Ahead, the line of Comanches waited. Lady Carey glanced back. Her son, the four Rangers, and the three women all walked obediently behind her. Emerald, the tall Negress, at the end of the line, had undraped one breast—she held aloft Lord Carey’s fine sword—the keen blade flashed in the early sunlight. Emerald paused, on impulse, and shrugged off her white cloak. Soon she, too, was walking naked toward the line of warriors.
As she came nearer, close enough to see the Comanche war chief’s great hump and the ochre lines of paint on his face and chest, Lucinda, Lady Carey, opened her throat and sang her aria with the full power of her lungs—she let her voice rise high, and then higher still. She pretended for a moment that she was at La Scala, where she had had the honor of meeting Signor Verdi. She filled her lungs, breathing as Signor Verdi had taught her in the few lessons she had begged of him—her high, ripe notes rang clearly in the dry Texas air.
Ahead, the war chief waited, his long lance in his right hand.
7.
KICKING WOLF GREW TIRED of listening to the war songs. He ran ahead, meaning to make the first kill. He would leave Buffalo Hump the Texan called Gun-in-the-Water, since Gun-in-the-Water had killed his son; it would not do to cheat the war chief of his vengeance. The man Kicking Wolf meant to kill was the tall one who always walked beside Gun-in-the-Water. Kicking Wolf was short; he would kill the tall one; Buffalo Hump, who was tall, could kill the short one.
So Kicking Wolf ran ahead, and squatted beside a small clump of chaparral—he had an arrow in his bow, ready to shoot. He heard a death song coming from the Texans, but because he wanted to surprise them, he did not look up once he was in his ambush place behind the chaparral. Of course, it was appropriate for the whites to sing a death song—they would all be dead very soon, unless one or two could be caught for torture. But it was a little surprising; Kicking Wolf could not remember any instances in which whites sang death songs. Once in awhile, when there was cavalry, a man might blow a short horn, to make the soldiers fight; he had actually killed such a person once, near the San Saba, and had taken the horn home with him. But it was not a good horn; when he tried to play it, it only made a squawking sound, like a buffalo farting. He eventually threw it away.
Then Kicking Wolf realized that he was hearing no ordinary death song—the voice that he heard lifted higher toward the sky than any Comanche voice could go. The notes rose so high and were so loud that, as the singer came near him, the song seemed to fill the whole air, and even to turn off the far cliffs and come back. Astonished at the power of the death song, Kicking Wolf stood up, ready to kill the person who was singing it.
His arrow was in his bow; he could tell from the power of the song that the person was near—but what Kicking Wolf saw when he rose from his ambush place chilled his heart, and filled him with terror: there, on a black horse, was a woman with a hidden face, black breasts, and shoulders that were only yellowing flesh and white bone. Worse, this woman who poured a song from beneath the cloth that hid her face had twined around her naked arms a great snake—a snake far larger than any Kicking Wolf had ever seen. The head of the snake was extended along the horse’s neck. Its tongue flickered out, and it seemed to be looking right at Kicking Wolf.
So frightened was Kicking Wolf, that he would have immediately sung his own death song had his throat not been frozen with fear. The woman on the black horse was Death Woman, come with her black flesh and her great serpent, to kill him and his people.
Kicking Wolf let the arrow fall from his bow—then he dropped the bow itself, and turned and ran as fast as his short legs could carry him, toward the war chief. Behind him he heard the high, ringing voice of Death Woman, and could imagine the head of the great serpent coming closer and ever closer to him. In his panic, he stepped on a bad cactus; thorns went through his foot, but he did not stop running. He knew that if he slowed the slightest bit, the great snake of Death Woman would get him.
When the Comanches sitting with Buffalo Hump saw Kicking Wolf running toward them they thought it was just some clever plan the stumpy little man had thought up, to lure the whites closer to their arrows and their lances. But the strange, high song seemed to come with Kicking Wolf, to ring in the air like an old witch woman’s curse. Some of the Comanches began to be a little apprehensive—they looked to their war chief, who sat as he was. It was only when Kicking Wolf ran up and Buffalo Hump saw the terror in his face, that he knew it was not a ruse. Kicking Wolf was fearless in battle—he would attack anyone, and had once killed six Pawnees in a single battle. Yet, now he was so frightened that he had cactus thorns sticking through his foot and blood on his moccasins, and he was still running. He ran right past Buffalo Hump without stopping—also, Buffalo Hump saw that Kicking Wolf had even dropped his bow; not since Kicking Wolf was a boy had he seen him without his bow in his hand.
Buffalo Hump had been listening to the death song with admiration—he had never heard one so loud before. The song came back off the distant hills, as if the singer’s ghost were already there, calling for the singer to come. But something was wrong—Kicking Wolf was terrified, and the ringing, echoing death song was causing panic among his warriors. Then Buffalo Hump saw Death Woman, with her rotting black body; he saw the great snake, twisting its head above her horse’s neck. He was so startled that he lifted his lance, but didn’t throw it. Behind Death Woman, at the far back, was a naked black woman with a lifted sword; the black woman led a white mule.
At the sight of Death Woman, with her great serpent, the Comanche warriors broke, but Buffalo Hump held his ground. Worse even than the snake twisted around the shoulders of Death Woman was the white mule that followed the tall black woman with the sword. Long ago his old grandmother, who was a spirit woman, had told him to flee from a woman with a white mule; for the coming of the white mule would mean catastrophe for the Comanche people. The great snake he didn’t fear; he could kill any snake. But there before him was the white mule of his grandmother’s spirit prophecy: he could not kill a prophecy.
It was doom, he knew. His warriors were fleeing; Kicking Wolf had fled. Buffalo Hump lowered his lance, but he did not flee. He could not kill the Texans, not even Gun-in-the-Water, not then; they were under the protection of Death Woman. But they would not escape him; he would kill them later, when Death Woman was sleeping and when the white mule was gone.
He rode a little higher on the hill and waited. If Death Woman tried to come at him, he would fight, and if he could keep his face toward her he might win, for there was a prophecy, too, that he could only be killed by a lance that pierced him through his hump. He must not let the woman with the white mule and the flashing sword get behind him. As long as his hump was protected, even Death Woman could not kill him.
“Don’t look at him,” Call said, as he and Gus walked slowly past. “She’s spooked most of them, but she ain’t spooked him. Just don’t look at him. If he comes at us, the rest of them might come back, and we ain’t no match for twenty Comanches, even if they’re scared.”
Slowly, not looking up, the Texans and the women passed the ridge where Buffalo Hump sat. Lady Carey sang even louder as they passed almost beneath the great humpbacked Comanche. Her voice rose so high, it was as if she were trying to cast it into the clouds. She draped her reins over her horse’s neck, and spread her arms as she sang.
Buffalo Hump sat above them, immobile, the desert wind blowing the feathers he had tied to his lance. Call did not look up, but he felt the war chief’s hatred, as he passed below him. He tensed himself, in case the lance came flying as it had at Gus, on a stormy night not far to the south.
When they had passed the ridge and deemed it safe to stop, Lady Carey dismounted. Matilda brought her clothes. The men dropped their eyes, while she dressed. The boa, Elphinstone, was returned to its basket on the donkey. Emerald put her cloak back on, and returned Lord Carey’s sword to its fine sheath. During the excitement the donkey had managed to pull Mrs. Chubb’s straw bonnet out of the baggage pack, and had e
aten half of it.
“There, who says opera isn’t useful?” Lady Carey asked, when she remounted. “I shall have to write Signor Verdi and tell him his arias were not appreciated by the wild Comanche.”
When they resumed their journey they saw a strange thing: Buffalo Hump was backing his horse, step by step, across the desert toward the north. His warriors were nowhere in sight, but he had not turned his horse to go and find them. His face was still toward the Texans—step by step, he backed his horse.
“We didn’t kill him,” Call said. “We should have.”
“That’s right,” Gus said. “We should have. He’s still out there—I reckon he’ll be back.”
“If he does come back, he won’t find me,” Long Bill said. “If I ever get to a town, I aim to take up carpentry and sleep someplace where I can lock my doors. I’ve had enough of this sleeping outside.”
“I wonder why he’s backing his horse?” Call said. “We got no gun that could shoot that far. We couldn’t hit him if we tried.”
“Go ask him, Woodrow, if you’re that curious,” Gus said.
8.
WHEN THEY RODE IN at dusk to San Antonio, two barefoot friars were bringing a little herd of goats within the walls of the old mission by the river. Somewhere within the walls, another priest was singing.
“Why, it’s vespers,” Lady Carey said. “Isn’t it lovely, Mrs. Chubb? It rather reminds me of Rome.”
“A plain English hymn will do for me,” Mrs. Chubb said.
“A plain English hymn and no donkeys,” she added, a bit later. “I’m afraid I will never be reconciled to donkeys.”
Ten days later, on a pier in Galveston, Mrs. Chubb was still complaining of donkeys, to any sailor who would listen.
“Not only did it bite my toe, it ate my best bonnet,” she said, but no one listened.
Lady Carey paid the Texans one hundred dollars each, a sum so large that none of the four could quite grasp that they had it. She gave Matilda two hundred dollars, a sum that made Gus jealous—after all, what had Matilda done that he hadn’t? Then, as Call and Gus, Matilda, Wesley, and Long Bill stood on the pier in the warm salty breeze, the English party boarded a boat whose mast was taller than most trees. Young Willy waved, and Lady Carey, still triply veiled, waved her hand. Mrs. Chubb was gone, still complaining, and Emerald, the tall Negress, looked at the shore but did not wave.
The Texans stood watching as the boat pulled away and began its journey across the great gray plain of the sea. Gus was talking of whores again, as the boat pulled away, but Call was silenced by the immense sweep of the water. He had not expected the sea to be so large: soon the boat containing Lady Carey and her party began to disappear, as a wagon might as it made its way across a sea of grass.
Woodrow Call could be subdued by the ocean if he wanted to—Gus McCrae, for his part, had never felt happier: he was rich, he was safe, and the port of Galveston virtually teemed with whores. He had already visited five.
“I guess this is where I quit the rangering, boys,” Long Bill said, with a sigh. “It’s rare sport, but it ain’t quite safe.”
Woodrow Call said nothing; the little ship had vanished. He was watching the sea.
Wesley Buttons knew that he could no longer avoid going home and telling his mother that his two brothers were dead, killed by Mexican soldiers in New Mexico.
Matilda Roberts was thinking that she was farther from California than ever—but at least she had money in her pocket.
“Now, Woodrow, come on,” Gus said, taking his friend’s arm. “Let’s whore a little, and then lope up to Austin.”
“Austin—why?” Call asked.
“So I can see if that girl in the general store still wants to marry me,” Gus said.
Contents
Book I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Book II
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Book III
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
FOR SUSAN SONTAG
She’s rangered long . . .
She’s rangered far . . .
Book I
1.
CAPTAIN INISH SCULL liked to boast that he had never been thwarted in pursuit—as he liked to put it—of a felonious foe, whether Spanish, savage, or white.
“Nor do I expect to have to make an exception in the present instance,” he told his twelve rangers. “If you’ve got any sacking with you, tie it around your horses’ heads. I’ve known cold sleet like this to freeze a horse’s eyelids, and that’s not good. These
horses will need smooth use of their eyelids tomorrow, when the sun comes out and we run these thieving Comanches to ground.”
Captain Scull was a short man, but forceful. Some of the men called him Old Nails, due to his habit of casually picking his teeth with a horseshoe nail—sometimes, if his ire rose suddenly he would actually spit the nail at whoever he was talking to.
“This’ll be good,” Augustus said, to his friend Woodrow Call. The cold was intense and the sleet constant, cutting their faces as they drove on north. All the rangers’ beards were iced hard; some complained that they were without sensation, either in hands or feet or both. But, on the llano, it wasn’t yet full dark; in the night it would undoubtedly get colder, with what consequences for men and morale no one could say. A normal commander would have made camp and ordered up a roaring campfire, but Inish Scull was not a normal commander. “I’m a Texas Ranger and by God I range,” he said often. “I despise a red thief like the devil despises virtue. If I have to range night and day to check their thieving iniquity, then I’ll range night and day.
“Bible and sword,” he usually added. “Bible and sword.”
At the moment no red thieves were in sight; nothing was in sight except the sleet that sliced across the formless plain. Woodrow Call, Augustus McCrae, and the troop of cold, tired, dejected rangers were uncomfortably aware, though, that they were only a few yards from the western edge of the Palo Duro Canyon. It was Call’s belief that Kicking Wolf, the Comanche horsethief they were pursuing, had most likely slipped down into the canyon on some old trail. Inish Scull might be pursuing Indians that were below and behind him, in which case the rangers might ride all night into the freezing sleet for nothing.
“What’ll be good, Gus?” Woodrow Call inquired of his friend Augustus. The two rode close together as they had through their years as rangers.
Augustus McCrae didn’t fear the cold night ahead, but he did dread it, as any man with a liking for normal comforts would. The cold wind had been searing their faces for two days, singing down at them from the northern prairies. Gus would have liked a little rest, but he knew Captain Scull too well to expect to get any while their felonious foe was still ahead of them.
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