Sidewinder

by Jory Sherman

  “Okay, if you say so, Brad. Still, I have the worry.”

  “Big or small?”

  Julio grinned.

  “It is a small worry,” he admitted.

  “Good. Keep it small. Maybe it will go away.”

  Later, Brad said he would take the first watch. Julio went to sleep, and Brad sat there alone, his rifle close at hand. He heard the chorus of wolves far in the distance and marveled at how big the moon was when it rose. He’d had a beautiful sunset to cap the day, and the coffee hadn’t been too bitter.

  He tried not to think of Felicity, but that was impossible.

  He thought of her. He thought of her until he woke Julio and long before he finally went to sleep.

  He missed her, her loving touch, her soft hair, and her dazzling smile. After only one day, he thought.

  And he, too, had a small worry.

  FIFTEEN

  Early the next morning, shortly after breaking camp, Brad picked up the tracks of the Arapaho. The trail was marred with travois furrows, unshod hoof marks, blurred but discernible since there had been no rain for more than a week.

  “We must be on the right trail,” Julio said.

  “You doubted me?”

  “You said you had no map.”

  “Oh, I have a map, Julio.” He touched a finger to his forehead. “It’s right up here.”

  “I hope your memory is long enough to take us back home.”

  “It’s supposed to last that long. We’ll see.”

  The cattle moved well, with little prodding, and the brindle cow did not try to run off. They left the trail at times to let the cattle graze as they walked, but always kept the trail in sight and close. The cows were a mix of Herefords and other breeds; one or two had longhorn ancestors far back in the family tree. These were shorthorns, of sturdy stock, and Brad knew they would not lose much weight on the short drive.

  They made about fifteen miles the second day, which surprised Brad because they were following a circuitous route. From the looks of the trail, he knew it must have been used for centuries by migrating herds of buffalo, mountain men, and native hunters. A surveyor could not have found a better place to build a road through the mountains, and he wondered if it might not have been carved by an ancient river and, for some reason, left to turn dry and barren. He could picture a river running its course down through the mountains, but as he had learned, rivers changed courses, dried up, or went underground.

  They crossed small creeks and grassy meadows, surprisingly lush, and Brad lost the travois tracks for a time when they passed through a small moraine strewn with boulders, more evidence that a vigorous river had once flowed through that part of the country. There were mule deer feeding in one of the glens and plenty of animal sign along the way, and once, when he looked at a towering mountain just above the timberline, he saw a Rocky Mountain sheep, a ram with a massive set of horns curled like a war helmet around his head. But always, he found the travvy tracks and knew he was on the right path.

  They spent the second night in a grassy sward where the Arapahos had camped. The cattle grazed most of the night, drank at a small spring, and none strayed. That was the thing about a herd, Brad thought, it clung together in fair weather or foul, and as long as it was peaceable, they were content to travel or graze. He was very pleased that such a small bunch would get along so well.

  On the third day, Brad and Julio started out early, just before dawn. It was light enough to see the tracks of those who had gone before, but by noon, the tracks faded out. Completely.

  “Where do we go now?” Julio asked.

  “I still have Wading Crow’s map in my head,” he said.

  “But there are no more tracks.”

  “Yeah, Julio. It’s as if they all vanished into thin air. But we know better, don’t we?”

  They were surrounded by low hills and high mountains just beyond. There was a semblance of a trail there, but it petered out a few yards from where the tracks just disappeared.

  Brad rode a wide circle while Julio held the herd, and some distance away from the trail, he saw a fairly fresh stump of a limb high up on a spruce tree. Hard to see. He rode around some more and spotted other slashes where a long branch had been cut from a juniper and another spruce.

  He sat there, pondering what it all meant, then finally returned to where Julio was waiting with the ten head of cattle.

  “You see that spruce over yonder, Julio?” Brad pointed to a nearby tree, a fully limbed and handsome spruce tree.

  “I see it,” Julio said.

  “If you were to cut off one of those long branches, what would you have?”

  “I do not know, Brad. Just a branch, I think.”

  “Or maybe a broom.”

  “You mean a broom to sweep the floor with?”

  “Or to sweep away tracks in sand and dirt.”

  Brad pretended he was sweeping with a broom.

  Julio’s face lit up and his eyes widened in their sockets until they looked like oversized marbles.

  “That is why the tracks go?”

  “I think so. They cut branches and swept away all traces of the travvy and their horses. The ground is as smooth as a hen’s egg, bald as a billiard ball.”

  Julio stared at the ground all around him.

  “You do not even see the sweeps.”

  “No, they did a good job in erasing everything, just somehow left no needle marks on the ground.”

  “Indios,” Julio said, and crossed himself. “Diablos, por seguro.”

  “No, just muy sabio. Very smart. They don’t want anyone to follow their tracks to their village.”

  “Secrets,” Julio said.

  “Well, let’s honor their need for secrecy and cut us some spruce bows, tie them to our saddle horns, and sweep away our tracks.”

  “That is much work and will delay us.”

  “You know what the boy rabbit said to the girl rabbit, Julio?”

  “No.”

  “He said, ‘This won’t take long, did it?’ And, so, let’s get to it.”

  The two men took turns cutting spruce and juniper boughs in another place. Julio cursed as he tried to climb an unclimbable tree, crying out each time a bough struck him in the eye or slapped him on the face. His hands were sticky from sap, and he got the sap on his trousers and his face, his shirt and on his saddle horn. Brad did not fare much better. He thought the Arapahos must have had small, thin boys along to do the cutting, or small trained monkeys.

  But they cut six boughs and lashed them together and rode crisscross behind the cattle to remove their tracks. When Brad looked back he could see the marks the limbs made, but he knew the wind would take care of those in time.

  Late in the afternoon, they entered a big valley ringed by mountains on one side and tall bluffs on the other. There were game trails through it and a lively creek running its entire length. The cattle wanted to stop and graze, but Brad looked up beyond a grassy promontory and saw a huge granite mountain. At least it looked monolithic. A butte, he thought. Just like Wading Crow had described it.

  They drove the cattle up the valley, then up to a wide shelf, then turned toward the massive butte. They rode through timber and avoided the deadfalls. Some of the rocks resembled ancient ruins, moss-covered as they were and clustered with climbing plants that might have been wild vines. He could not tell. But it was an eerie place to be with night coming on and only thin game trails crossing their path. The butte loomed even larger the closer they got to it. Below them, the valley looked serene and uninhabited by game or folk, and then, beyond the trees, a wide, flat plain, rocky and forbidding, stretched all the way to the butte and beyond. There were other limestone bluffs to the right of the lone butte.

  As they emerged from the trees, there was a rustling sound, followed by a number of other sounds.

  A man appeared before them, on foot, his right hand raised high. He carried a bow with an arrow nocked to his string. He was naked except for a beaded loincloth and bead
ed moccasins.

  “Hold up, Julio,” Brad said, and rode to the flank of the cows.

  “You, white man,” the Arapaho brave said, “where you go?”

  “I bring these cattle to Wading Crow.”

  Then Brad and Julio saw a number of other warriors, all armed with short bows and wearing quivers on their backs. They all had their arrows nocked to their bow-strings.

  The two realized that they were completely surrounded.

  “I think they will shoot, Brad,” Julio said.

  “Just stay calm. Wading Crow must have told them we were coming.”

  “One is aiming at me.”

  “Don’t go for your rifle or draw your pistol, Julio. Just wait.”

  “I am doing the piss in my pants,” Julio said.

  “I’m about to piss mine, too,” Brad said.

  The leader came closer. He looked belligerent, and Brad was reminded of animals that swelled their bodies to look larger when threatened, like the porcupine or the prairie chicken.

  “White man,” the man yelled. “What name?”

  “My name?”

  “You name.”

  “Brad . . .” He started to say. Then he made the Indian sign for the snake. “Sidewinder,” he said.

  “You come. Bring cow.”

  The man turned and Brad nodded to Julio.

  “We’ll follow him,” he said.

  The other braves fell in on both sides of them, as if they were escorts, and they followed the leader out onto the rocky plain and along a path that led to a saddleback behind the butte. They climbed onto the saddleback and then onto the butte itself.

  Brad looked down and was surprised at the commanding view he had of the valley and the far bluffs. Anyone atop that butte could see enemies coming for miles.

  Then they saw it, in the center of the butte, teepees in a circle, women and children gathered outside the ring, men standing stolid and still watching the small clutch of cattle and the two white men riding behind them, with armed braves on both flanks. None made a sound.

  “I do not see Wading Crow,” Julio said, a terrified quaver in his voice. “Maybe this is not his village.”

  “If it’s not, Julio, we’re in a heap of trouble. Your hair on tight?”

  “Do not joke me, Brad. I am now scared pissless.”

  “That’s a good way to be, I think. Better than pissing your pants.”

  “I do not like this.”

  “Do you know any Arapaho words?” Brad asked.

  “You know I do not.”

  “Me, neither, but what little sign I know doesn’t include Wading Crow’s. I might hop around like a bird and lift my feet like I’m wading a creek. But if that doesn’t work . . .”

  “Then what?” Julio asked.

  “Ever see a man grow gray hair inside of ten seconds? That will be me.”

  “You do not calm my fears, Brad.”

  “Well, nobody’s shot us yet.”

  The leader stopped and turned around. He held up his hand again.

  “What now?” Brad asked.

  The man didn’t answer. Then Brad heard a horse whicker and what sounded like the moo of a cow, the bleat of a sheep. Beyond the teepees, he saw movement. Small boys rode toward them on Indian ponies, and they all carried ropes. He saw something that looked like a corral made of stacked, crisscrossed timber with small animals inside.

  The boys on horseback rode up to the herd and stopped. They began to make loops in their ropes.

  “They are going to take the cows,” Julio said.

  “Well, they can have them. I wonder where in hell Wading Crow is.”

  “He is not here.”

  The leader strode back to Brad’s horse and grabbed the side strap of his bridle. He gestured for Brad to dismount. At the same time, one of the braves caught hold of Julio’s bridle and pulled on his boot. “Down, down,” he said in English. Julio dismounted a moment after Brad’s boots touched the ground.

  “Me called Green Turtle,” the leader said to Brad. “Wading Crow brother.”

  “Did you hear that, Julio? This is Wading Crow’s brother.”

  The men around Julio began to laugh and pointed to his crotch. They made obscene gestures and flapped their loincloths, exposing themselves.

  Julio hung his head in shame and did not answer.

  For him, the world had turned hostile. He was surrounded by armed savages who carried bows and arrows, and big knives on their beaded belts. They were making fun of him.

  He just wanted to sink into the ground and disappear.

  Green Turtle started to lead Ginger away, toward the village.

  “Sidewinder follow,” he said.

  As they left, the boys threw their loops and had all the cattle captured, each one separately.

  Brad wanted to ask where Wading Crow was, but before he could speak, one of the braves who had escorted them up to the top of the butte ran up to him and struck Brad with his bow.

  Then he let out a bloodcurdling yell, and the others charged up to him and pummeled his back and legs with their bows, all screeching in high-pitched voices.

  Brad went to his knees.

  And before he knew it, his right hand was streaking for the butt of his pistol.

  His eyes narrowed to slits, and his jaw turned granite. Rage enveloped him.

  He was ready to kill.

  SIXTEEN

  Brad pulled his Colt free of its holster, cocking the hammer back with his thumb so quick all the Indians saw was a blur. He leveled the barrel at the head of the nearest man, the last Arapaho to strike him with his bow. Then he stood up and pulled the set of rattles up, shook them in the hapless Arapaho’s face. The braves all drew back as if struck by an invisible current of electricity. The whirring sound of the rattles filled them all with fear.

  Then, to Julio’s and Brad’s surprise, all of the braves began to shout and jump up and down, smiles on their faces.

  Brad held his finger curled just short of the trigger. He drew a shallow breath, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead.

  Then the Arapahos all turned toward the village.

  Walking toward Brad was a lone figure. Wading Crow strode up, the crowd parting to let him through. He looked at Brad, and Brad held his gaze.

  Brad shook the rattles again.

  Indians nearby sucked in their breaths.

  Then, silence, as the rattles stood still.

  “Welcome, Sidewinder, to my village,” Wading Crow said. “You have much big medicine with my people.”

  Brad lowered his pistol and eased the hammer to half cock.

  “A hell of a welcome, Wading Crow.”

  “They fear you, my people, and they honor you by striking you with their bows. They want some of your medicine.”

  “They can have all they want without beating me to a pulp.”

  “Come, let us sit and smoke.”

  Brad looked over at Julio. He was frozen in place, his face a lurid, bloodless mask, his lips clamped together.

  “Come on, Julio. We’re going to parley with Wading Crow.”

  Julio uttered an expletive in Spanish. Some of the color returned to his cheeks.

  Brad slid his pistol back in its holster.

  “You draw the pistol quick,” Wading Crow said. “And you have shoot in your eyes.”

  “I didn’t want to shoot that man.”

  “But, you were ready.”

  “I was ready,” Brad said, and wondered if he really would have pulled the trigger. If any of the braves had moved or threatened him, he knew he would have dropped at least one or two of them. When a man was faced with danger, he defended himself or he lost the fight. Sometimes a bluff was as good as a straight flush.

  As the Arapaho led their horses away and the boys pulled the cattle toward the corral in back of the village, Brad walked with Wading Crow and some of the other braves into the village. There, he saw women and children, all standing as silent as statues. Some of the women bowed to him, and
he nodded his head in return. The children, open-mouthed, just stared at him in awe.

  Brad was surprised to see the women striking the teepees at the other end of the village. They were stripping the poles of hides and stacking the poles. Others folded the deer and elk hides. They were systematic and efficient.

  “You are breaking camp,” Brad said to Wading Crow.

  “By the time the sun goes to sleep, the village will be gone.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To a secret place. We stay here only three days until you come. Then we go.”

  “No Snake Dance?”

  “Snake Dance secret, too. Much fasting. Much ceremony.”

  Brad was relieved.

  Wading Crow ushered them into the nearest teepee. Inside, he saw Gray Owl sitting cross-legged on a woven blanket. Before him he had three bowls and a large sack. He was pouring what was in the sack into the three clay bowls.

  “Do not speak with Gray Owl,” Wading Crow said.

  “What’s he doing?” Brad asked as he sat down. Julio sat next to him, his gazed fixed on Gray Owl, who was nearly naked and wore a brightly colored headband.

  “He bless the cornmeal. Make it holy for Snake Dance.”

  “Must be quite a ceremony.”

  Wading Crow looked puzzled. He did not know what the word “ceremony” meant, Brad thought.

  “Much to do,” Brad explained.

  “Gray Owl, Snake Priest. Much big medicine.”

  Wading Crow took a long pipe from what looked like a small quiver but was really only a beaded leather case to hold the pipe. He offered tobacco to the four directions, filled the pipe, and lit it. He smoked, spewed bluish plumes of smoke to the four directions, then handed the pipe to Brad. Brad puffed it, blew out the smoke, then handed it to Julio, who did the same thing before handing the pipe back to Wading Crow.

  Two of the braves came in carrying Julio’s and Brad’s rifles. They presented them to the two white men, then backed out of the teepee. Brad could hear the lodge poles falling, being stacked, and the rustle of hides as they were stripped and folded.