“Your father?” Placido signed to Wanderer. He could tell from the resemblance that they were related.
“Yes.”
“Your arrow?” He held up the shaft with the three red stripes.
“Yes.”
“You killed my family.”
“Yes. I have had my revenge.”
“But I have not had mine.”
“I’ll fight you. You can have your chance for revenge.”
“No. I don’t want your life. I want more. I’ve heard of you, Wanderer, and of your golden-haired wife and your children. Your woman’s yellow scalp will decorate my lance. Every time you go on a raid or a hunt, you will wonder what you will find when you return. One day you will come home to a circle of ashes where your lodge once stood. Your woman will be violated and mutilated and your children burned alive.” Tears streamed down the old chiefs lined face. “Just as mine were.”
He turned his back to Wanderer, ignoring the Colt five-shooter held loosely in his enemy’s hand. He mounted his pony and rode slowly away. Wanderer watched him go. Then he stooped and quickly hoisted his father’s body onto Raven’s back. There was nothing more he could do here. Once again the repeaters had routed his people. Few of his men had them. They were no match for the white eyes. Perhaps there were only half as many Rangers, but their weapons made them five times as strong.
He rode fast and hard in the direction his family and band had fled. His only thoughts now were to protect them. Placido’s threat filled his mind with terrible images. The Red River was no longer a barrier holding back the white soldiers and their allies. For the first time in his life. Wanderer began to understand, in a small way, how a hunted animal must feel.
CHAPTER 52
Wanderer and Naduah, their family, and eighty or ninety of their friends sat astride their horses on the highest ridge overlooking the Red River. The Noconi had fled the Rangers for two days without stopping, until Wanderer’s scouts reported that they were no longer being followed. This was the first chance they had had to hold Iron Shirt’s funeral.
On the hills that flowed away in all directions below them, the leaves of the trees shuddered and flashed like semaphores in the constant wind. The same wind snapped the hems of the blankets wrapped around the mourners. It set the long streamers tied to their ponies’ manes and tails flapping and fluttering as Wanderer led the People in a death dirge. His song was a wild, melancholy chant in a minor key that went on for an hour. Occasionally a woman’s voice rose in a shrill note of despair. Now that it was late, now that there would be no reconciliation with Iron Shirt in the present life, Wanderer regretted his stubbornness.
Naduah sat on her coyote dun with the black mane and tail and stockings. She wore rags in mourning, and she steadied the corpse of her father-in-law as it sat on Iron Shirt’s war pony. That morning, Naduah and Star Name had drawn up the old chief’s knees, breaking his legs to do it, and had bound them in place. Ignoring the fact that he was beginning to smell, they bathed him and painted his face red. Then they sealed his eyes with red clay from the river. They dressed him in the finest clothes they could find in the disorder of their two days’ flight.
After everyone had had a chance to look at him, they wrapped him in blankets and tied them in place. Then they brought him here, where he could look out over the land he loved. He rode in a sitting position on his pony, with Naduah and Star Name on each side to support the body. Thirteen-year-old Quanah carried his grandfather’s war lance and shield, his bow and quiver.
When Wanderer finished his song, he and Gathered Up, Sore-Backed Horse, and Deep Water lifted the blanket-shrouded corpse off the pony. They lowered it into a deep crevice near the face of the bluff. Wanderer climbed down into the cleft to carefully position his father’s body so that Iron Shirt faced west.
Naduah led the chief’s horse to the edge of the opening. Before he realized what was happening, she slit his throat. The air escaping from his lungs caused the blood to bubble. There was an ugly rasping sound as he gasped for breath and died. His blood ran in rivulets that were soaked up by the thirsty ground.
More men helped push the horse over the edge and wedge it in place next to Iron Shirt’s body. Everyone came forward and picked up large rocks from those scattered around. They threw them into the crevice until they reached ground level. Quanah raised his arms and his face to the sky. He closed his solemn gray eyes and chanted a prayer for his grandfather’s soul. But as he chanted, the tears welling up, he thought how lucky Iron Shirt was. He had died in battle. He was assured a place in paradise. Quanah sent another silent prayer to the Great Father behind the sun. He prayed that he would die fighting also. Naduah brought wild flowers to lay next to the weapons Quanah placed on the grave. Other women left offerings of food. Then they all mounted and rode back to camp.
It was July, and the plains were parched. Day after day the sun pulsed in the white-hot, cloudless sky. Dust devils spun madly across the hills, throwing out a wake of leaves and twigs and gravel as they passed. Sore-Backed Horse called them spirits of the dead. The camp dogs lay panting in the speckled shade of drooping mesquite bushes. The air smelled like dust and horse dung. The river was dry but for a few pools covered with scum. Naduah had to lay grass over the surface and suck water through it to strain out the flies and bugs that swarmed there. Tomorrow they would pack and move on in search of a better place with a spring.
The sides of the lodge were rolled up a foot or so, and the rolls propped in place with forked sticks. As evening fell, the mosquitoes tuned up for their nightly twilight concert. Naduah unrolled the lodge hem so she and her friends could sit inside where the smoke from their small fire would give them some relief from the insects. As she pulled out the last stick and the heavy roll of dusty leather fell flat, a large scorpion ran out from the folds and leaped onto her arm. She shook it off, and the hundreds of babies riding on their mother’s back scattered.
Naduah stamped on as many as she could. Then she went inside to resume her conversation with Star Name and Wears Out Moccasins. Star Name’s daughter, Turtle, was sewing her first pair of moccasins by the light of the fire. Quail was restless. She got up and went outside from time to time. Naduah knew she was standing out there staring longingly at Gathered Up’s lodge.
Weasel was with them too. Her husband had finally left Pahayuca’s band and had taken her with him. She was twenty-two now and still beautiful. But her face was drawn and sad. So many of her loved ones had died, and the others looked desperate these days. Weasel’s mother, Something Good, had pulled deeply into herself and rarely spoke to anyone.
Pahayuca had returned to the reservation on the Clear Fork of the Brazos. Weasel said he had been persuaded by his friend, Agent Neighbors. But still there was no peace. The Texans blamed the Penateka for every raid that occurred. They said Neighbors was coddling his Indians, giving them sanctuary after their bloody depredations. And sometimes the white men raided, stealing the People’s ponies. Or they stole from other white men and left Indian arrows and moccasin tracks.
The reservation was too small, but the Wasps were afraid to leave it to hunt. When they did they knew they might become the hunted, shot on sight by any Texan who took the notion. They were not allowed guns to hunt or defend themselves. And even if they had been, defense would have only brought retaliation.
“And our women,” said Weasel, “they sell themselves to the white men for wih-skee and bits of cloth. What will become of us, Sisters? How can I bring a child into the world as it is?”
“You must bear many children, Daughter,” said Wears Out Moccasins. “Our children are our only hope. Look at Naduah, swollen again. In three months she will bear a third child for her husband.”
“If I were you, Naduah,” said Star Name, “I’d ask Wanderer to marry another wife or two so you won’t have as much work to do. He can afford three or four wives if he wants them.” Deep Water was negotiating for a second wife, and Star Name was pleased. Another pair of hands would free h
er to go raiding with Deep Water again.
“Maybe Wanderer doesn’t love you, Naduah, or he would marry someone else to make your life easier,” teased Weasel.
Naduah didn’t bother answering that. She might doubt that the sun would rise, or that spring would follow winter, or that the buffalo would continue to roam in their millions, but she would never doubt that Wanderer loved her. It was harder being the only wife of a chief. There was a great deal of work to do. But it never occurred to either her or to Wanderer to change the pattern of their lives.
As she listened to the women talk, she wondered how Quanah would do in the months ahead. In Gathered Up’s lodge, thirty feet away, he was preparing for his vision quest. The older men were advising him. The tobacco smoke was thick there. Wanderer was speaking, telling of a man’s duties, his obligations toward his family, his band, his spirits, and himself.
“A man of the People does not grovel at the feet of his spirits the way other tribes do,” said Wanderer. “He doesn’t plead or say he is unworthy. Nor does he need stupid water or bull-nettle berries or wokowi, the cactus buttons, to help him see his vision. His dreams come to him unaided, through the strength of his own will. He purges his body to be clean and worthy. He opens his mind to receive the messages of the spirits. He rids himself of the distractions of the senses, of pain, and of hunger. He learns what it is to be absolutely free of the things of this world and to soar above them like an eagle. He reaches another plateau of being. He knows what it is to be one with creation.”
“When you return, Nephew,” said Sore-Backed Horse, “you will be a man. You will never look at life the same way again.”
“You can no longer act like a child,” added Deep Water. “You must be brave, wise, level-headed, loyal in friendship. You must be generous with others.”
“But most important,” continued Wanderer, “you must depend on yourself. In the end, you are the only one you can ever be truly sure of. Listen to everyone’s council, but abide by your own.”
No one discussed the possibility that Quanah wouldn’t have a vision. If the thought worried him, he didn’t let it show. He sat solemnly, with his medicine bag lying across his lap. Naduah had made it for him from the complete hide of a skunk, with the tail still hanging from it. Skunks were very powerful animals. They feared nothing. This one had walked boldly into their lodge one night two years ago. It had bitten seven-year-old Pecan’s finger. The child burrowed under the covers while the skunk pawed at them, trying to get to him. Quanah killed him, hacking his head off cleanly with his knife.
“Tell us how animals can help us, Quanah,” said his father.
Quanah recited what he had learned.
“The bear can cure wounds, it can bring me back to life. The eagle and the hawk have powerful war medicine. If I have wolf medicine I can walk barefoot in the snow the way they do. The coyote tells me the future.”
The talk went on long into the night, after the rest of the people in the village had banked their fires and crawled under their robes for the night. As with his ponies, Wanderer was determined that his son would have the best training he could give him.
It was late in the evening when Quanah returned three weeks later. He was changed. He rode slowly into camp, his face older, his bearing even more dignified and confident than when he had left on his vision quest. He dismounted and tethered Polecat while his mother and father stood waiting for him beside the lodge door. There was no need to ask if he had seen his vision. It was still on his face. Nor would either of them ask him to tell them about it. It was his experience and his alone.
“What should we call you now, my son?” asked Wanderer.
“Quanah. I am to keep the name my mother gave me.”
Naduah saw that now he had the distant stare of his father, as though he were looking into and beyond people rather than at them.
“Star Name and Quail, Wears Out Moccasins and Weasel and I have made a lodge for you, Quanah.”
“My heart is glad, Mother. I’ll bring them all presents when I go on my first raid as a brave.”
“Come inside and eat and rest.” Naduah thought he looked thinner than when he had left. Perhaps he had starved himself for more than the usual four days. He had been gone a long time.
“Father,” he said as he dipped into the kettle of meat, “the yellowlegs, the horse soldiers are back. I saw one of their patrols. I watched them in their camp. I wanted to steal one of their horses, but there were too many guards.” He said it casually, but Naduah’s heart jumped. She could imagine Quanah sneaking up to spy on a patrol of yellowlegs. And if their sentries had seen him…
It was so hard to let him go, to admit that he was no longer a child. It had been bad enough watching him leave camp to play with his friends, knowing the wild things boys did. But now the play would be deadly. The danger was multiplied many times. She wished, briefly, that she could halt time, prevent the change that must come. She wanted to keep him the wide-eyed rambunctious, loving child he had always been. The son she had cared for when he was sick, had fed and helped and listened to for hours, was suddenly a stranger.
She dismissed the thought. It was an unworthy one. Of course he would be a warrior. To be anything else was unthinkable. She smiled at him. And he grinned back at her, the old devilish, cocky grin she remembered. As though he understood what she was feeling, he leaped at her. He bowled her over onto the sleeping robes and tickled her. They tussled and laughed as they had when he was a child.
“Careful, gray eyes,” called Wanderer. “Your mother is in no condition for that.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” said Quanah, patting Naduah’s huge belly. “When is my sister due?”
“In the fall. In another two months,” she said. “So you want a sister, do you?”
“I suppose so. I already have a brother. I need a sister to wait on me and to help you.” Then he was serious again. “Father, when are we going on a raid? I have to count coup.”
“First we hunt. A buffalo can be a more dangerous adversary than a man. Now tell us about the yellowlegs. How many were there? What kinds of weapons did they have? Were there wagons with them? Where were they camped? Later you can report to the council about them.” Wanderer didn’t say so, but he was helping Quanah rehearse his first speech to the band’s council. He wanted to be sure the boy had all the information he would need and that he presented it well.
As Quanah spoke, telling in minute detail what he had seen, Wanderer knew he didn’t have to worry.
The cavalry bugle seemed to trigger the cramp that knotted Naduah’s abdomen. It was still dark, not quite dawn, and she strained to see as well as hear. As though somehow she could see through the lodge wall and the darkness beyond. Wanderer’s side of the sleeping robes was warm and empty. She could hear him collecting his weapons in the dark. The powder horn clanked against the metal rifle barrel. Naduah stifled a cry as the contraction gripped her. Wanderer didn’t need to know. He had enough to worry about.
“Quanah, come with me,” he shouted. “Pecan, bring the horses. Quail, help Naduah. Save what you can. Meet at the ford, ten miles upstream.” Then he ran out the door with Quanah at his heels. Outside there were screams and yells as the men ran to defend their families and the women packed what they could and made ready to flee. Naduah could hear distant gunfire.
When the pain subsided, she pulled herself heavily to her feet and staggered to the door. Under a lightening sky she could see forms running in all directions. Warriors raced on foot and on horseback toward the edge of camp. They would hold off the soldiers as long as possible, but there was very little time.
She pulled her dress over her head, tugging it over her stomach. She gathered her medicine bag and a sack of pemmican. She threw some blankets onto the pile, and her bow and arrows on top of that. As she straightened up, she ignored the memory of the pain that still lingered below her stomach and the burning ache in the small of her back.
Three of their travois stood leaning again
st the lodge wall. The Noconi moved so often they sometimes didn’t bother dismantling them. Quail and Naduah worked frantically, bumping into each other and tangling the lines in their haste. When Pecan arrived with the ponies, they lashed the travois to the packhorses.
“Pecan, where’s Night?” shouted Naduah. She could hear the guns and the men’s shouts coming closer. And it was becoming lighter all the time. Only a few minutes had passed, but it seemed as though she was trapped like an insect in the slow-flowing sap that creeps down the trunk of a pine tree.
“I brought the strongest horses,” said Pecan. “The ones we can use.”
“Go get Night.”
“He’s old.”
“Get Night.” Her voice rose, lapped at the edge of hysteria. She had to shout to be heard over the howling dogs and the children wailing for their mothers. The boy turned and sprinted back toward the pasture. Naduah ran inside and grabbed the round silver mirror from its peg. She threw the Spanish bridle over her arm. She had treasured it for fifteen years, and she would lose her life before she lost it. She stuffed them into the blankets covering the packs.
She felt the pain start again, and doubled over with it. She leaned against the travois poles, her bow and arrows clutched in her hand.
“Quail, the baby is coming. I’ll have to ride the third travois. Herd the ponies.” No, please, she whispered. Not now.
Fifty feet away. Star Name, shrouded in her blanket, was tying a few bags onto her pony’s surcingle. A figure in a battered slouch hat ran crouching from the shadows behind her lodge.
“Star Name, run!”
Star Name whirled around, and McKenna fired. One of the lodges had been set ablaze, and through the smoke and dust Naduah saw Star Name fall. She had her own arrow nocked and drawn and into McKenna before he could load and pull the trigger again. He fell forward with a surprised look on his face. The weight of his body drove the arrow the rest of the way into his chest and out his back.
Robson, Lucia St. Clair Page 66
