Ernest Dempsey
The Secret of the Stones
FOR MY FRIEND, ZENA GIBSON.
Epigraph
“The greatest zeal of man is not for love or money, but for immortality”
Prologue
A young Indian appeared from a patch of early morning fog, sprinting through the undergrowth of the forest. He recklessly ducked and weaved his way through the trees and brush. Twigs snapped and leaves crunched under his moccasins with every quick step. He was glad that he’d kept some of his old “traditional” clothing around. The soft breeches and cream-colored tunic were light and made movement considerably easier.
Despite his excellent conditioning, John Burse was out of breath and stopped to risk a moment of rest against a tall poplar. He squinted his deep brown eyes as he searched the surroundings for a route that might help him escape. He sucked in the cool spring air in huge gasps; the scent of dry leaves and pine needles filled his nostrils.
Then, his fears were realized as he heard the sounds of the dogs drawing closer and voices mingling with the howls of the animals. Two hundred feet behind him, a group of a dozen or so men with three hunting dogs came into view through the hazy mist.
John had known the dangers of what he’d been asked to do during the secret meeting the night before. The tribal council had trusted him with a mission of utmost importance. Being caught not only meant certain death, but could also, ultimately, lead to the downfall of his Cherokee people.
With a new resolve, he tightened his tan leather satchel and took off again, glancing back occasionally as he made his way through the maze of tree trunks. The group was still far behind him but well within shooting distance. Just as that thought occurred, he heard a familiar popping sound followed by a musket ball smashing into a nearby tree; the shot narrowly missed him by a few feet. The close call made his pace quicken.
His slender legs burned from the exertion and his lungs continued to gasp for more and more air. Hunting had kept him in good shape. Often, he and his father would chase down deer for miles after shooting them. Deer could manage to live a long time even with a critical wound from a gun or bow. But today he was the hunted, and the burden John carried made his journey that much more difficult.
Exhaustion was beginning to take its toll as he crested a small ridge; suddenly, he tumbled over the top and down into a small gulley, where he rolled to a stop at the edge of a large creek.
He’d been here many times. The expanse was about forty feet across, and at the deepest point appeared to be only about six feet deep. He could see the soldiers and their dogs in the distance closing on him fast. The little river foamed and churned as it flowed around a small bend just downstream. The young Indian knew the area well, probably better than even the most seasoned of soldiers. With little hesitation, he decided what he had to do and jumped into the icy, rushing waters.
The hunting party stopped at the same spot where their quarry had entered the river. A tracker busily inspected the ground near the edge. Footprints stopped there with no sign of them leading anywhere else. The dogs were restless, confused as to what happened to the trail they had been following. To the animal mind, it was as if the Indian had simply disappeared.
“Clever feller,” a leather-skinned Officer muttered before spitting out a slug of tobacco juice. He had a few marks of rank on his dark blue United States Army uniform and was obviously the man in charge. His matching cavalry hat had a few dirt streaks on it, but the distinct golden tassel still stood out proudly. The week-old stubble on his face was a patchwork of gray and light brown. He scratched his neck while considering the next move.
“He’s gone into the water, boys,” he said to his men in a matter of fact manner. “Thompson, take three others and the dogs and cross the creek. Check back two hundred feet upstream along the edge to see if there is any sign he came out. I’ll take the rest of the men downstream. If he’s in the water, he’s movin’ slow.”
Ten minutes later, the main group from the hunting party came to a waterfall. It was a seventy-foot drop to the bottom, where a shallow looking pool churned with the falling liquid. A small hill on the left dropped sharply over the edge. There was no way the Indian went that direction. The sheer cliffs meant he had to go to the right. That way led down to the bottom gradually by means of a faint path. A cold spray shot up both sides of the falls all the way up to where the men were standing.
“Sir, if he went over, I doubt he survived,” a young soldier chimed in, half-hoping their running was done for the day.
The keen leader didn’t buy it. This Indian had been far too smart to come so far, and then just fall over a cliff. “He didn’t go over, Private. Men, get down there and search the area. Someone get into that pool and check every inch of the bottom. Check the ground surrounding it too. If he came out of there, I want to know where. We can’t let him get away.”
The soldiers took off immediately, heading down by way of the path to the right of the falls. Thompson’s men and the dogs had just finished their check of the other side of the creek and were standing across from the old officer.
“Find anything, Lieutenant?”
“No sir. Not a thing, Colonel.”
“How far did you check upstream?” The lead officer looked towards the direction from where the water was coming.
“Three hundred feet, sir, just to be safe.” Thompson’s voice was firm.
The Colonel frowned then turned his head and spit the other direction. His eyes narrowed, scanning the forest undergrowth. “Good man, Lieutenant. Get back over here and head down there with the others. He must have gone that direction. Not sure if he jumped, but if he did, we should find him shortly.”
“Yes sir.”
The remaining men and the dogs scampered back through the icy water and made their way down the little path. The old officer peered around the surrounding woods, but could find no sign of the Indian. Deliberately, he turned and stalked down the trail to join his soldiers at the bottom.
Crouching in the dark, the Indian waited anxiously. The soldiers chasing him had surely not seen where he had gone. He must have just barely slipped from sight before they arrived to the river. He had moved carefully as he made his way from the water at the lip of the cliffs to the left of the falls. It had been a risky maneuver to lower himself down to an almost unnoticeable rock ledge that led behind the mist to a small cave.
From his hiding place, he could barely hear the orders of the officer and the confusion of the men below. It was difficult to understand what was being said over the rush of falling water, but there was obvious frustration among the group. Leaning back against the rocks, he took the chance to catch his breath. His only option was to wait and make his way out of the rocks when they were gone. Slowly, he stretched out his legs on the cold, moist stone and tried to relax, a difficult task given the circumstances. He hoped they didn’t notice the hidden ledge on the cliff. Unless one already knew it was there, the narrow path was almost invisible.
An hour or so had passed and the soldiers had found nothing. The officer in charge had been barking out orders for the last five minutes and was clearly unhappy about the Indian’s odd disappearance. From behind the mist and falling water, he could make out that the blurry shapes of the soldiers were taking off further downstream. Apparently, they thought he had jumped over the falls and continued on in the river. Again, he laid his head back on the satchel and let himself fall into an exhausted sleep, confident that the immediate threat was gone.