“It’s white eyes. Scatter. Head for the horses.” Arrow Point left the lodge at a stooping run and cut his war pony’s tether with one slash of his scalping knife. He mounted as the pony reared and started running. Cub hesitated. Should he stay with his mother? Should he stand and fight with his father? Should he take anything with him? Should he look for Old Owl? What he never asked himself was if he should try to join the white attackers.
Then a bullet ripped through the lodge wall and buried itself in his tumbled sleeping robes, in the spot still warm from his body. He bolted after his mother. The camp was in chaos, the lodges laced together with smoke and noise. Horses reared and whinnied, and the din of rifle fire was deafening. Cub could smell the powder and the blood and the horses’ fear.
The People fled in all directions, their robes and blankets flapping like a covey of quail taking flight. Afoot or on horseback, the men followed the women and children, covering their retreat with arrows and lances and their old rifles and muskets. They withdrew slowly in a ragged, expanding circle, out of the camp and after their women.
As Cub ran, he looked back over his shoulder for a glimpse of the white men. They were the first he had seen in three years. One of the camp dogs darted between his legs, and Cub went hurtling over him. He sprawled on the ground, his head ringing and his elbows and knees raw. Cactus was imbedded in his chest. He scrambled to his feet and started running again.
He didn’t see Noah Smithwick draw a bead on him, squinting through the dust and smoke. What Noah saw was a small, brown Comanche boy, his thick braids dark with grease and his upper body bare in the January cold. He held his rifle steady, but he couldn’t shoot the child. Colonel Moore and President Lamar might be demanding brutal force with no regrets, but Noah had his limits.
He swiveled and aimed for the slender warrior just whirling his pony and heading after the boy. Noah swore when the ball only hit the man’s arm and he kept riding. The boy had already dived into the underbrush and disappeared.
Colonel Moore and his men were left alone in the camp. Their victims and enemies had scattered like chaff in a high wind, and they could hear only the moans of the wounded as they tried to crawl to safety. One of the men walked through camp methodically shooting those who still lived, and several others began arguing about who would get the scalps. Smithwick could hear them laughing about it, and he winced when he heard the pistol go off. Most of the wounded were women and children. - “Are they any better than the Indians, Noah?” Rufe looked out from under his wild thatch of curly black hair.
“Maybe not as good. Not as smart, anyway.” Noah turned slowly in a circle, taking in the whole situation. “Start easin’ toward the horses, Rufe. They’ve foxed us.”
The colonel planted himself in the center of the empty dance ground. With his hands on his hips, he looked around him like someone who’s just caught his best friend cheating at cards. His face was purple and his hair blew in tatters around his head. What kind of cowards were these people, that they wouldn’t stand and fight like men?
“Set fire to their tents,” he bellowed against the moan of the wind. “They can warm themselves at a big fire. Burn everything.” He swung his arm wide, enclosing the whole camp in its sweep. But before his men could obey, they heard shots from the hills around them. Chief Castro rode up with his mounted scouts behind him. His gaunt face held no more emotion than a snake’s, but the fury at Moore’s stupidity darkened his skin ever so slightly. More shots landed among them as the hunters became the hunted.
“Retreat to the horses. We’ll regroup there.” Moore started running before he had finished shouting. Castro yelled after him.
“Too many late, Colonel. Horses all gone. Comanche take him.” Castro spat something else in his own language, then wheeled and led his sixteen men away at a gallop, leaving the white soldiers to their fate. Shielded only by a small cavalry patrol, the Texas volunteer army backed down the Colorado River. With their newer rifles they held off the swarming Comanche, many of them mounted on the soldiers’ horses. All in all, Colonel Moore only lost one man, but Texas couldn’t afford many victories like that one.
Looking like a discarded buffalo robe that someone had dropped in a heap. Cub huddled in the lee of the lodge. He was trying to overhear what the men of the war council were deciding. Their voices were muffled, and he could understand only what the loudest were saying. As he listened, he dreamed of the day when he would be a teenager and allowed inside to light the ceremonial pipe and tend the fire.
It was an honor for which he’d have to compete. He couldn’t count on having it just because he was Old Owl’s grandnephew and Arrow Point’s son. But it never occurred to him that he wouldn’t earn the right. Just as it never occurred to him that he might not sit on the war council itself someday, or lead his men on raids.
Inside, Old Owl was chanting a prayer for the souls of those who had been killed in the white men’s raid a few days ago. This was the first place they’d stopped to set up camp since then. They had slept only a few hours a night, traveling hard to get as far away from the white men’s reach as possible. Their dead had ridden with them, strapped to travois, or lying across the ponies.
They had been frozen when it came time to bury them, finally, in this place. Those who had lain across a horse’s back had to be buried in that position. The crevices around camp all had bodies in them and offerings of food and weapons at their edges. It was late at night, and the stars glittered like ice shards flung across ebony. Still Cub could hear the wails of the women mourning and the dogs howling in sympathy.
Cub wanted revenge. Revenge on those who had murdered his people. He strained to hear if the men would be riding to avenge the attack. If they did, he planned to sneak away and join them. Lots of boys did it, though he had never heard of a nine-year-old going on a raid before. Food was low this winter, and he worried about how much he should take from his family’s stores. Perhaps he should just depend on his wits to find game.
He was startled from his thoughts by the clink and jingle of the bells and shell decorations on the men’s leggings and shirts as they stood to leave the council lodge. Cub shrank farther back into the shadows and pulled his robe entirely over his head. The younger men filed out, led by Old Owl’s nephew, Arrow Point, who had his arm bandaged over the hole left by Noah Smithwick’s ball.
As soon as the dark swallowed them and their voices, Cub slipped inside the lodge. He squatted by the door as inconspicuously as possible. He knew better than to ask his father for information. Arrow Point firmly believed that a child’s rearing should be left to grandfathers and uncles and great-uncles, as the case may be. Cub knew his father would go to bed assuming his foster son was asleep under the pile of robes. If Arrow Point knew that Cub often rolled out under the skirt of the lodge wall to go roaming with his friends at night, he never said anything about it.
When Cub wanted information he went to the man he called Grandfather. Old Owl let him do anything he wanted. Including listen in on conversations. Old Owl was talking now with his friend, the war leader Santa Ana, and some of the older men.
“Winter is no time for raiding,” grumbled Santa Ana.
“Tell the white men so.” Sanaco was offended that the whites would so inconsiderately ignore the winter truce that the tribes had always observed.
“They know nothing of war,” rasped Many Battles. “They must be very stupid to leave their horses unguarded and raid on foot.”
“It was a profitable attack. We captured seventy horses from them, one for each man in the band,” said Sanaco. “We beat them soundly and sent them crying back to their lodges.”
“And we lost a warrior and five women and two children. The horses were not worth it.” Old Owl spoke softly. Then there was a silence.
“Can you talk Arrow Point out of leading a raid, Old Owl? We need the men to hunt.” Age had tempered Santa Ana. He now weighed more carefully the consequences of raids. He was still among the first to go raiding, but o
nly when the time was right.
“You know how young men are. I don’t think I can change his mind. Arrow Point has a right to organize a war party. And there are many who will want to join it.”
“They didn’t even steal our horses.” Sanaco still couldn’t believe the Texans’ stupidity. “And they milled around in the middle of the village like buffalo in a magic circle surround. We should have killed more of them.”
“But we didn’t. Even with them on foot, we couldn’t kill more of them.”
“Their guns are better than ours.” Many Battles was indignant that Old Owl would hint that the warriors hadn’t fought correctly. Santa Ana smiled inwardly. He had seen Old Owl work a conversation this way many times, leading people to his own conclusions.
“Yes. Their guns are better than ours,” said Old Owl. “And they attacked in the winter, deep into our country. Where no white raiding party has ever come before.” In the war council the talk had been about the necessity of avenging the deaths, and teaching the white man a lesson. Arrow Point and the younger men were confident to the point of arrogance. They were sure that the white men were ignorant, feeble enemies. Old Owl knew better. He went on. “Their guns are getting longer, and so is their trail. There are wooden lodges now where there were none a year ago. They do not respect the old ways, the ways we have always waged war.”
“But we beat them. They’re children when it comes to war.”
Old Owl nodded in agreement. “Yes, we beat them. This time. But even children learn. Do you think their war leader will attack on foot the next time? And will he leave the horses unguarded?”
There was no need to answer. The men stared glumly into the fire. Finally Santa Ana spoke.
“Perhaps it’s well that the men want to raid the white men’s camps. But they should steal guns, as many of the new guns as they can.” The others grunted in agreement, before they began talking of other things.
Cub slipped out and ran to his lodge. He passed by the weighted hide over the door and went to where his sleeping robes lay on the other side of the wall. Lying on his stomach, he wriggled under the hem and inside. He was happy with the thought that there would be a raid, and his own father would be leading it. And he would be a part of it.
Cub raged and paced around the confines of the lodge, kicking at robes and sending his mother’s kettle clattering across the floor. He cursed his grandfather, who sat calmly by the door like a benign, vulture roosting half asleep.
“How did you know I was planning to go with the war party?”
“I’d have been surprised if you didn’t plan on it. But you’re too young.”
“That’s what you always say.”
“Have I ever told you an untruth?”
Cub sat disconsolately, his dreams of joining his father’s raid destroyed. As though he could read Cub’s mind. Old Owl had showed up in the lodge the night before and had not let Cub out of his sight. He even followed him outside when Cub went to relieve himself against his favorite cottonwood. He had not slept at all as he kept his vigil.
“I’m tired, Cub. Will you swear to me that you’ll stay here? Your mother needs you.”
“Why should I swear? Why should I stay here? If I’m too young to go with father, I’m too young to be of any use to mother.” His lower lip dangled low enough to trip on, and he glowered to keep from crying.
“You are of use, and you know it. Besides, you’ll slow the men down.” Those were fighting words.
“I won’t!” Cub jumped up as he shouted and started pacing again. Old Owl shook his head and smiled as he watched the boy.
“There’s another reason. Cub. Can’t you guess it?”
The boy pondered as he paced.
“I’m white. I’m not good enough because I’m white.”
“Yes., You’re white. But you’re one of us. You know that. Look at me. Cub. Do you know that?”
“Yes. I know it.”
“But yes, you can’t go because you’re white.”
“I don’t understand. If I’m one of the People, what difference does it make if I go?”
“Think.” Think, my beautiful child with hair like the sun and eyes like the sky. I can’t give you all the answers. In the end you’ll have only yourself to depend on. Old Owl waited patiently while Cub thought.
“The white people will try to recapture me.”
“Yes. Do you want them to? Is that why you want to go on the raid?”
“No! You know that isn’t why I want to go. I want to take care of the ponies and help. I want to be a warrior. And count coup. Please can I go, Grandfather? I can still catch them. You taught me to track well.”
“The first answer I gave you is still true. You are too young. Your father will be distracted worrying about you. You might cause a needless death. And if the whites see you, they will try to get you back. You’ll be a special target for them.”
“Arrow Point won’t worry about me. He doesn’t even care about me.”
“That’s what you think. You should hear him bragging about you to the other men.”
“Does he really?”
“Yes, he does. Constantly. In fact, some of them are beginning to tease him about it. He asked me to make sure you stayed here, although I would have anyway.”
“How did he know I would try to go with him?”
“Because he did the same thing, although he was older at the time than you are. And I did it before him. And I suppose you will too. But not yet. Not on this trip. Not against the Texans. Now will you swear you’ll stay here? I want to take a nap.” Old Owl gave a huge yawn, threatening to swallow his own face.
“Yes, Grandfather. I’ll stay. This time.”
In the fall of 1839, high on a bluff overlooking the Colorado River, Pahayuca and Buffalo Piss and their war party sat on their ponies. They knew they were clearly silhouetted against the pale pink, postdawn sky, but it didn’t matter. There would be no raid. The four cabins they remembered being in this valley were no longer alone. A small city of tents and lean-tos, wagons and shacks had sprung up around them. Even at this early hour, the valley was swarming with surveyors and engineers laying out the
Streets of a town. The men of the war party could hear the crack of axes and falling timber, and the shouts of the wagoneers drifting faintly up from below. Sunrise rode up next to Pahayuca. “What are they doing?”
“Stealing the land,” Buffalo Piss answered. He had made the connection between the surveyors’ mysterious activity and the hordes of white people that seemed to follow everywhere they dragged their strings and planted their dead trees. He had declared a special war on them.
“How can they do that? How can anyone steal land? It’s our mother.”
“With them land is a thing to possess. They divide it up the way we divide loot from a raid. And they think it belongs to them alone, each man with his piece of it. They even put fences around it to keep others out.”
“They’re mad,” said Sunrise.
“Yes. But that only makes them more dangerous, like rabid wolves,” said Buffalo Piss. “Come. There are too many of them for us to fight today.”
The men backed their ponies away from the bluff’s edge and rode off through the trees, leaving the whites to their antlike scurryings. Soon the four-cabin hamlet of Waterloo would be transformed into a city with wide streets and lots, and ground set aside for a university. President Lamar had chosen his favorite hunting spot for his new capital. And he renamed it Austin, after the founder of Texas. The site of Austin was an insult, an offense, a gauntlet thrown down to the People. Lamar had purposely placed it far from the thin fringe of the settlements, deep inside the wild, unknown country the People considered theirs to roam and hunt.
CHAPTER 29
The hunt was plentiful in the autumn of 1839. Along the hills and in the valleys of the Penateka’s hunting grounds the trees blazed red and yellow and gold against the deep gray of the sky and the glittering waters of the Lampassas River. Many bands
made their winter camp together along the river. The lodges stretched for fifteen miles among the tall live oaks and hackberries, the cottonwoods and willows. Thousands of ponies grazed, herded by small boys riding bareback.
Naduah and Star Name, Bear Cub and Upstream roamed the length of the vast camp on their ponies. Their days were full of new people, new friends, dances and games and stories. The children of the Tekwapi, the No Meat band, taught the Wasps to play Guess Over the Hill. The game was usually organized by two older children. One would go out of sight on the other side of a rise while the other helped the players hide under blankets and robes. Then “it” came back and tried to guess who was hiding by feeling the blanket. And poking. And tickling. As usual, there was a great deal of tickling.
Cub and Upstream were usually gone, which was the way Star Name and Naduah preferred it. When they were in camp, they were in trouble. Or they set up their archery contests in the middle of everything and got in everyone’s way. But it was a good time to be young and to be one of the People.
Naduah chose not to join the games this day. Instead she went with Medicine Woman to dig for roots and look for useful plants that might still be around this late in the year. They went on these expeditions often. At first she’d tried to lead .Medicine Woman’s horse on a line, but she’d been scolded for it.
“I can still ride, Granddaughter. My pony and I have traveled together for ten years. He won’t wipe me off on a low limb. I can follow the sound of Wind’s hooves.”
As they rode, Naduah described the countryside in detail. She called out what was growing, and where, what the soil and terrain were like, and what the sky was doing. She named the plants she could, and dismounted to bring her grandmother samples of what she couldn’t identify. Medicine Woman would stare ahead of her with her glazed eyes as she smelled the leaves, then felt them with her long, delicate fingers. She could almost always tell what it was and if it was useful. On this trip they were looking for bear root, a plant that belonged to the carrot family.
Robson, Lucia St. Clair Page 33
