Jubal Sackett (1985) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Louis - Sackett's 04 L'amour
would be soon enough. To talk too much is always a fault. Information is power. Also, these paths I knew, and I watched to see if he knew them too, yet in no way did he betray himself.
Watching Keokotah I was puzzled. His attention did not seem to be directed to any particular point, yet he was alert, listening.
His apprehension affected me. What had he sensed? What was he expecting?
A small grove of trees clustered behind us, and before us the hill sloped away toward a meadow lying along a stream. Above us the blue skies were scattered with puffballs of cloud. It was very still. The deer we had seen earlier came out of the brush again and walked to the stream.
I started to move but Keokotah lifted a hand. As he did so an Indian emerged from the forest near the stream and stood still, looking carefully about. That he was an Indian I was sure, but he was clad in garments unfamiliar to me. His head was wrapped in a turban. As he stood two others followed him, one of them an old man.
The old man looked up the slope at us and said something to them we could not hear. The first Indian then faced us. "Sack-ett?" he asked.
I stepped forward. "I am Jubal Sackett," I replied. We were separated by all of a hundred paces but in the clear air our voices sounded plain.
"Our father wishes to speak with Sack-ett," the young man replied.
Upon the grass he spread a blanket and then another for me. He stood back, waiting. The old man came forward and seated himself cross-legged. I started down, and the Kickapoo said, "It is a trap."
Two more Indians came from the woods and stood silent, waiting. "They are five," I said, "but they do not threaten us. They wish to talk."
"Five? Five is not enough. I am a Kickapoo."
"And I am Sackett," I said, "with whom they wish to speak. Do you come. You can help us speak."
Reluctantly, he followed, and I went down and seated myself opposite the old man.
For a long moment we simply looked at one another. His features were those of an Indian but with a subtle difference. What the difference was I could not have said, but perhaps it was only that he was a kind of Indian I had not seen before.
He was old, so very, very old, and age had softened features that once must have been majestic. Old? Yes, but there was no age in his eyes. They were young, and they were alert. He wore a magnificently tanned white buckskin jacket that was beaded and worked with colored quills in a series of designs unknown to me. On his head was a turban such as the younger man wore, tight fitting, snug. What hair I could see was white and thin.
He spoke in Cherokee, a tongue with which I had long been familiar. "I have come far to see Sack-ett," he said. His eyes were friendly and appealing. "I have come to ask for help, and I am not accustomed to ask."
"If there is anything I can do--"
"There is." He paused again. "The name of Sack-ett is known, but I expected an older man."
"My father, Barnabas. He was our strength and our wisdom, but he is gone from us, killed by the Seneca."
"I have heard. I did not believe it true."
"Nevertheless, I am a Sackett. If there is something my father would have done, it shall be done." I paused a moment. "What is it?"
One of the others had kindled a fire, and now with a coal he lighted a pipe. First he handed it to the old man, who drew deeply on the pipe and then passed it to me. I drew deeply on it also and would have handed it to the Kickapoo, but he drew back.
It seemed to me that the pipe ritual was not a customary one with him, but I did not know. That the old man was a Natchee Indian I was sure, but our contact with them had been slight, for they lived far to the south along the Great River. It seemed to me he was endeavoring to follow a ritual of other Indians and one with which he believed me to be familiar. It was an unusual experience, for the Indians I had known kept to their own ways and rarely borrowed those of others.
"The day is long," I suggested, "and you have far to
Watching Keokotah I was puzzled. His attention did not seem to be directed to any particular point, yet he was alert, listening.
His apprehension affected me. What had he sensed? What was he expecting?
A small grove of trees clustered behind us, and before us the hill sloped away toward a meadow lying along a stream. Above us the blue skies were scattered with puffballs of cloud. It was very still. The deer we had seen earlier came out of the brush again and walked to the stream.
I started to move but Keokotah lifted a hand. As he did so an Indian emerged from the forest near the stream and stood still, looking carefully about. That he was an Indian I was sure, but he was clad in garments unfamiliar to me. His head was wrapped in a turban. As he stood two others followed him, one of them an old man.
The old man looked up the slope at us and said something to them we could not hear. The first Indian then faced us. "Sack-ett?" he asked.
I stepped forward. "I am Jubal Sackett," I replied. We were separated by all of a hundred paces but in the clear air our voices sounded plain.
"Our father wishes to speak with Sack-ett," the young man replied.
Upon the grass he spread a blanket and then another for me. He stood back, waiting. The old man came forward and seated himself cross-legged. I started down, and the Kickapoo said, "It is a trap."
Two more Indians came from the woods and stood silent, waiting. "They are five," I said, "but they do not threaten us. They wish to talk."
"Five? Five is not enough. I am a Kickapoo."
"And I am Sackett," I said, "with whom they wish to speak. Do you come. You can help us speak."
Reluctantly, he followed, and I went down and seated myself opposite the old man.
For a long moment we simply looked at one another. His features were those of an Indian but with a subtle difference. What the difference was I could not have said, but perhaps it was only that he was a kind of Indian I had not seen before.
He was old, so very, very old, and age had softened features that once must have been majestic. Old? Yes, but there was no age in his eyes. They were young, and they were alert. He wore a magnificently tanned white buckskin jacket that was beaded and worked with colored quills in a series of designs unknown to me. On his head was a turban such as the younger man wore, tight fitting, snug. What hair I could see was white and thin.
He spoke in Cherokee, a tongue with which I had long been familiar. "I have come far to see Sack-ett," he said. His eyes were friendly and appealing. "I have come to ask for help, and I am not accustomed to ask."
"If there is anything I can do--"
"There is." He paused again. "The name of Sack-ett is known, but I expected an older man."
"My father, Barnabas. He was our strength and our wisdom, but he is gone from us, killed by the Seneca."
"I have heard. I did not believe it true."
"Nevertheless, I am a Sackett. If there is something my father would have done, it shall be done." I paused a moment. "What is it?"
One of the others had kindled a fire, and now with a coal he lighted a pipe. First he handed it to the old man, who drew deeply on the pipe and then passed it to me. I drew deeply on it also and would have handed it to the Kickapoo, but he drew back.
It seemed to me that the pipe ritual was not a customary one with him, but I did not know. That the old man was a Natchee Indian I was sure, but our contact with them had been slight, for they lived far to the south along the Great River. It seemed to me he was endeavoring to follow a ritual of other Indians and one with which he believed me to be familiar. It was an unusual experience, for the Indians I had known kept to their own ways and rarely borrowed those of others.
"The day is long," I suggested, "and you have far to
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