no comfort.

Keokotah came to me where I sat beside the stream. "Caves no good," he said, "too much climb. Big hole inside. No good place for sleep."

The thought of climbing high among the rocky peaks did not appeal and I said so. "We'll go up the valley," I said, "find a place there."

"I see many tracks. Deer, elk, buffalo, turkey." After a moment, "Your buffalo here. He look for you."

Tired as I was I walked out on the grass beyond the creek. The buffalo was there and I went to it, standing beside it and scratching its ear. "If you're going to stay with us," I said, "I'll put you to work."

The thought had come suddenly, but the more I thought of it the better I liked it.

A few minutes before dark one of the Natchee killed an elk. We ate well that night, and for once I sat long beside the fire.

Itchakomi came and sat across from me. "My people say they go home," she said suddenly. "Grass come soon. Much water in river. They go home quick."

If they went, she would go. She would return to their home on the Great River.

For a moment my heart seemed to stop beating. I waited a moment and then said, "It will not be easy to get past the Conejeros, and Kapata will be waiting."

She merely looked at me, saying nothing.

My mind struggled with the problem of how they could reach the Great River by way of the Arkansas without being seen. It would need a roundabout route unless ... unless they could reach the river before it emerged from the mountains and ride it all the way down.

"I shall find a way to get you back," I said.

She arose abruptly and left the fire. I started to speak, but all I saw was her back as she retreated. I sat for a few minutes, puzzled over her abrupt departure.

Women! I'd never understand them.

When I had been sitting there for several minutes Keokotah came to me. "Look," I said, "they wish to go back. They will ride the river down."

On the clay at the river's edge I made a mark. "Here is where the river comes from the big canyon. South of there and back in here ... that was our first camp. Now we have crossed to the west and we are in a long valley that's roughly north and south. It seems to me that if we went up the valley we could get to that river in the canyon before it reaches open country. They might slip by during the night."

He looked at the rough plan I'd drawn and put his finger at the head of the valley we were in. "What is there? We do not know."

Of course he was right. And the water through that canyon would be rough. Yet rough water was to be preferred to the Conejeros and Kapata. The more I considered the idea the more logical it seemed.

What was the matter with Itchakomi? She was their leader, and if they were going to return--

I spoke of this to Keokotah. He glanced at me out of those cool black eyes and said, "Maybe she no wish to go. Maybe she think you try to be rid of her. Maybe she think you think she too much trouble."

That was ridiculous. She was no trouble at all! Of course, if I had not become involved with them I might now be much further west, and might have had no trouble with the Conejeros, and certainly none with Kapata. But the possibility that she might not wish to return was nonsense.

She was a Sun, a person of importance among her people. She had come west to find a place for her people, and aside from the Conejeros this was a good place. The snow had almost gone from what I thought of as my valley. It was, I guessed, more than twenty miles long and four to five miles wide. There were several streams and the runoff from the mountains, and the valley was sheltered from the worst of the winds.

When morning came we moved north, but when we camped that night on a creek near the edge of the mountains, Keokotah came to me. "Maybe no good," he said.

"It's a beautiful valley," I objected. "It is higher, and they would have to learn to plant different crops than they are used to, but I think it is a good place."

"Much trail," he said, gesturing back the way we had come. "I find Indian path, very old. Much Indian walk that path. Maybe he no like people here."

"Conejeros?"

"No Conejeros. I think maybe Ute. Very strong people. Live in mountain valleys. Very strong."

The place we had found was a good place, and the valley was fertile. As the grass began to turn it green, I could see from the variety of plant life that the soil was rich.

"We will go no further," I said. "This is where we will stop."

The location was one that was easily defended, tucked into a corner of the mountains on the east side of the valley. It was a place well supplied with water.

As soon as we went into camp several of the Natchee left to hunt.

"We must find how far it is to the river," I said. "Tomorrow, I think--"

"You stay," Keokotah said. "I go."

There was a yearning in me to see what lay to the north, but it was also necessary that a fort be built, a place we could defend in case of another attack.

A stream emerged from a canyon to flow down into the valley, and at one place the stream fell over some rocks in a small waterfall of about three feet. Nearby were some tumbled boulders at the crest of a small knoll, a flat place atop the knoll surrounded by trees at one side of the canyon but overlooking the valley.

It offered a site for a group of lodges, water from the waterfall, and protection from the boulders and trees. With two of the Natchee men I set to work to build a rough shelter to take care of us while we built a stronger cabin.

The Natchee who had gone hunting returned with two deer and several sage hens. By the time they came into camp a crude shelter for the night had been built and we had dragged several dead trees across gaps among the boulders to make a stronger wall.

Itchakomi was busy and she avoided me. Several times I started to speak, but each time she turned away and went off to some other area, avoiding me, or seeming to. Irritated, I decided if that was the way she wanted it, she mighty well could have it. So I avoided her.

Keokotah would not be back for a day or two, so that other question need not arise.

Yet I slept ill. The night through I turned and tossed, getting no decent sleep at all, and when morning came I took my weapons and went up the canyon behind our fort. It was a fairly deep canyon and led back into the mountains. There was still much snow in the shaded places, and here and there boulders in the stream were icy. When I returned it was dusk and meat was cooking. I went to the fire and chose a piece for myself and sat down near the fire.

Itchakomi was across the fire from me. After a moment, she spoke. "Keokotah has gone to find a way?"

"He will find a way to the river. The water will be rough and fast, but I believe your people might slip by your enemies, passing them at night."

"You will go with them?"

"No." I looked up at her. "My place is in the mountains, so I will stay. The river is called the Arkansas and some other names as well, but it flows into the Great River. Your people can get home without trouble. Unstwita can lead them. He is a good man."

She looked at me then, for I had not mentioned her leading them. I avoided her eyes, feeling uncomfortable. Until I had spoken I had not thought of it myself, but why had I not mentioned her? Was it not her place to lead? Would she not lead if she was going back.

"There is always danger," I said, "but Unstwita is a good man. He is both wise and brave."

"It is my place to lead."

She spoke and I was silent, chewing on a piece of meat. Then I said, "You will go with them?"

"Do you want me to go?"

There it was, right out in the open. How could I answer that?

"I would miss you," I said it reluctantly, hesitantly, yet realizing as I spoke that what I said was true. I would miss her, and I would not see her again. That gave me a pang, and I moved sharply at the thought. Then I said, "But I cannot ask that you stay. You are a Sun."

There was amusement in her eyes. "And you are not even a Stinkard." She paused. "You are a yeoman. Did a 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 Indian dances.

While the drum beat and the Natchee danced I said to Itchakomi, "You are sure?"

"I am."

"If your people need you, we can go back. I will take you back."

"My place is with you. The Ni'kwana knew this."

"We will be much alone. There will be too few of us, but we shall build a strong fort. We will trade with the Indians."

"What of the Men of Fire?"

I shrugged. "Perhaps they will come. That we must face when they do. I have my own fire," I added, "and will use it if I must."

"When morning comes, my people will go," she said. "They will go back to Natchee, our home by the Great River, but they will always know there is a place for them if they wish to come."

"Tell them," I said suddenly, "to send a messenger to my people at Shooting Creek, to tell them I have found you and am happy."

"It shall be done."

There was a moon above the mountains, and a white glow upon the camp. The water rustled swiftly by, and the aspen leaves stirred restlessly, as always. The fire burned low and the drum ceased to beat and the Indians to dance. Beyond the leafy bower where we lay the red coals smoldered, and I knew that one of the Natchee or Keokotah would be watching.

How far were we from the fens of old England! How far from the Isle of Ely, whence my father had come, so long ago! Now I was here, where no white man was supposed to be, finding my own land in a world far from others. We would go deeper into the mountains. We would leave them all behind.

The Natchee would not have a dugout. There was not time. They would use a raft and go down the river upon it until they found my canoe, and then they would use both raft and canoe unless they were so lucky as to capture another canoe.

At dawn we helped them load their meat and the few things they possessed.

At dawn we saw them push off and watched them disappear, going down with the swiftly rushing waters. When they had gone we turned and looked around. Only five were left, in a land vast and lonely, a land where the only people of whom we knew were enemies.

We walked where the wind had blown and where the autumn leaves had fallen and rotted into soil, but there was color in the sky, and on the mountains the green lay dark where the spruce were and bright where aspen grew. We killed some sage hens and ate them, and we caught some fish from a stream. Then, on the night when we had almost reached the place we were to build, we saw a flash of light from down the long wet valley, a flash of sunlight from a blade, and then we saw them coming, six mounted men and twenty marching. Of the twenty, several were battered and bloody. Of the mounted, only two rode as if unhurt.

At dawn that day Keokotah had killed an elk, so we stood and watched them come.

At last they saw us and pulled up, looking warily. Knowing them for Spanishmen I stepped out with my right hand up, palm toward them. Slowly they came on and then drew up to look again.

I spoke then, in Spanish. They came on then and drew up, wary, wounded, weary of riding and holding themselves in the saddle.

"Get down," I said. "We'll make a fire. Have you eaten at all?"

"Not for two days," their leader said. He was a tall man, lean and with a sparse beard. He bore his own share of wounds, two that I could see.

"You are Diego?"

Surprised, he looked at me. "We met a man of yours, fleeing ahead of you and bound for the settlements."

His face shadowed. "Gomez!" he said. "Ah, that one is trouble!"

"We knew nothing of him. We fed him and he went his way, but with no liking for us, I think."

"He likes only himself," Diego said. His men had gotten down and come to the fire as to a cold spring. These were beaten men.

"You've had a fight, then? With the Conejeros?"

"With some others, strange Indians. They attacked us at once. I lost two men that first time and four since. They were hard upon us until we slipped away in the night."

We were beside a small stream with trees close by and a good defensive position.

He noticed my guns. "Handsome pistols. I would buy them from you."

"No. They were given me by my father. They are the best of their kind, made by a master in Italy."

"I was apprenticed to an armorer," he said. "I knew them at once. I knew the workmanship. You have a fine pair of pistols."

He glanced at Itchakomi, standing beside me. "Your woman?"

"My wife," I said, "by an Indian marriage, which I hold as a true one. You don't have a friar among you? Or a priest?"

"He was killed, died well, too. A game man." He glanced at me. "You wish to be married again?"

"I am a Christian," I said, "although not a Catholic. I'd like to be married again by a Christian sacrament."

"She's beautiful," he said simply, "and proud."

"Among her own people, the Natchee, she is a Sun, a princess."

"I can believe it," he said.

He walked to the fire, and the Ponca woman passed him a bowl of broth made from the elk meat. He tasted it greedily and then, shamed, looked quickly around to be sure his men were eating. They were, but I liked him for it. The Spanishmen had been our enemies, but this was a man fit to walk upon the mountains.

"Sit you," I said. "I'll care for your horses."

His hand came up sharply. "No! My men will do that. Nobody touches our horses!" Then more gently he said, "They are few and hard to come upon. We bring them up from Mexico, and the Indios have taken to stealing them. Soon they will be riding them against us."

"Indians who ride?"

"I have seen a few," Diego replied grimly, "and they ride well, too!"

He ate, and then looked at me. "English?"

"My father was. I am American."

He smiled quizzically. "American? What is that? I have not heard the name before."

"I was born in this land." Pausing, I gestured to the south. "I shall set up a trading post. You are welcome to trade.'

"It will not be allowed," he said. "This is Spanish land."

"We are befriending you now, and could again. It might serve the Spanish well to have a friend out here, and not an enemy."

He shrugged. "I do not decide. There are regulations from the king."

He ate in silence until his bowl was empty. Then he cut a slice from a haunch of elk meat. "I will speak for you," he said. "I think it a good idea."

"Gomez hoped to reach the settlements before you," I said. "He has plans of his own."

"Gomez is always planning," Diego said. "I know him."

Keokotah had chosen a sleeping place for us among the rocks on a soft stretch of grass. We gathered there and left the Spanish by the fire. Most of them had fallen asleep right where they were, too tired to even think of defense.

We could even have stolen their horses.

Chapter Thirty.

Through the long day that followed, Diego and his men rested, and well they needed it. Haggard and driven, they had suffered a grievous defeat, but it was a time for learning. Here were men who had met strange Indians from the north--some of the Spanish were calling them Komantsi--and had fought them and escaped.

Diego had coffee, and he shared it with us. Over the fire we sat to talk, and Itchakomi sat with me.

"Fierce men who love to fight." Diego looked over the rim of his cup at me. "They take no prisoners, want none. They want horses," he added, "and they know how to handle them. If you stay here you will be killed."

He sipped his coffee, his eyes straying again and again to the hills. "They were not many, but their attack was sudden, without warning. They came upon us at break of day. Only a few of us were armed and ready. An arrow killed our sentry and then they charged upon us.

"I had my sword, and when I had once fired my pistol, it was only the sword. Then they were gone, as swiftly as they had come.

"They attacked us again while we marched, and then again. After that we waited until night and moved away into the mountains. I hope we do not bring them upon you."

"There will be tracks," I reminded.

"We tried to leave none," Diego said, "but with so many men and the horses ..." he shrugged.

For a long time we were silent. Itchakomi moved away from the fire. We were making ready to go south to the place we had chosen.

She looked at me. "What we do?"

"Go back where we planned to build," I said. "It is a good place."

"You fear these Komantsi?"

"There are always enemies. These may be no worse than others." I paused and then said, "Komi, I do not wish to take you into the wilderness until we are married."

"We are not?"

"By your standards, yes. By mine, yes. But I wish a marriage that will be accepted by other Christians. My heart knows who is my wife, but other white people will not recognize our wedding. I wish it to be official, so no one will say you are just an Indian girl who shares my lodge."

"Very well. We stay. We build lodge."

Diego had fallen asleep by the fire. His men were lying about, also resting. "Sleep," I said to Keokotah. "I will watch."

There was no movement in our camp. All rested or were busy in one position. The horses had been taken into the willows near the stream where they were well hidden. I found a small knoll where I could move about among trees and rocks and yet remain unseen, and I moved rarely, only to look about, studying the hills for enemies.

It was a time for thinking. To proceed south to Santa Fe for a proper marriage would put me into the hands of those who considered themselves my enemies. I would be imprisoned and probably sent in chains to Mexico for trial. What would happen to Itchakomi one could only guess, for despite the regulations laid down by the Spanish king forbidding enslavement of the Indians, it was done.

The Spanish would not accept my venture into their territory as being anything but a spying mission. Nor would they permit the establishment of a trading post by anyone not of their own. Diego was a practical soldier, but only a soldier and with no authority except over his own command. Diego was practical enough to realize that a post where they might obtain food or other supplies was much to be desired. There was always a difference of viewpoint between the soldier in the field and the man behind the desk.

So, from the Spanish I could expect nothing but trouble, and I would certainly hear again from Gomez.

The Komantsi were another risk. It was possible I might win them over, at least to tolerating my presence.

We would build a fort, but we would arrange an escape route, scouted and planned. We would have to secure trade goods, and we could trap for fur. At first it would be very difficult. Very difficult, indeed!

When I went back into camp Diego was up and seated by the fire. I filled a cup with coffee and sat across the fire from him.

"You know the land to the west?"

He shook his head. "We do not. Some patrols have gone there, and some have gone north, much farther than this, but we know little of the country."

"The wild game?"

He shrugged. "What you know. Buffalo, elk, deer, antelope, bear--"

"Nothing larger?"

"Than a buffalo? What could be? We have seen them that weigh three thousand pounds, big bulls, very tough, very strong."

"Bears?"

"Ah! There you have it. There are silver bears, very large. We have seen them. Black bears, also, but smaller. The silver bears--ah, they are huge! Very fierce!"

We talked long, and I thought him a friendly and a lonely man, pleased to be speaking with someone on a friendly basis.

"Coronado," he said, "went far out upon the plains. He looked for golden cities. I think there are no golden cities. I think from far off someone sees the cities of mud, what is called adobe, and in the setting sun they look like gold. I think that is all."

"There is no gold in the mountains?"

He shrugged. "Of course, but the mining is hard and the Indies do not like it. They die ... too many die! I feel sad, but who am I? I am a soldier, who does what he is told."

At dawn we arose and walked the few miles back to where we planned to build. There we said good-bye and he thanked us again for feeding his soldiers and treating their wounds. We shook hands, and to Itchakomi he bowed low.

At the last, he turned and said, "Be careful! That Gomez ... he is a man of no morals. He wishes only for himself. He has no feelings. Yet he is a good fighter, better than me, and I fear he will have made it hard for me when I return. But do you beware. He will return. He will believe you have found gold, and only three things he wants, gold, power, and women."

He walked off down the valley after his men. Each man who had a horse led it. There would be need for their strength and speed later.

The place we finally settled upon was between two canyons that led off to the north northeast. They would lead, I thought, to the place where the big canyon opened and the river flowed down into the plains.

How fared our friends, the Natchee? If they had survived the river and the Indians at the canyon's mouth they would be well down the river by now.

For four days we worked, rolling rocks into place and settling them into the earth for a foundation, building a quick wall of defense so we might have time to build better, and further back.

Keokotah--like any other Indian--was unaccustomed to hard manual labor. Always he had been a hunter and a warrior, so I left the hunting and the scouting to him. He was willing to help, but he lacked the skills and the slights necessary. There was little in the life of an Indian that demanded labor of the kind needed. Some Indians built stockades, but these were the work of many people working together. The lodges of the Kickapoo were, I understood, though I had not seen one, domed affairs made of bark laid over a framework.

Building was not new to me. At Shooting Creek we had built largely and well, with the aid of men who knew much of such things, of notching logs and fitting them, of working with axe, saw, and adz.

Now I had planning to do as well as building, and several times I sat late by the fire drawing a rough plan on a piece of aspen bark.

The low hill where we intended to build was the source of a spring whose water trickled down to a small stream that flowed northeastward into a canyon. The top of the hill was mostly open, but I rolled the few scattered boulders to the outer edge of the hill to form part of a wall. There were trees growing and I trimmed their lower branches, constructing my house to use the trees as posts for added strength. Having no axe--only the hatchet I carried as a tomahawk--I had to choose from among the many downed trees the ones most solid and seasoned.

The top of the knoll made for good drainage, and again I used the device of cutting notches into the living trees to support my roof poles.

By nightfall I had the frame of the roof in place for a house of several rooms and considerable space. Around the perimeter of the hill I had rolled rocks to fill natural gaps in the rocks that rimmed the hill. It was a good defensive position with a view to all approaches.

During the days that followed I worked unceasingly, from dawn until dark and often long after dark, sitting by the fire to carve spoons, cups, and trenchers, the large wooden platters from which we would eat, just as they did in England.

Keokotah hunted far afield, eyes alert for enemies. He brought in a deer, an antelope, and several sage hens. He found no tracks of men but several of the huge bears of which we had heard. "Leave them alone," I advised. "We don't need meat that bad."

West of our valley were the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, so named by the Spanish, as we had learned from Diego. They were a long, high ridge beyond which lay another, much larger valley. Keokotah had seen it from afar.

The Ponca woman, sturdy and quiet but always busy, found a granary in a natural rock shelter. An overhang had been walled in, leaving only a small window for access, and had been made into a storage place for grain. Some scattered corncobs lay about, all very small, but on the floor of the granary we found a half dozen cobs that still had grains of corn and maize.

With a sharp stick she made holes, and into each she dropped a kernel of corn. How old the corn was we had no idea, but we hoped it would grow.

Here and there we found signs of previous occupation, where some unknown people had lived for a time and passed on.

Every day I worked to build the cabin and to make our small fortress stronger. There were solid logs enough to build the cabin, and many for the stockade. Those logs in contact with the soil had usually rotted or begun to rot, but many had fallen across other logs and had only seasoned and grown stronger.

It was, I suppose, brutally hard work, but I'd been accustomed to little else, and manhandling the logs into position, sometimes rolling them, sometimes turning them end over end, simply took time. As a matter of fact, I enjoyed building. I always had.

Keokotah was ever restless, wandering the hills, scouting the possible trails, alert always as we all were. Each night when he came in we talked of what he had seen and where he had been. Occasionally, taking time off, I scouted the country myself.

Spring passed slowly into summer, and the cabin walls were up. A steeply slanted roof to shed the snow was in place. The meadows and hillsides were scattered with flowers now, Indian paintbrush, sunflower, larkspur, locoweed, and the ever-present golden banner.

Twice I ventured up the gulch, scouting my way, careful to leave no tracks, a simple thing for there were many rocks. Always, I tried to keep under cover and not to frighten any of the wildlife that might betray my presence. I found no moccasin tracks, or pony tracks, either.

We hunted far out, and often I took Paisano with me. Paisano was the name I had given the buffalo, who seemed happy to accompany me anywhere. He often carried packs for me, following me around like a puppy, a huge puppy, however, for he seemed to grow larger with every day. He would follow no one else, although he did allow Itchakomi to touch him.

We gathered roots and leaves and wild strawberries as soon as they began to appear. We smoked and dried venison, preparing for the winter to come.

It was well into the summer before I found the cave. It was well hidden, just a hole in the bottom of a small hollow behind some brush. A sage hen I had shot had dragged itself into the brush before dying and when I went to retrieve it and to recover my arrow I bent over and found myself looking into a black hole under a rocky ledge.

Taking up a small stone, I dropped it into the hole. It fell but a few feet. I tried again, with the same result. Taking my bow, I reached down and touched bottom, extending the bow and my arm, at no more than four to five feet.