The Holy Road

by Michael Blake

  Attrition from constant conflict with the whites had tattered the community's once cohesive quilt. The village was top-heavy with the old and infirm. Mature warriors seemed to grow scarcer each year, and few were the young men ready to take their places. So many of them had been killed by what the whites called "rangers," deadly bands of heavily armed whites who roamed the borders of Comanche country looking for Indians to exterminate. They killed Comanches in any way they could and were more likely to poison a spring or knock a man off his horse with a far-shooting gun than they were to engage him in face-to-face combat.

  They were good at hiding in the eastern country of hills and trees and that made them hard to kill, aside from the rare occasions when they were found in the open. If found there, they would invariably retreat, hats flying in the dust of speeding horses.

  Ambush was their forte and a Comanche party wandering into one ran the risk of losing every man. The whites always had guns, several for each man, and they never seemed to run out of bullets. The end result was sad news coming back to camp, news that made for widows and orphans, and gave cause for new war parties going out, part of a never-ending cycle of remorse and retribution that fractured the pleasures of living as surely as a splintered mirror cuts an image to pieces.

  This was the woeful scenario that greeted Wind In His Hair's arrival at the Honey-Eaters' village, The hollow air carried the wails of grieving women to his ears even before he entered the village proper. They were mourning a hunting party that had been forced by lack of game to travel farther east than they wanted and had been surprised as they watered horses on the banks of a stream. The hair-mouthed Comanche hunters had driven them back against a cut bank where the warriors had to fight with nothing in the way of cover. Four of the party of eight were killed during the day, and all of them would have died had it not been for the intervention of thick clouds which covered the moon long enough for the survivors to escape.

  The loss of four warriors was sad enough, but there was another aspect to the debacle that made it particularly bitter. The bodies of the dead had not been retrieved and it was essential that they be

  brought back lest their spirits be left to wander in lonely, earthbound confusion.

  Especially revolting was the reported presence of Tonkawas, one of the Comanches' bitterest enemies. Long subjugated by the whites, the Tonkawas had fallen into the habit of taking the white man's money in exchange for guiding them against the Comanche. Not only did they kill Comanches and take their scalps, it was known to all that Tonkawas coveted the flesh of their enemies. Comanches taken alive were sometimes thrown whole onto large fires, their meat roasted black before being taken into the mouths of the Tonkawas.

  A member of Wind In His Hair's extended family, a brother-in-law, was one of the dead, and now, instead of relaxing at the end of their journey the great warrior from the north found himself attending a round of councils. There was no question but that a party had to go our and fetch the bodies back, and that speed was important, but putting together the party was, as always, a complicated undertaking. The size of the party, the warriors it would comprise, and the time it would consume were all weighty issues, and all were aggravated by the weakened condition of the Honey-Eater band.

  People were eager to have Wind In His Hair at their councils. It reassured them to have such a great warrior in their midst, but the standing he enjoyed in his own village was not transferable. If it had been, Wind In His Hair would have organized a party and put it into the field as quickly as possible. Instead, he was forced to stand back as the depleted and demoralized Honey-Eaters debated how to commit their meager resources.

  After three sleeps of constant wrangling, a rescue party consisting of only twelve warriors, two of them barely tested boys, finally departed.

  Wind In His Hair rode with them as a full-fledged member. Heavy Runner, a middle-aged warrior with a lifetime of honors, headed the small group. He kept Wind In His Hair by his side, but even the presence of these two outstanding warriors did little to bolster the group's spirits. This was not a Comanche war party of old, a juggernaut of heavily armed warriors sweeping all from their path.

  It was a small band of men with only six rifles, driving deep into contested country, whose focus was not on victory but survival.

  None of the men who had escaped the white rangers had been able to agree on the exact spot of the skirmish, and since all of them had been shot and were recovering, no one was along to pinpoint where the dead had fallen. They were traveling blind, and as the party pushed east the country became even more hilly and dense, and Wind In His Hair, unused to such terrain, began to feel more nervous. To maintain silence, all in the party were forbidden to use rifles unless there was an emergency. Animals were to be taken by bow, and Heavy Runner prudently insisted that the camps they made be dry and fireless.

  There were no incidents and on the morning of their fourth day out, the small band of warriors reached the vicinity of the fight with the rangers.

  Two men were dispatched to scout both sides of the stream while the balance of the party remained sequestered. At mid-morning the scouts returned to camp with the news that they had located the site. White men were there – two hair-mouths in long white coats with six blue-coated soldiers to guard them. They had two wagons and had pitched a few tents along the slow-running river. The blue-coated soldiers had not established a perimeter but were lounging around their tents while their horses grazed untended.

  What the hair-mouths in the long white coats were doing the scouts could not ascertain. Two fires had been built on the banks of the stream. Over the flames sat two large kettles filled with boiling water. The white-coated men seemed to be in charge of the cooking because when the scouts saw them they were going back and forth between the kettles stirring the bubbling water with wooden paddles.

  A hundred yards upstream from the strange camp the scouts had discovered a wagon and had crept close enough to confirm that this was where the Comanche warriors had lost their lives. The wagon was covered with a canvas tarp, but they could see two sets of moccasined feet resting on the downed tailgate.

  The Honey-Eaters and their famous friend from the north immediately convened a council to sift through the information brought back by the scours. For a time they discussed what purpose whites might have in camping at the ghoulish site, particularly the white-coated hair-mouths whom the soldiers were protecting. could it be that they were feasting, that they were imitating the hated Tonkawas? Perhaps they were trying to draw power from the slain warriors? Was some dark, unknown magic being performed by the whites? Wind In His Hair knew that white medicine men sometimes wore white coats and theorized that they might, for some inexplicable reason, be trying to raise the dead.

  But it was all conjecture, and since no one could understand it, this line of inquiry was soon dropped in favor of what could be done to retrieve the remains of their friends and relatives. The younger men wanted to attack, taking as many scalps as possible, but Heavy Runner and Wind In His Hair both spoke against this notion, reminding everyone of the purpose of their mission, and pointing out the foolhardiness of putting themselves in needless jeopardy. They were already surrounded by danger and little could be gained by exposing themselves to more.

  The plan they decided on was designed to frighten the whites, driving them off long enough to let the party gather up what remained of their comrades and escape back to the west.

  The two youngest members of the team, both of whom had strong, fast ponies, would cross the river far upstream, then backtrack under cover, stopping at a point opposite the main party. There they would wait for a signal to be given by one of the warriors who was particularly adept at mimicking the feeding sounds of quail. At that moment the boys would burst from their hiding place on the other side of the river waving blankets at the whites' loose horses. They were to chase these horses downstream. At the same time the ten remaining warriors would loose their arrows at the white camp.
They would do this with as much whooping as they could muster, hoping that the whites would envision a much larger force of attackers. Then they would emerge on the banks of the stream and pretend to pursue them. If the whites continued to flee, the warriors would gradually peel off and backtrack upriver to perform the real work of their mission. The few warriors who continued the chase could then fire their rifles if they felt it was necessary but until that time no one would fire unless it was absolutely necessary.

  The plan worked to perfection. When the sun dipped close to the horizon the signal was given and the boys burst from the undergrowth on the other side of the river. Most of the American horses were still loose and stampeded downriver. A split second later the main body opened up with a tremendous cacophony of yelling. The two white-coated men scrambled onto a canvas-covered wagon. They were ungainly, and as they clambered into the wagon, one of them took an arrow high in his leg. Screaming, he tumbled into the back of the wagon while the other man desperately urged the horses forward. The soldiers were too surprised to do much more than fire a few wild shots in the direction of the attack as they flailed about for their horses. Some of them rode double as they pursued the wagon, which was plunging frantically downstream.

  Three warriors kept after the small party of white men, and the two boys who had started the American horses disappeared downriver. That left seven warriors, including Wind In His Hair and Heavy Runner to investigate the odd camp on the riverbank.

  The fires were still going and the big black pots were still bubbling. The men peered into the huge kettles. They could see bits and pieces of things rolling about in the frothy water but could identify nothing. Rifling through the still-pitched tents, they found a stout wooden pole, which they used as a lever to tip over the pots.

  The warriors danced back on tiptoe as the scalding water and its contents hit the sand at the edge of the river. Rifle fire cracked in the distance but the Comanches did not lift their eyes. Their eyes were fixed on what lay before them. Two human skulls, cooked nearly to the bone, had rolled out of the mammoth vats and lay steaming on the dark, flat sand. For a few moments they were too stunned to move, but when the initial shock at the grisly discovery had been absorbed, several men fell to their knees and sang death songs. Others turned away to vent their fury on the white man's camp. The boys who had spooked the horses were coming upstream with three captured animals but no one gave them more than a glance.

  Heavy Runner and Wind In His Hair jumped onto their horses and ploughed upstream to the unhitched wagon. Throwing back the tarp, they confirmed what they already suspected. The putrefying, headless bodies of two Comanche warriors lay side by side in the wagon's bed.

  Within twenty minutes the Comanches had wrapped and tied the bodies and their parts in blankets, slung the macabre parcels over the backs of the American horses, and were riding grimly upriver.

  Rounding the first bend in the stream, they spotted the remnants of a large fire on the other side and swung across to investigate. Sprawled across the remnants of the blaze was the charred half-eaten body of a third Comanche warrior. Tonkawa sign was everywhere.

  They packed up the corpse in the same way they had the first two, and, wary of possible pursuit, rode long into the night, not stopping until an hour or two before first light.

  The party had succeeded. Three of the four dead had been recovered, horses had been captured, a full crate of bullets had been found in one of the soldier tents, and no one had been lost. But there was little talk on the long, sad march home. No stories were swapped about the encounter with the enemy. No laughing or joking or bragging. None of them expressed what was in his heart, because every heart was empty. There was never sweetness in bringing home the dead. And there was little honor in running off a few white men who, unbeknownst to Wind In His Hair and his compatriots, had ventured into the field to retrieve a few aboriginal skulls for scientific study. The heads of the dead that had spilled from the kettles only served to further drain the warriors' spirits. It was debauchery on an inconceivable plane, so vile as to defy explanation.

  On the long, silent ride back to the Honey-Eater camp, Wind In His Hair tried to comfort himself with brave thoughts. A Comanche warrior was afraid of nothing. Comanches honored their dead. Comanche people would endure because nothing could kill a spirit fed by the hand of the Mystery . . . the Comanche spirit.

  He told himself these things many times but in the end there was little solace in such thoughts. The arrival of the bodies in the Honey-Eater village set off a new wave of mourning and a sad overcast settled on the place.

  Though they had never been close, Wind In His Hair felt a special sorrow for the family of his brother-in-law, for his was the body that had not been recovered. But what provoked his greatest agony was the nagging, disheartening conclusion that the Honey-Eaters had grown weak, and to feel that he was part of such weakness made his stomach turn.

  Having to be a part of an aftermath that saw so many people rendered helpless through the twin blows of grief and horror made him wish only for home, and the day after the rescue party's return, Wind In His Hair gathered up his family and led them north.

  He brooded all the way, and when they reached the village a few hours after Smiles A Lot rode out of camp the dark cloud that had settled over Wind In His Hair's spirit was evident to all who saw him. When he was told about the Cheyenne visit and the troubles they were having with the whites he sent a crier to every Hard Shield lodge with the news that an urgent council was being convened.

  Wind In His Hair had decided that war must be made on the whites before it was too late. He would make a strong talk for the idea of raising a large party that would travel to the country of the Cheyenne and help them drive the whites out. No one could make an impassioned proposal for war like Wind In His Hair, and it is likely that the Hard Shields would have jumped to their feet at his behest.

  But nobody ever did ride up to the country of the Cheyenne, because on that same night Dances With Wolves came in with news that changed everything.

  Chapter XII

  The village came into view at twilight, about the same time Wind In His Hair's council was getting under way. In addition to his children, seven hunters were with Dances With Wolves. It was the same with his party as it had been with Wind In His Hair's. Joy and laughter had not traveled with them. Even the reliable buoyancy at seeing home again was absent.

  They had been on the trail for two weeks but the search for game had yielded practically nothing. They had ranged far to the north, penetrating the Kiowa hunting grounds, but they had found no large herds, only pockets of animals who were so skittish that even the best buffalo-running ponies were hard-pressed to draw alongside. Eight seasoned hunters had managed to fell only two buffalo, most of which had been used to keep Dances With Wolves and his party fed while they looked futilely for more. They were coming back with two robes. Their pack animals carried three deer, shot on the way home because no one could bear to come in with nothing to show for their efforts.

  Taking one of the deer, Dances With Wolves, Snake In Hands, and Always Walking broke away as their friends entered the village, taking the long way around to the set-apart lodge sitting on the far side of camp. It would have been easier to cut straight through the village and the few minutes they might have saved would have been welcome, for all three were disheartened and exhausted. But Dances With Wolves rode wide of his home village because he didn't want to see or exchange words with anyone. He wanted Stands With A Fist to be the first person he spoke to. He wanted her ears to be the first to hear because he felt too much for her to be anywhere but face-to-face when she learned the devastating news he carried.

  Stands With A Fist and Stays Quiet were waiting outside the lodge when they rode up. It had been her practice to wait through the twilight the past few days in hope that she might see them coming before it got dark. She always got nervous when they were gone more than a week.

  She and her daughte
r began to dance and shout and squeal when they saw them. The incoming riders answered with cries of their own as they urged their tired horses into a last lope.

  Seconds later Snake In Hands and Always Walking were in her arms. Both children were played out with fatigue and when Snake In Hands blurted, "There wasn't any game, Mother," she looked past him and saw at once that Dances With Wolves was wearing an uncharacteristic expression. It was more a wince than a smile, manufactured with effort.

  "No buffalo," he said with a quick shake of his head. He could not bear to look at her and turned back to pull a single deer from the pack horse. At any other time he might have left the meat where it lay for a few minutes but he was afraid to show her any more of his face and was relieved when he heard her moving the children into their lodge.

  As he gazed out at the last light of day he wished for the first time since he could remember that he could be somewhere, anywhere else. It sickened him to feel like this and he wondered, as he had wondered so many times since he happened on the camp of his Kiowa friend Touch The Clouds, if there was some way he could keep what he knew to himself. He laid his forehead against the withers of the pack pony, and sighed a long, sad sigh. His time had run out. He would have to tell her.

  Like most women, Stands With A Fist had an uncanny nose for change in her husband. She knew right away that something was wrong. He was avoiding her face, and as the children recounted the adventures of what they called their "empty hunt," Dances With Wolves said little. Once in a while she would catch him in a glance and see the same sad smile. It seemed now as if it were painted on and it kept her on edge.

  When the children were finally asleep she went outside to shake some bedding. She had already shaken it out that afternoon but she wanted a few moments alone. Something was coming but what it might be she could not guess. Perhaps he wanted another wife. Perhaps there was a sickness inside him. She could imagine nothing worse and, steeling herself for whatever might come, she ducked back into the lodge.