Robson, Lucia St. Clair

by Ride the Wind

  “There have been outbreaks of the white men’s diseases before. Remember, Star Name, the camp we found ten years ago? The People will survive this and become strong again.”

  “No, sister,” said Cub. “The People survived the sickness ten years ago, but it left them weakened, their numbers less. And this is far worse. Entire bands are breaking up, scattering. The major leaders are dead. There’s not a family that hasn’t lost someone. And now everyone’s afraid of everyone else. A child with diarrhea is abandoned. A grandmother who vomits is left to die. The People are losing touch with their old ways. Fear is driving them from the traditions that have made them strong.”

  “What can we do?” asked Star Name.

  “What you are already doing. Wanderer is right. Stay away from the trading posts and wagon trains. Don’t touch anything that belongs to the white people, or to refugees from the stricken camps.”

  “We can’t turn away people seeking shelter and protection,” said Deep Water.

  “I know. But stay away from them. Ask them to camp on the edge of the band. And don’t let your children go near them.”

  “The best defense,” said Deep Water, “is to kill the source. The white eyes have found another way to attack us by turning evil spirits loose among us.”

  “If it’s any comfort to you, Deep Water,” said Small Hand, speaking quietly from the shadows where she was rocking Pecan, “they die of it too. In our travels we passed over their trails. And always there were wolf-pawed graves along them. The wolves had dug up one of the graves, and we saw the remains. It was a white baby.”

  “But they breed like rabbits,” continued Deep Water. “As fast as one dies, one of their women drops two more. We must kill their women and their children and burn their lodges and crops.”

  Cub thought of the Parkers in Limestone County. There was hardly a family that didn’t have a child for every year of the marriage. And here, Naduah was exceptional. She had borne two sons in the past five years. And the People didn’t even realize the worst, that back east there were thousands outfitting for the wilderness. Old Owl had seen them. That was why he had given up the struggle. He knew the hopelessness of it. Cub didn’t have the heart to tell those sitting around him of the teeming cities beyond the eastern mountains and the big river. He knew they wouldn’t believe him anyway. Even his own sister wouldn’t believe him.

  “Deep Water is right,” said Wanderer. “We must raid. Only now we don’t raid for loot in Texas, or even horses. We’ll take the horses and cattle and captives when we can. But we’ll burn and slaughter whatever we can’t carry with us.”

  “When will we leave, Wanderer?” Deep Water was always eager to raid.

  “We can discuss that in council. We can ride to Mexico for loot, and raid the Texans on our way south. We’ll operate differently than in the past. We won’t set up base camps near the settlements. The Rangers are there again and it’s too dangerous.

  “We’ll divide into smaller groups and leave the main trail. We can sneak down the river bottoms at night and hide during the day. Then just about sundown we’ll strike and run, and rejoin the main group.”

  Wanderer had been thinking about the plan for a long time. He was testing it here, among his friends, before he brought it up in council. Cub sat, silent, mulling it over.

  “What do you think. Echo Of A Wolf’s Howl?”

  “It’s a good idea. Brother-in-law.”

  “Will you ride with us?”

  “Of course.”

  The winter of 1849 and 1850 was a hard one. It closed in on them and locked them in their camp. All their spare time was taken with hunting to stay alive. It wasn’t until the spring of 1850 that Wanderer’s party headed south. There were over three hundred and fifty men in the group. Word had gone out to the Yamparkia and Quohadi, to the Kotsoteka and even to the Kiowa. Men gathered for weeks. The drumming and dancing and councils were incessant, and the encampments stretched for ten miles along the Pease River. The cholera epidemic seemed to have run its deadly course, and the People were going to extract their revenge.

  Naduah and Star Name and all those who stayed behind watched the war party leave camp. Quanah insisted on riding with them a short way on his tubby little pony. The child’s legs were too short to curve around the horse’s barrel, and they bounced up and down as he jogged along. Wanderer rode on Night, in front, with his lieutenants ranged on each side. He picked as aides those men whom he trusted the most and who had earned the most honors in battle. On one side rode Big Bow and on the other Cub. Although he had yet to prove himself in battle, most of the warriors tacitly recognized Cub’s knowledge of both the white culture and of their own. They realized that his advice would be valuable.

  Night’s tail was tied up with thongs and decorated with eagle feathers. Streamers and feathers and bells were braided into his mane. His eyes were painted with the yellow circles he always wore. There were gray hairs peppering Night’s muzzle, and his five-year-old son, Raven, followed him.

  Wanderer carried his coup stick in his right hand. It was a slender branch with a few eagle feathers and fur streamers that made its owner impervious to arrows or bullets. On his left arm he carried his shield, and in his left hand his lance. His men rode to the steady thump of small hand drums. The bells on their leggings and shirts jingled, and there was the rustle of leather against leather.

  Each man’s clothing was smoked to pale yellows or browns or dyed in subtle greens and blues. Some were rubbed with selenaceous clay until they were creamy white. Their long, fringed shirts were hung with bells and tassels of scalp hair or animal tails. They wore breast plates of bone cylinders strung in parallel rows into bibs. Some had huge silver necklaces. Their hair was combed and oiled and allowed to flow over their shoulders. Some had woven horsehair into their own to make it even longer. Their scalplocks were hung with feathers or polished silver disks that flashed in the sunlight.

  They each carried their fourteen-foot lances upright, and a forest of them waved overhead, their streamers dancing in the breeze. The rifles and carbines that Wanderer and his men had raided so relentlessly to obtain were carried in special buckskin cases, strapped to their ponies’ sides and within easy reach.

  Not many women, other than Small Hand and Wears Out Moccasins, went with them. Unlike former years, the war party would be even more mobile than usual. The trail, down the valley of the North Concho River across the Edwards Plateau to the Balcones Escarpment near the Rio Grande, was more dangerous than it had ever been. Not only were the Rangers hunting them, but there were local volunteer companies. And there were United States troops, ineffective as they were. Worst of all, there were more and more settlers, each armed and looking for blood.

  Wanderer’s plan worked well. Small bands of his men left terror and destruction behind them as they pillaged and burned their way south. They killed every Texan they found, mutilating the bodies so the souls wouldn’t be accepted into paradise. By the time a party of men could be organized to chase them, they were long gone, dividing as they left the scene of the raid. Half would drive the stolen stock and the other half would act as rear guard. They rode a hundred miles without stopping. And they usually left the Texans with no. horses, or at best a few poor ones. The warriors, on the other hand, had mounts to spare. When one pony tired, a companion would lead another alongside and the man would leap onto it without breaking stride.

  The war party had already stolen a large herd of ponies and cattle when they reached the mountains near Eagle Pass. From there the broad, well-marked raid trail unraveled as the parties that had used it for decades scattered into Mexico. Wanderer and his men set up a large base camp, well hidden in the mountains. Smaller groups would leave from there, devastating the isolated ranches and helpless farms of Chihuahua and Coahuila. Once into Mexico, they would raid with arrogance, hardly bothering to cover their tracks.

  After the base camp was established, the raiders would bring their stock and captives back to it, then leave
again for more. The few women made temporary lodges, buffalo hides thrown around cones of short poles. The men cut brush for shelters and piled it against the small lodge framework. Small Hand and the other women settled down to a life rather like the one they had left, except that there was less work to do. As the captives were brought in, they would take over what chores there were. When Wears Out Moccasins wasn’t raiding, she was bustling around, mothering the men of the Noconi band. Most of them treated her with good humor, but more than once she and Cruelest One locked horns in the middle of the encampment.

  “Leave my moccasins alone,” he shouted at her.

  “They’re tattered. You look like an unkempt Osage,” she roared back at him.

  “I can mend them, you meddling buffalo cow.”

  “They look worse after you mend them than before you started.”

  And around they went. When she wasn’t collecting piles of mending from the men, Wears Out Moccasins was talking to Small Hand, whom she’d taken under her vast wing. She had accumulated more horses and was enjoying herself immensely. Each day more men rode in from their scattered raids north of the Rio Grande. Finally all of them had arrived, and Wanderer called a council for that night to discuss their plans for their forays into Mexico.

  “Small Hand,” said Wears Out Moccasins. “Is your husband feeling all right?”

  “I don’t think he feels good.”

  “He looks pale to me. Where does he feel bad? Maybe I have something to help him.”

  “I don’t know,” Small Hand mumbled. She was afraid, because for the first time since she had known her sun hair she sensed fear in him. She made an excuse, and left Wears Out Moccasins to find him.

  Cub sat alone, on a high outcropping of rock overlooking a barren, brown valley, spiny with cactus and agave.

  “Sun hair.”

  “Yes, small one.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Worse.”

  “Do you know what it is?”

  “Yes.”

  Small Hand waited for him to continue.

  “Cholera.”

  “Ka-ler-ah?”

  “The white man’s disease. The one that killed my grandfather.”

  “Maybe you’re wrong.”

  “I’m not wrong. My dung is running from me like water.”

  “May be you ate tainted meat, my dear one.” Small Hand came closer, her hand out to feel his forehead. “Is your skin hot?”

  “Stay away, small one. Don’t come near me. Go find Wanderer and ask him to come, quickly.”

  Small Hand turned and darted away, calling for Wanderer. When they returned, Cub was leaning against a rock, wretching helplessly. Wanderer waited for him to finish, and Small Hand gave him the water she had brought. He spit out the first mouthful, trying to wash away the taste of bile. Then he drank deeply from the gourd. He replaced the carved wooden plug.

  “Don’t drink from this canteen, small one.”

  “Yes, Husband.”

  “Cub,” said Wanderer, using his old, pet name. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. Take everyone and leave camp. Ride as fast as you can and as far as you can. And take care of Small Hand for me.”

  “I’m not going, Husband.”

  “Yes, you are. Don’t touch my belongings, Brother. I’ll burn them before I become too weak. But you must leave now. Immediately. Take everyone. And don’t return to this campsite. Tell my sister I love her.” His last words were almost lost as nausea seized him again. He was too weak to stand, and spread his knees to vomit between them.

  “Cub, I can’t leave the brother of my wife, the uncle of my sons, my friend.”

  Cub reached for the gourd of water.

  “Because you are all those things, you must leave. You can do no good here. I’m not a wounded warrior that you can throw on the back of your pony and save. If you stay, you’ll die too. And your family will have no one to provide for it.”

  Wanderer stood for a moment, staring at him. He raised his hand in salute.

  “I will pray for you, Brother.” He turned to go. “Come, Small Hand.”

  “No.”

  “Take her, Wanderer,” said Cub.

  Small Hand drew her long, wicked skinning knife. She crouched, her eyes steady and deadly.

  “You can’t kill me, Small Hand. You know that I can take that knife from you,” said Wanderer in a low, calm voice.

  “You can’t take it from me before I slit my throat. Will you be responsible for the death of your brother-in-law’s wife?”

  ” No, Small Hand. Stay,” he said sadly. “It’s come to this. We abandon those we love. The white men have brought us to such a miserable state.” Wanderer took his small medicine bag from its place hanging inside his breechclout. He tossed it gently onto the ground in front of Cub and Small Hand, who stood next to him. “It’s all I can give you. It’s protected me. Perhaps it will do the same for you. I’ll leave ponies for you. And cattle to eat. Small Hand can kill and butcher them. We’ll leave whatever we can that will be of use to you. If you recover, return to us, Cub.”

  “I will. Brother.” Cub didn’t try to thank Wanderer for the medicine bag. He knew it was the most valuable thing his brother-in-law owned. It was more than valuable. It was priceless. It had taken Wanderer a lifetime to gather the things inside it. He picked it up and held it on his lap.

  He and Small Hand watched Wanderer disappear through the corridor of rocks leading to the camp. Small Hand took the canteen to the trickling spring nearby. She squatted patiently while the water ran slowly into the narrow opening of the gourd.

  “When they’re gone, I’ll make you comfortable.” She knelt in front of him and washed his face and chest, splashing the cool water over his hot, dry skin. “Drink more.”

  “I’m craving salt, small one.”

  “I’ll make you a broth and put salt in it.” From the distance they could hear the shouts from camp as the men packed to move. Wears Out Moccasins appeared at the narrow opening in the boulders.

  “Small Hand, Echo Of A Wolfs Howl,” she called. “I put pemmican and jerky and stew near your shelter. And I’m leaving medicine for you. Hurry and get well and rejoin us.”

  “We will. Mother,” said Small Hand. Then Wears Out Moccasins was gone. They could hear screams. The women and children who had been taken captive in Texas were being killed. They might be carriers of the disease. Then they heard the sound of hooves diminishing in the distance. And silence. It had taken only minutes for the word to spread and the campsite to be abandoned.

  “Come, Husband.” Small Hand put an arm around Cub’s waist and helped him to his feet. “When you lie down and rest, you’ll feel better. You’ll get well. I promise you.”

  Cub was too weak to argue with her.

  CHAPTER 46

  Naduah and Star Name rode toward camp. There were two carcasses slung across their pack mule’s back. They had raced their ponies into the herd of pronghorns and had each lassoed one of the darting, dodging animals. Now, with a week’s worth of meals taken care of, Naduah was thinking of something else.

  “They’ve been gone almost two months.”

  “Yes. I doubt they’ll be back before the next full moon. They’ll use it to raid by. I hope they have a leisurely trip back. Because when they return, I’m going to wear Deep Water out. He’ll walk around with his breechclout in his hand for a week.”

  Naduah laughed.

  “Gathered Up had a visitor last night.”

  “Gathered Up?” said Star Name. “I can’t stop thinking of him as a small boy.”

  “Not after last night. They thought I was sleeping. I could hear them giggling next door.” The women had made Gathered Up his own lodge.

  “I miss Wanderer, Sister,” said Naduah. “I worry.”

  “Don’t waste your time worrying about Wanderer. Worry about if it’s going to rain. You can depend on Wanderer. He always comes back.”

  “It always rains too,” said Naduah.


  “Yes. But one never knows when.”

  “And one never knows when Wanderer will be back either.” They both smiled.

  “The river’s too low to swim, but at least we can lie back in it and let it flow around us. I’m looking forward to that,” said Naduah. “It’s about the temperature of stew water, but it’s better than nothing.”

  Star Name wiped sweat from her face and slung it off her hand.

  She was too hot to even make her usual suggestion to race back to camp.

  The village was quiet with the men gone. The older men and boys and women defended it and carried on as best they could. But they were used to it. War parties were sometimes gone for years. Perhaps that was why it was so important for the older people to train the children. They were often the only ones around to do it.

  The two women were startled from their lethargy when Gathered Up came galloping toward them. He waved frantically for them to turn back. Little Pecan rode in front of him and Quanah clung to his waist, bouncing along behind. Without asking questions, Naduah and Star Name wheeled their ponies and raced for the cover of a high, dense growth of plum and oak and prickly pear. Once behind it, they jumped down from their horses and tied them to trees. They strung their bows and each nocked an arrow. Gathered Up arrived in a lather. He handed down the baby and turned to help Quanah, but the child had already tumbled off. He ran to his mother, his tiny bow drawn too.

  “White men. Mother, and they’re asking about you. But I won’t let them get you.” Quanah planted his feet and raised his bow, taking steady aim in the direction of camp.

  “It’s all right, Quanah. No one told them where your mother is.”

  “What’s happening, Gathered Up?” asked Naduah.

  “Traders. Sore-Backed Horse is talking to them. They asked about you. He told them you and your husband were visiting his father on the Staked Plains. That ought to discourage them.”