by Gary Paulsen
He saw one Mexican rider, a tiny figure on the other side of the herd, but the rider did not see him and in any event it made no difference. At that moment when he saw the Mexican rider there was a commotion to the right and a group of horses that had been down in a low swale suddenly broke into a run, heading straight for the river.
For a moment Coyote Runs could see no Apaches, then he saw heads above the dust and knew that Sancta and the others had cut the smaller herd away from the main body and were bringing them north.
They were not coming straight toward him but off to the side a bit, so he yelled and slapped the horses around him to get them moving to meet the others.
Dust and noise were everywhere. There was little wind in the morning, so when the horses raised dust it simply hung where it came up, and was added to by other dust until it was impossible to see anything and the hooves of the running horses—Coyote Runs thought that Sancta and the others must have cut out over a hundred of them—were like thunder.
Coyote Runs was confused for a time and actually drove the waiting horses that he was in charge of the wrong way, headed them south. In the dirt and noise it was easy to be wrong.
And there he could have died, he found, because he rode straight into a group of four Mexican riders. His small herd turned and started north, going right around him, as if sensing they were going the wrong way when they saw the Mexican vaqueros.
It was impossible to tell who was more surprised. He pulled his pony up, staring at them, and they pulled up, staring at him. Then two of them started shooting at him with their horse pistols that made clouds of smoke to mix with the dust and he wheeled his brown pony and followed the herd back to the north.
There was no sense to anything.
Because he had initially wound up going the wrong way, when he started back to the north he found himself to the rear of the main body of Mexican riders who were chasing Sancta and the others toward the river.
He did not know this at once, but suddenly found himself riding next to a Mexican man who looked sideways at him, drew a pistol from his belt, and aimed at Coyote Runs and shot.
Coyote Runs winced, waiting for the bullet to take him, but the Mexican did not aim well and it went wide and he veered away in the dirt clouds.
He passed others, driving the extra mounts north, passed two more and then three, all riding hard after Sancta but none of them shot at him and he thought he must have been given special power, special medicine to go through them like smoke so they could not see him, though he rode right next to them and had horses in front of him.
Suddenly he found himself running in water, the little pony almost going down when it hit the river. It was impossible to see anything, to know anything, and he merely hung on and hoped he would make it across the river.
Still noise, the pounding of hooves, and dust, even over the water dust that blew off the banks, but he believed in himself now, and his new medicine, so he drummed his heels into the brown pony and screamed at the horses in front of him and drove them across the water and up the bank and kept driving them.
North.
If he kept pushing them north he would catch up to Sancta and the others.
So he followed the dust and knew that he was a man now, knew that he was a man with large medicine who had passed the test, for had the Mexican not shot at him, shot directly where he was and the bullet had not hit him? And he had not been afraid. He had tightened his stomach to take the bullet, had waited for the shock of it, but had not been afraid and was not afraid now.
He drove them, slapping at the horses with the end of his bridle rope, keeping them driving in an easy lope ahead of him, following the dust for a mile, then another mile, and was on the edge of wondering if he would ever see the others when he ran into Magpie.
Who was aiming his old buffalo shooting rifle at him.
“Wait!” Coyote Runs said, pulling up. “It is me.”
Magpie lowered the rifle and smiled. His face was so covered with dust that it seemed to crack when his lips moved. “Sancta heard hooves back here and thought it was some Mexicans still riding after us and sent me back to slow them down. It is lucky you called. I had begun to tighten the trigger.”
It would not have mattered, Coyote Runs thought, because the bullet would not have been able to get through my new medicine, the medicine that protects me, but he said nothing.
“How far are they ahead?” he asked. He must look as Magpie did, with dust thick on his face and sweat streaks cutting through it, but the band of red cloth around his head kept the sweat from his eyes.
“They are by now another mile,” Magpie said. “Come, let us catch up to them before some more Mexicans really do come and we are forced to fight and kill many of them and make their women sad.”
Magpie swung in beside Coyote Runs and they pushed the spare horses into a run again, although not as hard as before. They did not really think the Mexicans would come because they did not like to ride across the river where they might run into the bluebellies. It was a fact that at times the bluebellies did not care what they shot as long as they shot something and the Mexicans did not like to face them.
They rode that way for a mile, then another half a mile, eating the dust from the horses Sancta and the others had taken, riding in silence as they pushed the horses ahead of them.
They caught up as Sancta was pushing the main herd of stolen horses across a dry lake. A small wind had come up and the dust blew away so Coyote Runs could see the horses ahead and below on the lake and he drew in his breath.
Such a herd he had never seen or thought to see. The village normally had a herd of thirty or forty horses, which included all the horses of all the men, but Sancta and the others were pushing well over a hundred horses ahead of them. Enormous wealth.
It was a great raid, a raid they would speak of for years around the fire and he, Coyote Runs, was part of it.
And now a man.
Magpie looked at him and made a sound in his throat, an almost growl of pride and exultation, and Coyote Runs matched the sound with one of his own.
“We have ridden amongst them,” Magpie cried, his voice raw and low from the dust, “and taken many horses! We are the ones, we are the ones!”
They rode off down into the lake bed after Sancta and the rest of the men and horses with wild cries. Even the ponies seemed to have caught the excitement and Coyote Runs had to hold back on the rope to his pony’s halter to keep him from running himself out.
They caught up with the main herd at the edge of the lake and there was much laughing and joking.
Not a man nor a horse had been hit, though the Mexicans had fired many shots at them, and Coyote Runs thought it must be that his medicine was so strong it had extended to cover all of them.
Truly, he thought, truly my medicine is strong and he wondered how that could be since he was so young. Most strong medicine went to older men. When they got back he would have to ask his mother about his medicine dream, his name dream. Was it stronger than other men dreamed? He had never heard such a thing. But his mother knew of dreams and visions and would be able to tell him.
Magpie and Coyote Runs put their small herd in with the main herd and they all started north. The men were positioned all around the horses, with Magpie and Coyote Runs bringing up the rear since they were the youngest and as such would get the least favored position. There was even more dust and dirt than before and soon Magpie untied his headband and tied it around his nose and mouth to filter out some of the dust.
Coyote Runs did the same and they rode that way all of the day without a single stop, until close to dark, when Sancta called a halt to rest the horses and change mounts.
They did not build fires.
“There may be riders coming after us,” Sancta said, “although I do not think so. It will be better not to give them fires for guidance. Drink only a small amount of water and spit some into your horse’s mouth. Take a Mexican horse for a new mount, they are still fr
esh.”
Coyote Runs had his eye on a small reddish horse and was making for it when he saw a flash of color out of the corner of his eye and turned to see the straw-colored horse standing sideways to him. It must have broken from the rest back before the river and come on its own.
He was the youngest and had to wait for the rest of the men to get horses. But none took the straw horse and when all had new horses he rode up to it.
It did not run from him.
He slid from Magpie’s brown pony, patted it on the neck—it had run well for days without faltering—and slipped the end of the bridle rope from its jaw and onto the jaw of the straw-colored horse.
It stood for it and kept standing while he tied the blanket on its back and moved his water bottle and bow case. The brown pony moved in with the rest of the herd and he grabbed the long mane of the straw-colored horse and threw his leg over its back and settled onto him.
The horse acted as if they had always been together. He answered knee pressure, wheeled around, back and forth—Coyote Runs smiled, then laughed.
“You have a horse,” Magpie said, riding up alongside him on a black mare with a white blaze on its forehead.
“Truly,” he answered. “I hope I can keep him.”
“Do not worry. You will get him. You have done well on the raid and Sancta will give you the horse. I know it.”
Coyote Runs hoped he was right but said nothing. It would not be proper.
They started north again, but now that they were around the immediate area of Fort Bliss and the bluebellies Sancta cut the herd back toward the west a bit and headed northwest, not back toward the village but off to the west of it. Riding this way they would not come back to the top of the canyons at all but out in the desert in front of them.
Coyote Runs moved over to Magpie and rode next to him for a time.
“Why is it that we do not head back for the village?” he asked.
Magpie snorted through the cloth over his mouth and nose. “You have much to learn still. You never come home directly from a raid, never show where the village is. Sancta leads us this way in case anybody follows us. We do not want to lead them back to the women and children, do we?”
It made sense and Coyote Runs wished he had kept his mouth shut. He moved the straw-colored horse back to the side and thought how stupid he was—a true warrior would have known, would not have asked, and he vowed never to ask anything stupid again.
Dust.
It grew thicker as they rode in the dark until Coyote Runs had no idea of where he was, where he was going or where he had been. He could not see the stars, the horses in front of him—he could not even see the ears on the straw-colored horse he was riding.
All night in this manner they rode. Not fast, because it was not possible to push the large herd with any speed. If pressed, the herd would just break into smaller groups and scatter and they would lose many of them.
But they kept up a steady movement through the night—although Magpie and Coyote Runs had no idea how fast or how far they had gone—and by the time first good light came Coyote Runs was all but falling off the straw-colored horse.
Out of excitement he had slept poorly the day before and now a whole night with no rest had added to the exhaustion and brought him to the point of reeling.
He took some heart in the fact that Magpie was in no better shape. At one point he found himself riding next to his friend and saw that he had tied himself to his blanket cinch and was sound asleep, his head nodding forward on his chest.
Coyote Runs took a small cord from his bowcase and did the same thing, going around his waist and to the rope that kept his blanket in place. He was just pulling the knots tight when he heard gunfire.
In the thick clouds of dust rising in the morning air it was impossible to tell what was happening but he could hear the fire and knew whoever was shooting had large guns. The sounds were low, thudding, and the Mexican riders would not have such guns. Only the bluebellies, the pony soldiers, would make such a noise with their large rifles.
He hesitated for a moment, confused, and in that time Magpie—who had been on his left—came galloping out of the dust.
“Run! Soldiers—run, my friend, they are too many. They are amongst us. Head for the canyons. Run now!”
And he was gone, off to the right in the dust, invisible.
Still Coyote Runs held back. He was reluctant to lose the horses so easily. What would the men say if he just ran and it proved to be nothing? Besides, his medicine was strong. Had not the Mexicans shot at him and missed?
But in half a second another figure came out of the dust, then two, and he saw that they were wearing the blue wool coats of the soldiers and were holding the loud rifles and were aiming at him and he turned and dug his heels into the straw-colored horse.
It broke into a run as if waiting for the command, lunged so hard that Coyote Runs would have fallen off had he not been tied on. And the lunge saved his life, as he fell backward a soldier rode beside him and held out his rifle and fired, not ten feet away, but the bullet passed where Coyote Runs had been sitting and missed him.
Now run, he thought. Now little horse, run for all there is, run for my medicine, my life, my soul. Run like the wings of birds. Fly—runflyrunfly.
The straw-colored horse laid its ears back and streamed its tail and streaked through the sand dunes and mesquite so fast that the soldiers could not possibly have followed him, would have lost him in the thick clouds of dust.
But suddenly they broke clear into the morning sun. Running across the rear of the herd Magpie and Coyote Runs quickly moved out of the dust cloud and as they did Coyote Runs recognized where they were.
He was running straight toward the bluffs and high canyons up from the desert. Ahead of him not two hundred long paces he saw Magpie driving his horse, whipping it, and when he turned to look back he saw four soldiers break out of the dust, chasing them. Three hundred paces, no more, separated him from the four men. They all had the large rifles. One of them had been the one to shoot at him.
Four, he thought—so much noise from four men?
But there were more. Off to the side, looking to the north, he saw the main body of Apaches were being chased toward the next canyon over by more soldiers.
Firing.
Everybody was firing. The soldiers were trying to shoot while they rode. It was hard to see how they could hit anything, but Coyote Runs heard those behind him fire—the rifles making a dull thud—and then heard the whistle of the bullet passing close to him.
The canyon. How far?
Bright sun, clear morning desert air, cool morning air with the horse running so well, how far? How far to safety?
Ten, fifteen bowshots to the mouth of the canyon. And then what? If he made it, then what?
His medicine. The canyon they were heading for was the one leading to his medicine place. If he could make that, could get to the sacred place of the ancient ones, surely he would be safe.…
More firing, the bullets hissing past. He turned to look back once more and saw that the soldiers had fallen slightly back. They were all big men, heavy, and their mounts were not as fresh. It must have been the group of soldiers they saw on the way down—out on patrol. They must have run into them. He saw sweat on the sides of their horses, foam from their mouths. His own horse was the same, wet, but still driving well, its shoulders pumping with great strength.
O spirit, what have you given me here, he thought. What a horse.
Four bowshots left to the canyon mouth.
There he would have to leave the horse and run up the sides on foot. If he got into the rocks they would never catch him. Not the big sweaty men in the heavy blue clothes—he would be free.
Again they fired. Again the small whistles, the little chu-chu-chu of death.
Ahead of him Magpie suddenly jerked erect on his horse and a red spray went out from his chest. He threw up his arms almost as if he were waving both hands. He began to fall forward, then
fell back and to the side and was dragged by the rope around his waist. His horse tried to keep running without stepping on him but could not and veered off into a circle fighting away from the body.
The body.
Magpie.
Magpie was a body.
He must untie the rope holding him to the straw-colored horse. He fumbled with the knot, jerked, finally pulled it free. Only twenty good leaps to the canyon mouth, to the trail, to safety, to life.
Magpie was a body.
He slammed his heels into the horse, asking for more, still more speed. Behind him there was more gunfire. The bluebellies reloaded as they rode, shot again and again and still the bullets missed.
Ten leaps.
Now five.
Coyote Runs felt a slap on his leg and the horse grunted beneath him and began to go down. They had hit the straw-colored horse. But when he looked down to the side he saw his foot hanging loosely, blood coming from just above the ankle.
They had hit him and the bullet had gone on into the horse. His medicine had failed—how could that be? He was so sure of it.…
No thinking now, too late for anything.
The horse collapsed, its legs getting softer and softer as it caved in and just as it hit the ground Coyote Runs fell off to the right and rolled on his shoulder. His bow, all his arrows were gone. He had no way to fight but it didn’t matter now.
He was in the canyon.
The mouth of the canyon.
His medicine place—he had to reach it. It was all he could think of now, pulling himself along, and he scrabbled on his one good leg and his hands up a narrow trail, kept going though the pain came now in waves, covered him in red waves, kept pulling and fighting until he was in a grassy area.
They would not come, he thought. The soldiers would not come after him up in the canyon. He would keep going but they would not come for him. They would turn away.
