Broken Trail (6 page)
Authors: Jean Rae Baxter
THE SUN HAD STOOD
straight overhead when Broken Trail and Red Sun Rising left the cabin of the murdered family. They had been walking ever since. Now the sun was setting, yet they had not once paused to eat or to rest.
“When will we stop for the night?” Broken Trail asked.
“Not stop. Not this night. Not next night. Then maybe we come to Kings Mountain in time.”
Maybe?
Broken Trail thought this over.
Maybe
was not reassuring. He was already tired. How could they walk two nights and two days without a rest? Not even the toughest warrior could manage that. And even if they could, they still might be too late.
Broken Trail's heart sank. He had been travelling for ten days, and if he did not reach Kings Mountain in time, it would be all for naught.
Despite his discouraging words, Red Sun Rising showed no sign of wanting to give up. Fatigue did not slow him. If anything, he walked faster.
Before it grew dark, they passed half a dozen more homesteads, each in its own clearing, and once they made a wide circle through the woods in order to avoid a village. The name of the village was Elizabeth town, Red Sun Rising told him, and it was not safe for them to be seen there.
A full moon hung in the black sky when Red Sun Rising suddenly stopped walking. He pointed to a homestead nestled in a hollow just off the track. Visible in the moonlight were a two-storey house of dressed timbers, a small barn and a smaller outbuilding. The windows of the house were dark. In a paddock, standing nose to tail with their heads lowered in sleep, stood two horses. One was dark, the other light in colour, though it was too dark to tell what that colour might be.
“Horses,” said Red Sun Rising. “We take them. Ride all night.”
Ride all night! Everybody knew that Cherokee boys could ride before they could walk. But Broken Trail had never been on a horse. He did not like this idea. But what excuse could he give, apart from admitting that he might fall off?
“I'm not sure we ought to do that. People hang horse thieves.”
“Only if they catch them.”
“What if there's a dog? It'll wake up everybody.”
“I have spell to make dog quiet.” As if he sensed Broken Trail's reluctance, he added quickly, “These are the horses of our enemies. It is right to take them.” When Broken Trail continued to hesitate, Red Sun Rising said bluntly, “Don't you want to reach Kings Mountain in two days?”
Broken Trail gulped. “I can't⦠I can't⦔
“You can't ride!” The Cherokee's voice mixed amusement with disbelief. “I teach you fast.”
Reaching into his pouch, he pulled out two pieces of cord and made a loop at one end of each. “Cord go in horse's mouth. Like this.” Without warning, he grabbed Broken Trail's jaw, pulled it open, and looped his lower jaw.
“Ow!” Startled rather than hurt, Broken Trail pulled the cord off.
Red Sun Rising took it from him. “I put it on horse for you. You pull cord. Tell your horse which way to go.”
Broken Trail understood. During his childhood in Canajoharie he had been familiar with bits and halters although his family had not owned a horse.
The boys crept like lynxes through the underbrush. When they neared the house, Red Sun Rising gave a whistle. He waited, and then whistled a second time. Sure enough, a shaggy black and white dog emerged from the shadows beside the front step. The dog shook itself and then turned its head this way and that, its ears pricked up.
Red Sun Rising raised his arm. Something flew through
the air. The dog sniffed, picked it up, and carried it away.
Now the horses were awake. Their ears angled forward. Broken Trail heard their snorting breath.
“Which one you want?” Red Sun Rising whispered.
“I don't care.”
“Then I take the dark horse.”
Red Sun Rising inched forward and eased open the paddock gate. First, he stroked the light horse's neck, and then he deftly slipped the loop of the cord around its lower jaw. The horse did not object. Then he did the same to the dark horse.
“Ready?” he whispered. Without a sound, he sprang onto the back of the dark horse. It stamped its feet and whinnied.
“Hurry,” he whispered to Broken Trail, who crouched close to the paddock fence, hoping that his
oki
was near. Tightening his muscles, he leapt. If he had not grabbed a handful of mane, he might have shot over the horse and landed on the other side. But in a moment he had thrown one leg over the horse's back and gained his balance.
Red Sun Rising grabbed the free end of the cord that dangled from the jaw of Broken Trail's horse. He handed the cord to Broken Trail before reaching across to slap the pale horse's rump. Both horses shot out of the paddock and up the lane to the track, with the dark horse in the lead.
Broken Trail lay forward against his horse's warm neck, one fist clutching the mane, and the other the end of the cord. He gripped with his legs as hard as he could while the
horse rocked him up and down and back and forth all at the same time. He slid sideways. He was going to fall off.
“Oki! Oki!”
He whimpered. “Save me!” Behind him he heard shouts and rifle fire.
There was no pursuit. How could there have been, with the horses gone? After a brief gallop, Red Sun Rising slowed his horse to a canter, and then a trot. Broken Trail, pulling cautiously on the cord, was surprised at the willingness of his horse to obey. They kept going for the rest of the night.
At sunrise Red Sun Rising stopped his horse and slid from its back. He held out one hand to help Broken Trail dismount.
“The Oneida are great warriors,” he stated, “but not great horsemen.”
Broken Trail's thighs hurt and his knees wobbled. “I praise the Earth, my mother,” he said weakly. Good solid unmoving Mother Earth.
They led the horses from the track into the forest. When he had caught his breath, Broken Trail said, “The dog didn't bark. What spell did you use?”
“Dried blood and bear grease stuffed into a hollow bone. Powerful magic, but it only works on dogs. I carry it on war party, but settlers see us before I can use it.” Red Sun Rising gave a shake of his head as if to banish an unwelcome thought. “Let us hobble these horses. They need to rest. So do we. No one can catch us before we reach Kings Mountain. We are there in two days. You give your message in time.”
RED SUN RISING
pointed through the streaming rain toward a flat-topped hill a mile away.
“Kings Mountain,” he said.
“That's no mountain!”
“Yengees give it that name, not me.”
The steep sides of the hill looked as if they ought to continue up and up into the sky. The Maker of All Things had a mountain in mind, Broken Trail thought, when he planted the base. But sixty feet above the surrounding plain, the mountain stopped. It looked as if a giant had sliced off the rest and carried it away, leaving only a bare, flat top.
Broken Trail took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly.
He had reached his destination in twelve days. He would deliver his message on time.
His legs gripped the horse's sides as it jounced along the trail, and he muttered a prayer of thanks to his
oki
for keeping him safe so far. Even little problems, like steering the horse, had become manageable. Now all he had to do was deliver the message and collect his new rifle. A sentry could direct him to Major Ferguson's tent, the English captain had said.
The rain had lessened by the time he and Red Sun Rising reached the foot of Kings Mountain. They stopped by a small stream, dismounted and hobbled their horses, leaving them to graze amongst the treesâgreat oaks and maples draped in moss.
“Horses not go far,” Red Sun Rising said. “We ride away soon.”
The sides of Kings Mountain were heavily wooded with mature trees big enough for a man to hide behind. They climbed the steep slope.
At the top, Broken Trail and Red Sun Rising emerged onto the bald plateau, which was twice as long as it was wide. One end was open field; the other was covered with army tents. Apart from a few soldiers piling heaps of rocks near the edge of the plateau, Broken Trail saw no sign of defence preparations.
“This army doesn't look ready for battle,” he said. “They must think nobody can get at them from below.”
Red Sun Rising looked down at the thick cover of trees on the steep incline.
“Then they make big mistake.”
“I don't see a sentry. Maybe we should ask those soldiers piling rocks for directions to Major Ferguson's tent.”
“Don't need to ask. I see it.”
He pointed along a line of identical army tents to one that was twice the size of the rest. It had a sheet of canvas stretched horizontally over the opening as an awning. Under the canvas, protected from the drizzle, stood two soldiers leaning on their muskets, looking half asleep.
“Yes. That must be it,” Broken Trail said.
When the soldiers noticed the boys approaching, both stood a little straighter and pointed their muskets in a half-hearted way. Broken Trail raised his right hand, open palm outward, in the sign of peace.
“I bring a message for Major Patrick Ferguson.”
Those words seemed to wake them up. The corners of their eyes crinkled with amusement as they looked the boys over. As usual, Broken Trail's blue eyes claimed chief attention.
One of the soldiers smiled, showing broken teeth. “What are
you
doing, dressed up like an Indian?”
Broken Trail summoned all the dignity he could muster. “What I look like doesn't matter. I bring a message for Major Ferguson. I've been travelling twelve days to deliver it to him and to nobody else.”
The other soldier, who had a snub nose and freckles, snorted. “The boy's a half-breed. They sometimes come out looking pretty white.”
“Those can be the worst kind of devils,” the soldier with broken teeth said.
Broken Trail scowled. “Look at this!” He pulled the letter from his pouch. “Take me to Major Ferguson.”
“Oh, we dassn't do that,” he snickered. “A brave like you might lift his scalp, and then where would we be?”
“What's the message?” said the other soldier, smirking. “We can let him know as soon as he's disposed. At the moment, the Major is entertaining a lady.”
“Is that what you'd call Virginia Sal?” his comrade snickered.
Both burst out laughing. Broken Trail gave them a dark look as he shoved the letter under their very noses.
“Read the cover.”
“I can't read,” said the soldier with broken teeth.
“No more can I,” the other grinned.
“The message is addressed to Major Patrick Ferguson, and it's marked âUrgent.'”
“Who taught
you
to read!”
The soldier with broken teeth spat on the ground. “Maybe we should tell Captain DePeyster. Keep ourselves in the clear if there be something to it.”
“Nobody could attack us here.”
“That's God's truth. But I'm going to tell DePeyster all
the same.” He turned to the boys. “Wait here. I'll to talk to Major Ferguson's aide.” Leaving the shelter of the awning, he strode to the tent just beyond.
Inside the major's tent, Broken Trail heard a woman speak, then a man. After a moment, the woman began to sing. Her voice was clear and sweet. Broken Trail strained to hear the words:
It was in and about the Martinmas time,
When the green leaves were a falling,
That Sir John Graeme in the West Country
Fell in love with Barbara Allan.
Had he heard this song before? The words? The melody? Had Ma sung it to him many years ago? The song was so pretty that it made him shiver.
He sent his man down through the town,
To the place where she was dwelling:
“O haste and come to my master dear,
Gin ye be Barbara Allan.”
Before he could hear more, the soldier returned, stepping along briskly at the side of an officer in full dress uniform, including a sword, a white wig and a tricorn hat. The officer thrust out his hand.
“Let's see this message.”
“No. It's for Major Ferguson's eyes alone.”
“I'm his aide. It has to go through me.”
Broken Trail tightened his grip on the letter.
“Come, boy, give it over. If you waste more of my time, I'll have you whipped.”
Broken Trail considered charging in upon Major Ferguson and his companion. Then Ferguson would be forced to pay attention. It was worth a try.
Taking a quick sideways step, he bolted under DePeyster's arm, and rushed the tent. Not quick enough. The freckle-faced soldier grabbed his shoulder and spun him about. The other soldier's big hand seized Broken Trail's wrist, wrested the message from him and passed it to the officer.
“Here you are, sir.”
DePeyster squinted at the cover. “Urgent, eh?” He read the back. “If this reaches you, give the bearer a rifle for his trouble.”
He snorted, “Oh no, my lad, a trick like this won't work,” and tossed the letter away. It landed in a puddle. “What scallywag wrote that for you?”
Without waiting for an answer, he said to the soldiers, “The message is a forgery. But you did well to be vigilant. We're only twenty-five miles west of Charlotte. Lord Cornwallis will be here in a day or two with the main army to relieve us. As for these rascalsâ¦,” he turned to the soldier with broken teeth, “Corporal, you can escort them quick march out of camp.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But the captain promisedâ” Broken Trail could hardly speak for anger.
“Get moving!” DePeyster barked.
Red Sun Rising gave Broken Trail a warning glance from the corner of his eye. “I think we leave this place.” With chin up, he started walking. Broken Trail squared his shoulders and followed, doing his best to preserve what dignity he could.
The words of the woman's song followed him:
O mother, mother, make my bed!
O make it soft and narrow!
Since my love died for me today
I'll die for him tomorrow.
The sadness of the words touched Broken Trail's heart, softening his anger. Like the lady in the song, he had suffered a loss. For him, too, something had died. A dream.
At the edge of the plateau, the soldiers were still piling rocks. One of them happened to be facing him, and Broken Trail saw on his forage cap the green badge of the King's Own Regiment. The soldier was bending over to lay a rock upon the pile. Then he straightened and raised his face.
When he saw that face, Broken Trail felt as if a lightning bolt had struck. The blue eyes that met his were his brother's eyes. He could not utter a sound.
“Moses?” Elijah took one step forward. He stared at Broken Trail with a mixture of shock and disbelief.
“Back to work, private!” someone shouted. Elijah did not move.
Between his shoulders Broken Trail felt a jab. “Keep going!”
The next jab was harder, making him stumble forward. The soldier laughed and gave him another jab. From the harshness of his laughter, Broken Trail suspected that he would welcome any excuse to shoot.
They reached the edge of the plateau.
“Away with you,” the soldier snarled. “Don't show your ugly faces around here ever again!” He turned on his heels and left.
It had stopped raining.
Broken Trail moved in a daze as he started down the hill. The captain's message lying in the mud was forgotten. The rifle was forgotten. His brother's face was the only image stamped on his mind.
