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  Harding reached his weapons first. Turning back toward the woods, he saw half-a-dozen Indians charging toward them, all with raised tomahawks. He shot the first one with his rifle, then raised one pistol and held it until the next Indian came into range. He fired again and that Indian went down as well.

  By now some of the other boatmen had reached their weapons and they too began returning fire. One more boatman was killed, but at least four more Indians went down. Realizing they had lost the advantage of surprise, the remaining Indians turned and scurried back into the woods.

  “Hurrah, boys! We’ve turned them away!” Hank shouted.

  “Yeah, but they’ll be back, and there are only four of us left,” one of the others said.

  “We had better reload quickly,” Harding suggested. “Get the guns from the fellas who were killed. We’ll be needing every one of them.”

  Scurrying around quickly, the remaining four men gathered up all the other weapons, loaded them, and waited for the Indians to return.

  Instead of Indians, however, there came a thunderous boom. Immediately thereafter, a cannonball burst in their midst. A second cannonball smashed into one of the boats.

  “Cannons?” Harding said in surprise. “The Indians are using cannons?”

  “Indians my eye!” Hank said, pointing. “Lessen they’ve taken to wearin’ them fancy red coats, it ain’t Indians that’s attackin’ us.”

  Looking in the direction Hank pointed, Harding saw that two field artillery pieces had been rolled out of the woods. Manning the artillery pieces were soldiers in uniform. The most prominent feature of each uniform was its red jacket.

  The cannons fired a second time. Hurling toward the boatmen out of the twilight came a cloud of chain shot. Hank and the other two boatmen were cut down in the terrible carnage the chain shot created. Harding was the only one left.

  By now, mercifully, the twilight had faded to the point of near-darkness. Staying on his belly, but always keeping a wary eye on the wood line from which the Indians had emerged, Harding abandoned his weapons and wriggled backward, down to the water’s edge. He slipped down into the water quietly, and dog-paddled away from the shore, swimming all the way out to the middle of the stream. Once there, he took advantage of the current to swim downriver as hard and as fast as he could.

  Behind him, he heard the whoops and shouts of the Indians. When he was far enough away, he crossed the river and came out on the other side. There, wet, cold, and exhausted, he looked back. The Indians were unloading the boats; then, as each boat was emptied, it was set to the torch. By the light of the burning boats he could see the Indians dancing in glee while a group of uniformed British soldiers stood by, looking on.

  Harding knew that America was at war with the British, but as far as he was concerned, the war was the business of politicians and soldiers.

  “Damn you British bastards,” Harding said. “You’ve just made this war my business.”

  10

  Running hard down the path, Art skidded to a stop, then looked toward the center circle of the village. There he saw his goal—a vest, decorated with red-dyed porcupine quills, hanging from an arm at the top of a thirty-foot pole. He had only to reach that pole, climb it, and grab the vest to claim his prize. However, seven other contestants had the same objective in mind.

  It was six months now since Art had joined the Shawnee, and he was participating in a week-long festival that gave thanks for the warmth of the sun, the nourishment of the rain, and the supply of fish and game by which the village fed itself. The most significant part of the festival, however, was the Counting Out ceremony, a rite of passage in which boys became men.

  Part of the passage to manhood was the young men’s participation in the games. The winner of the games won a handsome vest. The desirability of the vest was not just due to its attractiveness, though the village’s most skilled weaver and decorator was always chosen to make it. The real value of the vest was based upon its symbolism, for whoever won it would be an honored member of the community from that point forward. For the rest of his life, he would bring the vest out and display it proudly at special events, and would be treated with great deference by the others in the village.

  There were eight candidates for manhood today, each one beginning at individually assigned starting points outside the village. From there, they had to successfully negotiate numerous obstacles before reaching the outskirts of the village itself. The preliminary obstacles consisted of temporary constructions such as moats to be crossed, tunnels to be crawled through, walls to be scaled, and ropes to be climbed. With the completion of the first part of the circuit, the difficulty increased dramatically; for from that moment on, the contestants would not only face the course obstacles, they would have to compete against each other as well. And anything that prevented one’s opponent from reaching his goal, short of inflicting serious bodily injury, was considered fair.

  From the onset the men, women, and younger children of the village had gathered to shout encouragement to the eight participants. The last leg of the circuit was shared by all the contestants, so nearly everyone from the village had gathered to cheer their favorites on.

  Art was warmed to hear his own name called as he started toward the pole, where hung the prize.

  “Artoor! Artoor! Artoor!” several shouted in excitement as Art, who was now in the lead, prepared to cover the final one hundred yards.

  Art was nearly exhausted by the ordeal, but he smiled and waved to acknowledge the cheers of the crowd.

  “Tolian! Tolian! Tolian!” the crowd began to chant.

  Art looked back over his shoulder and saw that Tolian had just completed the first part of the contest and he too was on the final leg. Though Art would have preferred to be far in front of everyone, he was glad that the one closest to him was Tolian, for he and his stepbrother had become best of friends over the last six months. It didn’t surprise him to see Tolian so close, however, for the two had been competitors from the very beginning. Their rivalry was good-natured, though, and each would go to the aid of the other in a moment, should that ever be required.

  By now three other contestants were in view, so that five of the eight who had started were still in the hunt. One of the remaining participants was Metacoma, a young man who had long been Tolian’s rival and enemy. Art had tried to befriend everyone, but because he was Tolian’s brother, a position accorded as much validity as if they had actually been born brothers, Metacoma now considered Art his enemy as well.

  Suddenly a wall of fire flared up in front of Art, igniting so quickly and with such ferocity that he could feel the blast of heat. It was a planned obstacle, ignited by one of the village elders, but Art had been paying such close attention to those running up behind him that he was not looking ahead, and he nearly ran headlong into the flames.

  Gasps and squeals of surprise and excitement erupted from the spectators, and they drew closer to see how the contestants were going to overcome this spectacular of all the hurdles.

  The fire served the purpose of stopping Art long enough for the others to catch up. For a few seconds the five young men stood there, contemplating the latest in the long series of challenges they had encountered.

  “Ho!” one of the other young men shouted to his rivals. “Would you have a small fire stop you? Cower, if you wish. I will claim the prize.”

  The young man backed up a few feet, then ran toward the fire. He leapt through it, but even before he disappeared, Art saw his clothes catch on fire. He could hear the young man screaming in pain from the other side, where someone quickly threw him to the ground, rolling him over to extinguish the flames. The young man’s approach had clearly failed.

  “Artoor! Come!” Tolian shouted.

  “What is it?” Art asked.

  “We can help each other, if you will trust me,” Tolian said.

  “You want me to trust you?”

  “My brother, have I given you cause not to trust me?” Tolian asked.<
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  Art laughed. “Only every time we have competed,” he replied.

  “Well, that is true,” Tolian agreed. But you must trust me now. Either we work together, or the prize will go to another.”

  “What would you have me do?” Art asked.

  “See that tree,” Tolian said, pointing to one near the wall of fire. “Neither of us can reach the bottom limb without help. But if you give me a lift up, once I am there 1 will reach a hand down to you. We can then climb above the fire and leap over it. When we are on the other side, it will again be each for himself.”

  Art hesitated. He was probably setting himself up for one of Tolian’s tricks, but there seemed to be no other choice.

  “All right,” he agreed. “I will do as you ask.”

  Quickly, they ran to the tree and, as promised, Art gave Tolian a boost to reach the lowest limb. Once in the tree, however, Tolian started to climb immediately, showing that he had no intention of helping Art.

  “Tolian, you would do that to me?”

  Tolian laughed. “1 cannot believe that you let me trick you again. When will you learn, my brother?”

  “Tolian, look!” Art shouted. He pointed across to another tree where the two remaining contestants had come to the same agreement. And, like Tolian, the one who had been helped into the tree betrayed the one who had helped him and was climbing quickly.

  “That’s Metacoma. Would you betray me, my brother, as Metacoma has betrayed his friend? Are you just like him?”

  Art knew that Tolian would not want such a comparison made.

  “I am not like Metacoma!” Tolian insisted with a shout of frustrated rage. Trapped by circumstances, he started back down the tree to help his brother.

  Art smiled. Tolian had a degree of self-respect, and he had just played upon it, shaming Tolian into seeing that if he abandoned him, he was no better than the hated Metacoma.

  “Hurry!” Tolian shouted, holding his hand down. “He is getting ahead of us!”

  With Tolian’s help, Art reached the bottom limb of the tree. As soon as he had a good grip, Tolian let go and scampered up quickly. He climbed above the flames, then jumped over to the other side, hitting the ground at about the same time as Metacoma. He rolled as he hit the ground to break his fall. Art, though several seconds behind the other two, got over the flames as well.

  The wall of fire had been the last physical barrier the contestants had to conquer, and now nothing remained but a dash of seventy-five yards to the center of the circle and the pole from which hung the prize.

  Metacoma had a slight lead on Tolian and Art, and was almost to the pole when Tolian suddenly launched his body at Metacoma’s legs, bringing him down in a heap. The unsuspecting Metacoma slammed into the ground, while Tolian, who had been prepared for the impact, regained his feet as easily as if he were a cat. Now Tolian had the lead and he reached the pole first.

  Tolian started up the pole. He was halfway to the top when Metacoma, having recovered quickly, shinnied up the pole, reached up, grabbed Tolian’s foot, then yanked him back down. With a shout of anger and surprise, Tolian was pulled from the pole, falling nearly fifteen feet to the ground.

  “I have won!” Metacoma shouted in exultation. He looked over his shoulder at Tolian, who, momentarily stunned by the fall, was struggling to his feet and shaking his head to clear it. “Stay there, Tolian!” Metacoma called down to him. “Watch me claim my prize!”

  Metacoma laughed, then climbed the remaining fifteen feet. When he reached the top and stretched his hand out to snatch the prize, however, he discovered that a final obstacle had been put in the way of the contestants. Every time he reached for the vest, it began to bounce around, jerking just out of his grasp. That was because a long cord was attached to it, and standing below at the other end of the cord was a man whose job it was to make this, the final task, as difficult as all the rest.

  Metacoma reached for the vest again, but managed to snatch nothing but thin air. He kept lunging for it, and once he made such a desperate grab that had he not urgently wrapped both his arms around the pole, he would have plunged to the ground. The crowd gasped with anticipation, then sighed with relief that Metacoma had regained his hold, for a fall from that high up the pole would surely have inflicted serious injury.

  By now Tolian had regained his wits enough to begin climbing the pole as well. All around the circle people who had already counted him out now cheered his efforts.

  For the moment Art was convinced that he was entirely out of it, for even if he attempted to climb the pole now, he would be the third one on the pole, and the farthest away from the prize. He looked over at the man who was manipulating the vest by pulling on the long cord, and saw that he had just managed to pull it out of the way of Metacoma’s grasp.

  Suddenly Art got an idea. Grabbing a knife from the belt of someone who was standing nearby, he ran over to the man who was manipulating the vest.

  Holding on to the pole with both legs and one arm, Metacoma reached for the vest. He felt his fingers touch it.

  “I’ve got it!” he shouted in triumph.

  At that precise moment, Art made a quick slice at the cord. The cord severed and the vest dropped.

  Metacoma’s scream of frustrated rage was joined by Tolian’s shout of surprise; then both calls were drowned out by the shouts of the villagers as they realized what had just happened.

  Art was some twenty yards from where the vest fell, and he started toward it. Tolian recovered quickly, slid down the pole, then dived for the vest just as Art did. The hands of both young men wrapped around the vest simultaneously, and neither would let go.

  The cheers died in the throats of the villagers. They wanted to cheer for the winner, but which one was it? Both young men had apparently reached the prize at the same time. The rules, though very lax as to what impediments the contestants could put in each other’s way during the quest, were quite specific about the conclusion. Once the vest was clearly in the grasp of a contestant, the game was over and the contestant was the winner. But in whose grasp was the it?

  Art and Tolian lay on their stomachs, breathing hard from exertion. Though neither would let go, they did not fight each other for possession. Instead, they just lay there to await the decision of those who would judge the contest.

  Art saw that Tolian was bleeding from wounds in his forehead and lip.

  “Are you hurt, Tolian?” he asked.

  “No,” Tolian replied. “How can I be hurt? I have won!”

  Though Art did not try to take the vest from Tolian, he shook it once to emphasize that his claim of victory was every bit as strong as his stepbrother’s. “Don’t be so quick to declare victory,” he cautioned.

  Tolian looked back toward the pole where the vest had been hanging, and he saw Metacoma leaning against it, his head lowered in a posture of defeat.

  “Yes, well, at least Metacoma did not win,” Tolian said.

  By now some of the other contestants were beginning to drag into the circle, some limping with injuries, others holding their arms or heads painfully.

  “Aiyee, aiyee ... hear me now!” Keytano shouted.

  The villagers grew quiet to listen to the decision.

  “There is not one winner, there are two winners,” Keytano said. “Tolian and Artoor will share the prize!”

  “But how can they share the prize?” one of the villagers asked. “There is only one prize.”

  “We will cut the vest into two pieces,” Keytano said.

  Suddenly Art remember a Bible story his mother had once read to him. In a dispute over who was the real mother of a baby, King Solomon offered to solve the dilemma by offering to cut the child into two pieces, giving half of the child to each mother. One mother agreed to the solution, but the other withdrew her claim, rather than see the child harmed. Solomon then awarded her the child.

  Art let go of the vest and stood up.

  “No,” he said. “The vest should not be cut. There should be only one win
ner. I relinquish to my bother, Tolian.”

  “Aiyee! I have won!” Tolian shouted in excitement. Clutching the vest tightly, he jumped up, then began dancing and whooping with joy.

  “You have done a good thing,” Keytano said. “It is good that Tolian has won.”

  “I see you’ve never heard of Solomon,” Art said, smiling wanly and speaking in English.

  “The King in the Jesus-God book,” Keytano said, also speaking in English. “Yes, I have heard of Solomon. But the woman with the child was not his daughter. Tolian is the son of my son.”

  “And I am the son of your son.”

  “You are the English son of my son. Tolian is the Shawnee son of my son. But because I am of good heart today, I will not punish you for speaking English.”

  Art realized then that this was the first sentence he had spoken in English in over six months. Though he missed hearing his own language, he had to admit that the total immersion in Shawnee had helped him learn the language rather quickly.

  Language wasn’t the only thing Art had learned while living with the Shawnee. He knew how to make traps to capture game, he knew how to find deer by becoming a deer, he knew how to watch the birds as they went to water at night so that he could find water. He knew which plants made medicine to heal wounds and which plants would treat pain. If, ever again, he found himself alone in the woods, he would not starve.

  * * *

  Jennie’s situation had improved. It wasn’t that Eby was a kinder owner than Younger—Eby was every bit as despicable as her former owner had been—but Jennie rarely saw Eby because he had borrowed money and, on his note, pledged all the income she could generate until his debt was repaid. As a result Jennie was no longer relegated to doing business from the back of a wagon, but was working in Etta Claire’s Visitation Salon, a first-class house of prostitution.

  Etta Claire, was Etta Claire Dozier, a former prostitute who, for fifteen percent of the take, provided room, food, and a convivial atmosphere for the girls.