She heard Wanderer’s soft footfalls coming toward her. She heard the faint swish of his leggings being drawn off and his breechclout dropping to the ground. She unrolled the thick robe so that there was room for him on it. It left her uncovered, and she shivered in the coolness. Then he lay down beside her and pulled his own robe over them both. She luxuriated in the warmth and the touch of him. He gathered her into his arms and nuzzled her neck.
“Woman.”
“Yes.”
“Are you ready for your beating?”
Before she could answer, his mouth was hard against hers.
When Naduah woke up, the golden rays of sunlight were slanting among the tree trunks and splintering as they passed through the leaves. The light poured in shafts through the pillars of smoke rising from Wears Out Moccasins’ fire. A ring of cows stood around them, staring down curiously. Long strings of green saliva swung from their mouths and they rolled their big brown eyes at her. She sat up and waved her arms at them. Startled, they wheeled suddenly and lumbered off to join the herd that the men had stolen.
The men of the camp were already moving around, getting ready for their raids. They had divided up into smaller groups and would follow different trails. Naduah wondered what Wanderer would bring when he returned.
Rufe Perry had finished roasting the coffee beans and emptied them from the iron skillet into a square piece of buckskin. He was careful not to drop any of them. They were precious. Putting the bag of beans on a flat rock, he began beating them with another rock.
“Rufe, I can’t think of anything smells better’n real coffee, less’n it’s corn mash fermentin’ or my woman’s bread bakin’. It’s been over a month since I’ve had anything but parched corn biled up.” Palestine Hawkins reached into the pouch made by the overhang of his shirt where it tucked into his belt. He pulled out a wad of unspun linen tow, as pale as Hawkins’ own tumbled, sun-bleached hair. He separated a piece of the tow and tucked the wad back into his shirt. There it became just another anonymous lump under the dirty, coarsely spun summer hunting shirt. He began cleaning his rifle with the tow.
“You’re a regular mobile commissary, Pal. What all do you have squirreled away next to your belly?
Palestine laid aside his rifle and reached behind him. He untied the strip of homespun he wore as a belt. He pulled his shirt out of his baggy breeches and spilled the bundles inside it onto the ground.
“Le’s see.” There’s whangs fer fixin’ these damned moccasins. My tobaccy, and flint. Some jerky and some journey cake.” He unwrapped the heavy waxed cloth around the crumbled corn cakes and offered some to Rufe. “Made with real Sam Houston corn, that is.”
“You were at San Jacinto, Pal?”
“Yep. Jest a lad of fifteen. I saw Sam take a gnawed corncob out of his pocket and wave it at that little chicken-stealin weasel, Santa Anna. Sam told him he had fought for two days with nothin’ to eat but a few kernels of corn. Then he divided what was left among those of us standin’ thar. Told us to plant it and cherish it, as a remembrance. Quite a showman, old Sam is.”
Perry took a chunk of the bread and ate it.
“At least the bread gets plenty of salt, riding there. Especially on a hot day, I imagine.”
“Man shouldn’t ever be without the necessities of life close to hand, Rufe,” said Hawkins. “Or close to stomach, as the case may be.”
“You remind me of a friend of mine.”
“You don’t mean Noah Smithwick, do you?”
“You know him?”
“I know of him. Anytime the talk’s about eatin’, people usually think of Noah.”
“Did you ever hear about the time Noah and Big Foot Wallace sneaked into a Waco village one night to reconnoiter?”
“Don’t believe so. And if I did, tell it anyways. A yarn before dinner whets the appetite.” Hawkins cut a plug from his tobacco with his curved Bowie knife. In an ornate, spidery hand the words “Genuine Arkansas Tooth Pick” were etched on the eighteen-inch blade. Hawkins tucked his larder back into his shirt and returned to his gun. From the river nearby they could hear Carlin and Dunn shouting and splashing as they bathed and washed clothes.
Perry shook his thick shock of black hair from his eyes and poured the ground beans into the pot for coffee. He leaned back against his saddle and stretched his long legs in front of him. Rufus Perry was no longer the fresh-faced boy he had once been. He was thirty-four now, and a long scar, the track of an arrow, puckered his right cheek. The first wiry gray strands were beginning to appear in his coal black hair.
“Well, Big-Foot and Noah and the boys were hiding in this Indian village and planning to attack at dawn. Since they had a couple hours to wait, old Noah curls up and commences to snore like a pack of wild hogs rooting after the same acorn. Big Foot wakes him up and chides him just a bit. ‘Cap,’ says Noah, ‘don’t ever pass up a chance to eat or sleep, because you never know when you’ll get another.’ “
“Sounds like Noah, all right.”
“The Indian dogs got wind of their soiree and set up a howl. The race was on, with Noah and Big Foot the favorites, on account of they had such a stake in the winning of it. ‘Cap,’ sings out Noah, ‘looky here. A roast of buffalo ribs hanging there. What say we stop and have a bite of breakfast?’ Well, by now there were Indian howls among the dogs’ melody, and Big Foot says, ‘Noah, I have better things to do.’
“He picks up steam and his legs are churning like pistons when the boiler’s about to burst. Noah, he cuts off a slab of that meat as he runs by and he throws it over his shoulder. The Indians are so close now Big Foot says he could smell their breath. Like old bear bait. And he plumb doesn’t feel the ground, he’s skimming over it so fast.
“They reach shelter among some trees along the river, two miles away. They lie there panting while the noises of the Indians and their dogs fade. All that running has given Big Foot an appetite, and he turns to Smithwick. ‘Noah,’ he says, ‘I believe I could do my duty by those ribs now.’ Noah looks at him kinda sheepish like. ‘Too late, friend, I ate ‘em.’ And he holds up a few bones picked cleaner’n your rifle barrel. He’d devoured the entire slab while he ran.”
They both chuckled. Perry turned toward the river, where the other two men were.
“They’re making a lot of noise down there.”
“It’s been quiet. No raids in this area. They’re jest havin’ themselves some fun.”
“I heard there’s been some Indian sign spotted.”
Perry was pouring coffee into his big tin mug when an arrow sang through the air and thunked into his shoulder. Perry grabbed his own rifle, then dropped it as his arm numbed. He pulled his Colt from his belt and, firing with his left hand, backed toward his horse.
Arrows whined around them like angry insects. Rufe heard his horse scream as one buried itself in its eye. Hawkins’ mount pulled his picket loose in his panic and fled. Perry and Hawkins ran, zigzagging, toward a huge fallen log. They leaped over it. While Perry fumbled with his pistol, trying to load it with tingling fingers, Hawkins pulled the arrow from his friend’s shoulder. The raiding party was in full cry now, like a pack of hounds that has treed a coon. Dunn and Carlin waded from the river and, ignoring their clothes, ran for their horses.
“The river. Pal.” Perry followed his own advice. An arrow drove into his hip and halfway out the other side. Another raked his temple. Almost blinded by blood, he stumbled and fell on his hands and knees near Carlin’s horse. An arrow struck Hawkins in the back, paralyzing him from the waist down. His Colt spun from his hand, out of reach. Perry tried to crawl to help him.
“Git out of here, Rufe. You can’t do nothin’. Take him with you, Carlin, Dunn. For God’s sake, take him!” screamed Hawkins. But the other men ignored him. As they urged their horses toward the river, Perry limped after them. He managed to grab Carlin’s horse’s tail as they all splashed into the deep, swiftly flowing current. Winding the tail around one hand. Perry held his pistol out of the water
with the other. The horse pulled him across the channel and he dragged himself onto the low bank.
The first Comanche, taller than the others and a faster runner, reached Hawkins, who was pretending to be dead. Perry could see the grotesque black circles painted around the man’s eyes as he tucked the fallen revolver into his belt and leaned down to take Hawkins’ scalp. Palestine made a sweeping slash with his Bowie knife, and the raider doubled over and dropped. But eight others ran toward him.
Perry wiped the blood from his eyes and raised himself on his elbows. Supporting his pistol in one hand, he took careful aim. It would be a miracle if the shot found its mark at this distance, but he had to try. He only had one bullet left. He leveled the barrel at Palestine’s head and saw the thanks in the man’s eyes just before he fired. Then he fainted.
Perry didn’t see the bullet kill his friend. He didn’t feel Dunn take his pistol and his knife before he and Carlin left him. Nor did he see the Comanche carry their fallen leader back into the bushes. In less than a minute, the clearing where the camp had been was empty and still.
When Perry woke up, he staggered to a thicket and lay there panting. He held his shirt to his head to stop the flow of blood, and packed dirt and leaves into his other wounds. He stayed there all day until the sun had set and he could crawl to the river to drink. He curled up in a hole among the roots of an oak tree and slept.
The next morning he started for Austin, seventy-five miles away. Seven days later, starving and crusted with dirt, he crumpled on the doorstep of the first cabin on the outskirts of Austin.
Wanderer was unconscious on the travois that Sore-Backed Horse and Deep Water had made for the trip back to the base camp. Naduah stifled a cry when she lifted the blanket and peeled back the bloody leaves and grass that Deep Water had applied as a temporary compress. Intestines bulged from the clean, purplish gash in Wanderer’s smooth, golden-brown stomach. Frantically she searched through her medicine bag. She pulled out a pouch of puoip root, her fingers trembling in her haste.
She chewed the root as she singed the spines off a prickly pear pad. What would Grandmother do? She tried to calm herself by thinking of Medicine Woman. Had her grandmother ever seen the man she loved, the most important human being in the world, gutted like a deer in front of her? Perhaps she had. Medicine Woman had never talked about her dead husband. He had been gone a long time. But Takes Down had once told Naduah that Medicine Woman had loved him very much. What did you do when he died. Grandmother? And she wondered what she would do. Help me, Medicine Woman, she pleaded silently.
She cleaned out the debris and washed the wound in warm water. Taking a deep breath, she leaned over Wanderer’s still body. With the palms of her hands she gently and Firmly pressed the intestines back into place. Then she spat the juice into the wound. Wanderer grunted once, softly. She looked into his dark, luminous eyes. He smiled at her before he closed them again, his face tranquil.
Naduah made a slit lengthwise in the pad and not quite all the way through. She spread the cut cactus and held it over the wound.
“Wears Out Moccasins.”
“Yes, Daughter.” The woman loomed behind Naduah. “Press the wound shut.”
Kneeling with a loud grunt and cracking knees, Wears Out Moccasins positioned herself over Wanderer. With the flat of her hands, she pushed the edges of the cut together. Naduah fitted the cactus pad over it, pressing the cut surfaces against the flesh on both sides and holding the edges closed.
“Keep it in place.” Wears Out Moccasins put slight pressure on the compress with her hands while Naduah tore her old blue blanket into strips. She used the strips to tie the prickly pear in place. Then she sat back on her heels, drained and limp.
“Will he live, Mother?” Quanah stood at her shoulder, his eyes big with worry.
“I think so. If the wound doesn’t become infected.”
Wears Out Moccasins made her buffalo medicine for Wanderer. She chanted most of the night and shook her rattle made from the scrotum of a bull buffalo. She waved a buffalo tail around her head as she turned and circled in her ponderous dance. Then she put the tail in her mouth and blew on Wanderer. Finally she went to her robes to sleep.
Naduah and Quanah sat next to the travois all night, huddled together against the cold. Naduah’s robe was around them both. Sore-Backed Horse woke them at dawn.
“Naduah, we must leave. The scouts have seen white men. They may be trailing us.”
“He lost so much blood. Can’t we wait another day?”
“Sore-Backed Horse is right, golden one.” Wanderer spoke in a low voice. “We must leave now. Gray eyes.”
“Yes, Father.” Quanah wore only his breechclout in the cold morning air, and his skin was covered with a rash of goose bumps.
“Bring the horses and the cattle. Hurry.”
The boy scurried away, without stopping to put his moccasins on.
“He’s a fine son, Wanderer,” said Sore-Backed Horse. “He’ll steal many horses and be a comfort to you in your old age. He’s also a wonderful storyteller. Elks with humps.” Sore-Backed Horse chuckled as he went to gather his belongings.
As Quanah trimmed the twigs from a long willow switch to herd the cattle, he stood gratefully in a spot warmed by a cow’s sleeping body. The warmth felt wonderful on his cold, bare feet. Quanah looked at all the horses and cattle his father’s men had stolen, and he was proud. Holding the switch in one hand, the boy took a running start and leaped onto Polecat from behind. He used his hands on the pony’s rump to propel himself into position. By now Polecat could almost herd cattle alone, but Quanah made a great show of rounding up the animals. Yipping and slashing his switch through the air until it sang, he drove them into camp.
The war party moved out an hour after dawn. Some of the men had chosen to stay and raid longer, so it was a smaller group that followed Wanderer’s travois. As they topped a high ridge they stood without moving, looking down in astonishment. There below them, in a long, sinuous line that wound slowly across the dry valley floor, were fifty of Quanah’s humped elk.
“Look at that!” hissed Quanah. “See, Uncle. You owe me a pony.” Sore-Backed Horse had been foolish enough to bet that there were no such animals.
“You can have any pony but the one I’m riding.”
Naduah led the pack pony around so the travois faced the valley and Wanderer could see. She absentmindedly pushed her cropped hair away from her face and tucked it behind her ears. It was what she always did when she was distracted.
“What are they?” she asked.
“I don’t know, golden one. I’ve never seen anything like them.”
The pack train below them was made up of two-humped Bactrian camels, imported, along with riding dromedaries, at a cost of $30,000. The animals were part of Jefferson Davis’ other brainchild, a camel corps. They were his hope for solving the transportation problems of a war in the Great American Desert. The idea should have worked. The camels were perfect for the terrain and the climate. They ate thorns and mesquite that a mule wouldn’t touch. Their feet were impervious to the hot stony soil. They thrived, and they multiplied. And some were already escaping, like the pair that Quanah had seen. But they didn’t appeal to the soldiers the way a hundred prancing thoroughbreds in matching colors did.
From their perch on the ridge Naduah couldn’t hear the swearing that went on up and down the line of gangly, lurching, loose-limbed camels. Most of the tabay-boh soldiers couldn’t keep their seats on the humps. The ones who could became seasick from the constant rocking motion. And they all felt like fools. Most of them would end up walking back to their base camp, Little Egypt, as Camp Verde was being called.
The People watched the bizzarre procession until it passed out of sight behind a flat-topped bluff. Then they continued their journey home.
“Do you think Ho-say has a market for those?” asked Naduah.
“I’ll ask him,” said Wanderer with a small laugh that obviously caused him pain. “The scouts h
ave been finding signs of raiding parties. Now that the riding soldiers are gone, everyone is making up for the year their patrols kept us penned up.” Wanderer was fretting that he should be wounded just when the raiding was good again. “All the horses and cattle will be stolen before I’m well.”
“Don’t worry, my wandering one,” said Naduah. “The white people always get more. You’ll have plenty of stock to trade with Ho-say this fall.”
Wanderer was very weak, and he fell into a deep sleep. He slept for hours, oblivious to the bouncing and rocking of the travois. Hawkins’ pistol was beside him, tucked into the blankets like a child’s new toy. It had taken twelve years, but at last he had one of Colt’s repeaters.
CHAPTER 51
In January of 1858 the governor of Texas appointed John “Rip” Ford as senior captain and supreme commander of the re-formed Rangers. Rip’s orders were to follow any and all trails of hostile or suspected hostile Indians, to inflict the most summary punishment, and to brook no interference with his plan of operation from any source.
By late April Ford had gathered his force, one hundred battle-tested, saddle-hardened Texans and one hundred and eleven Anadarko and Tonkawa scouts. The scouts were led by their Indian Agent’s son, nineteen-year-old Sullivan Ross, who was home on vacation from college. There was no bugle on this expedition. No rattling sabers, no drills, no heavy wagons, no fires, and no fancy bivouacs. Rip Ford followed Jack Hays’ example of making cold camps and traveling fast, light, and silently.
After Chief Placido had given his report, Ford turned to the tall, earnest young man riding beside him.
“What did the chief say, Sul?”
“He says the signs lead across the Red River and into Oklahoma Territory. Says the Rangers were never allowed up there. Wants to know if we’re going to turn back.”
“My orders are to fight Indians,” said Ford “not learn geography. When Placido comes back, tell him his men are doing a fine job.”
“There’s nothing they like better than hunting Comanches. ‘Specially if there are a hundred white men with revolvers and Springfields behind them once they’ve gotten them treed.”
Robson, Lucia St. Clair Page 64
