Hell of a Horse

by Barbara Neville

  He’s bare chested again, so quite the muscular spectacle. “Why did he have trouble getting me off of him?”

  “Didn’t you believe what I said? Ask him,” I say.

  When he gets the horse calmed down, she does.

  “I had to hold back for fear I’d kill you or lose you off the cliff, you were wiggling like crazy,” he says. “And Táági said you were important.”

  “He did?” she says, clearly puzzled.

  “And I been held back by my promise to both Táági and Ma’cho,” I say. “I did in our other bitch fight, too.”

  “You two had a fight?” asks Bigan, wrinkling his brow. “Oh, yeah, in the leaves there by the meteor landing site.”

  “Sorry you missed our tussle, are you?” I elbow him.

  “You betcha,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows.

  “I kicked her ass.”

  “Scrag fight, we call it,” says Zastee. “And, twas a tie.”

  “True,” I say. “She kicked mine, too.”

  A couple of miles out we stop to inspect gear. Checking headstalls and tightening the packs.

  “Things are so hard for him.” She’s watching Bigan work to tighten and retie the diamond hitch on War Chief’s pack.

  I shrug and say, “He’s got his own way of doin’ things.”

  “Harder, it looks.”

  “Tightenin’ a diamond hitch is a pain in the ass fer anyone.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s hardest for me, though,” I say, walking over. The kid reading my face, relaxes, as I lift it up. “I have this cool hook here, sure. But, this damn kid is attached. No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to get rid of the ornery bastard.”

  The kid scoffs.

  Zastee doesn’t know how to take that either.

  “Yore easy to torture, gal,” I say.

  She looks confused again.

  “Babe, have mercy on the girl.”

  “No way,” I say. “Not til I get a smile out of her.”

  “A what?” she asks.

  “A smile, these are all jokes. Rough jokes sure, but teasing. Just like I do with you, Jemima,” I say. “It toughens him up.” I poke him with an elbow.

  He fake flinches and laughs. “She’s mean to me because I can take it. Makes me stronger. More importantly, I get to be mean right back.”

  “You better not,” I say.

  He gives me the snarky eye and tells her, “She’s pretty goddamn lucky to have me.”

  I scoff. “He’s goddamn lucky I put up with him.”

  Zastee turns away.

  “Zastee?” he says.

  She turns back.

  “Life isn’t perfect. As the architect and engineer of the building that is my life I’ve chosen, despite the occasional construction shortfall, to have a good one. No, a great one. And, if things stay as great as they are now, with the babe and Góshé here back, I damn sure will.”

  He leans over and smacks a noisy kiss on the boy’s back. Góshé giggles and runs away.

  She looks sort of stunned.

  I grin. The kid in a nutshell.

  “We get everything?” I ask, looking around.

  “Sure, we did,” says Góshé. “Hoss and I double checked.”

  Hoss wags her tail in agreement.

  95 Cha’a: Saddle

  “Fortunately, it’s still there,” I say. The saddle is laying right out in the open.

  “The train goes by too fast for anyone to have seen it, much less gotten off and come back here to steal it,” says Zastee.

  We’re behind a bush, emptying our bladders. I zip up and walk back over.

  Bigan’s saddling Ten Spot.

  “I just went to pee,” I say. “I can saddle my own horse.”

  “A weak little gal like you needs a big strong fella like me to take care of things like this,” he says. “Go find some way to entertain yoreself.”

  I throw my hands in the air and walk over to look at an old boxcar that’s sitting all by it’s lonesome on the siding.

  I hear a hiss and turn toward the sound. Seeing no one, I lean out to look down the offside of the car.

  “Cha’a.”

  “Ma’cho. How?”

  “Your saddle.”

  “You spotted it from the train?”

  He nods as I get my arms around him.

  “Hey, Ma’cho,” Bigan yells from the other side of the car.

  “You knew he was here?” I ask, as we walk back around. Hand in hand.

  “I kin smell Injins a mile away,” he says, hugging Ma’cho and clapping him on the back.

  They do some kind of complicated hook/hand shake. Grinning at each other like kids, then at me.

  “Proud of yoreselves, huh?” I ask.

  “Damn straight,” says Bigan.

  “’Preciate you finding us,” I say.

  “Sex now,” says Ma’cho, tilting his head back. “Redskin bedroom right there.”

  We climb in the boxcar which is, conveniently, also red.

  “I’ll be out here, restin’ up,” yells Bigan, in the background.

  We do it, nap, do it again.

  “Where’s yore horse, redskin?” I ask, as I jump down out of the car.

  Bigan is standing there holding Tenner for me. He must have heard us coming.

  “Horses still resting. Injin walk, so Zastee not walk alone,” Ma’cho says. “Good manners.”

  He walks over and offers her a hand to shake. She accepts.

  “She’s a dead-on killer,” I say. “Watch yoreself.”

  “He sleeps with killers regular,” says Bigan, looking pointedly at me.

  I shrug and mount up. Góshé rides with Bigan again. And the footloose pair follow along. The redskin’s horses trail along with War Chief.

  While we ride, I tell Bigan of our adventures in and out of jail. Ma’cho gets to hear it a second time.

  “I lost my rifle and Ma’cho’s sixgun.”

  “Ma’cho recapture sixgun,” he says. “Not know about rifle.”

  He tells Bigan about spotting the six shooter in Trinidad. And, light fingering it off the thief right there on Main Street.

  Five hundred miles and many days later, we’re on the new Nemene lands. The Comanche reservation in Indian Territory.

  96 Cha’a: Right Here Waiting for You

  We’re riding through a downpour today. Lightning and thunder accent our words.

  Ma’cho is out ahead of us scouting the trail, watching for enemies.

  “I was waiting in their camp,” says Bigan, loud enough to be heard over the rain. “It was their medicine man who figured it out. Broad Target, of the Half Moon people. I was in his dream. Me personally, Bigan Dalaá.” He raises his hook. “A dream that said we should go back to the track site. I did.

  “And there you were looking down on me, babe. Just like in his dream and mine. My timing was off the first time is all.”

  “Really?”

  He nods. “Just like, well, mostly like. All I remember is that we met there in my dream. But, Broad Target had it right on. Although, if Magpie hadn’t heard Ten Spot whinny…”

  “But, white eyes don’t…”

  “Sure, they do, they just ignore them. We Comanche do, too. Most Comanche run their lives based on dreams.”

  “You aren’t really…”

  “I already told you, I am.”

  “Seriously? I mean, you josh me all the time.”

  “For real.”

  “Why did you never tell us?”

  “A Comanche never reveals himself when in the camp of the enemy,” he says, straight faced.

  “You crazy bastard.”

  “My ancestors joined up. The Comanche way is a state of mind, doesn’t have to be blood. The Comanche and Apache were the original libertarians.”

  “True,” I say. “They each went their own way in the old days. Some of us still do.”

  “Like you, maybe?”

  “All the MadDog clan,” I say. “Even you.”r />
  The rain shower passes, and we drip slowly dry. And start to sweat.

  “What say we adjourn to the local thicket, babe?”

  “Thought you’d never ask.”

  “Might take us a while to calm down,” says Bigan, stopping Magpie and sliding off. “You ride Tenner and stick with Zastee, Góshé. We’ll catch up.”

  He picks up the boy and sets him on Ten Spot.

  “Okay.” The boy kicks the spotted horse, the tamest of the bunch, up into a jog and heads off.

  “May have to do it twice,” I say, ripping my snaps apart.

  “Or four times,” he says, helping me off with my shirt.

  When we rejoin Zastee and Góshé, she says, “How can you, I mean isn’t it hard for you…I mean do you have to…?”

  “Seriously, girl, questions?” I say. “He may not look like much to you, but that man is written all over my body.”

  97 Cha’a: Crossroads of the Ancestors

  It’s my turn on scout duty. I’ve ridden up to a high point to get a look at the country. And check for enemies. I get off and walk out to an overlook spot to pee.

  “Ain’t seen you in a coon’s age, young lady.” It’s such a sexy voice.

  I glance over my shoulder.

  My man.

  “I recognized that voice,” I say, fastening my belt and heading over. “Saw a familiar footprint yonder.”

  We embrace. There’s no need for words between us.

  “Oh, my gawds, Güero, I’ve missed the feel of you,” I say, deep into the clutches.

  “Mm hm,” he says, pulling back for another deep thrust.

  “It’s heaven,” I say, after.

  We cuddle a while.

  “How’s our boy?” he asks.

  “He’s a pistol,” I say.

  “He is some, ain’t he?”

  “You bet.”

  “I still feel bad about leavin’ off without tellin’ you where to find me, way back when.”

  “You had no reason think I’d get knocked up from a one-night stand,” I say.

  “Still,” he says. “I thought about you. A lot. Wished I had.”

  “Maybe a little prescience of yore own.” I say.

  He snorts. “Maybe hot for yore limber young body. Be good to see the little rugrat in any case.”

  “Yeah, he needs a dad.”

  “Or four?”

  “You bet.”

  “We will, too. I gotta get right now, darlin’,” he says. “They asked me to judge a disagreement. Everyone here is too closely related to be fair.”

  I stretch, saying, “I thought this was a vacation. I mean, now that we found each other.”

  “You know me,” he says. “Always gettin’ volunteered fer work. Need to stave off a shootin’ war yonder.”

  “Always,” I say, leaning in for a kiss. “And, then there’s Táági to find. At least for me.”

  “He’s a big boy,” he says. “Only problem he’s got is worryin’ about you, his dimwitted wife.”

  I snort.

  He steals another kiss.

  “Yep,” I say, pulling on my pants. “I gotta find the big guy. It’s not right.”

  “And, I was goin’ to say I was joking. You know he’s a warrior, not a worrier, darlin’.”

  “Yep, and a lover, especially. Probably getting his shaft shined as we speak. Not even thinkin’ about poor ole me.”

  He chuckles and twists his neck like he’s getting out a kink. “Yep. That’s the big guy in a nutshell.”

  “I’ll have to do some figurin’,” I say, tapping my skull. “As to just where he might be doin’ that.”

  He snorts. “Don’t you worry yore pretty little head, we’ll go find our philanderin’ brother soon. Catch ya later.”

  He vaults onto his brown pony and trots off.

  True, Góshé has the three other dads, but Güero’s his blood father. And, despite the look of this particular deal, he’s a real family man. Takin’ the reins on the ranch for the whole clan. Big responsibility and a whole lot of work. He’s some man, my number one husband. Tough enough that he don’t mind sharin’.

  My shift over, I rejoin the others for breakfast and we ride on in to the Nemene camp.

  98 Cha’a: In the Camp of the Enemy

  Güero and Ma’cho are there at the edge of the village, with a tallish man. Might be six foot.

  “Quanah, Cha’a,” says Güero, introducing us.

  I extend a hand, knowing that women are the equal of men.

  He responds with a firm handshake, having adopted a few white ways himself.

  Among many clans, especially the Comanche and Apache, women warriors are the equal of men.

  Not like the white eyes and their helpless ‘little women’.

  Bigan speaks a few words of their language. Even Ma’cho is surprised. They ask how he learned. He explains.

  “Yore part Comanche? What the fuck?” asks Güero.

  Bigan nods.

  “You never said a word,” says Güero.

  “You never asked. You looked at my skin and assumed,” he says.

  “Wow, I did,” says Güero, holding up his own tan arm. “I should damn sure know better.”

  “Not say,” says Ma’cho.

  “Yep. Like I told Cha’a, a Comanche doesn’t reveal himself in the camp of the enemy,” says Bigan.

  Wolf grunts. “Smart. Happens to twin, also. White skin hides many secrets.”

  I snort.

  Güero looks at me.

  “I didn’t know either,” I say, showing my palms in surrender. “He just explained it to me the other day. I thought he was kiddin’ around.”

  Bigan grins.

  Ma’cho says, “My grandmother, way back when, marry Nemene enemy. True love,” says Ma’cho. “Many children. Half breed, Mescalero, Quahadi.”

  Güero says, “Some few Comanche joined up with the Mescalero Apache bands when they hid from the white eyes cavalry in the Sierra Madre. Some say they didn’t all surrender last fall in Skeleton Canyon with Goyáálé. They might still be a few hid out down there.”

  “No kidding?” I say. “But, the enmity?”

  “No,” says Ma’cho, reaching over and squeezing Bigan’s shoulder. “Brothers.”

  “Well,” I say. “Yeah.”

  Ma’cho nods. “True. Cha’a is right. Nemene and Ndee as clans, what white eyes group into tribes, are sworn enemies.”

  “That’s crazy, so yore family’s Comanche, too? Why did you never say a word?” I say.

  “No one ask us, also,” he says.

  “Okay. Can you tell us about yore Comanche ties?” I ask Güero, who will use more words than his dark twin.

  “It’s Nemene. But, first,” he says, holding a hand out toward me. Wiggling his fingers. “Ain’t we got some pressin’ business to discuss, darlin’?”

  I break into a grin. “Hell yeah, blondie.”

  I take his hand and he sweeps me up in his arms.

  “After all,” he says. “We only did it the once out there on the overlook.”

  The horny fucker’s got a teepee reserved just for us. He carries me over the threshold.

  Of course, we’re among Injins, so people wander in and out while we’re too busy to care. There’s even some giggling.

  Later, over a pipe around the big counsel fire, Güero shares the tale.

  “It was a forbidden love between enemy cultures, Mescalero Apache and Quahadi Comanche,” he says. “Many Apache were taken captive during and after battles, and put to work as slaves or ransomed back to their families in return for goods or horses. The favored ones were taken in and married, which helped with the Nemene’s low birth rates.

  “Our particular people, Shootin’ Star and Risin’ Moon, however, they fell in love. They snuck out of their respective clans’ camps and eloped.”

  “Does Risin’ have a double meaning’?” I ask.

  Ma’cho and Güero, who are sitting next to each other across the fire from me, both cri
nkle their eyes in the same way. Cute.

  Güero continues, “Shootin’ Star had some white eyes name which, frankly, I forget. Might of been Estrella Volante, as Mexican names were more common thereabouts. In any case, they moved back with her people, bred, had babies. And, there you go. Nemene Ndee. Nowadays we’re mostly Ndee by blood. But, we got that touch of Nemene.”

  “Make us strong,” says Ma’cho, turning toward his friend. “Maybe cousins with Bigan, eh? Extra strong.”

  The big kid scoffs. “Blood brothers, already. So, no matter.”

  “Thicker than water,” says Güero, slapping the bigger man on the back.

  “And you?” asks Zastee.

  “Kiowa-Apache, Osage, Viking,” I say. “Mostly Injin from X, could be a bit from Hell Raiser. He likes to think so, anyway.”

  “So,” says Zastee. “You three blokes all have Nemene blood?”

  “My kin just joined up. Chose to be Comanche, white they were, at first,” says Bigan. “Then someone married into the blood. Comes down through my Ma’s side. A sliver maybe, no one kept records, so who knows. Lotta folks these days will hide any nonwhite ancestors. Rewrite history to fit the fashionable prejudices. Hell, it can be a matter of survival. Anyhow, I’ve got Nemene blooded cousins if nothing else.”

  “And Apache brothers right here,” says Ma’cho. “Blood not matter.”

  “Not to forget our little Ndee Nemene Wazhazhe Viking son, kid,” says Güero, pointing his chin toward Góshé who is playing wild Injins with a bunch of his newly found cousins.

  “Son of all husbands,” says Ma’cho, passing me the pipe. “Yes, Cha’a?”

  “Yes, second husband,” I say, breaking out in figurative goose bumps at the thought of having most of my men back.

  “Speakin’ of husbands, we best get to finding Táági, fellas,” says Güero, always the practical one. “And get home. We got cows need workin’. Must be most of a month older by now.”

  “Maybe we oughta try out a few of these dusky maidens before we trot off into the sunset,” says Bigan, the piratical husband. He elbows Ma’cho. “Ready to stray, brother?”

  Ma’cho grins at me, dark eyes flashing, looking like he is.