It's Monday and time for another deleted scene. This particular one, again deals with Nokose and his drive for blood revenge. The Creek believed that in order for your murdered family member's spirits to find rest, their murderer must be put to death. It was the family member's/clan's responsibility to ascertain this was done.
Nokose believes this to be the reason for his nightmares. His responsibility has weighed heavily on his mind for years, but finally, he gets his chance to do what he believes to be the right thing.
From a historic stand-point, this is the council that brings the Choctaw (ancient enemy of the Creek) to join American forces during the Creek War. In the final copy of
Wounded Spirits, we see the results of this as Totka's Red Stick village runs from approaching Choctaw warriors.
The council as it is described below, including Pushmatahaw's speech, is taken straight from history.
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| Choctaw Chief Pushmatahaw |
Nokose Finds the Man in his Dreams
Kooncheto, Choctaw Nation
This mass of humanity drawn together for a purpose, the electric quality of the atmosphere surrounding hundreds of warriors—to Nokose, it all had a remarkably similar tone to another council not many months past. But there were two striking differences.
These were not his people. They were Choctaw, and they had gathered for a purpose exactly opposite the Great Council Meeting of 1811 when Tecumseh had given his fiery speech denouncing the whites. That meeting had been the start of the war.
This meeting might well be the beginning of the end of it.
Nokose wiped the cold, October rain from his face and shouldered his way through the pressing throng, in search of a position near the front. He glanced behind him to make sure Chafigi, his young translator, kept pace with him.
Feeling as if there might be an omniscient, caring God after all, Nokose had leapt at the chance to volunteer as a Creek spy at the upcoming council. And now, here he was, in the heart of the Choctaw Nation, waiting to hear Chief Pushmatahaw’s words.
Thunder rumbled in the distance as a brisk westerly wind pushed a block of storm clouds toward them. Ezekiel Cummings, Ezekiel Cummings. The name ran through Nokose’s mind like frothy water through the treacherous shoals of the Tennessee River
Finally able to put a name to the face tormenting his dreams, he repeated it to himself while skimming the crowd in the day’s waning light. He longed for a glimpse of the man whose face had grown so familiar.
He tried to imagine what the man must look like now, over twenty years later. He must not have changed too much for Galena to recognize him. She’d only seen him once, after all.
A smile twisted Nokose’s lips as he remembered her motherly concern after witnessing his reaction to bumping into the man shortly after his parents’ death.
In a rage, he had assaulted him, a man three times Nokose’s own size. Like a bothersome dog, he had been kicked aside. He had been just a boy, but today he would not be brushed aside so easily.
Silence washed over the throng as Pushmatahaw stood in the center of the council square. George Gaines was seated just to the side.
Dread sank to the pit of Nokose’s stomach as he took in the Choctaw leader. The man wore a suit of blue United States issue regimentals. Gold epaulettes fringed the shoulders. There was no question where his allegiance lay. He stood, hands clasped behind his back, mouth tipped down at the corners.
After a dignified pause, he began. “You know Tecumseh. He is a bad man. He came through our nation, but did not turn our heads.”
Chafigi discreetly translated into Nokose’s ear. “He went among the Muscogee and got many of them to join him.
“You know the Tensaw people. They were our friends. They played ball with us. They sheltered and fed us whenever we went to Pensacola.”
His voice rose. “Where are they now? Their bodies rot at Sam Mims’ place. The people at St. Stephens are our friends. The Muscogee intend to kill them too. The whites want soldiers to defend them.”
Drawing out his sword, he brandished it, cutting through the rain with the polished edge. “You can do as you please. You are all freemen. I dictate to none of you. But I shall join the St. Stephens people. If you have a mind to follow me, I will lead you to glory and to victory!”
Lightning split the sky and reflected off the weapon he still held aloft. A brief moment of utter stillness passed. Then, a young warrior stepped forward and slapped his hand against his breast.
“I am a man. I am a man! I will follow you!” Thunder crashed overhead, competing with a shout of approval from the mass. The sound reverberated in Nokose’s chest and rattled his nerves.
The elation transforming Gaines’ face contrasted with the gloom sweeping through Nokose. His sweet children’s portentous fate had just been pronounced. The thought filled him with the desire to run home and shield them from danger.
He swiveled on his heel to leave, but an abrupt movement in the center of the square caught his eye. A man approached and leaned to speak in Gaines’ ear.
Nokose squinted through the dusk, hoping to bring the man’s features into focus. Is it him? Ezekiel Cummings, Ezekiel Cummings…
Scraggly white hair sprayed from beneath the man’s tri-corn hat. The wrinkles lining his hardened face and several days’ growth of beard could not hide his identity. Nokose would recognize those heartless gray eyes on the darkest of nights.
As his heartbeat quickened, the world around him slowed and dissolved. There were now only two people in it—him and Ezekiel Cummings.
***
Struggling against the flow of men, Nokose Fixico grunted and pushed against the masses. Chafigi had been sent in the opposite direction towards Tuckabatchee with the message the Choctaw had joined the Americans.
He knew the route Cummins would take, and he knew what information the man would disclose to the eager ears of the white chiefs. Another reason to kill the man.
Nokose smirked. A delay in enemy communication could only help the Red Stick cause. If he had needed more justification to kill Cummins, Nokose had it. The shifty-eyed scout deserved to die, to suffer then crave the freedom death would bring. But Nokose would have no time for such today.
He broke free of the binding crowd and sprinted toward his pony, heedless of the pelting rain. He leapt onto the animal’s back and spun toward the tree-studded rise to the east.
A well-traveled path wound its way around the base of the crag, but Nokose would not be using it. Fingers buried in his horse’s mane, he prodded the pony’s ribs with his heels, urging the animal into the shadowy woodland.
The beast’s sides heaved as his sturdy legs propelled him up the steep incline. Not satisfied with their progress, Nokose broke off a length of passing tree branch and switched the animal’s hindquarters. Ears flat and eyes bulging, the pony increased its tempo.
The ground blurred beneath his feet. Vegetation whipped at his face.
Nokose had one chance to get this right. He would not miss it. The spirits had gifted him retribution, and he would make use of it if he killed his pony doing so.
Before long, Nokose spied the peak.
Now to find the bluff.
Yesterday, while entering Kooncheto, he had traveled the path below. The image of an overhang played in his memory. He swept keen eyes over the terrain.
There. Just as he remembered—a young pine and a boulder with a diagonal crevice.
Nokose pulled the pony to a fast stop. His moccasin feet landed without a sound. He crept toward the boulder. Blood hammered in his ear, as he wondered whether he was too late. Had the scout already passed by?
Willing his breathing to steady and his heart to slow, he listened. The wind whistled through the pine needles above. A bird renewed its song.
Then, in the distance, he heard it. The rhythmic trot of hoof against packed dirt. It made his heart thud faster.
Belly against rock, he slithered to the precipice. The path lay no more than twelve feet below. It was perfect.
Knife in hand, he waited.
The sound of hoof beats grew louder. Eyes riveted to the bend in the path just ahead, Nokose planned his next moves. Just moments passed before the horse and rider made the bend.
A soiled, floppy hat hid the man’s face from view.
Tilt your head. Give me a look of your face. There were just seconds now before Nokose should be in the air. Let me see you!
Desperate, Nokose threw a stone against a tree just up the road. It worked.
The leather brim lifted as the man jolted at the sound. Nokose launched himself into the air with a shriek.
He landed square on Cummins’ back and tumbled with him to the ground. The man’s horse darted off, but not before one of his hooves hit Nokose’s chest.
He lost his breath with the blinding pain. He rolled onto his side, trying to pull himself together.
Cummins scrambled to his feet and thrust a toe under Nokose’ shoulder. He flipped him onto his back then pinned him to the ground with his weight. “Who are you?”
Nokose kicked to free himself.
A dizzying punch snapped Nokose’ head to the side. He ground his teeth against the pain. “The son of murdered parents and the one who brings your death.”
Cummins squeezed his knees into Nokose’ chest in a torturous crush. The world spun, yet he refused to cry out.
Cummins let loose a mocking laugh. “Change of plans.”
The glint of metal caught Nokose’ eye. In a frantic move, he lunged to the side sparing his neck but sacrificing his shoulder to the man’s blade. With a crazed cry, he summoned twenty years of hate and threw Cummins off him.
Ignoring the pain screaming through him, Nokose pummeled Cummins’s face until the older man’s eyes rolled back into his head, and he seemed about to lose consciousness. Nokose pulled back wanting Cummins to know who had killed him and why.
“Cummins!” Nokose grabbed him by the jaw and jostled his head to bring him around. When his lids opened, their eyes met. “The blood of my mother and father, the blood you spilled, cries from the ground. For these many years, their blood has demanded satisfaction, and today it will be given.”
Cummins opened his mouth to reply, but Nokose was too swift. With the crunch of blade against bone, he sank his knife into Cummins’ heart. In one swift move, he extracted it from his chest and ran it in a tight circle around his crown.
Scalp in hand, Nokose let the lifeless head fall to the ground. Standing and straddling the dead man, Nokose lifted the dripping trophy into the air and let out a screech of victory.
Now he could sleep in peace. Now Cummin’s face would no longer disturb his dreams--his life. Now the spirits of his family would find rest.
Blood revenge had been exacted. The peace his soul longed for, but feared it would never have, would find him at last.
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