Red Prophet ttoam-2 Read online

  “Why are you afraid, White man?” asked the Prophet.

  “Cause I'm not stupid,” said Measure. “Only a stupid man wouldn't be scared to run the gatlopp.”

  The Prophet just laughed and walked off.

  Alvin was sitting in the sand again, writing or drawing or something with his finger.

  “You ain't mad at me, are you, Alvin? Cause I got to tell you, you can't be half as mad at me as I am at you. You got no duty to these Reds, but you sure got a duty to your ma and pa. Things being how they are, I can't make you do nothing, but I can tell you I'm ashamed of you for siding with them against me and your kin.”

  Al looked up, and there was tears in his eyes. “Maybe I am siding with my kin, did you think of that?”

  "Well you sure got a funny way of doing it, seeing as how you'll keep Ma and Pa worried sick for months, no doubt. "

  “Don't you think about anything bigger than our family? Don't you think maybe the Prophet's working out a plan to save the lives of thousands of Reds and Whites?”

  “That's where we're different,” said Measure. “I don't believe there is anything bigger than our family.”

  Alvin was still writing as Measure walked away. It didn't even occur to Measure what Alvin wrote in the sand. He saw, but he didn't look, he didn't read it. Now, though, the words came to his mind. RUN AWAY NOW, that's what Al was writing. A message to him? Why didn't he say it with his mouth, then? Nothing made'sense. The writing probably wasn't for him. And he sure wasn't going to run away and have Ta-Kumsaw and all them Reds sure he was a coward forever. What difference would it make if he ran away now? The Reds'd catch him in a minute, there in the woods, and then he'd run the gatlopp anyway, only it'd even be worse for him.

  The warriors formed two lines in the sand. They were carrying heavy branches fallen or cut from trees. Measure watched as an old man took the beads from around Ta-Kumsaw's neck, then pulled off his loincloth. Ta-Kumsaw turned to Measure and grinned. “White man is naked when he has no clothes. Red man is never naked in his own land. The wind is my clothing, the fire of the sun, the dust of the earth, the water of rain. I wear all these. I am the voice and the face of the land!”

  “Just get on with it,” said Measure.

  “I know someone who says a man like you has no poetry in his soul,” said Ta-Kumsaw.

  “And I know plenty of people who say that a man like you has no soul at all.”

  Ta-Kumsaw glared at him, barked a few words to his men, and then stepped between the lines.

  He walked slowly, his chin high and arrogant. The first Red struck him a blow across his thighs, using the skinny end of a branch. Ta-Kumsaw snatched the branch out of his hands, turned it around, and made him strike again, this time in the chest, a harsh blow that drove the air out of Ta-Kumsaw's lungs. Measure could hear the grunting sound from where he stood.

  The lines ran up the face of a dune, so that progress up the hill was slow. Ta-Kumsaw never paused as the blows came. His men were stern-faced, dutiful. They were helping him show courage, and so they gave him pain– but no damaging blows. His thighs and belly and shoulders took the worst of it. Nothing on his shins, nothing in his face. But that didn't mean he had it easy. Measure could see his shoulders, bloody from the rough bark of the branches. He imagined himself receiving every blow that fell, and knew that they'd strike him harder. I'm a royal fool, he said to himself. Here I am matching courage with the noblest man in America, as everybody knows.

  Ta-Kumsaw reached the end, turned, faced Measure from the top of the dune. His body was dripping with blood, and he was smiling. “Come to me, brave White man,” he called.

  Measure didn't hesitate. He started toward the gatlopp. It was a voice from behind that stopped him. The Prophet, shouting in Shaw-Nee. The Reds looked at him. When he was finished, Ta-Kumsaw spat. Measure, not knowing what had been said, started forward again. When he got to the first Red, he expected at least as hard a blow as Ta-Kumsaw got. But there was nothing. He took another step. Nothing. Maybe to show their contempt they meant to hit him in the back, but he climbed higher and higher up the dune, and still there was not a blow, not a move.

  He should have been relieved, he knew, but instead he was angry. They gave Ta-Kumsaw help in showing his courage, and now they were making Measure's passage through the gadopp a walk of shame instead of honor. He whirled around and faced the Prophet, who stood at the bottom of the dune, his arm across Alvin's shoulders.

  “What did you say to them?” Measure demanded.

  “I told them that if they killed you, everyone would say Ta-Kumsaw and the Prophet kidnapped these boys and murdered diem. I told them that if they marked you in any way, when you went home everybody would say we tortured you.”

  “And I say I want a fair chance to prove I'm not a coward!”

  “The gatlopp is a stupid idea, for men who forget their duty.”

  Measure reached down and grabbed a club from a Red man's hand. He struck his own thighs with it, again, again, trying to draw blood. It hurt, but not very bad, because whether he wanted to or not, his arms flinched at causing pain to his own self. So he thrust the branch back into the warrior's arms and demanded, “Hit me!”

  “The bigger a man is, the more people he serves,” said the Prophet. “A small man serves himself. Bigger is to serve your family. Bigger is to serve your tribe. Then your people. Biggest of all, to serve all men, and all lands. For yourself, you show courage. For your family, your tribe, your people, my people– for the land and all people in it, you walk this gatlopp with no mark on you.”

  Slowly, Measure turned around, walked up the dune to Ta-Kumsaw, untouched. Again Ta-Kumsaw spat on the ground, this time at Measure's feet.

  “I ain't no coward,” said Measure.

  Ta-Kumsaw walked away. Walked, slipped, slid down the dune. The warriors of the gatlopp also walked away. Measure stood at the top of the hill, feeling ashamed, angry, used.

  “Go!” shouted the Prophet. “Walk south from here!”

  He handed a pouch to Alvin, who scrambled up the dune and gave it to Measure. Measure opened it. It contained pernmican and dried corn, so he could suck on it on his way.

  “You coming with me?” Measure asked.

  “I'm going with Ta-Kumsaw,” said Alvin.

  “I could've made it through the gatlopp,” said Measure.

  “I know,” said Alvin.

  “If he wasn't going to let me go through it,” said Measure, “how come the Prophet allowed it to happen at all?”

  “He ain't telling,” said Alvin. “But something terrible's going to happen. And he wants it to happen. If you'd've went before, when I told you to run away–”

  “They would've caught me, Al.”

  “It was worth a try. Now when you leave, you're doing just what he wants.”

  “He plans for me to get killed or something?”

  “He promised me you'd live through this, Measure. And all the family. Him and Ta-Kumsaw, too.”

  “Then what's so terrible?”

  “I don't know. I'm just scared of what's going to happen. I think he's sending me with Ta-Kumsaw to save my life.”

  One more time, it was worth a try. “Alvin, if you love me, come with me now.”

  Alvin started to cry. “Measure, I love you, but I can't go.” Still crying, he ran down the dune. Not wanting to watch him out of sight, Measure started walking. Almost due south, a little bit east. He wouldn't have no trouble finding the way. But he felt sick with dread, and with shame for having let them talk him into leaving without his brother. I failed at everything here. I'm pretty near useless.

  He walked the rest of that day and spent the night in a pile of leaves in a hollow. Next day he walked till late afternoon, when he came to a south-flowing creek. It would flow into the Tippy-Canoe or the Wobbish, one or the other. It was too deep to walk down the middle, and too overgrown to walk alongside. So he just kept the stream within earshot and made his own way through the forest. He wasn't no Red
, that was for sure. He got scratched up by bushes and branches and bit by insects, none of which felt too good on his sunburnt skin. He also kept running into thickets and having to back out. Like the land was his enemy, slowing him down. He kept wishing for a horse and a good road.

  Hard as it was to go through the woods, though, he was up to it. Partly cause Alvin toughened up his feet for him. Partly cause of the way he seemed to breathe deeper than ever before. But it was more than that. Strength was wound in among his muscles in a way he never felt in his life. Never so alive as now. And he thought, If I had a horse right now, I think maybe I'd be wishing I was on foot.

  It was late afternoon on the second day when he heard a splashing sound in the river. There was no mistaking it– horses were being walked in the stream. That meant White men, maybe even folks from Vigor Church, still searching for him and Alvin.

  He scrambled his way to the Stream, getting scratched something awful on the way. They were headed downstrewn, away from him, four men on horseback. It wasn't till he was already out into the stream, yelling to bust his head off that he noticed they were wearing the green uniform of the U.S. Army. He never heard of them coming up in these parts. This was the country where White folks didn't go much, on account of not wanting to rile up the French at Fort Chicago.

  They heard him right off, and wheeled their horses around to see him. Almost quick as they saw him, three of them had their muskets up to the ready.

  “Don't shoot!” Measure cried.

  The soldiers rode toward him, making pretty slow progress as their horses had some trouble breasting the water.

  “Don't shoot, for heaven's sake,” Measure said. “You can see I ain't armed, I don't even have a knife.”

  “He talks English real good, don't he?” said one soldier to another.

  “Of course I do! I'm a White main.”

  “Now don't that beat all,” said another soldier. “First time I ever heard one of them claim to be White.”

  Measure looked down at his own skin. It was a vivid red color from his sunburn, much lighter than any true Red man. He was wearing a loincloth, and he looked pretty wild and dirty. But his beard was growing somewhat, wasn't it? For the first time Measure found himself wishing he was a hairy man, with thick heavy beard and lots of chest hair. Then there'd be no mistake, since Reds didn't grow much. As it was, though, they wouldn't see his light-colored mustache hair or the few little hairs on his chin till they were up cIdse.

  And they weren't taking no chances, either. Only one rode right up to him. The others hung back, their muskets out, ready to open fire in case Measure had some boys lying in ambush on the riverbank. He could see that the man riding toward him was plumb scared to death, looking this way and that, waiting to see a Red man flitch an arrow at him. Kind of an idiot, Measure decided, since there wasn't no chance of seeing a Red man in the woods till his arrow was already in you.

  The soldier didn't come right to him. He circled around, got beside him. Then he looped a rope and tossed it to Measure. “You hitch this around your chest, under your arms,” said the soldier.

  “What for?”

  “So I can lead you along.”

  “The hell I will,” said Measure. “If I thought you were going to drag me along by a rope in the middle of a creek, I'd've stayed on dry land and walked home myself.”

  “If you don't put this rope around you in five seconds, them boys are going to blow your head off.”

  “What are you talking about?” Measure demanded. “I'm Measure Miller. I was captured with my little brother, Alvin, almost a week ago, and I'm just going home to Vigor Church.”

  “Well, ain't that a real pretty story?” said the soldier. He drew back the rope, sopping wet, and cast it again. This time it hit Measure in the face. Measure caught at it, held it in his hand. The soldier drew his sword. “Get ready to shoot, boys!” shouted the soldier. “It's that renegade, all right!”

  “Renegade! I–” Then it finally occurred to Measure that something had gone real bad with this. They knew who he was, and they still wanted to take him prisoner.

  With three muskets and a sword close by, they had a fair chance of maybe even killing him if he tried to run away. This was the U.S. Army, wasn't it? Once they got him to an officer, he could explain and all this would get cleared up. So he put the rope over his head, and pulled the loop around his chest.

  It wasn't too bad as long as they were in the water; sometimes he just floated along. But pretty soon they got out and then they made him walk along behind as they picked their waythrough the woods. They were looping east, around behind Vigor Church.

  Measure tried talking, but they told him to shut up. “I tell you, we been told we can bring in renegades like you alive or dead. White man dressed like a Red– we know what you are.”

  From their conversation he was able to gather a few things. They were on a scout-around from General Harrison. It made Measure sick, to think things had got to the point where they'd call on that likker-dealing scoundrel to come north. And he got here awful fast, too.

  They spent the night camped in a clearing. They made so much noise that Measure thought it was a wonder they didn't have every Red in the whole country nosing around before morning.

  The next day, he flat refused to be dragged along on a rope. “I'm near naked, I got no weapons, and you can kill me or let me ride.” They could talk about bringing him in alive or dead and not caring which, but he knew that that was talk. These were a crude bunch, but they didn't hanker much after killing white men in cold blood. So he ended up on horseback, holding one of them around the waist. Pretty soon they reached country that had some roads and trails, and they made good time.

  Just after noon they reached an army camp. Not much of an army, maybe a hundred in uniform and another two hundred marching and drilling on a parade ground that used to be a pasture. Measure couldn't remember the name of the family that lived here. They were new folks, just come up from the area around Carthage. Turned out it didn't matter who they were, though. It was General Harrison had their house for his headquarters, and these scouts led him straight to Harrison.

  “Ah,” said Harrison. “One of the renegades.”

  “I'm no renegade,” said Measure. “They been treating me like a prisoner this whole way. I swear the Reds treated me better than your White soldiers.”

  “I ain't surprised much,” said Harrison. “They treated you real nice, I'm sure. Where's the other renegade?”

  “Other renegade? You mean my brother Alvin? You know who I am, and you ain't letting me go home?”

  “You answer my questions, and then I'll give some thought to answering yours.”

  “My brother Alvin ain't here, and he ain't coming, and from what I see before me I'm real glad he didn't come.”

  “Alvin? Ah, yes, they told me you were claiming to be Measure Miller. Well, we know that Measure Miller was murdered by Ta-Kurnsaw and the Prophet.”

  Measure spat on the floor. “You know that? From a few tore-up bloody clothes? Well you don't fool me. Do you think I don't see what you're doing?”

  “Take him to the cellar,” said Harrison. “Be real gentle with him.”

  “You don't want folks to know I'm alive, cause then they'll see they don't need you up here!” shouted Measure. “I wouldn't be surprised if you got them Chok-Taw to capture us in the first place!”

  “If that's true,” said Harrison, “then if I were you I'd watch how I talked and what I said. I'd be real worried about getting home alive, ever. Now look at yourself, boy. Skin red as a redbird, wearing a loincloth, looking wild as a real bad dream. No, I reckon if it turned out you was shot dead by mistake, nobody'd blame us, not a soul.”

  “My father'd know,” said Measure. “You can't fool him with a lie like that, Harrison. And Armor-of-God, he'll–”

  “Armor-of-God? That pathetic weakling? The one who keeps telling people that Ta-Kumsaw and the Prophet are innocent, and we shouldn't be getting ready to wipe
them out? Nobody listens to him no more, Measure.”

  “They will. Alvin's alive, and you'll never catch him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Cause he's with Ta-Kumsaw.”

  “Ah, and where is that?”

  “Not around here; you can bet.”

  “You've seen him? And the Prophet?”

  The hungry look in Harrison's eyes made Measure kind of step back and hold his tongue. “I seen what I seen,” said Measure. “And I'll say what I say.”

  “Say what I ask, or you'll be dead,” said Harrison.

  “Kill me, and I won't say nothing at all. But I'll tell you this. I saw the Prophet call a tornado out of a storm. I saw him walk on water. I saw him prophesy, and his prophecies all come true. He knows everything you plan to do. You think you're doing what you want, but you'll end up serving his purpose, you watch and see.”

  “What an idea,” said Harrison, chuckling. “By that reckoning, boy, it serves his purpose for you to be in my hands, don't it?” He waved his hands, and the soldiers dragged him out of the house and down into the root cellar. They treated him real gentle on the way– kicked him and knocked him down and all they could before they threw him down the steps and barred the door behind him.

  Since these folks came from Carthage country, the cellar door had a lock, as well as the bar. Down with the carrots, potatoes, and spiders, Measure tested that door as best he-could. His whole body was one big ache. All the scratches and the sunburn were nothing compared to the raw skin inside his thighs from riding behind with bare legs. And that was nothing compared to the pain from the kicks and bashes they gave him on the way here.

  Measure didn't waste no more time. He knew what was going on well enough to know Harrison couldn't let him out alive. He had those scouts out looking for him and Alvin. If they turned up alive, it would undo all his plans, and that'd be a real shame, cause things were going just right for Harrison. After all these years, here he was at Vigor Church, training the local men to be soldiers, while nobody was listening to Armor-of-God at all. Measure didn't much like the Prophet, but compared to Harrison the Prophet was a saint.