Broken Trail by Jean Rae Baxter Page A

you can.” Elijah’s forehead was beaded with sweat, and his eyes had a glazed look when they met Broken Trail’s.
    Broken Trail unhooked the canteen from Elijah’s belt and crawled from the hole. The steep side of Kings Mountain loomed over his shoulder as he walked down to the creek. In this glade he and Red Sun Rising had left the horses hobbled while they went to give the message to Major Ferguson. Was that only two days ago? It felt twice that long. Now little piles of horse manure were the only evidence of horses having been there.
    Broken Trail had told Red Sun Rising to take one of the horses and to leave the other for him. Travelling on horseback, Red Sun Rising must be nearly home by now. What a warm welcome awaited him! Broken Trail pictured him riding into Chickamauga wearing the handsome red coat and riding the dark horse.
    What had become of the second horse? Broken Trail wondered. Most likely an Over Mountain man had come upon it, cut the hobbles and ridden off. A fine prize to take home!
    On the flood plain Broken Trail quickly found a large slippery elm from which he could strip bark without killing the tree. He knew the rituals for gathering medicines. It was not only animals that had spirits. Shrubs, herbs and trees allmust be spoken to before their parts could be harvested. Standing at the foot of the tree, he chanted softly:
    Share with me your power to cleanse and to heal.
    Pardon me that I have no sacrifice to offer,
    No wampum or tobacco or beads.
    My thanks are all I can give in return for your gift.
    It is for my brother that I need your healing power.
    With the blade of his tomahawk he hacked through the furrowed outer bark of the slippery elm, and then used his knife to cut away the sticky, slippery inner bark. When he had enough to make a poultice, he wrapped it in burdock leaves.
    Broken Trail chanted the same words to the white willow that he found growing beside the creek. He needed only a little of its inner bark, just enough to trim into slender strips that would go through the opening of Elijah’s canteen to steep in fresh water from the creek.
    Finally, he found rocks of the right size and shape to serve as a natural mortar and pestle. When he had pounded the slippery elm bark to a thick paste, he carried it in burdock leaves to the cavity under the maple tree.
    Taking care of Elijah gave Broken Trail a good feeling. It seemed as though the two of them had crammed into one day and one night three lost years of brotherhood. Before long, they would have to part again; he tried not to think about that.
    When Broken Trail had laid the wet poultice on the wound and covered it with the burdock leaves, Elijah looked more cheerful. Without objection, he drank the sour liquid in his canteen.
    â€œThe drink will make you feel better soon,” Broken Trail said. “The poultice takes longer. By tomorrow we’ll see a difference.”
    Elijah smiled weakly. “You should be a doctor.”
    Broken Trail shrugged. He saw himself as a future warrior, not as a healer—though both deserved respect.
    â€œI mean it. You could teach a few things to that sawbones of a surgeon in our regiment. After every battle, he inspects our wounded. Shot in the leg? Cut it off. Shot in the arm? Cut it off. Shot in the head? Cut—”
    Broken Trail laughed. “Oneida healing is different. We know how to draw out poisons. In our villages, you don’t see many old warriors hobbling around with limbs missing.”
    That night Broken Trail slept sitting up, his legs bent and his head slumped on his knees. Too uncomfortable to slumber long, he woke in the middle of the night and, unable to fall asleep again, pondered the strange turn his life had taken. More and more he came to believe that finding Elijah was part of the Great Spirit’s plan. But what purpose lay behind it?
    He knew about men and women whom the unseen spiritshad especially favoured. Some, like Wolf Woman,