Jubal Sackett by Louis L'amour

Author:Louis L'amour [L'amour, Louis]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-07-19T16:45:25+00:00

She looked at me. “I do not know—“

“There was no other, except far away near the sea. We traded with the Cherokee, the Creek, and yes, the Natchee.”

“We walked for many days after the river. When I saw the mountains I could not believe. Ni’kwana had spoken of mountains, but—“ “These are higher, some of them.”

“I loved the mountains! Nobody understood but the Ni’kwana. I believe that was why he chose me to come here.”

“It was not an easy thing for a woman to do.”

“I am a Sun.”

The fire was burning low, the women worked, and firelight flickered on the walls, reminding me of the cave of the dancing shadows. “Who knows what the Ni’kwana thinks? Long ago when I was small I used to tell him of my dreams.” She looked over at me. “Do you have dreams?” “Sometimes.”

“We know there is a time after this because we see those who have died in our dreams. We are in the afterworld, and my mother is there and my father.” She turned to me suddenly. “What will you do when the cold is gone?”

“Go into the mountains. I want to see what is there.” “I told him of a dream. I told only the Ni’kwana. It was a dream of a boy. The boy walked on the mountains. He was alone, always alone.” “What did the boy do? Where was he going?”

She shrugged. “He was in the mountains. He walked alone. He did not do anything.

Oh, yes! Once he met a bear.”

“A bear?”

“A very large bear. I was afraid for the boy, but he spoke to the bear and the bear reared up on his hind legs to listen. The bear had a white streak on the side of his face, perhaps from an old wound. The bear peered at the boy who talked to him and then the bear got down on all four feet and went away.” It was very quiet in the cave. One of the women was preparing a buckskin, rubbing bone marrow into the hide to soften it and then rubbing it with a piece of sandstone. She was very quick and skillful and I watched her work. The woman wore black moccasins. I spoke of this.

“She is a Ponca who married one of our men. She was returning from the east with her father, who had been seeking the home of his ancestors.” “I have heard of them.”

“They are good people, a strong people.” She gestured away to the north. “Their home is there ... far away.”

At Shooting Creek my father, who wished to know all, collected what information he could gather from the Indians who came to trade. He or Jeremy Ring would talk long with the old men and women about their lives and their neighbors. Several had told us of the Ponca and of their kinfolk the Omahas, Otoes, and Osages. “Will you go home again?” she asked suddenly.

“I do not know. I do not think so. I have dreams, too, but my dreams do not come at night when I sleep.

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