The lancers needed little encouragement. Before the evening halt, they had secured a fat young cow. That evening, the gentle warm breeze was scented with the sweet aroma of broiling buffalo hump. Sanchez, though remembering little of practical use, had retained the memory that this was the choicest of cuts. The others readily agreed and the entire party gorged themselves on the rich meat.
Next day, they encountered another new experience. A village, seen from afar by the pall of smoke hanging over the area, proved to be that of yet another tribe. These people lived in a sort of half-buried house, partly in and partly above the ground. The exposed portion appeared to be constructed of poles and brush.
These natives were also cultivating fields of maize, pumpkins, and a sort of bean. They were called the Growers, Lizard informed the others. He had heard of them, though he did not understand their language.
The Growers proved to be a very hospitable people. They carried on a system of trade with other tribes, it appeared, exchanging the products of their agriculture for meat and skins from the hunting tribes.
“Ask them more of the hunters,” urged Cabeza. It was becoming apparent that the nomadic people of the skin tents described by Sanchez would be hunters.
Yes, came the answer, without hesitation. There were several groups. The Growers traded indiscriminately with them all, though there was often war between the different tribes of hunters.
Was there any among them with hair on the face?
The Growers conversed among themselves for a time, then one answered, using sign talk.
They had seen no hair-face, but there was said to be one, much further north. He was a mighty chief, it was said, hated by his enemies. There was a tale that he had met in combat with Gray Wolf, a great chief of the tribe known as Head Splitters. The hair-faced one had killed Gray Wolf, bringing much prestige to his own people.
Where could more be learned? The Growers were unanimous on this point. To the north!
Now even Sanchez was excited. He had completely forgotten that he had originally considered this a useless fiasco, designed only for his own possible enrichment. Sanchez was now as convinced as anyone that it might be possible to find Juan Garcia.
Cabeza, for his part, was concerned with so much optimism. He remembered only too well the near tragedy that had resulted from the last disappointment. Don Pedro, it could be clearly seen, was burning with eagerness again. The old man was restless, anxious to be on the way. This time, surely, their search would meet with success, his entire attitude seemed to say.
The lieutenant sought him out during the long twilight of the prairie evening.
“Señor Garcia,” he began hesitantly, “you know that it may not be your son.”
“Of course, my boy!” Don Pedro’s enthusiasm still bubbled. “But it may be! They said this man is a great leader!” He whacked the younger man affectionately across the shoulders. “Do not worry, Ramon! We shall go and see!”
The old don’s eyes sparkled in the firelight and his excited smile spread across the weather-beaten face. Tonight, Cabeza thought, Don Pedro looked years younger. It was little short of amazing, how much difference it made to have something to look forward to.
Cabeza was still disturbed, however. There was actually very little chance that this legendary chief further north was even a Spaniard, much less one particular Spaniard, the son of Don Pedro Garcia. And, after further weeks of penetration into the heart of the continent, what if they found nothing? Or the wrong man? Could the stamina of Don Pedro withstand another disappointment of this kind?
Cabeza sighed and turned, sleepless, in his blankets. Things had seemed so much simpler at the start of the expedition, before he assigned himself the responsibility he now felt. Why couldn’t he have merely been able to carry out his duties as head of the expedition’s military unit? Things had a way of becoming so complicated out in the real world, away from the cloistered influence of his home and of the Academy.
Now, he muttered to himself, he had come to the point where he felt a responsibility not only to Don Pedro, but to Sanchez and the whole damned company.
What triumphs, terrors, or defeats might lie ahead between their present camp and the trail that led toward the Pole Star, winking brightly in the northern sky? At last, tired from the day’s travel, he drifted into troubled sleep.
Nothing worthy of note occurred for a few days. The party rose, traveled, made camp, ate, and slept, and the distance slipped slowly behind them, one day much the same as the one before. They encountered no more villages.
Occasionally, the lancers procured a buffalo and everyone ate well for a day. They had slipped into a comfortable routine.
Don Pedro was becoming restless, almost irritable at the lack of any apparent progress. Then, one evening as they made camp, an astonishing event caught the attention of the entire party.
Three young natives approached the encampment. Their dusty garments showed evidence of long travel. Cautiously, they advanced, repeatedly making the open-palm sign for peace. Lizard moved forward to communicate.
The newcomers were Growers, they stated. They had heard of the searching party and had traveled several sleeps to meet them. It was said that Hair-faces would exchange gifts for information they sought and it was for this purpose they had come.
“They have knowledge of my son?” Don Pedro asked eagerly.
Lizard shook his head.
“No. Have big medicine. Hair-face medicine!”
He pointed to a shapeless bundle that one of the natives carried.
“Him want trade.”
Slowly, almost reverently, the man unwrapped his bundle.
“Him trade from hunter tribes,” Lizard was explaining.
The last leather wrapping slipped away and a round object gleamed dully in the firelight. Proudly, the native placed the thing in the hands of the shaken Don Pedro.
It was rusty and dented, but identifiable at a glance. Oddly out of place, the artifact was completely foreign to the prairies of New Spain. It was a battered and well-used accoutrement of another world, an old-fashioned Spanish military helmet.
11
It was hours later and the party was quieting for the night. Don Pedro Garcia still sat by the fire, holding the helmet in his lap. He had eaten not a bite and had spoken hardly a word to anyone. Since the finding of the helmet, he had spent most of the time busily scouring the object with sand, cleaning and polishing it. His gnarled old fingers moved lovingly, almost reverently, over the now-shiny surface. From time to time, he ran his thumb nail along a deep nick in the upturned brim and a corresponding groove in the smooth curve.
Cabeza, concerned over the old man’s preoccupation, sauntered over to sit beside him. Don Pedro did not even look up, but after a long moment began to speak softly, feeling the groove along the left side of the helmet.
“It was in the south of France,” he related, almost to himself, as if unaware that he had a listener. “The man was big, very big for a Frenchman, but he was quick. He dodged under my stroke and nearly killed me. The helmet saved me, but the armorer could never polish the scar out of it.”
He fingered the deep groove again.
Slowly, the significance of the half-forgotten story sank into the consciousness of Cabeza.
“You mean, señor, this is the helmet?”
Sanchez had joined them and the story now became clear to him, also.
“Yes, Señor Cabeza, the young Officer Garcia wore his father’s armor!”
Slowly, Don Pedro turned, the look of wonder still on his face. He stared at Sanchez as if he had never seen him before.
“Sanchez, at times I have thought you were a liar. You still may be, but I have trusted you because it was all I had. Now this,” he held up the helmet, “proves you told some truth.”
Sanchez was almost overcome by the approval he was receiving. He was uneasy, however. The presence of the helmet worn by the young Juan Garcia proved nothing. He might be dead. Someone else might
have carried the helmet halfway across the continent to this spot.
Yet, it was easy to be optimistic. This terrain did look remarkably like that in which the young officer had been lost. Hope continued to grow in the mind of Sanchez. It would be a wonderful thing if the son of Don Pedro could be found. With a sudden start, he realized that he was hoping for something without thinking of the financial return for himself. What a strange feeling. Perhaps he was becoming addled from too much time in the hot sun.
“Señor,” Cabeza was protesting mildly, “this does not mean that he is alive.”
“I know, Ramon.” Something like a tear glistened in the old man’s eye. “But I wish to know. And he did come this way!”
It was only a few days later that they sighted riders in the distance. There were perhaps a score of men, sweeping confidently across the plain. The two parties saw each other at approximately the same moment and the strangers altered course to approach slowly and with caution.
The travelers had seen horses used by the natives, mostly as pack animals. These were ridden. Don Pedro, with an old campaigner’s eye, sized up the approaching contingent. The savages appeared to be experienced horsemen. What few natives they had seen on horseback previously were poor riders, seated too far back and clumsy in their handling of the animals.
These men, on the contrary, sat well forward on the withers and exhibited good control. They appeared to be of a different bone structure than the natives previously seen, also. They were muscular in appearance, with longer facial features and high cheekbones. All were heavily armed.
Three of the newcomers detached themselves from the rest of the party and rode slowly forward. The man in the middle, a leader by his bearing and demeanor, held his right hand up, with open palm forward. The travelers had begun to recognize this as the signal for an invitation to talk.
Don Pedro pointed to Sanchez, Cabeza, and Lizard. They advanced cautiously to meet the newcomers halfway. Lizard, the only one on foot, walked proudly beside the old don’s horse, with Sanchez on his other side. They stopped at a conversational distance and the sign talk began. Cabeza followed it closely.
“We have traveled far. We have gifts and we wish to ask questions.”
The other chief nodded stiffly.
“How are you called?”
“I am Lizard. These are men from across the Big Water. We look for the son of our chief.”
He indicated the elder Garcia.
Garcia, thinking to help explain the situation, drew the helmet from his saddlebag and held it up.
“Aiee!” exclaimed one of the warriors. The three began an animated conversation among themselves. At last, Lizard interrupted them to ask another question.
“You have seen a man with hairy face?”
The three glanced uneasily at each other. Another animated conversation ensued. Finally, the leader turned and signed back.
“We may be able to help you. You must come to our camp.”
There was now the interpretation and discussion among the Garcia party and tentative agreement.
“Ask who they are,” Cabeza suggested. “They must be one of the hunter tribes.”
“How are you called?” signed Lizard.
“I am Lean Bull. Come with us. You spoke of gifts?”
Lizard translated and Garcia turned to call forward one of the servants with a pack of trade goods. Some small trinkets were presented, to the obvious pleasure of the warriors.
At length, the two groups moved on together, each party of armed men still somewhat suspicious of the other. They moved in two parallel files, a few paces apart. The lancers eyed their native counterparts and the savages returned the attention.
Cabeza was interested in the equipment of the other group. Long lances bristled along the column. They appeared much like those of his own men, except for the stone lance points. Other men carried short, heavy bows and quivers of arrows. It was some time before he noticed that at the waist of nearly every man hung a war club. The implement consisted of a stone the size of a man’s fist, bound into a handle of wood, somewhat like an ax. It appeared to be a formidable weapon.
The combined party traveled for nearly half the afternoon across rolling prairie and flat-topped hills. Herds of buffalo, their brown color appearing black in the distance, dotted the plain. Finally, topping a long ridge, the group looked over a vast basin in the prairie. Through the center of the lush, grassy meadows meandered a stream, marked by a darker green fringe of trees. In places, one or two huge old cottonwoods stood like sentinels presiding over the course of the stream.
Lean Bull, leader of the savages, stopped his horse and pointed across the valley. There, in the haze of distance, the travelers could see smoke along the stream. The source seemed to be a cluster of dwellings. Nearby, a scattered herd of horses grazed.
Cabeza stood in his stirrups to obtain a better look. A slight change in the breeze cleared some of the smoky haze for a moment and he could catch a glimpse of the structures in the village. They were conical in shape, sharply pointed on top, with smoke rising lazily from the apex of the cone.
It took a long moment for the significance of the scene to sink into Cabeza’s consciousness. These were the leather-tent people of Sanchez’s stories.
Another thought occurred to the young lieutenant as the party started down the rocky hillside. He waited until they reached easier terrain in the meadow, then caught the attention of one of the savages who was riding near him. He indicated a wish to converse in the sign talk and the other nodded.
“How are your people called?” gestured Cabeza, by way of conversation.
The warrior reached down and lifted the heavy war club dangling below his waist. He cheerfully held it out for the inspection of the other.
“Our enemies call us the Head Splitters.”
12
That night, under cover of darkness, in an area a few days’ travel away, three men and a woman gathered in the dense timber along a stream. It was hardly more than a long bow shot from their village.
Most of the People slept, but for these, the meeting must be of utmost importance.
“Where are they now?” asked Coyote.
The messenger was stripping the saddle pad and rawhide war bridle from his tired horse. He turned the animal loose and gave a parting slap on its flank, the hair stiff from drying sweat. They had covered much distance this day. He stepped over to squat on the ground and the others did likewise.
“They met the Head Splitters today. They stay tonight with them on Walnut Creek, maybe two sleeps from here.”
The others nodded.
“Which way do they go?” asked Big Footed Woman.
“North. They should not find us at all.”
Again, they all nodded with satisfaction.
“It was good, White Buffalo, that we moved as we did.”
The medicine man accepted the compliment in silence, no less pleased. It had been his suggestion, when the rumor of a party of Hair-faces on the plains had first been heard.
The People had become affluent and successful under the leadership of a young outsider. He had, in the few short seasons with them, helped to change their way of living. He brought the horse and, with the improved methods of hunting buffalo, the People prospered. The children were fat and the women were happy. There were jokes that the Moon of Hunger, in late winter, needed a new name, for there was now food in plenty.
In addition, the People had, for the first time, successfully defended themselves in battle against the traditional enemies, the Head Splitters. This success had increased their pride as well as their prestige.
And then, the leader of the Southern band of the People had been killed in battle. The young warriors had rallied around their young leader, the hair-faced outsider who had instructed them in the skills of the horse and lance. He had married into the tribe and it was with pride that the People claimed Heads Off as one of their own and chief of the Southern band, now called the Elk-dog band.
Now, a few years later, all the advances of the People were threatened. According to rumors spread from one tribe to another, a column of the hair-faced ones was marching again from the south. Their purpose was unknown.
Fortunately, the scout who first heard of the matter from the Growers had become uneasy about the story. He had reported to Coyote, rather than to his chief.
“What does this mean, uncle?” The young man used the term of respect for any adult male of the People.
“I do not know, Standing Bird, but we must be very careful. Come, we will talk to White Buffalo.” Surely, the medicine man would have words of wisdom.
They found the old man relaxing on his willow back rest in front of his lodge. He, too, was concerned with the rumor. He recalled that for many moons after Heads Off had joined the People, his greatest wish was to return to his own tribe. Circumstances of one sort or another had prevented his departure. But now times were more stable. Might Heads Off not decide that it would be expedient to leave?
“It is not as great a risk what the Hair-faces will do, as what Heads Off will do.”
The others agreed. After much quiet discussion, a plan of action was outlined. The chief must be prevented from knowing of the expedition of outsiders. Thus, he would be unable to join them.
To this end, extra scouts would be deployed. Standing Bird, leader of the Elk-dog Warrior Society, would handle that end. The Elk-dogs, young men of unquestioned loyalty, would be informed of the crisis. Any information they acquired would be reported directly to White Buffalo. The medicine man could then advise a move to a new camp, in an area less likely to encounter the Hair-faces.
Follow the Wind Page 5
