Broken Trail (9 page)

With no trees close to the track to hide behind, Broken Trail climbed up into the wooded hills above the farms. Here he was well hidden, but still had a good view of the army's movement along the track. As he walked along, keeping pace with the army, he kept an eye on Elijah's place in the column, just in case he fell and was abandoned along the way.

Shortly before sunset the army stopped at the entrance to a farm lane. The creaking wagons fell silent, the weary horses hauling them sagged in their harnesses, and the exhausted prisoners were finally allowed to sit down.

The farm where the army stopped was not a humble homestead like the others they had passed. This one boasted a big, white house with many windows, two chimneys and wide stone steps leading up to a huge front door. Behind the house were a long, low building, a barn and a silo. The farm included ploughed fields, orchards and broad pasturelands enclosed by a snake fence.

Broken Trail saw black men trudging in from the fields carrying hoes over their shoulders while white men looked on. The black men filed into the long, low building. When all were inside, a white man locked the door. There were about twenty black men, and only four white. Why, Broken Trail wondered, did the black men put up with this treatment? Since they outnumbered the white men, why didn't they lock
them
up?

At the head of the army, the officers appeared to be conferring. Still mounted, they looked toward the house. The officer with the most gold braid seemed to be doing the talking. The others nodded. At length it appeared that something had been decided. Two officers turned their horses and, leaving the others, trotted briskly up to the house.

After a few minutes, they cantered back. They pointed toward the pasture. The army began to move again, heading slowly along the lane. Halfway to the house, it turned left
through an open gate into the pasture, and there it came to a halt.

Flat and level at the top, the pasture sloped gently toward creek flats, where a stream ran through. Part of the pasture-land had been cleared, but some was still in bush. Down at the creek flats, the grass was lush and green.

Broken Trail watched from the hillside to see what would happen next.

When the officers' horses had been unsaddled and the draught horses unharnessed, the fat officer pointed toward the stream at the lower end of the pasture. Promptly, six soldiers stepped forward. One grasped the halter of the grey horse. The other five were close behind as he led it down the slope. With no urging, the herd followed. Broken Trail counted thirty horses ambling to the part of the pasture where the greenest grass grew. After hobbling the horses, the soldiers rejoined the other men, leaving no guard.

Broken Trail knew in a flash exactly what he was going to do.

Making a wide detour of the farm, he approached the pasture from the woods on the far side. He crept up to the snake fence. Peering between the rails, he could see everything.

Some soldiers were pitching tents. Others were herding the prisoners together, encircling them with a ring of guards. With so many prisoners crowded together, it took Broken Trail a long time locate Elijah. His heart lifted when he
spotted him close to the edge of the mass of prisoners. Although he did not like the way his brother sank wearily to the ground, it was a relief to know where he could find him when the right moment came.

As Broken Trail settled down to wait, fires were lit and cauldrons were hung on tripods above the flames. He was close enough to see steam rising from the food in the big cooking pots, but not close enough to smell it. He wondered what the army would eat for supper. Remembering the goodness of pork and beans simmered with molasses, he sighed as he pulled a hardtack from the bag at his belt.

Soldiers holding metal bowls lined up for food while the prisoners watched. From the dispirited way they slumped, Broken Trail reckoned they knew that the steaming contents of the cooking pots were not for them.

Darkness fell and quiet settled upon the camp. At the bottom of the pasture, the horses stopped grazing and dozed.

The time had come. Broken Trail crept under the bottom rail of the fence and moved at a crouch toward the horses. As he neared them, he dropped to the ground and crawled. He knew the danger. No one could predict what horses would do if disturbed in the middle of the night. Instinct might tell them that the creature creeping through the grass was a cougar. If they panicked, he would have thirty sets of pounding hooves around him.

“
Oki
, help me,” he muttered. What wouldn't he give for a whiff of wolverine!

The horses did not panic. Their bellies full, they rested quietly. When Broken Trail's knife severed the hobbles of the first horse, its only reaction was to paw the ground. The second gave a low snort. Did horses dream? he wondered. He freed another horse and then another from its hobbles. Most seemed too drowsy to notice that their legs were no longer tied.

He left the grey gelding for last. At once, he saw a difference. This horse was wide awake. Nickering softly while he cut the rope, it bent that noble arching neck to gaze at him. Its ears were pricked forward, and its large eyes were luminous. He wished that he knew its name.

Broken Trail stood up and faced the grey horse. He scratched the skin between its eyes and ran his hands along its neck. From his pouch he pulled out the cord that Red Sun Rising had given him to steer the horse he had ridden to Kings Mountain. He slipped the loop of the cord around the grey's lower jaw. Whispering gently, he leaned against its withers and with a smooth leap laid his body across its back. The horse's muscles tightened. Then he threw a leg over, steadied himself, and gripped tight with his calves.

“Are you ready?” he whispered.

The grey stamped its front hooves.

Broken Trail sucked in all the air his lungs could hold. Then he raised his head. Holding his open palm to his mouth to block the intervals of sound, he gave the high, yelping whoop of the Oneida war cry. The grey horse bucked.
On all sides, wild whinnies filled the air. At a slap on the rump, the grey bounded forward. With pounding hooves, the others surged after it. Thirty horses careening through the night.

BROKEN TRAIL LAY FORWARD
along the grey's neck, its mane sweeping his face. If he fell off, the following horses would trample him. But he felt no fear. This was like flying, like being borne aloft on an eagle's wings. The snake fence caught his eye. For a moment, he thought the horse would jump; but when he pulled on the cord, it veered away.

One gallop around the pasture, and then he directed the horse through the open gate and down the lane. The herd followed. On reaching the track, he slowed his horse to a canter, and then to a soft trot. The game was over.

Bringing the grey to a halt, he stroked its neck. “Good boy!”

He slid from its back. Leaving the herd scattered up and down the track, he raced to the camp. Chaos was everywhere. Soldiers were running after the horses. Prisoners, left unguarded, were seizing the chance to escape.

“Cherokees!” someone yelled. “Damned horse thieves.”

Cherokees! Broken Trail laughed.

But the joke would be on him if the rebels were to capture him wearing his deerskin clothes. Trusting to the darkness and the turmoil to escape notice, he raced to the upper part of the pasture. Their guards gone, few prisoners remained. But Elijah had not moved. There he sat, almost alone, his shoulders slumped and his head bent. Only when Broken Trail dropped to his knees beside him did Elijah slowly turn his head.

“You.” His eyes brightened. “Moses. It
was
you.”

“Yes.” For now at least, Elijah was welcome to use the old name.

“How did you get here?”

“I followed the army. Come on. Let's go!”

“I don't have the strength to go anywhere.”

Broken Trail tugged at his arm. “Yes, you do. I'm not leaving you here.”

Elijah shook his had. “You can't help me.”

But he must have seen something in Broken Trail's face. The hardness. The determination. Elijah took the hand held out to him and let Broken Trail haul him to his feet. Glancing in the direction of the track, Broken Trail saw the grey
horse being led by its halter. Soon the roundup would be complete, and then the soldiers would go after the escaping prisoners. There was no time to lose.

Broken Trail pulled Elijah's uninjured arm over his shoulder. Somehow, they ran.

After the burst of speed that took them from the camp and onto the track, Elijah had no strength left. The farm was barely out of sight when his legs collapsed under him. He gave out a long groan and, as he fell, pulled Broken Trail down with him.

“We must keep going,” Broken Trail said. They sat side by side in the mud.

“Where?”

“Back to Kings Mountain.”

“God forbid!” Elijah's voice cracked.

“Not to the battlefield. Below the hill there's a place to hide.” He peered at Elijah's shoulder. The waning moon gave enough light for Broken Trail to see the slash in his brother's tunic. “That hole in your coat doesn't look like a bullet made it.”

“It was a bayonet.”

“That's the worst kind. It means the wound's full of dirt and bits of cloth.” Broken Trail paused, thinking of the clean water in the stream near the base of Kings Mountain. “We must keep moving.”

“I can't walk all the way back to Kings Mountain. It's sixteen
miles. I heard an officer say, ‘Sixteen miles from Kings Mountain to Waldron's plantation.' That's what he called the farm where the army pitched camp.”

For Broken Trail, sixteen miles was nothing. For Elijah, it might as well be one thousand. But it was certain that he and Elijah could not stay here, where homesteaders' cabins dotted the clearings along the track.

“There's a forest not too far ahead.” He stood up. “Then we can rest.”

“You never give up, do you?” Elijah grasped the hand held out to him, struggled to his feet, and wrapped his arm around the smaller boy's shoulder.

Taking Elijah's weight, Broken Trail stumbled at his first step, barely recovering his balance. He took a second step, and then a third. Pain throbbed in his neck.

Careful not to trip in the deep ruts, he kept his eyes on the track ahead of him. Only once in a while did he raise his head to estimate their progress. They passed clearings, small woodlots, barns and log cabins. It felt like an eternity before they reached the forest.

Practically carrying Elijah, Broken Trail left the track and entered the woods. Pushing through bushes and stumbling over uneven ground, he kept going until they came upon an open patch under a big tree. Broken Trail's neck felt ready to break. He could support Elijah no farther.

Almost as soon as Broken Trail had lowered him to the ground, Elijah fell into a state resembling sleep. It was not
normal sleep. His eyes twitched. He mumbled and cried out as if in the grip of a terrible nightmare. Sitting beside him and holding both his hands, Broken Trail shivered at the sound of his laboured breathing, for each intake of breath was a groan and each exhalation a hoarse whistle. He may not live through the night, Broken Trail thought. Elijah's moaning sounded like a death song to his ears.

A wind sprang up. Clouds covered the moon, and a cold drizzle began to fall. The dried blood on Elijah's coat softened, becoming sticky to the touch.

Elijah's breathing changed. He gasped and gulped for air. Broken Trail squeezed his hands, leaned over him, and whispered in his ear, “Don't leave me. I need you.” He wanted to say,
I love you,
which was what he meant.

In response, Elijah's whole body gave a terrible jerk. Then his breathing became quieter and the moaning began again. Broken Trail watched through the night, listening to his brother's every breath.

AROUND MIDDAY THEY
reached the maple tree at the foot of Kings Mountain. Broken Trail pulled aside the vines that covered the entrance to the washout cavity.