Chương 2: Chapter 2
By the time I left the farmyard, the riders had almost reached the line of trees bordering the old game trail running in front of the place. When I got within a hundred paces of the leading horseman, I gave the open-handed salute. He returned the gesture as we pulled up facing one another.
“Hah-ue.” I spoke the Lakota greeting even though I could see these were foreign Indians. Southern Plains from the look of them. Four wore their hair in a pay-shah—a roach. One was in braids, and the sixth wore a turban of some sort. “I am River Otter.”
“I don’t speak Sioux,” the leader said in passable English.
I repeated my name in the American language.
“I have heard of you. The Last Yanube, they say.”
“Almost, although the man who farms this land has the same blood I do. What can we do for you?”
He squared his impressive shoulders. “I am Big Scar. My men and I are Cherokee.”
“You are a long way from Cherokee country, and you do not have the look of a wandering star-gazer.”
They broke into laughter and chattered among themselves for a moment.
“Do you fly the Stars and Bars or the Stars and Stripes?” Scar asked.
“Neither. We are peaceful tribesmen who want no part of the war. We are content to let the whites kill one another while we mind our own business.”
The Cherokee leader was a striking, reddish-hued man with a meaty nose and a purple scar across his right cheek. He wore his hair in a stiff roach and was dressed in fringed buckskin trousers, a leather vest, and a bone breastplate. He pursed his heavy lips. “A warrior should choose a side and fight for it.” Lifting a bare arm, he indicated his companions. “Join us and raise the hatchet against the people who killed your village.”
“Those people are dead now, and I had a hand in seeing some of them to that end. I have no quarrel with the others.”
“Are there tribesmen in the area who will join us?”
I motioned over my shoulder. “My adopted son, Cuthan, and I are the last bloods in the hundred fifty-mile stretch between Fort Ramson and Fort Yanube, although occasional travelers come through the territory going from where they have been to where they are headed. You seem to ride with some purpose in mind. Was it you who frightened the army man who went flying past earlier?”
The men laughed again. “You are right. He was running away from us. We intend to stop him before he reaches the fort up the river.”
“Then I apologize for detaining you.”
“No need. The way the blue coat was flogging his horse, he’ll ride the animal to death and have to walk the rest of his journey.”
“Why do the Cherokee come all the way up here to frighten our whites? Don’t you have enough of your own?”
“Aye, more than enough. But we are part of a big Confederate army come to take this country away from your whites and give it to ours. We are the Native Detachment of McComber’s Battalion.”
I kept my Indian face in place. McComber’s Battalion meant nothing to me. “There is a Confederate army behind you?”
“The main detachment is at Fort Ramson.”
“Have they taken the fort?”
“They are doing battle for it as we speak. We are to catch the outrider and stop him from bringing reinforcements.”
My heart lurched. I felt as if the blood drained from my face and puddled in my moccasins. The American’s Civil War, until now merely a series of news dispatches and gossip items, had arrived on our doorstep.
“I see no singing wires,” Scar said. “Does that mean they have no telegraph at Yanube?”
“Nay, it does not reach that far.” I saw no harm in answering honestly, since I perceived this as a test of something he already knew.
“Good. Who is with you in the stone house? I see two rifle barrels sticking from gun ports. If I didn’t know better, I’d say this was Fort Yanube. It is built like a blockhouse.
“That describes Teacher’s Mead. The stone house was built back when there were hostile tribes in the area.”
“And the rifles pointing at us?”
“One is in the hands of Cuthan Strobaw, the son of Cut Hand, last chief of the Yanube. The other is held by his wife.”
“Tell them it would not be wise to be so unfriendly when next we meet.” He waved his companions toward the river before turning back to me. “The farm to your east. Is that owned by bloods too?”
“That is the home of some foreign settlers. They, too, take no sides in this war. They came across the ocean to farm in peace.”
The man nodded. “The river is angry. Is there a walk-across?”
“Our snowmelt is just ending, so you’ve come when the waters are at their highest. The best walk is thirty paces to the right of the big cottonwood you see yonder. Even it is dangerous this time of year. I would not risk it.”
Scar had to get his men to the other side to catch up with the dispatch rider, and my last remark was a subtle challenge. He fixed his eyes on me for a long moment, although I was unable to discern if it was rudeness or merely his adoption of the American habit of staring. Then he wheeled and caught up with his companions as they rode for the river at a leisurely pace.
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