Written By: Julie Dieck
Chapter 15 “The Answer”
When consciousness began its unhurried return, the first thing Alan was aware of was the dreadful headache. As he slowly opened his eyes, he wished whoever the guy was with the tom-tom would stop pounding it in his head. At first all he could see was a blur of bizarre colors, but things began to clear after a moment and he became aware of his surroundings – and a cold ice gripped his heart.
His wrists and ankles were tied with rawhide thongs between two stakes in a spread-eagle fashion; and on all sides, he was surrounded by hundreds of painted braves. He also realized that the terrific pounding wasn’t just his head; real tom-toms boomed loud and hollowly as the braves chanted with the rhythmic beat that Alan couldn’t say was all that pleasant and didn’t help his headache any. A few yards before him was a large fire. An Indian in colorfully beaded buckskins and a thickly painted face to match stood before the fire, looking up at the sky through the treetops with arms extended upward, shaking a rattle in one hand as he chanted something in eerie gibberish. String necklaces of small bones were around his neck and a fur hat with buffalo horns on his head; obviously the medicine man.
Alan let out a moaning sigh. This … ain’t … good.
He wondered how long he’d been out. By the light in the sky he guessed it had only been for about an hour and wondered if it was too late for the others. The chanting abruptly stopped and an older Indian of deep swarthy complexion stepped out from the mass, a large headdress of eagle feathers on his head that extended down his back, nearly touching the ground. Alan’s eyes went wide – it was Chief Nibaw himself. The chief looked around at his braves with a noble expression; one that Alan felt as though he should respect, and almost did in a way. When he spoke his voice rang out with authority and the ease that only comes with the experience of years.
“My people! This is great day for our tribe! Today we have victory over the long knives! One by one we shall cut down their numbers till there is no more! The long knives bring destruction to us! They want to drive us from the lands of our fathers! For this we shall make war on them and drive them out! Victory for our tribe!”
A wild whoop went up and the muscles in Alan’s jaw clenched convulsively, wishing just for one minute to be free. He’d show that big talker a thing or two; he would be killed while doing it, but he’d give the savages something to remember. Never had he wished for a gun so much as right now.
Nibaw then pointed at Alan. “Let us kill this long knife! We will then take him out and let the white-eyes see their own fate through him! And then we will ride in and take their horses and guns! Death to our enemies the long knives! Let the dance of sacrifice begin!”
He let out a bloodcurdling screech and hundreds of other voices joined in the howling cry; a sound that could still the strongest heart. Many began to jump and dance wildly around the fire, wielding spears over their heads as drums began to beat.
The chief shouted out above the din, “Let the death of a thousand cuts begin! May the blood of the white-eye please the spirits to give us strength in our victory!”
Alan felt his stomach churn into a sickening knot. He knew this was the end; a very slow and painful end. There was no possible way of escape, and without help from the fort, the men wouldn’t be able to last another hour. The only thing he could do now was die bravely; to show that he and the others would not die afraid.
The medicine man left his place at the fire and came dancing up and stopped before Alan. He reached to a scabbard on his beaded belt and drew out a long bone handle knife. Sweat trickled down Alan’s face, but he forced it to show no fear, no matter how much he was feeling inside. The brightly painted Indian danced a moment more than straightened before the bound prisoner, both hands reaching up above his head, the knife clutched in one fist. Light gleamed from the cutting blade. The man howled and drew the arm back further. Alan tensed; preparing for the torture and the end that was to come.
But it never came.
A yell sounded sharply from behind the mass and the woods instantly became dead silent; almost as eerie as the screams before. The blade lowered, but instead of burying itself into the prisoner’s flesh, it came down harmlessly at the medicine man’s side. Wondering what had just happened, Alan hardly dared to breathe; afraid if he did, it would break the silence and start everything all over again. Then through the mass of painted bodies, a young boy stepped out into the open ring around the fire. Alan was startled as he instantly recognized him; it was Tokala, the Indian boy he and Kathy had saved in the woods. A strange feeling began to creep over him; a wild notion that he hardly dared to believe – even hope for.
The boy stepped up before Chief Nibaw and spoke. “This one should not be killed, my father.”
Father!? Again Alan was shocked. That Indian they had saved had actually been the son of Nibaw. A sickening feeling came over him as he thought about it. He remembered the things he had thought; the hate he’d felt, the gun that had been in his hand, and what he had wanted to do. Had he pulled that trigger … Alan didn’t want to think about that. He was brought out of his thoughts as Nibaw spoke.
“Why must this enemy be spared, my son?”
Tokala pointed at Alan. “This long knife is not enemy of the Tawakoni. He is one of the white-eyes I speak of, my father. This tall one and the young white-eye save Tokala’s life from the great cat and the metal jaws.”
Slowly, the chief’s steely gaze came over to stare at Alan in a most uncomfortable way. He strode over and stopped before the privet. “You are the one?” he asked.
Swallowing once to wet his dry throat, Alan gave a nod. “I be.”
Nibaw was quiet; his dark eyes seemed to be looking right inside the privet. “The Redman killed your people, your friends; yet you spare Tokala’s life.”
Alan then understood; if the boy could speak English, then he could also understand it. “I’m guessin’ the lad must’ve told ya’ what we was sayin’.”
The feathers on the chief’s bonnet waved up and down with the nod. “He tell us all you say. You could have let the hungry jaws of the great cat take your revenge for you; but instead you kill the beast who would do him harm. You could have then taken vengeance yet again by your own hand, but still you release Tokala from the metal jaws and set him free.” Nibaw’s dark eyes squinted slightly, scrutinizing the soldier before him. “Why?”
Alan opened his mouth but found himself hesitating. Truth was, he hadn’t thought about it. What Captain Henderson had said came back to mind. It was because he wasn’t the judge, he wasn’t the executioner – because it wasn’t his place to get revenge. “Two wrongs don’t make a right” was what the captain had said; and if he was doing wrong, then what he wasn’t doing was right. He suddenly fully realized that the only chance of hope was not fighting; not killing back. Though it was bitter medicine, for that chance to happen he must swallow his hate; lay aside his quest for revenge. The question had been: why hadn’t he? He now knew the answer.
Alan looked the chief in the eye as he answered with the confidence of honesty. “T’was the right thing ta’ do. It’s me duty ta’ try and save lives; not take ‘em, no matter who they be. As it t’is with all the long knives. We don’t want ta’ bring destruction; only order and help ta’ them who be needin’ it.”
For a split second Nibaw’s eyes held suspicion, then it faded. The next words, Alan didn’t expect. “It is not easy to help one when he has been hurt by that one.”
Alan nodded. “Ya’ speak with a straight tongue, chief. Don’t ‘spose no one’d be knowin’ that much better than meself.”
Nibaw studied the man. “And I believe white-eyes also speak with straight tongue.” He motioned toward Tokala. “My son has said he would repay the favor someday. You save his life, so it is his wish that you live. Go now. We grant you to leave here with your life.”
Silently, Nibaw motioned with a hand to some near braves and the rawhide binds were quickly cut away. Alan almost started to massage his raw wrists, but then thought it might appear as a sign of weakness in their eyes and refrained himself. Another brave held out his pistol as another brought up his chestnut horse which they had apparently caught. He took the pistol by the barrel and moved slow and easy as he slid it into his holster, keeping his fingers well away from the trigger; then accepted the reins. He was about to walk away when he hesitated as a thought came to him. The chief saw it.
“There is something more?”
Well, it was open now. Alan turned back and questioned, “What about yer promise ta’ repay the young white-eyes as well?”
Nibaw nodded stiffly. “And we will honor our word.”
“Then will ya’ be doin’ it now?”
“What is it you ask?”
Alan took a breath. “I ask that ya’ let the long knives ya’ have pinned down go, and consider talkin’ peace with ‘em. We don’t want ta’ fight ya’ nohow. Ya’ said ya’d honor yer word. We came through here in peace, and t’was you who attacked us; but we still be willin’ ta’ leave in peace if ya’ let us.”
Nibaw was silent for so long that Alan began to worry he’d pressed his luck too far. He had his freedom now and he could use it to get help from the fort, he only hoped he hadn’t jeopardized all their chances. Finally the chief spoke, slow and solid, “Is that what the young white-eyes would want?”
The answer was genuinely firm, unwavering. “If the young one be here, I know without ah’ doubt that’s what she’d be wantin’.”
A long silence of eternity elapsed. The privet and the chief stared at one another; one in deep thought, the other in controlled anxiety. Gaze never shifting, Nibaw’s arm finally raised and pointed in the direction of the wash.
“Go,” he said and Alan could hardly believe it. “We shall honor our word. Go back to your friends. We let the long knives leave here alive.”
“And talk of peace?”
Nibaw’s eye darted down for a second then came back up. He straightened as his chest came out slightly. “Nibaw will dwell on this and give it thought. This, to the young white-eyes, I give my word.”
That was all he could ask for. Alan gave a slight nod. “I be tellin’ her. She’ll be glad ta’ hear.”
Without another word, the privet turned and walked through the horde of paint and feathers, leading his horse. As he passed through, the red-skinned braves slowly moved aside, creating a clear path to the edge. Heart racing, he forced every step to be composed; every movement controlled. Any sudden show of fear or panic could end in disaster.
Keeping his head up and his eyes ahead, Alan walked out of the mass of Indians and through the trees. Never before had the woods seemed so open. Behind him he heard the rustling and scuffling of braves getting onto their ponies. He knew they were going to follow him to the clearing’s edge and resisted the horrible urge to look back. It wasn’t over yet. Rivers of sweat trickling down his face and neck, Alan continued on; one step at a time.
Privet Foster wiped the sweat from his face, leaving behind a dirty smudge. “How long’s it been now?”
“Two minutes later then the last time you asked,” Hayes replied a bit annoyed.
Foster frowned as he fidgeted with his rifle. “Alright, alright. Just seems like forever since something’s happened,” he muttered. “And I just can’t stop thinking about poor Al–”
“Don’t say it,” Hayes snapped threateningly.
Beside him, Fredrick peeked up over the rim for a look. His eyes suddenly went wide. “Holy smokes!” he exclaimed.
All quickly became alert and Foster flopped down already aiming for a shot. A hand gripped the barrel and shoved it aside.
“Hold your fire, itchy fingers!” Fredrick quickly put in. “The Indians ain’t attacking.”
Having heard the commotion, Henderson came hurriedly. “What is it?”
Without a word, Fredrick pointed over the wash and up the slope. All eyes turned and faces went blank in shock as they saw the last thing they ever expected.
“Well, I’ll be a lop-eared jackrabbit,” Karson mumbled.
Walking calmly down the hill toward them was Alan, leading his chestnut horse; behind him, a row of Indians on ponies stretched along the tree line as far as could be seen, watching – weapons lowered. With a steady marching pace, the privet crossed the open area and up to the wash. No one said a word; just watched with open mouths as he carefully lead his horse over the rim, through the line of men and to the wash’s floor. Only then did Alan take the time to wipe away the sweat on his forehead and let out the long breath he had been holding; shoulders drooping in relief. The others gathered around, shooting questions left and right. Alan didn’t answer as he stood there breathing – and just being glad to be breathing.
Henderson came hastily up with Bates and grabbed Alan’s arm. “Branegan! What happened?”
“We be free, captain,” Alan answered.
Henderson blinked, his expression almost one of disbelief. “Free?” he repeated.
“Aye, sir, but they be watchin’ us. Have the men mount their horses slowly, we all be leavin’ here.”
A few minutes later, the troop was mounted and urging their horses up the wash’s side and out into the open. Slowly they moved in columns of twos as they passed by the woods, still lined thickly with the watching Indians. As previously ordered, all kept their eyes forward; sitting tall in the saddle as they moved out under the flag of their troop. For many tense minutes, they continued on till they were past and the woods were behind them with no signs of being followed. Only then did they began to breathe normally.
Foster gave a laugh of wonder. “I can’t believe it! We got out of it alive!” He grabbed the brim of his hat and the others knew he was about to give out a wild whoop.
“Save it, Foster,” Karson quickly said from his position just behind. “Wait till we get back safely to the fort, then you can yell your head off. I’ll even join ya’.”
Foster let his hand drop back down disappointedly, hat still in place. “Oh, alright. But it’s gunna be sheer torture to hold it that long though.”
(Chapter 16 will be released next Saturday.)
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