The Devil's Highway Page 8

  With his new clothes slung over his arm, Zeb walked with Isushi to the barn. There Zeb opened the bedroll and took out the small bar of lye soap. It hadn’t been used very much. They walked a short distance from the council house on a well-worn path to a bend in the creek. The water was deep and clear and slow moving.

  Zeb took off his clothes and jumped in. He swam from one side to the other and then stood in the shallow part and rubbed the bar of soap all over his body, wrinkling his nose at the strong odor. His skin tingled. He washed his hair and rinsed, and then started washing all over again. He had thought he would never be clean again!

  Isushi shook his head. “You are a lot like Nashoba. He never wants to get out of the water. It is time to go back now. Come!”

  Zeb climbed out and tried on the clothes he had found in the box: homespun pants, a shirt, and a deerskin jacket. They were worn, but they fit.

  When Zeb and Isushi got back to the council house, Nashoba said, “Isushi will go over to the village and let them know that we have two more to feed. The women will bring the food to us in about an hour. You two can stay here as long as you like.”

  Zeb was hungry, but he was anxious to get moving. “We really can’t stay here very long. Just tonight. There are some people looking for me. I’ve got to try to keep ahead of them. You say it’s about a week to Natchez?”

  Nashoba nodded. “It’s a week if you can ride eight to ten hours a day.”

  “That’s going to be rough. Maybe it would be better if Hannah stays here with you. She can wait for the next army patrol.”

  “I’m sure she expects to go with you. She can handle a lot, as you know. The big problem won’t be the hard riding. The road to Natchez is still a very dangerous road to travel.”

  “That’s what worries me, especially if Hannah—”

  “Look, why don’t I go with you?” Nashoba broke in. “The village will send someone else out here to help guard the Research Center. I have something very important to do at Yockanookani Village, and it’s on our way.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Brave Horse

  The three of them left the Choctaw village the next morning, moving at a quick trot, hoping to make Choteau’s Inn by nightfall. Nashoba led them on Choctaw trails as much as possible. When they did have to use the Natchez Road, they moved off if they heard someone coming.

  It was a long day’s ride—a full thirty miles—before they found Choteau’s Inn. Fortunately they had been able to stop every hour or two to water the horses. Even so, the horses and riders were very tired when they arrived.

  Before they settled in for the night, Nashoba disappeared for a while and returned looking very serious. He was unusually quiet, but every once in a while he would chuckle to himself. Zeb looked over at Hannah, who shrugged as if his strange behavior was nothing to be concerned about.

  The next morning, Nashoba told them that the Norton Inn was only twelve miles away, half a day’s ride, but Brashear’s Inn, the one after that, was more than fifty miles down the road.

  “There is another choice,” he said. “We can see if we can stay at a Choctaw village that’s only thirty miles away. It is located on the Yockanookani River.”

  “Do you think we’ll be welcome there?”

  Nashoba shrugged. “Red Dog is the Miko, the district chief of that area. He is a good friend of my father. I don’t think we’ll have any trouble.”

  Hannah didn’t say anything, just nodded in agreement to everything Nashoba suggested. Zeb had the feeling that she and Nashoba had already discussed the plan. He couldn’t imagine when that would have been possible.

  He, too, nodded in agreement. “All right, let’s give it a try. I would feel much safer camping with you in a Choctaw village than I would on the Natchez Road.”

  Nashoba and Hannah exchanged looks and Hannah smiled. “It’s all settled, then,” he said.

  They reached the outskirts of the village late in the afternoon. Nashoba stopped and pointed to the river. “Before we meet the Miko and the Alikchi, let’s wash and change our clothes. The horses need a bath, too.”

  They walked the horses to the riverbank, followed by some of the village children. Zeb untacked Christmas and led him to the river.

  Hannah had already led Harlequin into the cool water. He began pawing the water, throwing up great splashes. Then, with a groan of pleasure, the little horse sank to his knees in the shallow water and rolled onto his side.

  Christmas pawed at the water, but when he dropped to his knees and rolled over, his huge bulk created a wave that soaked Hannah. She laughed and called to Harlequin. The horses stood up and shook themselves off. Nashoba and Zeb led them back to the grassy bank to graze. The village children stood in a solemn cluster, watching what they were doing.

  Nashoba pointed downstream. “Hannah,” he said. “There’s a nice pool, not too deep, just around the curve of the river. Why don’t you go down there, and Zeb and I will wash here?”

  “It’s within hollering distance,” he shouted to Hannah, as an afterthought.

  He turned to Zeb to explain. “Bears or big cats aren’t likely to come this close to the village,” he said, “but you can never be sure.”

  After washing, Zeb just wanted to relax and enjoy the water. Nashoba had already bathed and changed his clothes. Zeb looked up to see Hannah and Nashoba standing on the bank, watching him. Hannah, with her short hair and butternut-colored pants and shirt, looked like a young boy. “You saw the council house in that little clearing next to the village?” Nashoba asked. Zeb nodded. “Hannah and I will go up and talk with the chief about spending the night here,” Nashoba continued. “Stay as long as you like and enjoy yourself.”

  When Zeb got back to the clearing, a dozen horses stood tethered to the rail. The strong smell of horse sweat told Zeb that some of these horses had been ridden a distance to get here. There was something different about the horses, he noticed. They were stockier, stronger looking, and broader in the hindquarters than most Indian ponies. These must be the famous Choctaw ponies his grampa was always talking about. He wondered how fast they were.

  Men were moving into the clearing, coming from every direction. When they glanced at him, he nodded. No one seemed surprised to see him. Most of them nodded back, and a few of them smiled in a way that made Zeb check to be sure his pants hadn’t split open again.

  Hannah and Nashoba came running out of the council house. Hannah seemed to be bursting with news, but she waited for Nashoba to say something. He looked at Zeb very seriously. “The Miko wants to talk with you. Come now. He is waiting.”

  “What’s going on? Why are there so many people here?”

  “This is the day, once a year, that the villages decide who will be the leading brave, the one who will lead the others into battle with the Chickasaw or the Creek if they attack. The important thing now is that the Miko wants to talk with you.” He looked so serious, Zeb was worried. Maybe they shouldn’t have asked to stay here. He looked over at Hannah. She was grinning. Zeb relaxed. It couldn’t be that bad.

  Zeb walked between Nashoba and Hannah back to the council house. They entered through a large, heavy door. The building was similar to the council house at Yowani except that this one had a dirt floor. It had one large room, no furniture at all, and a single small window at the center of each wall.

  At least fifteen men stood looking at him. He learned later that the men were the chiefs of the surrounding villages. It was easy to know which person was the Miko. A man about thirty years old, he was tall and slender and stood proudly erect. He looked to be very much in charge.

  Nashoba whispered to Zeb, “Walk over and stand in front of the Miko. He will ask you some questions. Answer them all as honestly as you can.”

  Zeb licked his lips. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. This seemed to be an inquiry of some kind—maybe about Hannah. He wondered what would happen if they didn’t like his answers.

  Zeb stood in front of the Miko with his
arms hanging loosely at his side. He tried to look more at ease than he felt. The Miko stared at him solemnly. “I understand,” he said, “that you saved Hannah from the Mason gang?”

  “No, sir,” Zeb said. “She had run away and we just traveled together. She deserves all the credit for getting away from them.”

  “But you did save her from drowning?”

  “Well, sir,” Zeb said, “we wouldn’t have been in that river if we hadn’t been running away from some people looking for me. I made the decision to try to swim the horse across. I got her into it, and I had to get her out. None of that was her fault.” Zeb thought about those moments when he wasn’t really sure that he should go after her.

  “You tried to focus the attention of the army patrol on you so Hannah could escape?”

  Zeb was feeling very uncomfortable. They made it sound much more heroic than it really was. He hadn’t thought that either one of them had had much of a chance.

  Zeb was about to say something, but the Miko held up his hand. “And you told Hannah that you would be proud to be a Choctaw?”

  Zeb nodded. Had he made a fool of himself?

  By this time all of the other chiefs had gathered behind the Miko. They looked very serious indeed.

  The Miko stared at Zeb for a long time, and then he said, “We have decided to make you an honorary brave in the Choctaw Nation. If you agree, you will be as a brother to all of us, and we will be your brothers. When you are in the Choctaw lands, you will be subject to the laws of the Choctaw and the direction of the village chief.”

  The Miko locked his eyes with Zeb’s. “Do you want to be a Choctaw?”

  Zeb was very honored, but he couldn’t find the words to express his feelings. He nodded his head.

  “Good!” the Miko said. “The ceremony will begin.”

  Zeb stepped back to stand between Nashoba and Hannah. “So this is what you were up to at Choteau’s Inn,” he whispered.

  Nashoba put his hand on Zeb’s shoulder. “I, for one, am proud to call you brother.”

  Hannah’s eyes were shining. She seemed very happy.

  Zeb watched Hannah turn and walk away, slipping through the crowd of men and out the door, little clouds of red dust rising from her footsteps. Nashoba whispered to Zeb, “She had to leave. The ceremony is only for men.”

  Nashoba gestured with his chin at an old man who was moving to the center of the room. He was being helped by two of the village chiefs.

  “He’s the Alikchi,” Nashoba whispered. “He is more of a priest than a doctor. He calls on the Great Spirit who created us all.”

  “Today,” Nashoba whispered, “you are being born as a Choctaw. You will get a Choctaw name. The Alikchi will give it to you. He will be inspired by the Great Spirit. The Great Spirit will also tell you what to do with your life. Listen carefully. I will tell you what he is saying.”

  The old man began to speak. His voice was low and clear, in spite of his age. “In the beginning,” he said, “the Choctaw came from far away in the West, across the great water. No one knows from where. They traveled with their leader, Chata, and a white dog of great magical powers. They carried with them the bones of their ancestors. They found this place and decided to stay, building the sacred mound, Nanih Waiya, to be the center of our nation.

  “They separated themselves from others, the Natchez, the Chickasaw, and the Muscogee. Those are tribes of violence. The Choctaw is a tribe of peace. This tribe will fight only to defend its land or to protect its honor.

  “The Choctaw divorced some but welcomes others, men of great courage and of peace.

  “The Great Spirit is poured upon you, Zebulon D’Evereux. Your Choctaw name is Isuba Nakni, ‘Brave Horse,’ in honor of the courage you have shown. It will be up to you, Brave Horse, and to the other young men of the Choctaw nation to make sure that we keep our word and show to all of the other nations that we are people of honor.”

  Suddenly all of the village chiefs began shouting in Choctaw and pushing their way toward Zeb. The noise was deafening. Dust from the dirt floor filled the air. The men pounded Nashoba on the back and grabbed Zeb and hugged him. Only a few of the men spoke English. They all seemed to have one question: “Ishtaboli?”

  Nashoba laughed. “No, they don’t really expect you to play ishtaboli. At least, not till you’ve practiced for a while. It’s traditional after a ceremony for the men and sometimes the women to play ishtaboli. You would be better off as a spectator.”

  “But I learn pretty quickly.” Zeb protested. “Tell me how to play—”

  “Even though this will only be a ritual game, with just a few on each side, probably no more than thirty, it still would be better for you to watch,” Nashoba explained. “Sometimes we have over a hundred on each side! We may be men of peace, but we play ishtaboli very, very violently.”

  Suddenly all the village chiefs began shouting in Choctaw and pushing their way toward Zeb.

  Nashoba laughed at the disappointed look on Zeb’s face. “You will thank me later. This will be a very short game because there will be horse racing after the ishtaboli.”

  Zeb relaxed. Horse racing. He wondered if the Choctaw ever bet on the races. Maybe he could double what money he had left.

  After being hugged and pounded by everyone there, Zeb and Nashoba left the council house and found Hannah just outside the door. She looked up expectantly.

  Zeb was about to speak, but Nashoba held up his hand. “Remember, a Choctaw never tells his name to anyone. Someone else must do it.”

  He put his hand on Zeb’s shoulder and turned to Hannah. “His name,” he said proudly, “is Isuba Nakni, Brave Horse.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Ishtaboli

  Hundreds of Choctaw moved through the forest toward a broad field—about fifteen acres of flat meadow, the grass cropped short by the horses. Two tall poles several yards apart served as goalposts at each end of the field. Men were beginning to gather for the game.

  Nashoba stopped and took off his shirt and his pants. All he had on was a cloth between his legs and a belt around his waist to hold it up. Something about the way he stood—knees slightly bent, weight on the balls of his feet, ready to move—reminded Zeb of a wild animal. His head was still, but his eyes were moving, taking in the other players. Nashoba handed Hannah a hank of horse tail which she hooked into the back of his belt.

  A young Choctaw brave handed two strange-looking sticks to Nashoba. Hannah said they were called kapuchas. They looked like long wooden spoons. They were about three feet long, made of white oak and split on the end. The split piece was bent back and lashed to the main part of the stick, forming a pocket the size of a cupped hand. A leather thong was strung across the back of the pocket.

  Nashoba’s teammate tossed him a heavy, leather-covered ball the size of an apple, which Nashoba caught in the pocket of one of the sticks. He tossed the ball back and forth between the two sticks and then threw it hard to his teammate. The other player caught it and tossed it on the ground in front of Nashoba. Nashoba ran to the ball, scooped it up in a stick, and threw it back to his teammate.

  Someone beat a drum, and another person blew into a cane flute. The two teams, about thirty men each, ran to the center of the field. Hannah told Zeb that the night before, the team members and some of the women had danced the Ball Play Dance. In the dance the players rattle their kapuchas together violently and sing loudly to the Great Spirit. The women dance between them chanting.

  “Today,” she said, “after this ritual game and the horse racing they will probably dance the Eagle Dance.” She cocked her head and looked up at him out of the corners of her eyes. “Maybe they’ll invite you to participate.”

  Four of the Alikchis sat on one side, smoking long pipes, blowing smoke slowly into the air. Hannah said that they were the judges of the play and were sending smoke to the Great Spirit asking for guidance.

  An old man walked to the center of the field. He raised his hand. The group was suddenly qui
et. After a moment, he threw the ball into the air.

  Most of the men crushed together in the middle, trying to find the ball and whacking each other with the sticks. They screamed at each other. Suddenly, someone erupted from the group, running with the ball. It was Nashoba! As he ran toward one of the goalposts, he held the stick up the air, twisting it back and forth to keep the ball juggling in the pocket, ready to be thrown. At least ten men closed in on him. They swung their sticks at him as hard as they could. Zeb was convinced that if they ever connected with him, they would kill him.

  Suddenly Nashoba stopped, and in one motion he wheeled and threw the ball to a teammate across the field. Most of the men chased after the teammate. A few, however, seemed to be content to stay with Nashoba, trying to club him with their sticks. Fortunately, most of the blows fell on the shafts of the sticks.

  The players were trying to throw the ball between the goalposts of the opponents. Whenever they were successful, the two teams assembled again in the middle to fight over the ball again.

  Several players had to be helped off the field. Most of them had bloody noses. Hannah told him that in the big games between two villages bones were sometimes broken.

  A cloud of dust rose over the field. Zeb could smell the sweet aroma of dried manure. They must use this field for the horse racing as well, he thought. The dust was so thick that it was now impossible to pick out Nashoba from among the players. He wondered how they could see the ball.

  On one side, a long line of women sat on the ground with little piles of goods in front of them: baskets, sleeping mats, deerskins, beaded belts, piles of fruits and sweet potatoes. Zeb pointed to them. “Are they going to sell those things after the game?” he asked.

  Hannah sighed. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice,” she said. “Those women are betting on which team will win. They bet the crafts they have made or the food they have gathered or grown. They take these games very seriously.”