Several days later, John Watts disperses runners and riders to spread a call for a gathering of the lower town’s leaders to be convened under the same oak where he greeted and met with the young men from Cherokee Rock.
    He plans for the council on one evening of the full moon.
Dideyohvsgi and Benjamin sleep and eat at Walela’s lodge, as if she is her family’s matriarch.
    Each day, the friends go with the woman as she herds her milk cows on the surrounding lands and searches for fresh grass.
    The shaman wanders on the trips and looks for medicinal solutions in berries, roots, and seeds to aid the prevention or maintenance of people with pox.
    Benjamin spends his time with Walela. 
    He helps the unselfish girl guide her herd, find fresh grazing, and milk the animals each day.
    The medicine man, as he focuses on his profession, ignores the milkmaid and the freedman.
    “Your friend is only interested in his medicines?” the owner supervises her cows.
    “Dideyohvsgi promised Son of Stone Cloud to save your people from the pox. His mother died of it. I think that’s more of a reason than his promise.” Ben chews a grass blade and watches his friend. “But he does what he says.”
    “Did you know her?” The young woman looks at her companion.
    “His mother? No. I only knew his squirrel,” Benjamin smiles.
    “Tell me.” she moves closer, interested.
    “Long story, for another time.” The freedman’s attention focuses on her closeness.        “Your parents and family died. What do you plan for your life?”
    “My cows give me a present occupation. But I want children, a husband, and a real future, as everyone else. And you?”
    Benjamin turns on his elbows, “The same. Someday a cotton plantation. But no slaves. Only Freedmen work my crops.”
    “You are an ambitious man, Mister Waters,” Walela leans closer and kisses the freedman. She withdraws and sits on her heels.
    The two sit in silence for long moments and enjoy each other’s company.
    Ben breaks the mood. “Today in this pasture, with the clean air in our hair, you have my attention. That is wonderful, but a dark sickness and war shades the Cherokee. Dideyohvsgi offers hope and light. I am committed to helping him. The one you want; I cannot be soon.”
    “You underestimate me, Benjamin,” she clasps her hands together in her lap. “But you should accept that others say your friend is weak and a false shaman. They claim he seeks a cure for the pox that is not an actual threat. Mohi says that your medicine man wants the Whites to invade our lands, so he discovers new worlds. Invents a culture where you, I, and the people return to the plants and animals as in the stories of olden times.”
    “That man is a liar.” Ben’s voice hardens.
    “And Dragging Canoe?” Walela looks at the freedman. “Take care, Benjamin. I fear what waits in your future.”
                                                                         ***
    Several days later as they follow a smallpox report, Dideyohvsgi and Ben approach Ustanali, a lower town’s village.
    The place is one of sixteen communities east of the Blue Ridge Mountains across the Piedmont plains.
    Lesser settlements surround the larger ones.
    The communities divide into three groups, the lower, what is now Georgia and western South Carolina, the middle towns eastward from the Appalachians, and the Over-hill on their slopes.
    The groups share culture but govern autonomously.
    Uneasy peace in the lower section since the murder of Old Tassel and violence in the upper and middle sections drive most Cherokee allegiance to Dragging Canoe and his followers.
    Dideyohvsgi enters the warrior’s heartland.
    Its Uku (ᎤᎫ, u-ku, First Beloved Man) meets the shaman. “Greetings! We welcome the emissary from John Watts!”
    “Osiyo, (ᎣᏏᏲ, o-si-yo, Greetings) Uku!” He nears the resident. “I draw thorns from your feet. We walk the white path of life together. As a brother of my blood, we greet you.”
    The Uku turns toward his village with the two men at his sides.
    “John Watts sends me to variolate your people.”
    “And many die. Is that correct?” The villager stares at Dideyohvsgi.
    “A few,” the visitor assures the emissary. “The others recover. And they never fear the pox again.”
    “Our leaders tell us differently.” The friendship stops. “The great shaman Mohi teaches smallpox is no more. He says in a terrible battle of determination and spirit, our Dragging Canoe defeated and killed the Kosvkvskini. No longer does their sickness stalk our villages.”
    Dideyohvsgi glances at Benjamin, who stands with a frozen face.
    The medicine man shakes his head, “John Watts believes we should take precautions.”
    “That kills my people?” The villager opens his palms with concern.
    “You do not believe Watts?” Dideyohvsgi looks past the village’s representative.
    “John Watts is a fighter. Dragging Canoe is a greater warrior, and Mohi is his healer. John Watts variolates his own, but the families of Ustanali are Dragging Canoe’s.” The leader’s voice raises with frustration. “I withdraw our welcome.”
                                                                ***
    That evening, Dideyohvsgi and Ben pitch camp in a clearing near Ustanali along a hunting trail that leads to the next town.
    The two cook a rabbit.
    “You talk to animals, but you also eat them.” The freedman smiles at his friend across the fire.
    Dideyohvsgi flips the meat. 
    “Consider slaves. Your lower towns have them. Did the favored people bargain with us?”
    “You’re in a good mood. What got you riled?” The medicine man resumes his seat.
    “Answer my question.”
    “No, we have no legend for that. But Cherokee believe in free humans. Only a few who trade with the Whites own slaves.”
    “From the numbers I see, looks as if you trade a lot,” Benjamin kicks a coal closer to the flames.
    “Many adopt the White man’s ways. My people listen to the loudest, such as Mohi and Dragging Canoe,” Dideyohvsgi stirs coals with a stick. “And to slave owners.”
    “Lies repeated become facts,” Ben spits into the fire, and the moisture hits an ember and sizzles.
    Both men fall silent as the smell of cooking rabbit and ember smoke sweeps upward in rising heat.
    A rustle in the darkness attracts their attention. Both lunge for muskets that lean against a nearby tree.
    “Don’t shoot! We mean no harm,” a woman’s voice penetrates the night.
    “Then show yourselves! Step forward,” Dideyohvsgi holds his weapon at ready.
    A Cherokee woman, with an infant and two youngsters, moves into the campfire’s circle of light.
    The children grip their mother’s dress for security.
    “I am from Ustanali. The Uku does not know. I heard you visited today, and my baby is sick. Can you help?”
    Dideyohvsgi steps closer and removes a blanket from the infant. 
    A feverish face peers from the bundle, and sweat moistens the child’s forehead.
    “The boy has the pox.” The medicine man watches the woman.
    She trembles in fear at the words. “The Uku does not allow smallpox. Our shaman says the sickness is no more. I can’t go back.”
    Dideyohvsgi looks at Ben, who smiles as he glances at toddlers who clings to their mother’s skirt.
    “Stay here with us, but you must let me variolate you and your children.” The medicine man grasps the woman’s elbow. “It makes you sick with the pox, but most recover and never catch it again. The baby, I’m afraid, may die because he has the fever.”
                                                                 ***
    Four days later, the clearing along the hunting trail serves as a field hospital.
    Primitive lodges built of local material house patients.
    Benjamin cools feverish brows with water from a nearby creek.
    The mother who stumbled into camp lies on a mat with her two children, recovering from variolation.
    Other more ill, newer arrivals, lie in other temporary spaces.
    Dideyohvsgi pokes newcomer’s palms with his knife and rubs pustule seepage from the original sick baby into those wounds.
    A boy grasps his variolation to stop blood. “You know, medicine man, that we cannot return to our village until we are well?”
    “Yes,” the shaman pats the boy’s shoulder, “and I won’t let you go back. We can’t spread the smallpox.”
    “There is no pox,” the youngster shakes his head. “Mohi says it’s from chickens.        Dragging Canoe killed the Kosvkvskini and banished the disease.”
    “Son, this has nothing to do with that minor illness,” Dideyohvsgi laughs. “The name of it came because when you suffer the sickness, you look pecked by hens.”
    “That’s not what Mohi preaches,” the boy’s body language shifts to confrontational.     “He is Dragging Canoe’s chosen one. He is a greater shaman than you are.”
    “Variolation makes you sicker than chicken pox. By the next full moon, you recover. Go rest with your family. I have others to variolate.”
                                                                  ***
    For days, Dideyohvsgi and Benjamin treat refugees from Ustanali. They require smallpox variolation of the non-infected.
    The people in their clearing lie on mats in makeshift lean-tos and battle symptoms. 
    Most fight, aware of their affliction, but a few choose to deny reality and pretend otherwise.
    In the middle of an afternoon, a commotion approaches from the south.
    The Uku of Ustanali parades before several tribal leaders with Mohi at his side and stomps the hunting trail wider.
    Ben hears the approach. “Dideyohvsgi, hear them?”
    The healer nods, “Please, greet our visitors.”
    Benjamin trots toward the noise and confronts the small group, “Hold here, if you recognize what’s best for you.”
    The Uku and Mohi stop.
    “I told you we did not welcome you in Ustanali!” The leader puffs his chest with self-importance.
    “And we know your message. This is not Ustanali,” Ben does not carry his musket.
    Dragging Canoe’s representative recognizes the freedman.
    “Waters,” Mohi steps ahead of the others. “Does John Watts send you?”
    “He did. We battle an infestation of smallpox.” The freedman stands in the path.
    “The pox from chickens?” The medicine man laughs and pokes the Uku.
    “No. The pustule disease! Up this trail. Dideyohvsgi and I care for many from Ustanali.”
    Mohi pushes past, and Ben follows Dragging Canoe’s rep into the encampment.
    “I expected you!” Mohi spies Dideyohvsgi as he cools a patient.
    “What do you want?” The younger healer stands.
    “I want to show the Uku his people you murder with incompetence,” the older shaman steps closer and looks at a woman with smallpox. “A few will die of the chicken’s pox! This upper-town apprentice to a dead and forgotten prophet spreads pestilence. They want you to think John Watts knows everthing. No! Dragging Canoe killed the Kosvkvskini! John Watts and his deception kills loyal followers of Dragging Canoe. Make our hero First Beloved Man!”
    Dideyohvsgi stands over his patient and stares at the hysterics for a moment. 
    He steps to a mat nearby and lifts the cover from a small body.
    The baby brought to the encampment by its mother lies dead and covered with the pustules of smallpox.
    The Uku with Mohi gasps for breath and reacts several paces backward.
    “Leave us,” Dideyohvsgi grits his teeth together and re-drapes the child, “to care for our people in peace.”
                                                                      ***
    Weeks later, after most of the recovered patients return to their lodges, Dideyohvsgi and Benjamin burn the encampment’s lean-tos and temporary care spaces.
    Along with mats, bedding, and other items, the materials create an impressive bonfire.
    Smoke from the heat rises into the air, a giant black column of defeated sickness and despair.
    Both men stand and watch the flames, hypnotized by the dance.
    “Thank you,” a voice interrupts.
    Dideyohvsgi and Ben turn to view the woman who lost her baby. Her two smiling children hang one to each hand.
    “I am sorry we did not save your child,” the young medicine man nods.
    “You saved these. And others. We will always remember you and Benjamin,” she clasps her hands below her chin. “You lead your people.”
    “The Unetlanvhi guides. Stay healthy.”
    “You as well. But I have a warning. Where you walk, lies prepare the path. Do not go into the village. The Uku devotes himself to Dragging Canoe. You are in danger there.”
    “Thank you. We travel home. John Watts, sent a message to return as soon as we are able.”