by Tim Washburn
With that off the table, Quanah began thinking about the probabilities of a successful sneak attack—an outright ambush that would catch the enemy unaware. The Comanche had been doing that for hundreds of years, but never against the type of firepower they would be facing. And Heap Big Guns had been around a long time, so he wasn’t stupid. They would have guards posted through the night, Quanah thought. He did have a good number of braves who could slip into camp and slit an enemy’s throat undetected though they were often dicey affairs where a random snapped twig meant the difference between success and failure. And against that old man and his guns, a failure could result in a massive loss of life. Realizing outright conflict with Heap Big Guns was best avoided, Quanah began exploring other avenues. He stood and set out along the river.
As he walked, his mind swirled and a new thought began to worm its way into his brain. Why did he have to do anything at all? The girl was here and there wasn’t anything he could do about it. And his own mother, Narua—whom the whites called Cynthia Ann Parker—had begun life with the Indians as a captive and she’d fared very well for years until the white men forced her away from the only home she’d known. Why couldn’t it be the same for this white captive? Quanah wondered. If he and his people could avoid Heap Big Guns long enough, she’d soon come to learn the Indian way. But if that was going to happen, he and his people needed to be on the move to keep some distance between them and Heap Big Guns. Besides, they had been camped there too long as it was. Anyone who knew their current location could have passed it on to the army, who sent out patrols on occasion. And, as an added bonus, it would be cooler if they drifted north a ways.
As he pondered the situation a little longer, he decided that moving on was the best course of action. He turned away from the river and headed back to camp.
CHAPTER 46
Even with her right arm back in action, Emma was still struggling to master the art of hide scraping. Most of her difficulties stemmed from an enormous lack of interest and the rest she blamed on the lack of suitable tools. Her hands were slick with blood and grease and just keeping the primitive tool in her hands was a major challenge. If she focused, she had some success, but she was more interested in learning the everyday nuances of the tribe to better prepare herself for what might lie ahead. Knowing whom to avoid would bode well for her in the future.
Busy watching, her hands stilled, and Emma learned not to make that mistake again when an old squaw walked over and slapped her hard in the face. Emma was so startled all she could do was glare as blood filled her mouth. The woman moved off and Emma spat out the blood. She’d remember that old hag because her ugly face was now seared in Emma’s mind. She went back to scraping and made a mental note to always be aware of who was around her at all times.
A short while later, Emma began to hear a murmur spread throughout the camp. Something was happening, but she didn’t know what it was. The men were now up and moving and the women suddenly abandoned whatever they were working on. Angel, who’d been working next to Emma, dropped her scraper and hurried over to the chief’s teepee. Another old woman walked over, pushed Emma out of the way, and began untying the hide from the frame.
Looking around, Emma’s heart plummeted when she saw the squaws pulling the wooden pins that held the hides on the teepee frames. No, no, no! How are they going to find me now? Emma was rooted in place as her mind raced. Her first thought was to find somewhere to hide until the Indians left. She turned in a circle, searching for a suitable place as questions bombarded her brain. How long until her father and grandfather arrived? A week? Longer? Could she hang on that long? Then she began to wonder how long the Indians would search for her before they decided to leave. Would it be possible to get lost in the confusion? That question was answered when she spotted Big Nose in the distance. He was walking her way with a short piece of rope in his hands. Emma panicked. What can I do? Running wouldn’t do any good because Big Nose would run her down like a wolf chasing a week-old buffalo calf.
The only thing Emma could think to do was to leave something behind so that her searchers would know she’d been there. But what? All of her original clothing was gone. She didn’t have a single thing left that would identify her. Emma looked around and hit upon an idea. She hurried over to a pile of white stones and knelt down. She looked back and saw Big Nose getting closer and knew she had to hurry. Working quickly, she rearranged some of the stones until they formed a crude outline of her initials. She stood and looked down at her handiwork. The ET was clearly visible but whether anyone would ever see them was an unknown. Having done all she could do, she hurried away, hoping Big Nose wouldn’t be curious about what she had been doing.
Big Nose walked up, and Emma braced, expecting to be grabbed by the hair again. Instead he grunted something in Comanche and pointed at her hands. Emma turned around and put her hands behind her, hoping her easy compliance would make him forget about what she had been doing. “Are we done with the hair pulling?” she asked out loud. He ignored her and wrapped the rope tightly around her wrists and tied it.
Horses, being driven by the smaller boys, flooded into camp. Emma looked down at her too-long dress and wondered how she’d ever get her legs far enough apart to straddle a horse. And the last thing in the world she wanted to do was take the dress off. Big Nose grabbed her by the arm and steered her over to where they were taking down the chief’s teepee. He pointed at the ground and Emma sat and Big Nose wandered off. Angel was busy pulling out the buffalo hides and rolling them up while the old woman who slapped her was disassembling the teepee. Emma didn’t know if that was part of the old hag’s job or if she had some tie to the chief. Nor did she particularly care. The old bitch could keel over with a heart attack and it wouldn’t bother Emma in the least. And, she decided, if the woman struck her again, she was going to hit back, consequences be damned.
Angel stepped over, untied her hands, and pointed at a stack of buffalo hides and said something in her native tongue. Emma walked over, knelt down, and began rolling up the hides. She noticed something she hadn’t noticed when they were inside—the hides were full of tiny bugs and a shiver of revulsion washed through her. She had no idea what the bugs were or where they came from and all she could think about was her time spent lying on them. Well, she thought, there was nothing she could do about it now. If she was lucky, she had washed the bugs off in the river.
Looking around as she worked, Emma wasn’t all that surprised to see that the women were the only ones doing the packing. In fact, most of the men, including the chief, had ridden off when the decision to move had been made. Where they went was unknown, however Emma had been glad to see that Scar was among the group and that allowed her to rest a little easier. Although he hadn’t bothered her since they’d joined the larger group, Emma had no doubt that he wasn’t finished exacting his revenge and would attack when she least expected it. Or, she wondered, had the burning of her feet signaled the end of their conflict? No, she decided, he’d want more, probably much more since she’d humiliated him in front of his cohorts.
While Emma was rolling up the hides, she discovered a long, bone-handled bowie knife, a knife similar to what her father carried. She glanced around to see if anyone was watching before she secreted it under her dress. Could this be some type of test? she wondered. Did Angel put the knife there on purpose? Or was it simply overlooked? Emma pondered all of this as she continued rolling hides.
The knife, Emma thought, would be handy to have when Scar decided to seek more revenge, but she couldn’t work out a way to conceal it on her person. She didn’t have anything on beneath the dress and even if she did, she thought the weapon too large to keep concealed. And she had no belongings in which to hide it. But she thought if she could find a thin piece of rope, it might be possible to wear it around her neck. The dress, made for a more mature woman, was plenty loose in the bosom, but Emma hadn’t worn it long enough to know how the deerskin would drape her body when wet or when the wind blew or
while riding. Emma’s overriding concern was what the Indians would do if they discovered she had the knife. She didn’t know how many more vicious beatings she could endure without sustaining permanent damage.
Then her thoughts turned to a darker place when she recalled the repeated indignities and tortures inflicted on the two older women captives. At thirteen, Emma had her whole life in front of her and she wanted what other women had and that included children. How much more damage could her private parts take before they were rendered useless? For Emma, that was the most disturbing question.
Okay, Emma thought, carrying the knife was too risky. Was there someplace she could hide it among the chief’s things that would allow her easy access? Emma sat back on her heels to look and think for a moment. She glanced up to see the old hag giving her the eye, so Emma leaned forward and continued with her task. “You old bitch,” Emma muttered.
She could hide the knife among the rolled-up hides and take it out at the new location before they began setting up camp. And if someone happened to find it before she could retrieve it, there would be no connection to her. Emma thought that the best course of action, but before acting, she returned to one of the original questions—was this some type of test? A way to establish trust or to gauge her honesty? Then she thought about it another way. If she did use the knife to maim or kill Scar, what would the ramifications from that be? Would her access to the hidden knife and her deceit require a harsher punishment?
There were just too many unknowns, Emma thought. Her best course of action was to give the knife to Angel. However, before that, she wanted to use it to cut two slits in her dress that would free her legs. But then she hesitated even at that. It seemed like all she’d done today was question herself. She assumed that would get better as she learned the rules. At the moment, she wanted to know if cutting the beautifully beaded dress was allowed or if it was a punishable offense. And it wasn’t like she could ask someone. She decided to leave well enough alone and make do. She pulled the knife from beneath her dress and stood. She was careful to turn it so that the handle was pointing forward as she walked over to Angel, who was on her knees, trying to fold the teepee’s hide covering. Emma tapped Angel on the shoulder and when she turned, Emma held out the knife. Angel took it out of her hand and nodded.
Emma knew immediately that she had made the right choice. Angel held up a finger and then she turned around and grabbed the hem of Emma’s dress. Using the knife, she cut a long slit in the dress and twirled her fingers, signaling for Emma to turn around, which she did. Angel cut a long slit in the back and then, to Emma’s immense surprise, handed the knife back to her. Emma smiled and nodded her thanks. She knew then that the hidden knife had been some type of test and she felt good to have passed, despite her earlier scheming. She leaned down, set the knife aside, and helped Angel finish folding the teepee.
With no way to judge time, Emma guessed that only a couple of hours had passed before all the Indians were mounted up and ready to move. Travois had been lashed to the horses and all their gear, the additional poles, and anything that remained was packed on board. To her immense relief, Emma was mounted on her own horse and free of any bindings. As they rode out of the old camp, and with the knife hanging from a small piece of leather and nestled against her chest, Emma took one last glance back to see if her initials were still there and was pleased to see that they were. She’d left her mark and that was all she could do.
CHAPTER 47
Percy, Cyrus, and the others had been on the move for two weeks before they got a look at the Palo Duro Canyon. During that time, they hadn’t seen any sign of other two-legged creatures and that had suited everyone just fine because, out here, the probabilities of those creatures being Indians were extremely high. Percy had been here before, but for the others the enormity of the canyon had been a surprise. Now camped near the Prairie Dog Town Fork of the Red River, the body of water responsible for the canyon, they were on high alert for possible Indian activity.
The Palo Duro Canyon wasn’t a place you rode into willy-nilly. It took planning and extreme caution. And due to its vast size, it took something they were in short supply of—time. Who knew what horrors Emma had already endured, and those thoughts weighed heavily on all of them, especially her father, Isaac. His initial anger had transitioned to resolve, and Isaac was the one who pushed them onward at a fairly rapid clip. Now that they’d arrived at the canyon the pace had slowed considerably and that made Isaac anxious and irritable. But trying to carefully search a canyon that was 20 miles wide and 120 miles long without getting scalped was a chore.
Until they could get a handle on whether there were Indians in the vicinity, Percy had elected to hide the wagon in a thick stand of junipers as the first step in his careful plan. With the expectation that the search of the canyon could linger on for several days it would have been impossible to keep the team hitched up for the entire duration. Instead, Percy had tied a couple of long ropes to the wagon’s tongue, which would allow two riders the ability to pull the wagon out in a pinch. But freeing the mules also created another problem. Knowing the Indians’ affinity for stealing horses meant they had to keep someone in camp at all times to keep a close eye on their animals. Being set afoot out there could be a death sentence.
Currently, Wilcox, Isaac, and Cyrus were searching the south rim of the canyon while Win, Amos, and Luis scouted the north rim. That left Percy back at camp. And that would have been okay if they’d camped anywhere but there. Percy knew from his previous travels to the area that the Indians frequented the canyon often and he knew that some of the tribes considered it a sacred site. That meant he had to be on guard at all times. In addition to constantly scanning for threats, he had to keep track of where the horses and mules were, and doing both took a level of concentration that was exhausting. To help maintain his intensity, he’d consumed a large quantity of coffee and that had soured his stomach, adding to his discomfort.
Deciding he’d do a little scouting around the camp he grabbed a rope and went after his horse, who was grazing a short distance away. His son Chauncey had named the mare Mouse because of her gray coat. An American quarter horse Percy had bought from a horse breeder in Kansas on his last trip up the cattle trail, she could be a tad difficult to catch out in an open field. Not that he could blame her for being skittish about toting him around for a few hours.
After a long look around for approaching Indians, he hid the rope behind his back and walked out to the mare. When he was about six feet away, he stuck his hand out so she could pick up his scent and began talking softly to her. Luckily, she didn’t bolt and he slipped the rope around her neck. Once he returned to camp and had Mouse saddled, he rode out and drove the four mules a little closer to camp in case he needed to get the wagon out in a hurry. It wouldn’t be a fun job by himself and it might take him a little longer, but he figured the adrenaline dump at the sight of Indians would be enough to get the job done.
Being mounted increased his sight lines significantly. They had set up camp at a spot where another creek fed into the river that cut through the canyon. Other than the stand of junipers that hid the wagon and a few others that dotted the landscape, it was an open patch of ground, which allowed Percy to see an enemy approach with enough time to do something about it. In the distance, the escarpment that demarcated the beginning of the Llano Estacado snaked off to the north and south and it was truly a sight to see. To Percy, it looked as if a giant hand had pushed a big chunk of country up about six hundred feet. The terrain leading up to the ridge was as flat as a flapjack as was the land on top of the mesa. The only thing that separated the two was the steep cliff. Although Percy had seen it before during his travels, it was the starkness of it that made the place unique to just about any place he’d ever been.
Not wanting to ride too far away from camp, Percy decided to ride a large circle around it to check for tracks and to get a feel for the place. They had reached the campsite around dark last night and he ha
dn’t had a chance to get the lay of the land He crossed the small creek that fed into the river and picked up a game trail that led up a rocky slope to a ridge that was part of the canyon. On top, his view opened up significantly. From that vantage point he could see for miles in all directions and he wondered if it would make a better camp location. But the more he thought about it the more he liked the camp’s present location. They would be too exposed up on the ridge.
From that vantage point Percy could see how sparse the grass was and, other than the junipers and swaths of stubby mesquite trees, what he’d classify as normal trees were nonexistent other than those down in the canyon. The one thing that wasn’t in short supply was cactus, especially prickly pear. It was as thick as weeds around an outhouse in some places, the beaver tail–shaped pads covered with long, angry-looking spines. Mouse didn’t appear to like them much and she cut a wide berth around them. Percy took one more long look around before he steered the mare down the ridge and toward the river. Choosing to ride along the side of the river a short distance, he searched the ground for unshod pony tracks. And found some, but fortunately none looked to be recent.
A little farther on he found something that piqued his interest. He stopped Mouse to allow for further study. What he saw were several lines in the dirt. Some were equally spaced with hoof tracks between them and he knew enough about tracking to know what it was—a travois trail. When the Indians decided it was time to move on, they would tie a couple of teepee poles to opposite sides of a horse or dog and then pile on their belongings. What he didn’t know was how old the trail was, but Wilcox would be able to look at it and tell them that and a lot more. Percy clucked his tongue to start Mouse moving and crossed the river to search for the trail on the other side.
