Finally the old man blinked, as though waking from a deep sleep, and looked around. He was standing alone on a bare beach swarming with murderous, drunken Comanche, and he was armed with a nonfunctioning gun. Judge Hayes started backing gingerly into the water toward the skiff that was being rowed in for him. When his friends pulled him over the side, his legs were trembling and he collapsed, quaking, in the stale, muddy water of the bilge.
“Hell, Hayes, while you was there you could have at least brought us back some of that there whiskey.”
“Looks like it’s going to be a long, dry day.”
“What possessed you to take on the Comanche nation thataway?”
Judge Hayes finally got his voice back. “I was angry,” he said meekly.
“Angry? Judge, you was chewing iron and shitting nails!”
“You suppose Doc has anything in his kit for sunburn?”
“Maybe the ladies will part with some of their petticoats for sunshades.”
“Outstanding idea.”
Cursing and laughing, the men heaved the oars that pushed the sluggish skiff, its gunwhales almost awash, back out of range of the arrows and balls.
On shore, Wanderer could see that there would be no official division of the spoils. While the others celebrated, he packed the things he wanted onto his animals. He took coffee for himself and for Sunrise and Pahayuca. They had all developed a fondness for it. He had knives and metal barrel hoops for arrowheads, bolts of cloth, a large silver soup ladle, ribbon and braid for the women— Something Good, Blocks The Sun, Silver Rain, Takes Down The Lodge, and Black Bird. He packed a white enamel chamber pot with small items of clothing, sewing notions, hardware, and gifts for Star Name and Upstream. Then he loaded five more mules with presents for his family and friends among the Quohadi. Most of it was weapons and ammunition.
He carefully wrapped Naduah’s present last, winding it in a length of soft wool blanket material. It was a Spanish bridle of tooled leather, heavily decorated with beaten silver disks and bells and tassels of silken cord. Then he went looking for Buffalo Piss.
He found him riding among the revelers, urging them to finish packing so they could leave before sundown. He wasn’t having much luck. The men were dancing around roaring fires in the summer heat. The women had butchered the cattle and were boiling stew in the most popular item, the large white chamber pots. They set them directly on the fires, and they were blackening with soot. The fires were built of smashed packing crates and furniture from the looted houses.
Almost everyone was festooned with their new finery, and delirious with wealth and the white man’s stupid water. Wanderer rode up next to Buffalo Piss, who was one of the few who refused to wear anything that belonged to the white eyes.
“It’s time to leave.”
“I know that.” Buffalo Piss also knew that he had lost control, and he was blustering to cover it.
“Will we be traveling south and west under the white settlements? There’ll be no one to stop us there.”
“No. That will take too long. We’ll head straight home, back the way we came.” Buffalo Piss could sense Wanderer’s disapproval. “No one will stop us,” he shouted. “The Texans have fled. We’re too mighty for them!”
“They may be waiting in ambush to catch us when we return.”
“Let them try!” Buffalo Piss snarled like a cornered lynx, his child’s face contorted with anger. “I’ll be glad if they are. They’re cowards. Nowhere have they stood and fought us. My lance is thirsty. I invite them to fight us. I want them to fight.”
“The stupid water has made the warriors crazy. They might not follow you.”
“They’ll follow me. And if some don’t, it doesn’t matter. There will be enough to take care of the groveling Texans. We’ve beaten them. We’ve taught them not to think us weak. All we have to do now is go home, distribute our presents, and celebrate. We will talk of this victory for years.”
So, thought Wanderer, as he watched men stagger by him, singing and vomiting and falling down. The whiskey has conquered the conquerors. He felt suddenly alone, and he missed his friend who had died. He had disdained whiskey too. At least the two of them would have had each other for company.
Liquor made strangers of the men Wanderer knew, and he didn’t know many of them to begin with. As he rode through the littered town, dodging the unconscious bodies and roaring fires, he looked for anyone who might go back the long way with him. In an alleyway between two of the warehouses near the beach, he found Deep Water chewing on a half-raw steak. His pockmarked face was morose. His body was bare of white man’s clothing, and his extra mules were carrying only what he had brought with him, except for one of the new rifles. He was keeping his vow to touch only those things of the white men that he could use against them.
“Deep Water!”
The boy turned and glared at him.
“It’s time to leave this place.”
“Tell those fools,” he spat. “They’re hibipa, drunk.”
“Might as well piss into a high wind as talk to them. Come with me. The great war leader plans to take a thousand people and three thousand animals loaded with loot straight back through enemy territory.”
“You mean Penateka territory.”
“It’s not Penateka territory anymore, Deep Water. No matter what Buffalo Piss says. There are still Texans there. And they’re probably waiting for us. I’m going back by way of Mexico. Do you want to come with me or not?”
“All right.” Deep Water turned and called through the window of the nearest warehouse. “Upstream.” Star Name’s eleven-year-old brother climbed through the opening and stood grinning at Wanderer. He wore a pair of boy’s heavy gray linen britches with the seat cut out of them. His round little buttocks gleamed through the ragged opening like the full moon through clouds. He had tied a green silk kerchief around his neck and wrapped his braids in strips of white lace.
“What are you doing here?”
Deep Water answered for him. “He sneaked away and followed the army. I’ve been hiding him so you wouldn’t send him home.”
“Saddle your pony, Upstream. We’re leaving.”
“But the others aren’t ready to go yet.”
“We’re not going with them. We’re going the long way, south through Mexico and up the old desert raid trail, then back over. You can help with the extra horses and mules.”
“That trail will take forever. I have presents for Mother and Star Name and Sunrise. I want to get home.”
“Upstream, get your pony. I’m not going to waste time arguing with you.”
“No! I’m staying with Buffalo Piss. And don’t try to force me to go with you.” Upstream half-crouched, ready to flee.
“Do whatever you want. I know better than to try to force a strong brave like you.” Wanderer smiled down at the boy. “Tell Pahayuca that we’ll be there eventually. As long as we’re in Mexico, we might as well steal some horses.” He spotted a familiar figure tottering into the alley where they stood.
“Spaniard. Get your animals together. We’re leaving.”
“I’m not through celebrating.” Spaniard had lost his spittoon somewhere and was drinking his whiskey from an old powder horn. His braids had come loose and his hair stuck out from his head as though he had been struck by lightning. A lava flow of dried vomit fanned down the front of his chest, and he reeked of it. Deep Water turned to Wanderer and spoke softly.
“We could use his help with the horses. I know a cure for whiskey. We just have to get him to the water.”
Wanderer nodded. “I know that cure.” They both leaped from their ponies and tackled the befuddled warrior. Together they dragged him around the building and through the sand of the beach, his heels digging twin furrows. They threw him into the water and pounced on top of him, dunking him and holding him under until he stopped struggling. Then they pulled him out and dropped him on the shore. On his hands and knees he threw up again, mostly liquor and sea water. He stood unste
adily and shook like a dog, spraying water from his woolly hair, and almost falling back down in the process.
The three of them rounded up their share of the stolen animals and rode off. Spaniard drooped in his saddle and moaned piteously. Wanderer turned to Deep Water, a grin dawning.
“It was a raid to talk about, wasn’t it!”
Deep Water smiled back, his eyes lighting his ravaged face. “Yes, it was.” No one noticed their going except Upstream. He waved, then turned and ran back to the celebration.
CHAPTER 32
Ben McCulloch was satisfied. The chief had made the fatal error. Maybe it was overconfidence. Maybe it was an arrogant challenge, a gauntlet thrown down to the Texans. Ben doubted that it was stupidity. It didn’t matter. The Comanche were taking the most direct route home, retracing their route north along the Colorado.
As soon as he saw which direction the Indians were headed, he knew where to ambush them. He sent riders fanning out in all directions. Their orders were to assemble every able-bodied man available in the thick trees and brush along Plum Creek outside of Austin. The Comanche army would have to pass through Big Prairie, an open plain near the creek. They would be exposed there.
“They’ll never make it back with all that baggage.” Ben looked at the bolts of cloth strewn along the trail. Already the Comanche’s mules were tiring and being abandoned as the Rangers hounded them, sniping at the army’s rear guard. McCulloch’s men had been pursuing them for three days, and were losing their own horses. The men would jump off them as they fell to lie heaving and convulsing before their eyes rolled up and they died.
Bill Wallace kicked one of the dented enamel chamber pots, sending it clattering down the hillside before it came to rest against a cedar bush.
“Ben, they aren’t splitting up and disappearing into the brush the way they usually do. Can’t bear to part company with all those trinkets they stole. If their captain were smart, he’d dump all that frumpery and skedaddle.”
“He’s smart, but he’s not crazy. Would you tell five hundred blood-drunk, whiskey-soaked Comanche bucks to throw away more loot than they’ve ever seen in their lives?”
“I see your point.”
“A reverse Trojan horse.”
“What’d you say, Ford?”
“A reverse Trojan horse,” John Ford repeated. “Instead of taking the fatal gift to the city, they’ve carried it out.”
“Well, Trojan or not, I wish we had some more horses. This campaign’s been hell on them.” Wallace went to collect his own.
The group of men following Ben McCulloch and his little patrol of Rangers was growing. Seventy had joined from among the irate citizens of Victoria alone. All along the Comanche army’s wake, small parties of Rangers, militia, and volunteers were gathering, growing, and coalescing. And more men were converging from the hills around the small, clear, tree-shaded stream known as Plum Creek.
The Texans’ bivouack among the hills looked more like a series of trash piles than a military encampment. There were makeshift tents of stiff black gutta-percha sheets and old blankets. There were lean-tos of poles and heaped brush. The area was littered with feathers and rabbit skins and bones from meals. There were rag patches for the muzzle-loaders, and bits of paper from the cartridges of those lucky enough to have cartridges. Most of the men had to make their own ammunition in the field. The smell of hot lead hung over the camp like a cloud.
Noah Smithwick walked over to a group of men sitting around their campfire.
“What are you boys up to?”
“Just gassin’ and a-prophesyin’, Cap’n. Speculatin’ as to the outcome of the day’s fun.” John Ford sat with them and had slipped into the protective coloration of their dialect. “These boys are from over San Augustine way.” Ford was sitting comfortably against his pack. He held his makeshift steel-can coffee roaster by a long metal rod over the flames. The smell of the roasting beans overpowered the odor of boiling lead. “Care to join us for some coffee, Noah? Should be ready in an hour or two, after I grind the beans.”
“More than the coffee should be ready in an hour or two, John. The war party’s getting close.”
“Good. I always did love a party.” Rufe Perry had dropped out of the Rangers to farm, but the present trouble brought him back. He was mending his moccasins with one of the “whangs,” the buckskin thongs he carried in his shot pouch along with a roll of leather for patching. “You lived with the Comanche for a season, Noah. How do they keep their moccasins from falling apart?”
“They marry three or four women to mend them all the time.”
“Sounds good to me,” said Rufe. “Don’t know as I’d like an Injun woman, though. I hear they smell.”
“Smell!” Noah Smithwick rolled his eyes around under his bushy red brows. “Lordy, I can tell you they smell. They smell just like smoked ham, the most delicious thing you ever sank your teeth into.”
“The ham or the squaws, Noah?”
“Well now, that all depends.”
“On what?”
“On what you ate last.” He ducked the oily cleaning rag that Ford balled up and threw at him.
“Mind if I check your guns, boys? McCulloch said to.” Noah spoke almost apologetically.
“Yes, I mind,” said Rufe Perry. “We’ve patrolled together for years, Noah. You know I can handle a gun.” Old Rufe was eighteen and sensitive about his age, afraid others would think him green.
“I know you can, Rufe. But a lot of these new boys put the ball in before the powder.”
“And a lot of them carry their guns around loaded and with the cock down on the cap. Or blow their fool heads off standing in front of the muzzle while they pull them through the bushes. That doesn’t mean we’re all idiots.”
“Don’t get excited, Rufe. I’m just making a general check.”
“Well, check someone else. I’m responsible for my own weapon and I don’t take kindly to anyone else handling it. Even you, Noah.”
“All right. You other boys hand ‘em to me one at a time.” Yes, sir, the Texans and the Comanche are a tot alike. Onery and proud.
“Looks like we have company.” The men turned to look in the direction Ford was pointing. A group of Tonkawa had arrived behind their chief. Placido stood bent over, his hands on his knees and gasping for breath. Sweat ran off his gaunt frame like rivulets down a stony cliff face. He and his fourteen warriors had run thirty miles. They would have cheerfully run another thirty for a chance to destroy the Comanche.
“Where do you suppose their horses are?”
“Same place as most of ours are. The Comanche have them.” Noah stood to go on with his inspection among the other men. “Can you boys be ready in an hour?”
“We can be ready whenever you say, Cap’n. I do wish we had time for some coffee, though.”
“Meet me at the big plum thicket in an hour, then.” And Noah ambled off in that shuffling way of his. John Ford turned to Rufe Perry.
“You didn’t have call to get so riled. Noah and Ben are right to check guns. For people who have to depend on them daily, I never did see so much carelessness. I’ve seen men track a Comanche horse-stealin’ party and charge them trying to fire rusty guns. The Injuns take better care of their gear than a lot of these men.”
“Mine’s not rusty. When we charge, I’ll be ready.”
“I know you will, Rufe. I just pray everyone else is.”
Ben McCulloch rode with his men, part of a long line that was scissoring in to meet one like it a half mile away. The plan was to catch the Indians in the middle. There was little talking. Each man was wrapped in his own thoughts. They were a cool-looking lot, grim and rough, but Ben could smell the fear in their sweat. He’d smelled it often enough before.
The wind that blew in their faces was heated, as though someone had left a blast furnace door open somewhere. Heat waves set objects on the broad, rolling prairie dancing to silent music. They distorted the distant line of riders until it seemed to undulate. Un
der his arms Ben’s shirt felt clammy, and sweat tickled as it rolled down his neck and sides and ran from under his knees. His mouth was dry, and his lips stuck together when he closed them.
The cloud of dust at the south end of Big Prairie grew larger. McCulloch studied it. Placido and his Tonkawa scouts agreed that there were at least five hundred warriors. And they had their families with them. That was bad. The one thing that would make a Comanche stand and fight was the need to defend his women and children. Otherwise, a fight with them could be like blind men chasing birds. They melted away into the country and disappeared.
Dark figures emerged from the dust, and Ben strained to make them out. He shook his head, thinking for an instant that he had fallen asleep and was dreaming. Or hallucinating. Next to him, Bill Wallace laughed softly.
“If that doesn’t beat all. That’s what’s been terrorizing Texas.” Buffalo Piss rode in front of his men, standing on his pony’s surging back and shouting his challenge. His braids had been lengthened with horsehair and streamed five feet behind him. In one hand he waved his war lance, and in the other he held aloft a dainty, black, lace-trimmed parasol. He might sneer at white men’s clothing, but a sunshade was too good to pass up. As it was, he was the most conservatively dressed.
“Looks like a damned circus, with the clowns and the acrobats and the fancy riders all rolled into one.”
“Better’n any circus I ever saw. Look at the one wearing a lady’s drawers.”
“I like the one with the stovepipe hat tied on with ribbons. And the one with the swallow-tailed coat on backwards.” The men almost had to yell to be heard over the drumming and the war whoops.
“Why don’t they charge instead of showing off that way?”
“That’s the way they do things,” Smithwick shouted. “They have to challenge us to individual combat first. More manly.” Noah squinted to see better through the dust that was drifting over them by then.
Robson, Lucia St. Clair Page 38
