Chapter 3
Waking up, and at some loss to know where he was at first, he looked around. An early start to the day was being made as preparations were underway to break camp. He got up and fetched himself a drink at the river.
Since the camp was almost ready to move out—Hoss always told him he could sleep through anything—he helped the two women pack Kiowa's boat, then he helped them in. Kiowa's father already lay on top of a large bundle of hides, and Joe slipped in behind him. Kiowa, walking up, regarded him with a satisfied eye.
But that was the young chief. The old chief, Opa, never spared him a glance as he got in the boat. His sad, wrinkled eyes stared straight ahead, perhaps fixed on the memory of a distant buffalo hunt. It was as if the white captive was hardly visible.
Joe wouldn't have known this, but Opa had that faraway look in his eyes for another reason, and it partly had to do with him. Opa was remembering a young Kiowa, his son, and all of the strays he used to pick up. As the tribe, much larger then, moved through forest and field, Kiowa couldn't resist.
At only twelve, he became attached to a young cougar which had slipped off a rock into the stream, this very river, and nearly drowned. Opa had forced him to let it go at once. Now though he had saved another stray from these very waters, and that pale-faced, green-eyed boy was even more dangerous than the baby cougar.
One boat ahead of Kiowa's, four others ranged out behind his in a jagged line, everyone talked low, if at all. Kiowa and his men, fearful of the shore, and the enemies it might hold, made no undue noise, their paddles flicking in and out of the water like river spirits.
On the first leg of the journey, hearing only birds, and the lulled by the gentle splash of the paddles, Joe slept. Sometime later, he woke up, groggy, and wanted to stretch his legs. Forgetting he was in a tippy boat with five or six others, he started to move. Kiowa's paddle straightaway hit him in the neck. Joe turned, ready to say something, but thinking better of it, turned back.
He had seen Kiowa's piercing brown eyes moving along the trees, perhaps scouting for anyone or anything that might harm his people, even as he continued to push through the water with sure, even strokes, often switching sides with only a slight twist of his upper body.
Kiowa's daughter, Ashi, the girl who had brought Joe the forest tea yesterday, and who was sitting in front of the old man, must have in her own childlike way sensed his restlessness. Perhaps to keep him occupied, she turned and threw Joe a piece of meat wrapped in a leaf.
He caught it nimbly enough. At first he didn't know if this was play, or something to eat. Pulling off the decaying green leaf, he took a bite, and then another and another until it was gone. Leave it to Ashi to make him feel better.
At about midday, through some unseen signal that had passed from Kiowa's hand—or eye—to the other men, the boats stopped. Just as they, he pulled his boat up under a branch and tied it off. Jumping to the shore, he held the boat for the others to get out.
Ashi went first. As soon as her moccasins hit the sandy shore, she turned and tugged on the old man's shirt. He didn't seem to want to wake up. He was comfortable on the hides, and the others could go around him. She kept it up, as she knew he needed to eat and walk. He frowned, then obliged and with a lot of gruffling, pulled his bone-thin self out of the boat.
Joe smiled. One day, Ashi would be a leader like her pa, or as her grandfather had once been. Maybe, too, even chief. She had a lot of her father in her. In her intense eyes, Joe saw Kiowa's own grave look, especially when the two, father and daughter, shared a look about him.
His legs as numb as his spirits, he got out and helped the two women, one of them carrying a baby, out next. Kiowa got out last. In short order, a couple of cookfires were started. On one a blue and gray graniteware coffee pot, of the trading post variety, had been set to heat. When it was done, Ashi, who would have loved being the hostess at her own tea parties, poured Joe another cup of forest tea and handed it to him.
"I'm havin' a hard time believing you're real," he said, sitting cross-legged by the fire and taking it from her. "I'm not sure what's real anymore and what's not. I'm way off."
Had he dreamt up this adventure after a hard day's work rebuilding the shack? Or was it one of Hoss's tricks? He was full of them and Joe was usually his 'goat.'
Otia, the frail boy who he had wrestled with at the previous camp, perfectly unafraid came by and tried to snatch Joe's piece of meat when it was done. He laughed and tried to play keepaway, but eventually gave it to him. The cornflower girl brought him another bouquet, this time of purple lupines, mixed with a tiny yellow flower he didn't know. Where did she find all of these? Or even have time to pick them?
"You're spoilin' me," he told her, with a generous smile, tucking the bouquet in his shirt-sling, which he still wore around his neck.
After this quick halt, the tribe got underway again. Several men, though not Kiowa, left to hunt, birds, bucks, does, it didn't matter as long as it fit in the cookpots. They'd catch up with the boats somewhere down the river.
The rest, including Joe, gathered up the children and stowed them in the boats on top of the bundles of hides and food. Shrieks of merriment accompanied this operation. Several runaway children had to be rounded up.
When that battle was won, Joe turned to help the old chief in, but he shrugged him off. Opa got in by himself, and seemed proud of it when he looked at Joe. Looked at him! It was the first time the elder chief had looked at him all day. Before that, Joe could have been a gnat.
Was this progress?
In his well-worn moccasins, craggy and weathered, Opa carried about him an air mixed of both mystery and honor. His age was hard to figure, but what a life he must have lived! How many trips to fish or trap had he made down the Truckee to the summer stomping grounds? How much sickness, war, death, what times of mourning had he known? Still he lived.
Joe looked up to him. Even in these times when the tribe barely had room to move, with the ranches and farms hemming them in on all sides, the chief still breathed and had his being. He had strength as deep as the Sierras themselves. He knew who he was, and where he was going. He had fantastic stories to tell. Would he, Joe, when he was Opa's age have similar stories? He might—look at this adventure!
As the boat again crept forward under Kiowa's paddle, Joe thought of all these things, and one thing more. He wondered how Ashi's mother had died. He thought of sickness, or her dying in childbed, but in no way could he picture the sweet-faced Ashi as being responsible for her ma's death.
He'd never know, never discover that a bullet from a cowboy's gun, intended for Kiowa himself at some dusty trading post, had ended her life, even while she was holding Ashi in her arms.
The night came on chilly. Joe pulled one of the hides, skin-side down, fur-side up, over him and gazed at the long watery, star-lit miles ahead. Kiowa's slowly dipping paddle made the only sound.
Ashi had covered the old chief, then settled down herself to the gentle rocking of the river. She knew, Kiowa knew, and even the old man, snoring away, knew, but he had no idea where they were going, or how long it would take the boats to get there.
When his arm was better, he'd walk. On the trail, the braves had taught him how to find his way, just by example. He only had a few matches in his shirt pocket, no coins for a telegram, or money for the trip home.
He'd walk.
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Ben had slept no more than a few hours, and that in snatches, since he and Hoss and their men, all game to keep going, first came to the shore where the Indians had rescued their prize, wet and dazed, from the stream.
"I wish I'd never sent you two," he said, though he didn't mean it as deprecatingly as it sounded. "That line shack's hardly ever used."
"He won't give the Indians no trouble, pa," said Hoss, sopping beans off a tin plate with a bit of bread.
Ben knew Hoss was right. Joe might lack some horse sense, now and then, but he'd do his best not to offend the braves, if he could help it.
He smiled and nodded over his cup of coffee. "I know," he said. "You're both good boys. I can trust you."
"Trust 'em to fall in the river!" shouted one of the 'hands.' Bill Byrnes was always being a cut-up. "And then not be able to fetch 'em out!" Was that a subtle jibe at Hoss?
"I'll ignore that," said Hoss, and took another bite.
Ben noted good-naturedly that not much could separate Hoss from his food. For the fourth night in a row, he set a two-man watch, then he and the others, about ten since the cowhands had caught up, turned into their bedrolls for some rough sleep. A few hours later, they'd be up again, still not knowing when or where Joe would turn up.
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It was pitch-black. The boats at last came to a stop. Kiowa relaxed with a little sigh and, shipping his paddle, rotated his shoulders. Joe slept. That was good, he noted. His arm would mend faster. Ashi and Opa also slept. Not many others were awake enough to know day from night.
Like before, Kiowa made his boat fast to a branch and climbed out, pulling the entire crew onshore. As the other men were doing the same, he gave orders to the groggy folk to start setting up a night camp.
Joe climbed out and immediately sank to his knees in the sand, seemingly not able to wake up. Kiowa moved him over to a tree where he slept all night, rocking slightly back and forth, as if he was still in Kiowa's boat.
The next morning, quite early, Kiowa and some men were eager for a bird hunt. He roused up his sullen guest and invited him along. It was going to be a day! Hills to climb, streams to ford, fences, even fences, to vault over.
At a meadow where quail fed, the party stopped and took up positions in the brush out of sight of the prancing quail. Creeping through the grass again, Kiowa aimed and let his arrow fly. He shot well and true. A few more shots were taken, then as a couple of young boys were sent to run up the kills, Joe flared up as another man shot a bird and bade him go fetch it.
He shook his head, signifying he was no boy. He gestured for the man to go get his own bird.
Kiowa decided for his man. With a strong look, he thrust Joe forward. That look was enough—Joe grudgingly got out of the brush to go after the shot bird, an arrow sticking out of its neck.
Beginning to feel a bit like that quail, he had only taken a few steps when a shot rang out, a rifle shot. It rent the summer air in two. The braves didn't have rifles. It had to be a white man, he rapidly thought, here in this meadow or the trees just beyond. Maybe he can help me.
Without being afraid, but cautious, the hunters moved back to the trees, but Joe ran towards the shot. Kiowa looked after him, stopping in the woods at the edge of the meadow. His other men paused, too, right behind him.
Horses suddenly appeared out of the forest and drove the braves into the field again. For Joe, these newcomers were saviors. This far north, they might even be Arnie Peterson's men. He knew he could trust them. Peterson, a friend of his pa's, would see he got home.
It was them! Arnie and Reggie, a dark-haired lad about Joe's age, on a morning hunt of their own. Without ever dismounting, they pushed the tiny knot of men and boys before them at the ends of their rifles.
Joe ran out into plain view, waving his good arm, then he frowned. One of Arnie's men, a young buck not even big enough for his saddle, put rifle to shoulder, drew a bead on him, and pulled the trigger. The aim was quick and way off, so he had time to dodge aside. But only just.
He was likely to be killed, and maybe the braves along with him, before he had a chance to explain their peaceful intentions.
Another shot from the same gun reverberated in the dense morning air. The kid was taking no chances of being killed himself, firing off the cuff like that. Joe dove into the brush and hunkered down, a quiet young man, if need be.
When the boy rode up, looking around with buck fever in his eyes, Joe leapt and jerked him out of his saddle to earth. He traded a few punches with him, then was flung aside by a stronger force. Kiowa.
Seeing Joe get shot at, Kiowa had broken out of the circle of men and horses and raced over. Pulling a long, store-bought knife out of his belt, he leapt on the boy. Joe fell on his back, trying to roll him off.
"No, Kiowa!" he yelled, as he rolled Kiowa aside. "Don't kill 'im! He wouldn't have shot me!" He didn't know that for sure.
Kiowa grunted and tried to throw him off, but Joe clung for dear life onto Kiowa's back. Both rolled into a small, dry ravine as the alarmed kid scrambled out of the target area. Just as Joe was finding out, he now knew something of an older man's power. He watched—from a distance his ma would approve of—as the two wrestled, Kiowa's fingers still on the knife, Joe's right hand over his.
Joe's left fist, out of its sling by now, connected with Kiowa's hard jaw. Man, that hurt! Kiowa sank sideways with a groan and Joe fell on top of him. It was like trying pin down a wild stallion, with four windmilling legs.
In the midst of the fight, Arnie Peterson and Reggie rode up. Both jumped off their horses and fell into the ravine. Reggie yanked hard on Joe's back to pull him off Kiowa, while Arnie stood back with his rifle. Joe, spitting mad, was hurled aside. Kiowa struggled to his feet alone. No one, other than Joe, wanted to tangle with him.
An Indian man usually fought alone. His braves fought alone, but since Kiowa had doubted whether Joe could, as much for his age as for his injury, he had rushed in to save him from a bullet. Joe saw this, but Kiowa could have saved himself the trouble. He was among friends again.
The four men climbed out of the ravine as two others rode up. Kiowa pushed at one man's horse and tried to flee, but the other cut him off and kept him pinned under a rifle. He grew still. He didn't move, or try to run. Not then. He knew how to bide his time.
Let them turn their eyes away, just once—to fix a broken strap, to fetch a cup of coffee at the fire—it was then he'd make his move.
His eyes dark and heavy, mere slits, he fixed his gaze on Arnie, the oldest man there.
Joe stood, still holding Kiowa's knife, and talking fast. Baffled by what he was hearing, Arnie wasn't ready for Kiowa as he yelled and leapt forward to snatch the knife out of Joe's hand.
In the same move, he spun Joe around, facing the Petersons with a knife pressed against Joe's neck. He started to pull him backward through the horses.
Arnie had to stand back, dropping his rifle a bit. He was as worried as Ben would have been about Reggie, his son. Reggie gazed hard on Kiowa, seeking an opening to take the knife away. The two men on horseback backed off for Kiowa to pass through, and Joe went without a word.
He feared that Kiowa, a man he honored, could be shot. Arnie Peterson was as good a man as any, like his pa, but he would shoot Kiowa if he had to.
No one spoke, not a muscle twitched. When he had room to turn, and still holding Joe, Kiowa began to lope across the meadow, dragging him along. Arnie Peterson's men, holding the rest of the braves, sized up the situation for themselves, and backed off, too.
"What'll I tell Joe's pa?" murmured Arnie. "He'll be devastated."
"Hard doin's, pa," said Reggie, watching his friend disappear into the woods. The last time he had seen Joe, they were wrestling over the same girl at a church soiree in Virginia City. Both gave the other one a black eye, and loved doing it, too. "But we had to let him go," he finished up.
With the knife at his throat, Joe would have had to agree. Now it was back to forest tea and jerky—back to the boats? More miles on the river?
But he had saved Kiowa and his men, by going back without a struggle.
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"If I ever saw a man look more woeful, than Joe," said Arnie Peterson to the two Cartwrights standing in his study, "I'd be givin' condolences."
Ben Cartwright, a man of about sixty with thick gray hair and a robust bearing, fingered his hat and looked over at his middle son Hoss, both thinking about Joe. For days, their existence had been all about him, with a bite of food here and there, some fire, a swig of water—on the trail of men who left no trails.
Arnie shared his thoughts, good and bad. "If he were my son, Ben, I'd go cautious. Push an Indian too far, maybe some fireworks. No guns, but they do have knifes."
"I will," Ben replied in a low, considerate voice. "Count on it."
Hoss looked over at him now, not sure what he was hearing. Had his pa snapped, would he do something 'unfriendly' when he caught up with the Indians?ething 'unfriendly' when he caught up with the Indians?