Noah Smithwick wasn’t heading for the gold fields, but he was guiding the train part of the way. His fiddle was held against his barrel chest, and his arm was flying. The broken strands of his horsehair bow flailed around his head. He had laid boards of raw lumber down and was standing on them so the pounding of his hobnailed boot could be heard. It provided a thumping base line.
Another man played a cigar-box banjo with Gem razors cut down for frets. What it lacked in size it made up for in volume. The rhythm section was an iron pot and ladle and two big tin spoons. The spoons were held back to back and beaten in a clattering, jumpy cadence against a thigh. Someone in the group was Irish.
There were no women, so the men formed up and danced with each other. Those who took the ladies’ part tied rags around the waists or arms. And between each dance there was a rush for the whiskey barrel.
Noah broke into “Arkansas Traveler” and the other fiddler joined him. They both stopped between choruses to tell outrageous stories, and the men howled with laughter. No one could tell a joke better or with a straighter face than Noah Smithwick. Cub and Small Hand lay watching them for an hour, mesmerized by the beat that seeped through them, permeated them with a fleeting sense of peace.
The sound of the fiddles conjured up strange longings in Cub. He remembered sneaking from his uncle’s house at night. He would walk five miles through the dark forest to where he knew a dance was being held. He couldn’t participate. Word would certainly have gotten back to the Parker house and his uncle would have whipped him soundly. So he stood, alone in the dark, looking into the lighted windows, tapping his feet and wishing he could join in the fun.
For Cub the music was more than a reminder of his isolation among the white people. Even in their gaiety, the dissonant notes were lonely and primitive. They called up something from deep within him, something fierce and martial. They were the skirl and drone of the bagpipes they imitated, calling soldiers to die in the moors and mountains of a far-off land. There was joy and death and love and war in them. And for some reason that Cub himself couldn’t know, they brought tears to his eyes.
Finally, he noticed Small Hand shivering in the cold night air. He signaled to her, and they backed off the crest of the ridge. He put an arm around her shoulders and cut a little jig as they walked. Then, catching her by surprise, he whirled her around. He gathered her in his arms and swung her in time to the music, until her feet lifted off the ground and spun freely. She laughed silently with him, and they walked, holding hands, to where their ponies were tethered.
The next morning, they went back to the site where the wagon train had been. It was deserted, but not empty. The grass was trampled by the animals and by the men’s dancing. There was a litter of cans and paper sacks blowing across the prairie. There were broken axles and scraps of metal. There were bits of discarded clothing, socks that were more hole than yarn, the mule-chewed fragments of a straw hat. Small Hand dismounted and picked up an empty bottle in the shape of a cabin. Imprinted on it were the words “Log Cabin Whiskey” and the name of its manufacturer, E. G. Booz. She held it up for Cub to see.
“We can carry water in this.”
Cub whirled around.
“Drop it!” he shouted.
He startled her and she let the bottle slip from her fingers. It shattered against a rock at her feet.
“I’m sorry, small one. But don’t pick up anything here. Don’t even touch anything.”
“There might be something we can use.”
“The white men carry disease. They leave it lying along the path with their trash. Look.” He pointed east, back the way the wagon train and hundreds like it had come. Even after it had disappeared among the hills, the trail could still be followed. It was marked by a line of vultures that circled over it, growing smaller and smaller in the distant sky. The trail was littered with abandoned wagons, broken wheels, garbage, and the putrifying carcasses of dead mules and horses, oxen and buffalo and deer. Cub and Small Hand crossed the dusty furrow and continued their journey. Even Cub didn’t know that the whites left more than rotting trash behind. They contaminated the pools of drinking water.
At last Cub and Small Hand found the Noconi, camped on a high bluff overlooking the Pease River. The village had a commanding view of the countryside around. It was a land of rolling, grass-covered hills covered with the usual dark green cedars and pale green mesquites. Against the horizon to the north, flat-topped bluffs marched along in silhouette, like elephants in a line. And dotting the hills as far as the eye could see was a herd of wild mustangs, thousands of them.
Each of the smaller herds, or manadas, was converging at a leisurely walk on the river that meandered among the hills.
Wanderer’s band had grown until there were over a hundred lodges spread out under the pecan trees. The tops of the tents and the lodge poles could be seen for more than a mile along the ridge. There were no cries of mourning, and no sign of the white man’s diseases. Wanderer and his warriors disdained councils with the whites. And they stayed far from trading posts and wagon routes, except to raid.
His war parties struck like lightning, flashing down from the hills then disappearing into the wild labyrinth of breaks and arrayos. They stole only weapons and stock, horses and cattle and mules to add to their own herds and to trade with José Tafoya. The size of the Noconi herds rivaled the vast band of mustangs moving and shifting below them. The trained ponies, the cattle, and the pack animals grazed on one side of camp, and the wild mustangs that they had caught were tethered on the other.
Small Hand and Cub rode into the village together, and Wanderer stood to greet them. His lodge was the largest one and it was set in the center of the camp. It had a huge, bright yellow sun painted on its side, and a string of deer hooves clacked in the breeze. Wanderer recognized Cub immediately. But he did so probably because of the young man’s resemblance to Naduah, rather than remembering the child he had known briefly many years before.
“Hi, Tah-mah,” he said, smiling. “I welcome the brother of my wife, and his woman.”
Cub smiled back, a feeling of relief washing over him, as though he had found a warm sheltered hearth in a howling snowstorm.
“Greetings, Brother.” When he slid down off his horse, Wanderer embraced him.
“You have a nephew around here somewhere, Echo Of A Wolf’s Howl.”
“So I’ve heard. People say he’s handsome.” Cub didn’t ask how Wanderer knew his new name. Perhaps he would find out later, after dinner and over a pipe. “Where’s my sister?”
“She’s busy.” Wanderer glanced toward a lodge set apart from the others. It was near a small, spring-fed stream and a large hackberry tree. “She’s giving birth. Most of the men have gone hunting. But I stayed until the child is born.” Wanderer waved behind him. “You can stay in the guest lodge, that one over there.”
Silently Small Hand led the spare pony toward it and began unpacking their few belongings. Some of the neighbor women helped her. When they saw the sorry state of Small Hand’s household, they sent their children scurrying for things to loan and give. Soon there were people coming from all directions with robes, clothing, food, ladles, containers, even a tiny child struggling along under a big brass kettle. Small Hand accepted all the presents shyly, but she kept a strict accounting in her head. Someday she would repay each one’s kindness.
Wanderer sat down again in front of his own doorway and motioned for Cub to join him. He leaned against a saddle, with his long legs stretched comfortably in front of him. He reached for his pipe and flint.
“I’m glad you’re here, Echo Of A Wolf’s Howl. Naduah will be very happy. I don’t think she ever stopped missing you. She speaks of you often. Tomorrow we’ll visit the pony herd. You can choose the horses you want.”
Cub started to protest, but Wanderer held up his hand.
“You don’t have to keep them if you don’t want to. But they’ll give you a start at regaining what you’ve lost. Soon you’ll have man
y horses of your own. I’m planning a raid to Mexico for more.” He grinned wickedly. “There are so few good horses left in Texas. Will you come with us?”
Cub nodded.
“Good. Tell me the news from the Penateka.”
“You already seem to know most of it.”
“One never knows all of it. And each man has his own version. I want to hear yours. I trust yours.”
“That makes my heart glad, my brother. Especially since you haven’t seen me in such a long time. I may have changed. Become a white man.”
“I know you haven’t. I’ve heard many good things about you from the other bands. And besides, you’re my wife’s brother.
“I also heard that you were traveling with nothing. That you burned everything when your grandfather died. And that you killed his ponies. That was as it should be. These days, people are greedy. They only shave the tails of the dead one’s ponies, and then they keep them. You did things properly, as they should be done.
“My heart is in the grave with your grandfather, my brother. He was a great warrior and a wise man.”
Wanderer’s eyes filled with tears, and they were both silent. Then they heard the thin wail of a newborn baby, testing its lungs. Wanderer ran toward the birth lodge, with Cub close behind him.
CHAPTER 45
An early norther had pounced on the camp and howled around the lodge, looking for a way inside. The heavily weighted hide door bowed inward with the force of it. Naduah sat on a pile of furs, her back against the pole bedstead. She was basking in the warmth of the fire and the joy of having her friends and loved ones with her. She looked up at the seams of the lodge, firm and taut in the fifty-mile-an-hour gale. The lodge was crowded with men smoking and quietly talking, and with children waiting for the first corn kernel to pop. Wears Out Moccasins was tending the corn, stirring it gently in the bed of hot sand.
Naduah was nursing her second son. His steady, rhythmic sucking at her breast lulled her and filled her with contentment. She knew there were terrible things happening in the southern bands, but they seemed far removed this night. She had left the birth tent sooner than usual when she heard her brother had returned. As Cub held her new son in his arms, he answered her questions about Pahayuca’s band and her family. They were safe. Cub had warned them to isolate themselves, as they had when the pox broke out ten years before.
Naduah looked down at her son’s fuzzy little head, nuzzling her. He was called Nakahtaba, Pecan. Wanderer had named him.
“You named Quanah,” he had said. “I name this one. He stared down at the tiny, brown, wrinkled baby. “He looks like a pecan.” And Pecan he would be until someone gave him a better name.
Quanah, almost five years old now, sat on Sore-Backed Horse’s lap, braiding the long fringes on the warrior’s leggings. He studied his blond-haired uncle surreptitiously, his slate-gray eyes peering from under a heavy fringe of straight, dark brown hair. Echo Of A Wolf’s Howl wasn’t unfriendly, but he had a formal, preoccupied air about him. He always looked as though he was thinking about something else. It was a defense that Cub had used to keep his white family at a distance, and it was part of him now. Quanah wasn’t sure how to react to him, so he stayed with Sore-Backed Horse. He was certain to have his own way there. Sore-Backed Horse had been filling the important role of uncle ever since Quanah was born.
If only Medicine Woman and Takes Down The Lodge and Sunrise were here, thought Naduah. And Black Bird and Something Good and Little Weasel. Not so little anymore, she corrected herself. She must be almost as old as Small Hand. Cub had also reported that Weasel was even more beautiful than her mother. He had visited them to tell Something Good of her parents’ death. He spoke of it to Naduah through clenched teeth, fighting to keep his face impassive. Naduah loved Cub, but even she felt uneasy around him. He no longer had the openness and sense of humor of one of the People.
Star Name and Deep Water and their three-and-a-half-year-old daughter, Wakare-ee, Turtle, were there, as well as Spaniard and his wife and their little girl. But the most unexpected guest to show up at the lodge door that evening was Cruelest One, looking like some evil spirit blown in on the storm. He came in after Star Name’s brother, Wolf Road, and he scowled at Naduah as he handed her the present of popping corn, traded from the Wichita. He brushed past her before she could say anything.
Naduah wasn’t as surprised to see him as she should have been. She caught him once in serious conversation with little Quanah. He didn’t know she had seen him, and she would never tell him. She still didn’t feel any warmth for Cruelest One. Few people did. But he was given a place in the family circle because he had saved Wolf Road’s life in the battle of Plum Creek nine years ago. And because he quietly, without words, asked for a place.
Gathered Up, fifteen now, sat next to Wolf Road. Wolf Road and Cub had been entertaining everyone with stories from their boyhood. Naduah knew they had played pranks, but she had no idea how much trouble they had caused, or the tight spots they had gotten themselves into. On the other hand, she thought, no one knows some of the tricks Star Name and I pulled either. As he reminisced, Cub’s eyes rekindled, and his old charm surfaced. Small Hand watched him closely, as though seeing a stranger she had never met before.
The first small, dark kernel of corn exploded with a tiny pop, and the three older children crowded around to watch. They had never seen it before.
“Stand back,” said Wears Out Moccasins, waving them away. “Give me room.” The corn was exploding steadily now, and even Wears Out Moccasins couldn’t keep the children away. The adults leaned forward too. Popcorn was a rare treat. As it popped, Wears Out Moccasins swept the top kernels off onto a flat piece of bark. Now and then, one would arc up and out of the sand, and the children scrambled for it.
Wears Out Moccasins divided the corn first among the children, putting some in each of the containers they held out. One had a turtle shell, one had a small piece of buffalo hide, and Quanah used a bandana that his uncle Echo Of A Wolf s Howl had given him. Then the rest of the corn was passed to the adults. Wears Out Moccasins stepped over the legs sprawled in her way as she served it. For a few minutes there was only the sound of people blowing the grains of sand off their corn, and the crunching of the kernels. Then Naduah spoke, handing Pecan to Star Name.
“Quanah, girls, did I ever tell you the story of the time turtle actually tricked Old Man Coyote, the Trickster himself?”
“No.” It was a chorus.
“Long ago, it is said, Old Man Coyote was coming along, and he met a little turtle roasting a nice meal of five prairie dogs. Does Old Man Coyote like to eat?” she asked the children.
“Yes,” they shouted.
” ‘Hello, my friend,’ said the Trickster. ‘May I share your delicious-looking prairie dogs?’ ‘No,’ said Turtle, poking up the coals with his little stir stick. Turtle knew that if he wasn’t careful Coyote would find a way to eat all the prairie dogs himself. He watched him closely, like this.” Naduah squinted her eyes and with her fingers wrinkled the skin around her mouth. She sucked in her cheeks until she looked like a turtle. She glared at Quanah out of the corner of her eye.
” ‘If you won’t share your dinner with me,’ said Coyote, ‘why don’t we race?’ Turtle was suspicious. ‘You know I can’t run very fast. You’ll beat me,’ he said. But Coyote said, ‘I’ll tie a big stone to my leg to give you a better chance. Let’s race over that hill and through the trees and along the river to the big boulder. Then we’ll circle back here.’ Turtle knew that Coyote had some trick in mind, but he agreed to run the race. It would give him a chance to think of a plan to save his meal.
“They both started running, and it looked like the little turtle was going to win. He huffed and he puffed as his stubby legs hauled his heavy shell over the rough ground. But as Turtle became tired. Old Man Coyote drew alongside. They ran even for a while, and then Trickster slowly pulled ahead. He disappeared over the crest of the hill. Turtle slowed to a stop and drew his
legs into his shell to think. ‘That Coyote will win,’ he thought. ‘He’ll get back to the fire first and he’ll eat all my prairie dogs.’ Then Turtle had an idea. He turned and plodded back down the hill.
“When he came to his fire, he pulled the roasted prairie dogs out by their tails. As soon as they had cooled he gobbled them quickly up. He carefully put the tails back, so they stuck out of the ashes. Then he threw the bones into the lake. He heard the Coyote coming, so he hid in the weeds.
“Old Man Coyote arrived all out of breath. But he patted his stomach when he saw the prairie dog tails sticking out of the ashes. ‘I’ll have a wonderful meal,’ he said, ‘while that stupid little Turtle crawls along, finishing the race.’ He pulled at the tails, but whoop, they came out right in his hand. He saw that he had been tricked and he heard Turtle laughing in the weeds.
“I thought I would cheat you. Turtle,’ he said, ‘but you tricked me instead.’ Coyote went to the lake and searched for the prairie dog bones. He fished them out and made a meager meal of them. Then he went dejectedly off, with little Turtle’s laughter in his ears. Suvate, it is finished.” They all applauded, pounding their moccasins on the hard-packed dirt and clapping and whistling.
“Girls,” said Star Name. “It’s late. Lie on the bed, where you’ll be more comfortable if you fall asleep.” The two children climbed onto Gathered Up’s bed. They curled at its foot like a pair of puppies, leaving the rest of it for Wears Out Moccasins to sit. Quanah crawled back into Sore-Backed Horse’s lap, determined to hear the rest of the evening’s talk. But within minutes he was asleep, his head against Sore-Backed Horse’s chest. Wanderer stretched his arms over his head, recrossed his long legs, and spoke to Cub.
“Tell us all the news from the south, Echo Of A Wolfs Howl. We have heard reports, but they’ve been scattered. And often the messengers are too distraught to believe.”
“You can believe whatever they say and more. No one can describe how bad the situation is there. It has to be seen to be believed. I would guess that half the Penateka are dead from this latest disease.” He paused a moment to let the impact of that settle. They all knew that Cub didn’t exaggerate. Naduah spoke up.
Robson, Lucia St. Clair Page 56
