osc.am2.redprophet-第8部分

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pouch。　He　hotted　up　a　whole　lot　of　other　places　on　that　saddle；　and　on　the　other　men's　saddles；　too。　When　they　reached　the　other　shore　they　mounted　up　and　rode　off；　but　Hooch　knew　they'd　be　riding　bareback　before　they　got　back　to　Nashville。　He　most　sincerely　hoped　that　Jackson's　saddle　would　break　in　such　a　way　and　at　such　a　time　that　old　Hickory　would　land　on　his　butt　or　maybe　even　break　his　arm。　Just　thinking　about　the　prospect　made　Hooch　pretty　cheerful。　Every　now　and　then　it　was　kind　of　fun　to　be　a　spark。　Take　some　pompous　holy…faced　lawyer　down　a　peg。
　　Truth　is；　an　honest　man　like　Andrew　Jackson　just　wasn't　no　match　for　a　couple　of　scoundrels　like　Bill　Harrison　and　Hooch　Palmer。　It　was　just　a　crying　shame　that　the　army　didn't　give　no　medals　to　soldiers　who　likkered　their　enemies　to　death　instead　of　shooting　them。　Cause　if　they　did；　Harrison　and　Palmer　would　both　be　heroes；　Hooch　knew　that　for　sure。
　　As　it　was；　Hooch　reckoned　Harrison　would　find　a　way　to　make　himself　a　hero　out　of　all　this　anyway；　while　Hooch　would　end　up　with　nothing　but　money。　Well；　that's　how　it　goes；　thought　Hooch。　Some　people　get　the　fame；　and　some　people　get　the　money。　But　I　don't　mind；　as　long　as　I'm　not　one　of　the　people　who　end　up　with　nothing　at　all。　I　sure　never　want　to　be　one　of　them。　And　if　I　am；　they're　sure　going　to　be　sorry。
　　
　　
　　Chapter　2　　Ta…Kumsaw
　　
　　While　Hooch　was　watching　Jackson　cross　the　river；　Ta…Kumsaw　watched　the　White　whisky　trader　and　knew　what　he　did。　So　did　any　other　Red　man　who　cared　to　watch　　sober　Red　man；　anyway。　White　man　does　a　lot　of　things　Red　man　don't　understand；　but　when　he　fiddle　with　fire；　water；　earth；　and　air；　he　can't　hide　it　from　a　Red　man。
　　Ta…Kumsaw　didn't　see　the　saddle　leather　burn　on　Jackson's　horse。　He　didn't　feel　the　heat。　What　he　saw　was　like　a　stirring；　a　tiny　whirlwind；　sucking　his　attention　out　across　the　water。　A　twisting　in　the　smoothness　of　the　land。　Most　Red　men　couldn't　feel　such　things　as　keen　as　Ta…Kumsaw。　Ta…Kumsaw's　little　brother；　Lolla…Wossiky；　was　the　only　one　Ta…Kumsaw　ever　knew　who　felt　it　more。　Very　much　more。　He　knew　all　those　whirlpools；　those　eddies　in　the　stream。　Ta…Kurnsaw　remembered　their　father；　Pucky…Shinwa；　he　spoke　of　Lolla…Wossiky；　that　he　would　be　shaman；　and　Ta…Kumsaw　would　be　war…leader。
　　That　was　before　Lying…Mouth　Harrison　shot　Pucky…Shinwa　right　before　Lolla…Wossiky's　eyes。　Ta…Kumsaw　was　off　hunting　that　day；　four…hands　walk　to　the　north；　but　he　felt　the　murder　like　a　gun　fired　right　behind　him。　When　a　White　man　laid　a　hex　or　a　curse　or　cast　a　doodlebug；　it　felt　to　Ta…Kumsaw　like　an　itch　under　his　skin；　but　when　a　White　man　killed；　it　was　like　a　knife　stabbing。
　　He　was　with　another　brother；　Methowa…Tasky；　and　he　called　to　him。　〃Did　you　feel　it？〃
　　Methowa…Tasky's　eyes　went　wide。　He　had　not。　But　even　then；　even　at　that　age　　not　yet　thirteen　　Ta…Kumsaw　had　no　doubt　of　himself。　He　felt　it。　It　was　true。　A　murder　had　been　done；　and　he　must　go　to　the　dying　man。
　　He　led　the　way；　running　through　the　forest。　Like　all　Red　men　in　the　old　days；　his　harmony　with　the　woodland　was　plete。　He　did　not　have　to　think　about　where　he　placed　his　feet；　he　knew　that　the　twigs　under　his　feet　would　soften　and　bend；　the　leaves　would　moisten　and　not　rustle；　the　branches　he　brushed　aside　would　go　back　quick　to　their　right　place　and　leave　no　sign　he　passed。　Some　White　men　prided　themselves　that　they　could　move　as　quiet　as　a　Red；　and　in　truth　some　of　them　could　　but　they　did　it　by　moving　slow；　careful；　watching　the　ground；　stepping　around　bushes。　They　never　knew　how　little　thought　a　Red　man　took　for　making　no　sound；　for　leaving　no　trace。
　　What　Ta…Kumsaw　thought　of　was　not　his　steps；　not　himself　at　all。　It　was　the　green　life　of　the　woodland　all　around　him；　and　in　the　heart　of　it；　before　his　face；　the　black　whirlpool　sucking　him　downward；　stronger；　faster；　toward　the　place　where　the　living　green　was　torn　open　like　a　wound　to　let　a　murder　through。　Long　before　they　got　there；　even　Methowa…Tasky　could　feel　it。　There　on　the　ground　lies　their　father；　a　bullet　through　his　face。　And　by　him；　silent　and　unseeing；　stands　Lolla…Wossiky；　ten　years　old。
　　Ta…Kumsaw　carried　his　father's　body　home　across　his　shoulders；　like　a　deer。　Methowa…Tasky　led　Lolla…Wossiky　by　the　hand；　for　otherwise　the　boy　would　not　move。　Mother　greeted　them　with　great　wails　of　grief；　for　she　also　felt　the　death；　but　did　not　know　it　was　her　own　husband　until　her　sons　brought　him　back。　Mother　tied　her　husband's　corpse　to　Ta…Kumsaw's　back；　then　Ta…Kumsaw　climbed　the　tallest　tree；　untied　his　father's　corpse　from　his　back；　and　bound　it　to　the　highest　branch　he　could　reach。
　　It　would　have　been　very　bad　if　he　had　climbed　beyond　his　strength；　and　his　father's　body　had　fallen　from　his　grasp。　But　Ta…Kumsaw　did　not　climb　beyond　his　strength。　He　tied　his　father　to　a　branch　so　high　the　sun　touched　his　father's　face　all　day。　The　birds　and　insects　would　eat　of　him；　the　sun　and　air　would　dry　him；　the　rain　would　wash　the　last　of　him　downward　to　the　earth。　This　was　how　Ta…Kumsaw　gave　his　father　back　to　the　land。
　　But　what　could　they　do　with　Lolla…Wossiky？　He　said　nothing；　he　wouldn't　eat　unless　someone　fed　him；　and　if　you　didn't　take　his　hand　and　lead　him；　he　would　stay　in　one　place　forever。　Mother　was　frightened　at　what　had　happened　to　her　son。　Mother　loved　Ta…Kumsaw　very　much；　more　than　any　other　mother　in　the　tribe　loved　any　other　son；　but　even　so；　she　loved　Lolla…Wossiky　more。　Many　times　she　told　them　all　how　baby　Lolla…Wossiky　cried　the　first　time　the　air　grew　bitter　cold　each　winter。　She　could　never　get　him　to　stop；　no　matter　how　she　covered　him　with　bearskins　and　buffalo　robes。　Then　one　winter　he　was　old　enough　to　talk；　and　he　told　her　why　he　cried。　〃All　the　bees　are　dying；〃　he　said。　That　was　Lolla…Wossiky；　the　only　Shaw…Nee　who　ever　felt　the　death　of　bees。
　　That　was　the　boy　standing　beside　his　father　when　Colonel　Bill　Harrison　shot　him　dead。　If　Ta…Kumsaw　felt　that　murder　like　a　knife　wound；　half　a　day's　journey　away；　what　did　Lolla…Wossiky　feel；　standing　so　close；　and　already　so　sensitive？　If　he　cried　for　the　death　of　bees　in　winter；　what　did　he　feel　when　a　White　man　murdered　his　father　before　his　eyes？
　　After　a　few　years；　Lolla…Wossiky　finally　began　to　speak　again；　but　the　fire　was　gone　from　his　eyes；　and　he　was　careless。　He　put　his　own　eye　out　by　accident；　because　he　tripped　and　fell　on　the　short　jagged　stump　of　a　broken　bush。　Tripped　and　fell！　What　Red　man　ever　did　that？　It　was　like　Lolla…Wossiky　lost　all　feeling　for　the　land；　he　was　dull　as　a　White　man。
　　Or　maybe；　Ta…Kumsaw　thought；　maybe　the　sound　of　that　ancient　gunshot　still　rings　in　his　head　so　loud　he　can't　hear　anything　else　now；　maybe　that　old　pain　is　still　so　sharp　that　he　can't　feel　the　tickling　of　the　living　world。　Pain　all　the　time　till　the　first　taste　of　whisky　showed　Lolla…Wossiky　how　to　take　away　the　sharp　edge　of　it。
　　That　was　why　Ta…Kumsaw　never　beat　Lolla…Wossiky　for　likkering；　though　he　would　beat　any　other　Shaw…Nee；　even　his　brothers；　even　an　old　man；　if　he　found　him　with　the　White　man's　poison　in　his　hand。
　　But　the　White　man　never　guessed　at　what　the　Red　man　saw　and　heard　and　felt。　The　White　man　brought　death　and　emptiness　to　this　place。　The　White　man　cut　down　wise　old　trees　with　much　to　tell；　young　saplings　with　many　lifetimes　of　life　ahead；　and　the　White　man　never　asked；　Will　you　be　glad　to　make　a　lodgehouse　for　me　and　my　tribe？　Hack　and　cut　and　chop　and　burn；　that　was　the　White　man's　way。　Take　from　the　forest；　take　from　the　land；　take　from　the　river；　but　put　nothing　back。　The　White　man　killed　animals　he　didn't　need；　animals　that　did　him　no　harm；　yet　if　a　bear　woke　hungry　in　the　winter　and　took　so　much　as　a　single　young　pig；　the　White　man　hunted　him　down　and　killed　him　in　revenge。　He　never　felt　the　balance　of　the　land　at　all。
　　No　wonder　the　land　hated　the　White　man！　No　wonder　all　the　natural　things　of　the　land　rebelled　against　his　step：　crackling　underfoot；　bending　the　wrong　way；　shouting　out　to　the　Red　man；　Here　was　where　the　enemy　stood！　Here　came　the　intruder；　through　these　bushes；　up　this　hill！　The　White　man　joked　that　Reds　could　even　track　a　man　on　water；　then　laughed　as　if　it　wasn't　true。　But　it　was　true；　for　when　a　White　man　passed　along　a　river　or　a　lake；　it　bubbled　and　foamed　and　rippled　loud　for　hours　after　he　had　passed。
　　Now　Hooch　Palmer；　poison…seller；　sly　killer；　now　he　stands　making　his　silly　fire　on　another　White　man's　saddles；　thinking　no　one　knows。　These　White　men　with　their　weak　little　knacks。　These　White　men　with　their　hexes　and　their　wardings。　Didn't　they　know　their　hexes　only　fended　off　unnatural　things？　If　a　thief　es；　knowing　he　does　wrong；　then　a　good　strong　fending　hex　makes　his　fear　grow　till　he　cries　out　and　runs　away。　But　the　Red　man　never　is　a　thief。　The　Red　man　belongs　wherever　he　is　in　this　land。　To　him　the　hex　is　just　a　cold　place；　a　stirring　in　the　air；　and　nothing　more。　To　him　a　knack　is　like　a　fly；　buzz　buzz　buzz。　Far　above　this　fly；　the　power　of　the　living　land　is　a　hundred　hawks；　watching；　circling。
　　Ta…Kumsaw　watched　Hooch　turn　away；　return　to　the　fort。　Soon　Hooch　sells　his　poison　in　earnest。　Most　of　the　Red　men　gathered　here　will　be　drunk。　Ta…Kumsaw　will