Hell of a Horse
A Journey to
Comancheria 1887
Books by Barbara Neville
Available as both ebooks and paperbacks:
Cha’a Many Horses Series
Hell of a Horse (Cha’a Many Horses #3)
Hell of a Horse Large Print
Hell to Pay (Cha’a Many Horses #2)
Hell to Pay Large Print
Cowboy & Injin Dictionary (Companion Volume)
Cowboy & Injin Dictionary Large Print
Tomahawk Trail (Cha’a Many Horses #1)
Tomahawk Trail Large Print
Spirit Animal Series
Against the Wind (Spirit Animal #11)
Against the Wind Large Print
Wind Blows Grass Grows Stars Twinkle Above (Spirit Animal #10)
Wind Blows Grass Grows Stars Twinkle Above Large Print
Cowboy Dictionary (Companion Volume)
Cowboy Dictionary Large Print
Warriors’ Woman (Spirit Animal #9)
Warriors’ Woman Large Print
Broken Warrior (Spirit Animal #8)
Broken Warrior Large Print
Only the Strong Survive (Spirit Animal #7)
A Flash of Lightning (Spirit Animal #6)
A Flash of Lightning Large Print
Rogue Lightning (Spirit Animal #5)
Rogue Lightning Large Print
Off-Grid Planet (Spirit Animal #4)
Off-Grid Planet Large Print
Cowgirls Rock (Spirit Animal #3)
Cowgirls Rock Large Print
Cowgirls Just Wanna Have Fun (Spirit Animal #2)
Cowgirls Just Wanna Have Fun Large Print
On the Rocks (Spirit Animal #1)
On the Rocks Large Print
Boxed Sets
Available as ebook only:
Spirit Animal Mystery Series Bundle: Books 1-4
Available as ebooks and paperbacks:
Cowboy and Injin Suspense (Spirit Animal Books 7 & 8)
Cowboy and Injin Suspense Large Print
Cowboy & Injin Frontier (Spirit Animal Books 5 & 6)
Cowboy & Injin Frontier Large Print
Cowboy & Injin Mystery (Spirit Animal Books 3 & 4)
Cowboy & Injin Mystery Large Print
Cowgirl Adventures (Spirit Animal Books 2 & 3)
Cowgirl Adventures Large Print
Cowgirl Thrillers (Spirit Animal Books 1 & 2)
Cowgirl Thrillers Large Print
Hell of a Horse
A Journey to
Comancheria 1887
by
Barbara Neville
Copyright © 2017 Barbara Neville
This book is a work of fiction. Any mention of real people, places or historic events is used fictitiously. Names, characters, events and places are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real people, places or events is coincidence.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book all or in part.
Publisher
Barbara Neville
Rancho Dos Osos
185 El Camino Real
Nogales, AZ 856215
Cover Photo ©2007 by Barbara Neville
Cover Design ©2017 by Barbara Neville
Author Photo ©2016 by Nancy Neville Cordell
All rights reserved.
Dedication
To my old ski mountaineering partner, Ted Gannon.
Out on the trail and in our big tent at night, he shared tales of the Sherpa in Nepal from his Peace Corps days. People living a subsistence life. So poor that each family had their year’s supply of food counted out down to the very last grain of rice.
When the first Peace Corps volunteers ever to visit Nepal showed up to their villages, they had no such thing as restaurants or tea houses. And no concept of such a thing. And no English. Most had never seen a foreigner.
Being a friendly people, they shared part of their annual cache with the foreign strangers. Going without themselves, with a future short of even the bare minimum for themselves and their families, necessary for the sake of the traditional hospitality.
And a tremendous culture shock for a farm boy from eastern Montana.
The Sherpa freighted loads for a living on tumplines. Carrying them over Himalayan trails so steep that people had long ago cut stone steps to ease the way. So long ago that the steps were worn down in the middle from the foot traffic. And they did indeed do it, as a matter of course, barefoot through the snow.
“Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail.”-Ralph Waldo Emerson
1 The Sound of Silence
Sabers rattle. His balls to clench. They’re close. Almost on top of him.
The old wound screams in agony. Spurring him on. He has to still his heart, tame his reflexes. Move slowly, purposefully, so they don’t spot him.
He turns his mare toward the nearest cover, knowing only too well the damage a sword can do.
He barely has time to make into the thin line of junipers.
All in one swoop, he slides off Magpie’s bare back and has her lie down between two trees and behind some small brush, in the thickest shade. He pulls the rifle off his shoulder and sprawls onto his belly behind her bulk, resting the long gun on her ribcage. She knows to lay dead still.
Aimed and ready, man and horse wait for the bluecoat Injin killers to appear.
Seconds later, they’re right in front of him. Passing left to right. The huge column of cavalry towers over him, some of them not more than a dozen feet away.
Way too close. It’s a spectacle never to be forgotten. The stuff of nightmares. If he survives.
It takes forever.
The troops ride dolefully, heads sagging, stinking with sweat. Hot in full inform. Too spent for jabber. Half dozing. Too road weary to be watchful.
After they’re out of sight, he waits again. Patiently. Wary of scouting parties. And dawdling camp followers.
Once the sun has moved the width of his hand, he does a slow, light-footed moccasin scout.
All clear, he picks up the reins, jumps aboard and resumes his quest. Fortunately, he’s headed the other way.
Soon, the junipers thin completely out, exposing a wide-open world. He rides out into it.
A sea of grass extends unbroken below him as far as the eye can see.
The stunning sound of silence beats in his ears like an ancient drum that has lost its skin; one whose wooden shell has rotted away to dust. The intense, never-ending silence of the ages.
The burnt sod odor of a distant grass fire is accompanied by the tantalizing scent of fresh cropped blades being crushed between his mare’s teeth. Along with the tangy turpentine of the Rocky Mountain junipers growing around him.
He waits, watching. Listening for the ancient sounds. Waiting for what’s missing.
She’s restless.
All in one quick motion; she pricks her ears, raises her head, flinches her back muscles and shuffles all four hooves, prancing sideways.
“Easy, Magpie,” he says.
A waft of horse sweat fills the air like sweet perfume.
He pets her neck, soothing the young mare’s nerves. Trusting her senses, but seeing and smelling nothing new himself.
Meanwhile, the bugs and birds work away at their days. And the prairie dogs. And millions of others, plants and animals, busy living their lives.
It’s hot. Sweltering hot. Humid, too. Sultry. Hot as Hades, as they say.
He’s dripping sweat just sitting his horse. Not more than an hour has passed since he dove into the river to cool off.
The descriptions in the books never do it justice; the weighty feel of the continent’s midsection in spring and sum
mer. Slick, slimy, exhausting.
Amazing, too. His Norse brothers would appreciate this. Even here in North America, their mighty Viking god of thunder seems to be in charge.
Out to the east is Mjölnir. Thor’s mighty hammer is intent on eking out justice for all of prairie life, the thunderous rains that bring prosperity and fertility to the land.
Thor raises a mighty arm and strikes hammer to anvil. Sheet lightning fills the eastern sky. Thunder claps echo across the prairie toward him.
He watches as the thunder and lightning heat up the distant horizon, warming up their swollen lungs and electric sparks for later. Ramping up to what could be truly earth-wrenching thunderstorms. Bringing lightning fires, gully washers, even massive tornadoes.
Torturing the Great Plains is Thor’s hot weather entertainment. The war god alone can turn the vast prairie into a thunderous hell on wheels.
The rider knows the destruction could pass him by. Or run rampant, and kill him and his beautiful mare.
Mjölnir and the huge anvil clouds collide once again. Fresh bolts of sheet lightning are flung to earth. The humidity feels like the sound wave from the hammer, attempting to beat him physically into a drenched, sticky pulp.
The rider takes a cleansing breath. Not only will he endeavor to persevere, he’s determined to succeed in his quest.
He sniffs the air, waiting, watching. The ripe scent of ozone burns its message into his brain.
The fresh spring leaves, newly emergent on the branches of a line of cottonwoods, rustle against each other. Tinkling in the wind.
They wave and sing to him from a nearby watercourse. Anxious for rain to come and freshen its flow.
A golden eagle soars above; a songbird chirps to her hatchlings. Her mate calls from cover. The rider recognizes the melodious song. Meadowlarks.
A skinny wolf skulks by in the middle distance, followed by a few other lean pack members and three gaunt weanling pups.
They nose at some old dried chips. Inhaling the aromas of the past. The elders of the pack likely remembering the times of plenty themselves. Recalling that other thunder.
The big sound. The constant, ever moving herd. The snuffling and stomping. Teeth tearing at the succulent blades of the vast grass sod. The rolling and humping. The occasional playful sprints of their calves.
Endless herds moving endlessly. Following the sun, the moon and the changing seasons. Big bulls and freshening cows, mating for the future.
Not now, though. For the buffalo have been quelled. Maybe forever.
The mammoths of the plains are almost all gone. Killed by a minuscule gnat on the planet.
A gnat who, in its wisdom, or lack thereof, picked up the first sparking stone and started a fire. Who ran the longest miles. Who invented the spear, the bow, the gun, and greed, and trade, and money. All the strange things that go hand in hand with the never-ending quest of humankind.
Because of man, the buffalo, monarch of the plains, the owner of all he surveyed and trod across, has been laid to waste.
Who will graze the grass now? Cattle? Sheep? Fine for meat, but not the same. Mere stick figures by comparison to the massive native beasts.
The first grass shoots of spring, redolent of youth where Magpie’s hooves have mashed them, are a promise of life renewed. The bright green blades smell of spirit given bounty for all, especially the buffalo. The behemoths that won’t be here to chew them.
Sure, there are a few scattered herds still grazing, roaming, following the seasons. There must be more out there; have to be.
Damn few, they say. A thousand animals, maybe. Enduring the seemingly unending wind.
How could the spirits abandon the People? How could they let this happen?
The buffalo’s thick curly-haired robes still warm he and his woman at night. And shelter his son. And cover the clan’s teepees.
Their war shields, made from the thickest hides of the bulls, deflect arrows. They used to deflect bullets, too, but bullets grew too strong. Plus, the clan makes saddles and stirrups from the hides. Saddle pads, ropes and more from their fur.
But, not forever. They all will wear out, rot away. Pass into dust with time. Just like the buffalo. To be replaced by something lesser.
Does nothing last forever?
He mourns the buffalo.
They’re all guilty. Even his own people and the people of his brothers. All of humankind, with the help of the wolves and other predators, are guilty of this slaughter. Many animal species, not just buffalo, interdependent species have also gone with the wind.
The vast plains were the playground and war ground of untold numbers of savage, free roaming aboriginal peoples. The vast herds were their life’s blood.
The savage peoples, also interdependent with the buffalo, are gone. Tamed and contained by the newcomers. Like their cattle.
The Peoples; Nemene, Ndee, Ka'igwu, Apsáalooke, Wazhazhe and so many more. They lived off the herds for untold generations.
Mostly a luxurious life. Spotted with a few starving times, sure. Hard times are necessary to remind the People to stay strong. And to enjoy times of plenty, for good times are elusive.
All in all, it was a good life. A noble life.
Then, when the horse arrived, life became a thrill that knew no end. Travel was an adventure. The hunt faster, more exhilarating than ever before. The horses were their partners, their boon companions.
Life was easy. The hunt became a joy. And hard. The competition between the various peoples for space and bounty, a seemingly unending war.
He slaps the ends of the reins against his bare leg merely to make a noise, to fill the silence left by their deaths. Millions and millions, tens of millions of deaths.
The noble buffalo, giver of life. Thirty-one million strong, they say, just a few years back.
And the wars, the tribes. The People. All the various bands, had lost so many and so much. Their very lives were unutterably changed by the loss.
And the encroachment of these strange new people. Those who brought the horse. Their gift of the horse was a blessing.
Unfortunately, the horse’s people came with them. Came and came, in unending waves. From the southwest first, and now the east. Even the west. A pincer movement. More powerful than the buffalo themselves. They carried their diseases with them. And their guns. And their desires.
Manifest destiny they call it. A curse on the native people.
And now, their crazy contraption is inching its way across the land, too. East to west. And west to east. Splitting it in two. And two again. And again. Bringing more people here, faster than ever before possible.
He can see the endless rails from his hilltop overlook, shimmering silver in the staggering afternoon sun. Sleeping now. Ominous. Because, when they do come alive, and tremble with fear themselves at the coming, their big engines and the cars they pull will honk and bellow and smoke and race across what used to be his People’s plains. Predicting the end of his People’s freedom. The end of the wild Nemene. His People.
Conquered by the white eyes. And finalized by their iron horse, a creature not unlike, but also nothing like the buffalo.
The roar it makes stirs the old memories. Ancient tales of a midnight stampede. Huge bulls and their harems shaking the ground with each thundering stride.
A crushing weight when the huge beasts trampled everything in some forgotten ancestor’s camp. Changing history with the deaths.
An errant tear slides down his high cheekbone, down his neck and across his bulging pecs. Intent on sharing its moisture with the grass.
No more will die from stampedes; there are too few stampeders left. And today, it feels like they’ll never return.
Not unlike the dung beetles working so hard on the ground near his mare’s hooves. Scampering about, working at a fresh pile of turds that the mare has dropped while he waits.
Can the buffalo dung beetle survive now? Without the buffalo pies? Or are their ranks dwindling, too? And, what of the wolve
s. The foxes. Even the bear. Where will their next meals come from?
He turns back to watching the plains. Magpie knows something or someone is out there.
He sights between her ears and waits for it to appear. The land looks flat and endless, as if one could spot every single speck of life moving out there.
It’s a lie. The minute, invisible dips can hide an army. And, too often, had.
His knotted reins are testament to that. A lasting reminder of war, it swords and its senselessness.
Many braves would speak of the glory of battle, the coups counted, the scalps taken. But, he thought that, deep in their hearts, each of them carried the horror, too.
He is here because of a dream. Ironic, because the dream told him where to find the true dreamer. Cha’a Many Horses. His woman.
She was lost. As was his son, Góshé. And the dream told him that it was here that he should seek them.
Here in the valley where the ancients walked. On the Purgatory River in a state called Colorado. A new state. Only ten years old. A big, straight-edged rectangle. Cut from the lands of his ancestors as if with a knife. To the heart.
His mare flinches, raising her head even higher. He sees them now, coming over a rise. Recognizes their accoutrement.
The newcomers are Nemene, too. Known to the white eyes as Comanche. They must have had the dream also. And come to help.
“Easy, babe.”
Bigan Dalaá, Apache for One Hand, raises the knotted reins with his hook and eases her down the switchback trail. He raises his left hand high above his head and sweeps it through the air in a grand wave of greeting.
His moccasined feet dangle below the mare’s belly. His long, bare muscular legs feel the warmth of her body through her shedding fur.
As he rides, time edges ever forward. His bare chest is tanning, getting darker with each passing minute. He brushes at his long auburn hair, dislodging the feathers. He watches as they flutter aimlessly to the ground.
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