Cabeza had stopped, at Lizard’s suggestion, in the center of the meadow. He sat still on the horse, right hand raised in salute. The others approached and stopped.
Cabeza nodded a greeting.
“We meet again,” he gestured.
“One last time.”
“My chief,” Cabeza came directly to the point, “will you fight me and let the others go?”
To his surprise, Lean Bull laughed aloud.
“I will kill you and then kill the others!”
“But if I win,” Cabeza persisted, “they go free?”
Lean Bull chuckled.
“That will not be.”
“But if it is, if I kill you, then your warriors will let them go?”
Lean Bull nodded impatiently.
“Tell him, then.”
Cabeza motioned to the other warrior. Lean Bull turned and spoke rapidly. It was impossible to know whether he was giving honest instructions.
“When will this fight be?”
Lean Bull shrugged, then pointed overhead.
“When the sun is straight up.”
Cabeza nodded and turned his horse, deliberately exposing his back to the other, and rode calmly back toward the little clump of trees.
28
All morning, warriors of Lean Bull’s tribe had been trickling into the area, by twos and threes and handfuls. Only a short while ago, the largest party yet had arrived, swelling the mass of milling warriors by dozens.
Now the sun was almost directly overhead and Cabeza tightened his girth and prepared to mount. He had chosen one of the gray Garcia stallions, the one that appeared the best and most maneuverable. He handed the reins to one of the lancers and stepped over to speak to Don Pedro for a moment.
The old man was seated, facing the meadow, talking intensely to himself. His eyes glittered with excitement and his hands fluttered nervously in his lap.
“I go now, Señor Garcia.”
Don Pedro barely glanced up and there was not the slightest hint of recognition in the nervously shifting old eyes. He continued to mutter and babble incoherently. Cabeza sighed deeply and clasped a hand on the old warrior’s shoulder.
“God be with you, señor.”
With a frustrated sigh, he rose to return to his horse. He swung to the saddle and turned to speak to the lancers.
The bearded sergeant had brought the platoon forward as if for inspection. Their once splendid blue and white uniforms, now disheveled and dirty, had been made as presentable as possible. Only the sergeant and four others still possessed a horse, but these were drawn up with military precision. Behind them, the other lancers stood at attention on foot, with weapons at ready.
The sergeant saluted smartly and Cabeza returned the gesture. Pride in his platoon brought a lump to his throat. It was just as well, he reflected, that he would not be required to speak. It was better to cover the emotion of the moment with the formality of a military salute.
Cabeza turned the stallion and kneed the animal briskly forward into the meadow. Mounted warriors surged down from the hill and arranged themselves in a half circle around the level area.
Lean Bull strutted forward, face painted for battle. His horse, too, was decorated with geometric designs and crimson handprints on the chest and flanks. He carried a circular shield of rawhide and his heavy stone war club dangled ready in his right hand.
Cabeza had chosen the saber as his weapon. There had been no rules established. None were necessary. It would be a fight to the death. Then it would remain to be seen whether the followers of Lean Bull would honor the terms of the challenge.
The two warriors circled and Cabeza drew his sword and prepared for a run at the other. With military precision, he aligned the blade with his forearm and braced his right elbow. The stallion leaped forward at a touch of the spur. Lean Bull gave a yipping war cry and kicked his horse into a canter, swinging his great club in an arc around his head.
Cabeza directed the point of his blade at the bare midriff of the other and braced for the shock along his arm. At the same time, he ducked low under the whirling arc of the club. It was with some surprise that he felt the shock of contact diverted. Lean Bull had swung the iron-hard rawhide shield into position and the point of the sword slid harmlessly aside.
Now off-balance, Cabeza whirled his horse and prepared for the rush of the other. He managed to avoid the swing of the club again, but his slash with the blade once more clanged off the shield. Cabeza was becoming alarmed. It was all he could do to avoid the swing of the other’s weapon. To do so placed him at a disadvantage in each encounter. He could not bring his sword into play while ducking, dodging, and bending, off-balance in the saddle. When he did manage to offer a return blow, the blade merely clanged against the shield of Lean Bull.
Cabeza was tiring rapidly. His predicament was brought sharply to his attention when a narrow miss by the stone club actually brushed the hair above his left ear. He must do something quickly.
He must attack Lean Bull’s horse. Much as he disliked such tactics, Cabeza was fighting for his life and those of his companions. He had been completely unable to reach his opponent with any sort of effectiveness. But if he could put the horse down, there might be a chance that he could gain an advantage.
The opponents wheeled after another clash and the lieutenant heard a sudden shout behind him. He was looking directly at Lean Bull’s face at that moment and saw blank astonishment appear as the warrior looked past him toward the creek. Cabeza spurred quickly aside and turned to look.
From the makeshift campsite at the little grove, a wild-eyed figure staggered, roaring his challenge. Don Pedro Garcia, hatless, disheveled white hair blowing in the wind, charged across the meadow on foot, bellowing and swinging his heavy sword.
Sergeant Perez spurred forward to intercept the deranged old man, but dared not come too close to the whirling blade. Two more lancers rode forward to assist and a scattering of foot soldiers and Garcia retainers straggled after.
To the Head Splitters on the slope, it must have appeared that the ragtag platoon at the creek was trying to mount an attack. Suddenly, the entire situation deteriorated into deadly confusion.
Cabeza attempted to yell that it was a mistake, but his shout was drowned in a chorus of yipping war cries. The line of mounted warriors broke and poured forward, lances and war clubs waving overhead. He wheeled the horse and ran, hearing the thunder behind him, watching his pitiful platoon attempt to form a defensive front as he approached.
He yanked the gray stallion to a sliding stop and pivoted to face the oncoming rush. With the precision of trained professionals, the handful of lancers swung into their short defensive charge. The two forces clashed, horses and men went down in a melee of confusion. The tangle swept toward the creek and the crossbowmen began to make themselves felt. Short, heavy crossbow bolts twanged, taking deadly toll.
Cabeza slashed, parried, thrust, and circled, trying to catch sight of Don Pedro. From the corner of his vision, he saw a lancer struck down, to fall heavily from his horse. One of the others vaulted to the saddle to bring his lance into play. A young warrior loomed before him, swinging his stone club. Cabeza readied his sword, but the other man’s horse suddenly screamed and bucked away, unseating the rider. There was the brief glimpse of a crossbow bolt, projecting from the flank of the frantic animal, before it floundered away in the confusion.
Another lancer went down, trampled under the hooves of a painted warrior’s horse. It could not last much longer. More warriors were pounding across the meadow, anxious to count honors before the last Hair-faces fell. The yipping falsetto war cry blended into a continuous high-pitched roar.
29
Heads Off, frustrated and tired, suddenly stopped his horse and held up a hand for silence. The straggling war party came to a halt, as everyone strained to listen.
Since dawn, when the sudden brief rain had blotted out all traces of the trail they were following, they had floundered. The general direc
tion of travel had been north, so they maintained that course, but the scouts had seen nothing, beyond the occasional broken twig or trampled tuft of grass that indicated that someone or something had passed.
Now, in the silence of the halt, free from the shuffling and clopping noises of travel, others began to hear the sound. In the far distance, somewhere to their left, came the distinct sounds of battle. There were shouts, cries, a scream, and, swelling over all, the high falsetto yip-yip-yip of the Head Splitters’ war cry.
The young chief reined his gray mare around and started up the slope. Just at that moment, Standing Bird, who had been scouting in that direction, came charging down the ridge at a fast lope, waving excitedly. They hurried to meet the excited scout.
“They are attacking the Hair-faces by the creek! It is almost over!”
Quickly, Heads Off rode to the summit of the ridge. Before him, like a panorama in miniature, lay the scene of battle. Yipping, painted warriors pressed forward from all directions toward a tiny band of defenders backed against the bend of the flooded creek.
The remnants of a platoon in blue and white uniforms retreated with disciplined precision. Only three of the lancers were still mounted, he saw. It must have been deadly fighting. The other soldiers were fighting on foot, retreating step by step, attempting to defend the assortment of people on foot. The uninjured assisted the wounded toward the doubtful shelter of a few scrubby trees at the creek’s edge.
One of the soldiers still on his horse was a tall young officer, who seemed to be everywhere at once. He reined up and down the hottest part of the line of battle, wielding his sword with great skill. Naturally, he was becoming the target of every aspiring young warrior. Heads Off marveled that the man was still in the saddle.
Quickly, Heads Off made tactical decisions, turning to the waiting warriors.
“Red Dog! Take your Bloods to the south end of the ridge! The rest spread out and follow me!”
In the meadow below, the jubilant Head Splitters, the scent of victory in their nostrils, were suddenly astonished by a new development. Above the din of battle came the deep full-throated rumble of the war cry of the People.
The followers of Lean Bull turned in surprise, to see the skyline of the ridge alive with motion. Painted horsemen, lances braced, poured over the hill to join in the battle. It was a sight to chill the blood of the most experienced warrior. For many of these, it was their first war party.
A youngster near the outside of the crowd turned and fled in panic, soon followed by another. The older warriors shouted in vain to stand fast. In the space of a few heartbeats, pandemonium reigned; the majority of Lean Bull’s force was in full flight, followed by their frustrated leaders. Straight down the level strip of prairie along the creek they streamed, fearfully glancing back at the attacking force. Many were still looking over their shoulders when they reached the south end of the ridge and the waiting Blood Society under Red Dog’s command.
The Bloods were aware that theirs was an important task. Their position placed them squarely in the escape route of the Head Splitter war party. They might be sorely tested, yet they were proud that their chief showed confidence in them.
For many years, it would be told in song and story around the council fires of the People. This was the event which for all time vindicated the Bloods and welcomed them back to full status in the tribe. Many honors would be counted this day.
Back at the meadow, the astounded defenders in the creek bend watched the wave of warriors come to their assistance. The former attackers were now fleeing in disorder.
Then, out of the thinning dust and confusion of battle, straight toward the spot where Cabeza sat on his sweating stallion, came Lean Bull. It was apparent that for him the battle was not over. The cause was lost and the only way to save face was to die bravely and try to take his enemy with him.
Cabeza ducked under the first rush and countered with the sword. Lean Bull swung the club with a vicious backhand sweep and struck the lieutenant’s weapon near the hilt. The shock traveled up his arm to the shoulder and the sword went flying to the ground.
The Head Splitter turned triumphantly and readied the great club for another blow.
Cabeza threw himself from his horse and rolled, scrambling to regain his weapon.
“Here!”
A shout came from the sergeant, who tossed his lance to the man on foot. Cabeza whirled to face the coming charge. The pounding hooves of the warriors from the ridge were drawing nearer, but the two locked in personal combat could not turn to look.
“Rah-mone!”
Not until he heard South Wind’s cry did Lean Bull turn. For the first time, he now seemed to notice the approaching horde.
“I will kill you later, hair-face,” he signed.
Deliberately, he turned his horse away and sent the animal into the flooded stream, lunging toward higher ground on the opposite shore.
The girl had already vaulted from her horse and was running to Cabeza’s arms.
Heads Off pulled his gray mare to a stop and slid down to approach the lieutenant. There was something familiar about the young officer, recalled from a distant place and time. His head whirled, as he tried to recall.
“Cabeza?” he asked hesitantly.
The other stood numbly, an arm around the girl. He stared at the tall, bronzed savage, smeared with war paint and carrying a stone-tipped lance. Only one thing seemed ludicrously out of place. The young chief who had led the charge down the ridge wore a full black beard.
“Mother of God,” breathed the lieutenant. “Juan Garcia!”
30
Heads Off sat on the ground, partially supporting the head and shoulders of his father, Don Pedro Garcia. In the first rush of the Head Splitters, a warrior’s weapon had found its mark. The old veteran had received a wound through the right upper chest from a buffalo lance.
His party had managed to carry and drag the wounded Don Pedro to the scant shelter of the trees. There he had remained for the rest of the fight, at times gasping for breath, at times only partly conscious. Still, it had been necessary to restrain him to prevent his trying to join the battle.
To the amazement of the two servants trying to administer to him, the old man awoke from one episode of semiconsciousness perfectly lucid and rational. Apparently, the shock of his wound had restored his mind to reason.
Now, although he was very weak, he appeared to understand the entire sequence of events. He had immediately recognized Juan, now Heads Off of the People. Like any other father, he was ready to glow with pride at the accomplishments of his son. He tried to shrug off the seriousness of his wound.
“Only a scratch! I have had much worse!”
Cabeza and Heads Off exchanged sober glances. Both had seen the bloody sputum when the old warrior had coughed. There was also no denying the appearance of the chest wound. Whenever the clumsy bandage was removed, pink-tinged froth bubbled from the ragged gash. It was a severe injury to the lung and it appeared that there continued to be internal bleeding. The outlook was not good.
Heads Off had been almost constantly at his side. The two talked intermittently, Don Pedro relating news of home and of Doña Isabel. Heads Off responded with news of his own activities. He related how he had been lost and injured, how his departure had been repeatedly delayed, and how he had eventually married.
“You have two grandsons, father! They are fine boys.”
He stumbled a little over the names of the youngsters. He was having a bit of difficulty thinking in Spanish after so long a time. And, oddly, he had never heard or spoken the names of his sons, Eagle and Little Owl, in any but the language of the People.
Heads Off related how he had received his own name, while still under observation by scouts of the People. The observers had never seen a helmet and the stranger had appeared to remove his head. Both men chuckled, but this set off a paroxysm of coughing for Don Pedro which was a matter of great concern for a few moments.
When he had q
uieted somewhat, the conversation resumed. Heads Off related the circumstances of the People’s acquisition of horses, how the “elk-dogs” had changed their way of living. He, Juan, had had a part in the establishment of elk-dog medicine, the means by which the animals were trained and controlled. The iron bit worn in the mouth of the gray mare had assumed an almost religious significance in the tribe.
Then there had come the time when the Southern band of the People were leaderless. Their chief had been killed in the Great Battle, and none of the young chiefs of the band had the leadership experience to assume the office. With many misgivings, Heads Off had consented to lead the young men, who were now becoming expert horsemen.
“Yes,” nodded the older man, “that is true, my son. Your charge from the ridge was magnificent!”
Don Pedro was becoming very tired and Heads Off urged him to rest. He did his best to make the old man comfortable and then went to search for Cabeza.
The lieutenant had finished an assessment of the party’s condition. Of the thirty-two who had stepped off the Paloma weeks before, only sixteen remained alive. Several of the survivors were badly wounded. The lancers had taken the brunt of the attack, but the bowmen had lost two more men and the Garcia servants had likewise been reduced in number. Lizard was unscathed, though for a time it had appeared that he might be in danger from both groups of warriors. Since he was unknown to either tribe, each had assumed that he belonged to the other, the enemy. He had stuck close to Sanchez. That individual had actually gotten off some effective shots with his crossbow in the melee.
Only three horses remained.
“Horses are no problem,” Heads Off assured the lieutenant. “The Elk-dog men are rounding up loose animals now.”
It was a strange feeling to speak his own native tongue once more. Even more strange was his fumbling attempt to translate such terms as “elk-dog,” now so important a part of his vocabulary.
“What is to be done now?”
Follow the Wind Page 12
