Broken Trail (12 page)

As soon as the whole family was in the house, Broken Trail sat up. “We have to rescue him,” he said.

“How?”

“I don't know yet. We need a plan. But first, we need a better place to hide.”

Elijah pointed to a stand of sumac a little way up the side of the nearest hill. The sumacs' green leaves were splashed with crimson. “What about there?”

Broken Trail nodded. “The leaves are the same colour as your coat. Nobody will notice us there. And it's close enough for us to hear and see what's happening.”

They slipped through the trees around the perimeter of the farm and up the hill to the sumac stand. They settled down to wait. Elijah munched a hardtack biscuit. Broken Trail ate a bit of corn powder, followed by water from Elijah's flask.

Laughter was what they heard first, followed by hoof beats. A few moments later five horsemen came into sight around a bend in the trail. With them was a sixth horse, led by a rope tied to its halter. Slung across this horse's back was a man, bound hand and foot. Broken Trail recognized the scarlet coat, the deerskin leggings and the three feathers that dangled from the prisoner's scalp lock.

“That's him,” Broken Trail said, “Red Sun Rising.”

“Hey, Judah!” One of the riders called out. “We brought you a guest.”

Judah emerged from the house. “Throw him in the chicken coop. And stick a gag in his mouth. I don't want the hens upset. It puts them off laying. When you're done, I'll put a padlock on the door.”

“Here's what we'll do,” Broken Trail whispered as he watched the men carry Red Sun Rising into the chicken house. “After it's dark, you stay here to keep watch while I creep down the hill, pull the boards from the chicken house window, and crawl inside. After I've cut his ropes, Red Sun Rising and I can climb back out the window.”

“You know what I think? I think you'll get yourself hanged along with your friend. They're sure to set guards on the chicken house all night long.”

“Sooner or later, guards doze off. That's why war parties always attack just before dawn.”

“What about the dog? He'll wake them with his barking.”

“Hardtack will take care of Rover. He's not a keen watchdog.”

The sound of hoof beats rose toward them.

Elijah whispered. “More men coming. Keep your head down.”

Four horsemen made up the next group. Close behind came a dozen more.

“They brought their own supplies,” Elijah whispered.

“What?”

“Those horses are carrying enough casks of rum to get a regiment drunk.”

“Good,” Broken Trail said.

Soon a bonfire blazed in the middle of the farmyard. More horsemen arrived. They all carried rifles, and most brought stoneware jugs as well. Broken Trail counted twenty-two men. Over their everyday clothes, some wore the long, white shirts that were their battledress.

At an upstairs window, the young girl set a lighted candle on the windowsill. Broken Trail was glad to see that she was safely out of the way of the men. Downstairs, the girl's mother occasionally passed in front of the kitchen window, the glow of the cooking fire behind her. She had a purposeful walk, as if she were on guard to protect her home.

In the barnyard, men milled about the bonfire. Buoyed by drink, they hollered and cheered. Broken Trail's heart raced as he heard their mingled shouts: “Bring the savage out!” “Hand 'im over!” “We'll take care of this.” “Hang the killer now.”

Judah, who seemed to be the only man not drinking, jumped onto the flatbed of an empty hay wagon. “No!” he thundered. “More folks are coming in the morning. They'll feel robbed if we don't wait till then.”

The paddock was crammed with horses. Ears flattened, they stamped their hooves, snorted, and whinnied restlessly.

Looking toward the chicken house, Broken Trail imagined Red Sun Rising lying on a dirt floor, tied hand and foot amid chicken droppings and dirty feathers, surrounded by cackling hens.

TWO MEN WEARING
long white shirts sat on the ground a few yards from the chicken house door, their backs against a tree stump and their rifles lying beside their outstretched legs. Back and forth between them they passed a stoneware jug, from which each drank deeply at his turn.

As for the dog, it slunk about with its tail drooping, sniffing at men's legs.

“Rover is off duty tonight,” Elijah whispered. “We won't need to waste any hardtack on him.”

“They all look like they're off duty.”

“If they keep up the drinking, there won't be a man on his feet by morning.”

Around the bonfire, the mood had changed from anger to sociability. The shouts for vengeance ceased. Having made themselves comfortable, the men appeared ready to enjoy their vigil. Someone began to sing:

Others took up the chorus:

It was a lively tune. Broken Trail found his toe tapping. The singer launched into the second verse:

“What's it about?” Broken Trail whispered.

Elijah scowled. “Joining the rebel army. Bunch of scoundrels!”

“I know about him,” Broken Trail said. “It was Washington that gave the orders for every Iroquois town to be burned. That's how we lost our land, even though the Oneidas were helping the rebels.”

“They even stole that tune,” Elijah muttered, “and put their own words to it.”

“It's a good song anyway,” Broken Trail said when it ended. “I hope they give us another to pass the time.”

But there would be no encore. The men around the fire began to tell stories. From the sudden bursts of laughter Broken Trail thought they must be jokes. He was not close enough to hear them, and figured he wouldn't understand them anyway.

Occasionally a man left the group, wandered off unsteadily into the shadows, and then returned. Gradually the voices died down. It seemed that most of the men had fallen asleep where they lay.

There was only a sliver of a moon. The flames of the bonfire burned low, and their flickering light no longer reached as far as the chicken house. Broken Trail could hardly see the
two guards, but he did not think they had moved.

He leaned toward Elijah. “I'm going down to the chicken coop.”

“Too soon.”

“I'll lie right against the sidewall, under the window. The men around the fire won't be able to see me there. Signal when it's safe to begin.”

“What's the signal?”

“The call of a saw-whet owl.” It was the first thing that came to his mind, simply because it was the signal that he and Red Sun Rising had agreed to use.

“What does it sound like?”

“Halfway between a whistle and a coo:
too, too, too.”

Elijah imitated the call:
“too, too, too.”

“That's good.”

“How will you know it isn't a real owl?”

“By counting. Two means ‘Danger!' Six means ‘It's safe. Go ahead.'”

Elijah nodded. “Two means danger. Six means safe. Can't get those mixed up.”

“As soon as I hear six in a row, I'll start pulling off the boards.”

Broken Trail dropped to his hands and knees. Leaving the sumac stand, he crept forward through tall grass that was wet with dew. There was good cover until he reached the bare earth of the barnyard. From that point, he was in the open. Lying on his belly, he wriggled and squirmed all the
way to the chicken house. Reaching it, he lay still, the length of his body pressed along the sill timber.

Lying there, waiting for the signal, he heard the occasional burst of laughter from the few still awake around the bonfire. Closer at hand, the harmonious snores of the two men guarding the chicken coop made music to his ears.

Elijah's signal came, six sweet whistles to say that the way was clear. Broken Trail stood up. Running his hands over the boards that covered the window opening, he counted five, nailed vertically to the frame. To remove three would be enough. Maybe he could simply rip them off.

Grasping the bottom end of the first board, he pulled hard. Nothing moved. He tried each board in turn. Every nail held securely. Disappointed, he knew that since he could not pull the boards off, he would have to pry them free.

First he tried with his knife, ramming the blade tip between the first board and the frame. Too tight. He was more likely to break his knife than to free a board.

He might do better with his tomahawk. One end of its head was like a hatchet blade, the other like a curved pickaxe. If he forced the pickaxe point between the bottom end of a board and the log wall, he might be able to pry the board loose.

Facing the window, he shoved the tomahawk point under the bottom of the first board. Then he grasped the handle in both hands and pulled downward with all his strength. The nails released their hold with a rasping squeal.
A hen squawked. Over by the tree stump, the guards continued to snore.

Broken Trail set the first board on the ground, waited until the hen settled, and started on the next board. Again the nails screeched as they surrendered their grip on the wood. More hens cackled.

Inside the chicken house, Red Sun Rising must also have been startled by the noise. Did it tell him that rescue was near? Or did he think that some of his captors were breaking in, angry men too impatient to wait for morning to see him die?

“Too, too, too,”
Broken Trail softly whistled—so softly that only Red Sun Rising could hear—hoping that he would recognize the signal.

Then he set to work again.

With three boards removed, the opening was big enough. Broken Trail returned his tomahawk to his belt, placed both forearms on the sill and hauled himself up.

By the feeble light that came through the window opening, he saw glints of gold on the chicken house floor. Then his eyes made out an elongated shape about the same size as Red Sun Rising. It squirmed, and the glints of gold moved, too.

Broken Trail pulled his shoulders higher. Leaning farther in, he saw that he would not have a clear drop from the window to the floor. Below the opening was some kind of shelf. Uncertain what it might be, he reached with one hand and
grabbed… a handful of feathers firmly attached to a warm and startled hen. She squawked. He let go.

A nesting box! Looking to left and right, he saw that the shelf extended along the entire wall, supporting a row of nesting boxes. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he realized that every wall was similarly lined with shelves, and every shelf held nesting boxes. The only way to reach Red Sun Rising was by climbing through the nest of an already flustered fowl.

He paused, half in and half out of the window while the hen's clamour diminished to peevish clucking and finally to a rustling of feathers as she settled back to sleep. Silence seeped in. The only sound he heard was his own breathing. Then from out of the night came a sleepy voice.

“Hey, Levi! You hear anything?”

“Just chickens.”

Broken Trail held his breath.

“More like a squeal.”

“You think pigs got in the chicken house?'

“How could they? The door's locked. Anyway, it wasn't that kind of squeal.”

“We'd better look.”

At that instant, Broken Trail heard the call of a saw-whet owl.
Too, too.

Plunging forward, he dived through the window opening. A wing smacked his face. An eggshell crunched under his hand. Warm slime squished between his fingers.

With a tumble and a bounce, he cleared the edge of the nesting box and landed partly on top of Red Sun Rising.

“Humph!” Red Sun Rising grunted, wrenching his body to one side.

“It's me. Lie still!”

Squawking filled the air. Ignoring the cackling, flapping chickens, Broken Trail unsheathed his knife and in a flash severed the rope that bound Red Sun Rising's wrists.

He had no time to do more. From outside the window came a man's voice. “Look at this! Somebody's pulled off half the boards.”

“You think Captain Cherokee got away?”

Broken Trail rolled beneath the bottom shelf of nesting boxes, against the wall under the window.

“I can see him. He's still lying there.”

“What else can you see?”