“As always Soko is wise,” Nocona said. “Now I will try to be equally as wise. It is right we help Howeah. He has often helped each of us.”
“But the whites!” Sargento protested.
“You will go to where they are staked out,” Nocona said. “We will join you when we have caught the bay.”
Sargento beamed, for him a rare emotion. “I will watch over them until you come. You need not hurry.”
“Since Pahkah does not have a horse, let him ride with you,” Nocona proposed, and Sargento’s smile faded. To Pahkah, Nocona said, “Keep the whites alive. Do not harm them.”
“It will be as you wish,” Pahkah said.
Sargento was glowering at the world again. “I have never been fond of prairie dogs,” he muttered.
The five Wasps separated, Nocona and Soko and Howeah readying their ropes as they spread out to give chase to the bay, Sargento riding north with Pahkah behind him. Of all of them, only Sargento appeared unhappy.
“Howeah always has luck,” Pahkah said. “I am without a horse, yet he saw the bay first.”
“I have never been fond of bays,” Sargento said. His own warhorse was a pinto, as were Nocona’s and Soko’s mounts. The Nemene preferred pintos and paints above all others.
“Are you fond of white women? The one I saw has hair the color of straw. For a white she is appealing.”
“I like to beat them,” Sargento said. “They are not good for much except to use as dogs.” Which was the Nemene way of saying “as beasts of burden.”
“You would never take one for a wife?”
Sargento grunted. “I have four wives already. What need have I of more? Especially a useless white woman.”
“Penateka took a white wife. He described her as a she-cat under the robes at night. She liked to scratch his back and make a lot of noise.”
“I am not fond of noisy women. I like my women to stay quiet so I can think while we are making love,” Sargento said.
“That is interesting. Myself, I do not like a lot of noise but neither do I like them to lie there like lumps of clay. A little noise and a few scratches and I am content.”
“If it were not for giving us babies, and cooking our food, our own females would be almost as useless as white women.”
“I am your friend. I will forget you said that. It would be well if you forget you said that, too.”
“Why? I have told my wives the same thing.”
“That is interesting, too. I remember you telling me once that your wives are poor cooks and do not please you much at night.”
“So?”
“All four of them?”
“Yes. I have no luck when it comes to picking women.”
“It is a mystery,” Pahkah said.
Howeah had told them in which direction and how far to ride. They did exactly as he had said, and when they were where the staked-out whites should be, there were no whites tied to stakes.
“He told us wrong,” Sargento growled.
“We must be near,” Pahkah said. “Ride in circles. Make each circle larger. We are sure to find them.”
Sargento complied. They were on their sixth circle when Sargento reined up and spat, “This is pointless.”
“Let us think it over,” Pahkah said, and did so out loud. “We know that Howeah saw the whites. He always speaks with a straight tongue. We know that we are in the area where he saw them. Since we cannot find them, they are no longer here. Perhaps they have run away.”
“Someone freed them?”
“Or they freed themselves.”
“We should have found the stakes, then.”
“Not if the stakes were driven all the way into the earth. Only the tops would show, if that. We might have missed them.”
“What do you propose?”
“We dismount and search on foot for tracks or other sign.”
That is what they did. They searched and searched as the sun climbed the sky, and they were still searching when three riders appeared to the southwest. Pahkah shouted and waved his arms, and soon Nocona, Soko, and Howeah arrived, their mounts lathered with sweat.
“Where is the bay?” Sargento asked.
Howeah’s expression was that of someone who had swallowed a bone by mistake. “Never mention the bay to me again.”
“We could not catch him,” Nocona said. “We tried trick after trick and he eluded us. He is a horse like few others.”
“Did you chase him in relays?” Pahkah asked.
“Of course,” Nocona said. “But our horses tired, not him.” He said it with great admiration.
“I would give anything to own such an animal,” Soko said.
Sargento made a slashing gesture. “You have wasted half the day and so have we.” He glared at Howeah. “Those whites of yours have turned into birds and flown off into the sky.”
“You cannot find them?” Howeah asked in mild surprise.
“You have eyes. Do you see them anywhere?” Sargento retorted unkindly. “We have lost them because of your bay you could not catch.”
“Do not take offense,” Pahkah said to Howeah. “He was looking forward to torturing them.”
“We all were,” Soko said. “It is no excuse for being rude.”
“I will look for them,” Howeah said. “I know right where they are.” He rose on his horse and scanned the prairie and then remarked, “The grass is the same everywhere you look.”
“Who would have thought it?” Sargento said.
“We can find them,” Howeah insisted, and kneed his mount.
Nocona suggested the rest of them spread out and scour the vicinity. They scoured, and scoured some more, and as the sun came to rest on the west rim of the world, they came together and gazed at one another in defeat. They could find no sign of where the whites had been.
“This is embarrassing,” Sargento grumbled. “We find whites and then we lose them. We will be laughed at when we return to our village.”
“Not if we tell no one,” Pahkah said.
Nocona was watching the horizon swallow the sun. “It will be night soon. We will hunt for our supper, make camp, and rest. In the morning we will look for the whites again.”
“Even if we cannot find their camp, we will ride to the northwest,” Soko proposed.
“Why that direction and no other?” Sargento asked.
“The whites would not head south. That is Nemene territory. They would not go east. There is nothing but prairie. The same to the west. But to the north is the fort the whites call Bent’s. It is the only place they can go for help.”
“I respect your wisdom, as always,” Nocona said.
They did not find any game. They had to go hungry. They had no wood for a fire, so they had to settle for a cold camp. They stayed up late, talking about coup they had counted, and family and friends. Soon after they had fallen asleep, coyotes strayed near and took to yipping and yapping and generally making it hard for everyone except old Soko to go on sleeping.
“I have never been fond of coyotes,” Sargento growled. “Why do they pester us? They should be off filling their bellies.”
“If they tasted better I would kill one for my own belly,” Pahkah said.
“They are too much like dogs,” Nocona said.
The Nemene never ate dog meat. To them, it was the same as eating one’s cousin. Some of the neighboring tribes engaged in the revolting practice, which did not endear them to the Nemene.
“I will go throw clods of dirt at them,” Sargento announced, and walked off into the night.
“He is in one of his moods,” Nocona said.
“I do not blame him,” Pahkah responded. “If I had moods, I would be in one too.”
The coyotes were still yipping. Then one yipped louder and sharper than the rest, and silence claimed the plain.
Sargento came out of the dark and reclaimed his spot. “We can sleep the rest of the night in peace.”
Unfortunately, most of them had trouble falling off agai
n They had too much on their minds.
The sun broke on four tired warriors and one somewhat older warrior who was fully refreshed.
Stretching and smiling, Soko said, “I am ready to renew our hunt. How about the rest of you?”
“If you were a coyote I would beat you to death,” Sargento said.
They climbed on their warhorses and set out and had gone perhaps the distance a turtle can crawl in half a day when Howeah whooped and indicated the ground to one side. “The stakes!”
“We were this close and did not know it?” Pahkah said in disgust.
“The important thing is we can track them now,” Sargento said. “We can track them and we can kill them.”
Nine
Nate King had a newfound faith in miracles. There had been no sign of the Comanches. Not the day before. Not during the night.
Now, the morning sun an hour into its celestial flight, Nate was hiking west. The Beechers were on each side of him. They were not speaking to one another. A heated spat the evening before was to blame. They had gone off a short way so he would not hear. But they became so mad, and raised their voices so loud, he could not help but overhear. The thrust of their fight had been all too apparent: him.
Shipley was as green as the grass, figuratively speaking. Cynthia had protested her innocence with vigor, but her husband refused to accept her word that nothing had happened.
Nate had not spoken a word to her all morning. Deliberately. Several times he caught Shipley glaring at him, but Shipley always looked away when Nate caught him.
Squabbling spouses was an aggravation Nate did not need. He had more than enough to deal with, namely, no horses, no food, no water, virtually no weapons, he and the farmer were only half clothed, and a Comanche war party was after them.
“Why are you leading us west?” Shipley Beecher abruptly broke his long silence. “Isn’t Bent’s Fort north of us?”
“Yes,” Nate confirmed. “But the Comanches will expect us to make straight for it. By going west and swinging north later we can throw them off our scent.”
“It will take longer this way, won’t it?” Shipley asked.
“Longer but safer,” Nate said.
“We could be going to all this bother for nothing,” Shipley groused. “It could be the Comanches aren’t even after us.”
“Could be, but I wouldn’t count on it.”
“What if my wife and I want to reach the post as quickly as we can? What if we were to head north now instead of continuing west? Would you try to stop us?”
“You are grown adults,” Nate answered. “You’re free to do however you please. But for your wife’s sake, I hope you don’t.” He knew it was a mistake the instant he said it, but the harm had been done.
“Rub my nose in it, why don’t you?” Shipley snapped. “Jackson was right about you.”
“Don’t start that nonsense again,” Nate warned.
“How does it feel, knowing you have destroyed a marriage?” the farmer spat.
“What?”
“What?” Cynthia echoed, startled. She had been walking with her head hung low, a portrait of misery. “How was that again?”
“A divorce,” Shipley said.
The color drained from Cynthia. She broke stride but recovered. “You’re not serious, Ship. Not after three years together. Not over a trifle.”
“One person’s trifle is another’s mountain,” Shipley responded. “I don’t take what you did lightly. I don’t take it lightly at all.”
“How can you accept the word of a man like Jackson over the word of your wife?” Cynthia asked in the fragile manner of someone whose heart was being crushed. “I made a sacred vow to be true to you.”
To that Shipley had no reply.
Nate was at a loss. He had not done anything wrong. But the farmer refused to believe it. Shipley had made up his mind the unspeakable had happened and would not accept any argument to the contrary. How was Nate to convince him? What would it take to batter down the closed door of Shipley’s mind to admit the light of reason?
Cynthia compounded matters by saying, “I’m beginning to wonder if you ever truly loved me. How else can you think of casting me aside so lightly?”
Shipley suddenly stopped and faced her. “So you claim you still love me, is that it?”
“I never stopped.”
“Prove it. I am heading for Bent’s Fort. You can come with me or you can stay with the mountain man. But if you stay, we get a divorce. It’s your choice. Which will it be?”
Nate had a choice of his own to make. Keep quiet, or try to save them from their folly. “It’s best if we stick together. The Comanches are out there somewhere.”
“So you keep saying,” Ship said. “But I’ve seen through your excuse to keep my wife by your side. Head west if you want. But you’ll do it without me.” He looked at Cynthia. “Which way are you heading?”
There it was. Impaled on her honor. Nate had to say nothing, knowing what she would do and knowing it was the worst decision of her life.
Sadness etched Cynthia’s pretty face, sadness so deep and profound it was heart-wrenching. “I married you for better or worse.”
Shipley Beecher puffed up like a bantam rooster. He took her hand and looked at Nate as if to say See? I’ve won!
“You’re making a mistake,” Nate tried.
“If so, it is ours to make.” Shipley led his wife to the north, saying condescendingly, “Come, my dear. We can make it to Bent’s Fort without him.”
Cynthia moved like someone sleepwalking.
Nate watched until they were specks. Then he wheeled to the west and strode with long, angry strides. But he only went about a hundred yards. Then he stopped and sighed and said, “Damn.”
Turning, Nate hurried north.
Most easterners envisioned the prairie as mile after mile of endless flat. Major Stephen Long, John Charles Fremont, and Colonel Stephen Kearney had all crisscrossed the Great Plains and given accounts of their discoveries, accounts that were widely circulated, and all three made note of the endless miles of flat.
But the truth was not the same as the perception. For while the prairie was essentially flat, it was split by washes and gullies and hollows and, on occasion, by canyons and low hills.
Cynthia sighted the hills first. She was plodding along, in the grip of despair, when she looked up, and there they were. Bumps, at first, which bulged into low hills sprinkled with vegetation other than grass. “Look yonder.”
Shipley had his head down and was listlessly massaging his wounded shoulder. “Eh?” He stopped. “I’ll be switched! I’ll bet there’s water. My throat is so dry I could drink a lake.”
“We must be careful,” Cynthia cautioned. “If there is water, there are more likely to be wild animals or hostiles.”
“The only hostile we need worry about is Nate King,” Shipley said. “He’s lived with Injuns for so long he’s forgotten how to be white.”
“I would rather we not talk about him.”
The buffalo grass crackled under their weary tread. Here and there were tumbleweeds. Random points of yellow became sunflowers. Clover and daisies sprinkled the rising ground. A few oaks and sycamores dotted the slopes.
“There has to be water. There just has to.” Shipley ran his dry tongue over his equally dry lips.
A lark took wing from out of the clover. Farther on, a thicket disgorged a bevy of quail.
“This would be a good spot for a farm,” Shipley said. “Provided there is enough water.”
Cynthia stared at him, her sadness deepening, and ran her tongue over her own lips. “Yes, it would.”
“We’ll mention it to Hiram and Elmer when we meet up with them.”
The first hill would not have taxed a kitten, but it taxed them. When they reached the top they stopped and bent over with their hands on their knees and sucked air into their lungs.
The next hill was greener. The hill after that the greenest yet. On the far side lay the m
ost welcome sight in the world, a blue oval that covered a third of an acre.
Shipley rubbed his eyes and blurted, “Tell me I’m seeing things! Tell me it’s not there!”
“It seems to be,” Cynthia said.
“It can’t be a mirage if we both see it.” Shipley lurched down the slope, gaining speed as he went. At the bottom he tried to stop, but he was moving too fast and his legs were too weak. He squawked as he pitched headlong into the water. Shaking himself, he sat up. The level only came as high as his chest. Giddy with delight, he splashed water on himself and then on Cynthia when she wearily sank down, her legs under her, and dipped a palm.
“We should stay here a week and rest,” Shipley happily proposed.
Cynthia sipped delicately from her hand, then moistened her cheeks and brow. “What would we do for food?”
“I’m sure I can kill us something.” Shipley ducked under and resurfaced. He went under again and stayed under for as long as he could hold his breath. Then, laughing, he drank greedily, waded out, and collapsed on his back. “If I drink any more I’ll be sick.”
Trees shaded half the pond. Brush overgrew the rest. Animal tracks were everywhere.
“Our own Garden of Eden,” Shipley said, gazing about. “It could not be more perfect.” He closed his eyes.
Cynthia dipped her hand in again. “The Garden had a serpent. We would do well to remember that.”
“Our serpent is Nate King. I wonder if he knows this is here.”
“I wonder if the Comanches do,” Cynthia said. She tilted her palm and let wonderfully cool water fill her mouth and trickle down her chin and neck. For the first time in days she smiled. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe everything will turn out fine.” She bent to dip her hand a third time. The reflections that stared back at her forced a bleat of fear from her throat. “Run!” she cried, and rose to do so but iron fingers closed on her arms.
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