“What happened next, Grandpa?”
“The young man left the mountain and returned to the valley below. When he returned, he discovered that all the animals had been struck dumb as their punishment for mocking Comanche. The animals could no longer speak to him. They couldn’t even speak to each other, and every animal had to go for all time after that unable even to speak to their own kind.”
“Is that why men can speak to each other, but animals cannot speak?”
“Yes,” Stone Eagle said. “For it was intended for man to rule over the animals.”
“And what happened to Comanche after that?” another child asked.
“Comanche took a wife and had many children, and the children took wives and had many children and those children took wives and had many children. I am the child of one of those children, just as you are the children of my children. And that is why we are known as Comanche.”
After Stone Eagle finished his story, there were others who told stories as well. If the story was to be a story of bravery in battle, the one who spoke would walk over to the lodge pole and strike it with his coup stick. Then everyone would know that he was going to tell a story of an enemy killed in battle. Such stories were only told by the older men of the tribe, for it had been a long time since the Comanche had been in battle and none of the younger men could make such boasts. In such stories, the enemy warriors were always brave and skilled, because that made the warrior’s own exploits all the greater.
Not all the stories were of enemies killed in battle. Some of the stories were of hunting exploits, and these stories could be told by the younger men. Some stories were even of things that had happened in the time of their father’s father’s father, which had been handed down through the generations to be preserved as a part of their history.
* * *
One of the men who had listened intently to all the stories was Quinntanna. Quinntanna was the nephew of Stone Eagle, though, as Quinntanna’s father had died many years ago, Stone Eagle was more a father than an uncle.
Quinntanna, a handsome man with a broad chest, powerful arms, strong legs, had listened to all the stories because he hoped to find—in one of them—the answer to a troubling and recurring dream.
In the dream, Quinntanna had seen many people walking through a pall of smoke. The people were weeping, but they were not weeping because smoke was in their eyes. They were weeping from sadness. Quinntanna asked why they were sad, but he always awoke before anyone could answer him.
At first, Quinntanna was disappointed because he did not find the answer in any of the stories. Then, as he thought about it, he realized that perhaps he had. The story of Comanche was the story of the origin of the use of peyote buttons.
Only once before had Quinntanna used the peyote. Perhaps if he used it now, he would understand the meaning of this strange and disturbing dream. That night, before he went to sleep, Quinntanna mentioned his dream, and what he had decided to do about it, to his wife, Sasheena.
“Does that mean you will not go with the hunters then?” Sasheena asked as she nursed their baby.
“Ho!” Quinntanna laughed. “Do you think I would stay here, only to listen to the stories the others will tell when they return? Were I to do that, Teykano would have me believe that he took every animal with his bare hands. No, I will make the hunt, then when I return, I will seek the knowledge of the peyote.”
“I will sleep cold until you return, my husband,” Sasheena said.
Quinntanna, who was already lying in the bed of blankets and robes, turned back the top blanket for her. “That is true,” he said, smiling at her. “But you will not sleep cold tonight.”
Putting the baby in its own bed, Sasheena removed her dress, then slipped naked into the bed alongside her husband.
14
Smoke Jensen stopped at the edge of a grassy meadow where he saw hoofprints. Then, seeing some elk droppings, he squatted to get a closer look at them. The droppings were soft, which meant they had been made less than an hour ago. That meant that the elk was close by, more than likely in the clump of trees just ahead.
Smoke knew that the elk would think himself safe in the woods, but those same trees would also allow Smoke to get closer without being seen, provided he made no noise as he approached. For most men that would be difficult or impossible, but Smoke had learned from the old mountain man, Preacher, how to choose his steps so carefully that he could walk on a carpet of fallen leaves without being heard. He knew too to stay downwind of his prey.
A small bush, its limbs bare but for a few brown leaves, rattled dryly in the wind. The bush stood just on the edge of the open meadow, the last piece of vegetation between the woods and a small, swiftly running stream. Smoke was certain that when the elk left the woods for water, it would come this way. Smoke crouched behind a rock and waited.
He had been there for about thirty minutes when he saw a bull elk’s head stick out from between a couple of trees. The animal stood perfectly still for a long time, its eyes sweeping over the open meadow, its nose twitching, its ears cocked. The elk was not about to commit itself until it had examined every possible danger.
Moving as slowly and quietly as he could, Smoke raised his rifle to his shoulder and took aim.
The elk started out into the open. It moved slowly and cautiously down to the edge of the stream, then stopped. The elk’s head popped up, its rack held high. It stared for a long moment, remaining perfectly still as it did so. Smoke held his breath.
The creature’s eyes twitched, and Smoke wondered what sound it had heard, for he had made no noise at all. The elk listened, then decided that whatever it had heard represented no danger. It stuck its head down into the stream and began to drink.
Smoke sighted down the barrel of his rifle, finding a target just above and behind the elk’s left foreleg. He tightened the finger on the trigger.
At almost the precise moment he squeezed off his shot, he thought he saw something flying out of the trees toward the elk. But the white puff of smoke that billowed from the end of the rifle barrel so obscured his vision that he decided what he had seen was nothing more than a trick of light, or a moving shadow.
The boom of his shot echoed back from the trees just as the elk fell to its front knees. It got back up and tried to run, but could go no more than a few steps before it fell again.
Smoke got up and ran across the open field toward the still-twitching elk. When he reached the animal, he stopped cold and stared at it in surprise. It was lying on its left side with its legs stretched straight out in front. Sticking up from just behind the right foreleg was an arrow.
“It is my kill!” a voice shouted.
When Smoke looked toward the sound of the voice, he saw an Indian coming toward him from the edge of the woods. He was tall for an Indian, and he was wearing traditional Indian dress.
“My elk,” the Indian said again, pointing to the fallen animal.
“No,” Smoke said. “It was my shot that killed it.”
“My arrow,” the Indian insisted, pointing to the shaft sticking up from the flesh of the animal.
Smoke turned the animal over, then pointed to the bullet hole. “My bullet,” he said. They were quiet for a moment. Then Smoke offered the Indian his hand. “I am Smoke Jensen.”
“You are Smoke Jensen?”
“Yes.”
“I have heard of you.” The Indian stuck out his hand. “I am Quinntanna.”
Smoke smiled. “I have heard of you, Quinntanna. By the way, there is a way to settle this, if you are interested.”
“Yes, I am interested. What is the way you would settle this?”
“Well, I’m looking for meat, and I reckon you are too. And the way I look at it, half an elk is better than no elk at all. We could cut the animal in half.”
“I want the front half,” Quinntanna said. “And I want the heart.”
Smoke chuckled. “All right, you can have the front half.”
“I will cut
the elk in two pieces,” Quinntanna offered, dropping to one knee beside the slain animal. He took out his knife and began cutting.
“Why are you hunting with a bow and arrow?”
“We wanted to make this hunt in the way of our fathers and their fathers,” Quinntanna answered.
“If you went on the warpath now, would you go on the warpath in the way of your fathers?” Smoke asked.
Quinntanna looked up at Smoke and laughed. “Warpath? Why would we go on the warpath now? The days of war are over.”
“For you perhaps, but not for everyone,” Smoke said.
“Yes, I have heard of the Sioux and their Ghost Dancers and medicine shirts. They think they can bring back the buffalo, but I know they cannot.”
“No, I’m not talking about the Sioux,” Smoke said. “I am talking about the Comanche.”
Quinntanna snorted. “It is not true. There are no Comanche on the warpath.”
“Perhaps some who are renegades?” Smoke suggested. “Evil young men who have left your village?”
Quinntanna shook his head. “I know where every young man from my village is. Why do you ask this?”
“Because recently, some Indians attacked a ranch. They killed everyone on the ranch—the rancher’s wife, his children, and those who worked for him. Then they burned the barn and the outbuildings.”
“And people think we did it?” Quinntanna asked.
“The arrows did have Comanche markings.”
“I do not understand this,” Quinntanna said. “It is not good that a white man’s ranch was attacked. And it is not good that people think Comanche attacked the ranch.”
“So you are telling me that you know nothing about this?”
“I know nothing,” Quinntanna repeated.
“I didn’t think you did,” Smoke said. “Truth to tell, I’ve thought all along it might be someone else, Comancheros perhaps, who wanted to make it look like Indians attacked.”
“Yes, that would be smart,” Quinntanna said. “They could take what they wanted from the ranch, but people would think it was the Indians.”
“No,” Smoke said.
“No?”
“That is the strange part. The people who did this took nothing. They only killed and burned.”
Quinntanna shook his head. “Such people I do not understand,” he said. By now the elk was in two parts, and Quinntanna stuck the knife into the open cavity of the front half. He carved for a moment, then pulled out the elk’s heart. “Make a fire,” he said. “We will eat the heart together.”
Smoke smiled. “Good idea,” he said. “I was getting a little hungry anyway.”
While Smoke made a fire, Quinntanna found two forked sticks. Then he peeled the bark of a third stick and used that as a skewer for the heart. With the flames dancing, Quinntanna placed the skewer across the forked sticks so that the heart was in the fire. Within a few moments the juices, dripping into the fire from the roasting heart, snapped and popped and perfumed the air with their aroma.
Smoke and Quinntanna talked of inconsequential things until finally, Quinntanna stood up and carved off a piece of the meat. It was too hot to hold in one hand, so he passed it back and forth between his hands as he gave it over to Smoke. Laughing, Smoke also passed it back and forth between his hands for a moment until he could hold it.
“Here, I have some salt,” Smoke said, taking a little paper envelope from his pocket. He gave a pinch to Quinntanna, then salted his own meat before he took a bite. He smiled as the juices filled his mouth and ran down his chin.
“It is good,” Quinntanna said.
“Yes,” Smoke agreed.
“To eat the heart of the animal you kill is a good thing,” Quintanna explained. He took a big bite and began chewing. “If it is a male animal, you will have his strength, and”—Quinntanna rubbed himself and smiled, then added—“that which makes him a male.”
“Oh,” Smoke said. “What if it is a female?”
Quinntanna laughed out loud. “Do not worry,” he said. “From the female we get courage and cunning. And that which makes us male is not harmed.”
“I’m glad of that,” Smoke said with a laugh. “For I have eaten many female elk and deer.”
The two men finished eating the heart. Afterward, they held their hands up to each other in the sign of peace; then each took his half of the elk and went his own way.
* * *
“Would you mind tellin’ me how you managed to kill half an elk?” Tom asked with a chuckle when Smoke rode back into their camp carrying the elk’s haunch. “And the back half at that?”
Smoke told Tom and Pearlie of his encounter with Quinntanna.
“You sound more than ever convinced that they didn’t have anything to do with the raid on Tom’s ranch,” Pearlie said.
“Practically the whole tribe is out on some sort of ritual hunt,” Smoke said. “They don’t even have any weapons with them, except for bows and arrows. If they were the ones who had attacked the ranch, they sure wouldn’t be wandering around without guns.”
“I think Smoke’s right,” Tom said.
“I almost wish I wasn’t right,” Smoke declared.
“Why’s that?”
“Because if we were after Indians, we would at least have some idea of what we are up against. Now, we don’t know. The only thing we know about whoever did this is that they are pure evil.”
* * *
Camp Covington, as Covington called it, was located just outside Big Rock. There, in a wide meadow, tents were pitched and a military camp was born. Covington had insisted that all those who signed up leave their homes, ranches, and hotel rooms in order to come together as a military unit.
Covington had absolutely no military experience, so he knew nothing about drilling. However, Marcus Dingo, who Covington had appointed as his first sergeant, did know drilling, and he spent a couple of days “whipping the troops into shape.”
This was particularly rewarding for Dingo. Dingo was the kind of man who had a difficult time hanging onto a job. As a result, he was often unemployed, which meant that sometimes he had to accept the most self-demeaning of tasks just to keep body and soul together. When he was sweeping the barroom floor, or emptying the spittoons, it was easy for the others to make fun of him. Now the situation was changed. As first sergeant of Covington’s Company, Dingo was someone who could, and did, demand and receive respect from the same men who used to tease him.
For three days Dingo drilled the men, taking special delight in making life difficult for those who, but a week earlier, had regarded him as their inferior. Throughout the three days, there was a great deal of talk and complaining from the men, who insisted they had not joined the company to drill, they had joined to fight. Covington kept them in line by quoting an old military adage: “Ten men wisely led are worth a hundred without a head.”
“What that means,” he explained, “is that without discipline and structure, we are nothing. But with discipline, structure, and tactics, combined with a willingness to follow orders, we will fight the Indians and we will beat them.”
Finally, Covington called his troops together in order to give them word that on the next day, they would go after the Indians.
* * *
Breakfast the next morning was coffee, bacon, and biscuits. After breakfast, the order was given to strike tents, followed by Boots and Saddles. The latter called for them to saddle their mounts. Then, the order was given “To horse!” This put every soldier standing at the head of his horse. Finally, they were ordered to mount, then to move out.
* * *
The march continued on through the day. Because they were a newly activated unit, poorly led and with no economy of motion, the march was difficult and tiring. For twenty minutes of every hour the men dismounted and led their horses for ten minutes, then let them rest for ten minutes.
For miles upon miles, Covington’s Cavalry moved toward the Purgatory River, on which was located the Indian village that Covingt
on was convinced was responsible for the raid on the Burke ranch. Finally, just before nightfall, a stream of water was found and Covington gave the order that this would be their bivouac. A handful of hardtack crackers supplemented the coffee and served as their supper.
While the men were eating, Covington sent Dingo ahead on a little scouting expedition. Dingo returned less than an hour later with word that he had located the village.
“Good,” Covington said with a broad smile. “We will attack it tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Dingo replied.
“Yes. We’ll hit them just before dawn,” Covington said. “I want to catch the heathen redskins before they get out of bed.”
* * *
“Get up,” Dingo said, shaking the shoulder of one of the men.
“Get up? What fer? Hell, it’s two or three hours ’till dawn.”
“We want an early start,” Dingo said. “Wake up the others in your platoon.”
One by one the orders passed through the command, rousting everyone from their bedrolls. Then, in the darkness, they saddled their horses and made them ready to go. They did it quietly, for from the point of their bivouac to the Indian village itself was no more than two miles, and any unnatural noise could give them away.
Finally, when the bivouac was struck and all the men were mounted, Covington ordered the men forward.
15
Even though all its young men were gone, leaving the village virtually defenseless, the people of the village were enjoying the peaceful sleep of the innocent. They were completely unaware that less than two hundred yards from the village’s outer ring, in the lower reaches of a great pine forest, shadows were emerging from the darkness, and that these shadows represented danger to them.
The emerging shadows were the men of Covington’s Militia, and they began to take up their positions around the village in accordance with Colonel Covington’s instructions. Their horses moved silently, with only their movement and the vapor of their breathing giving any indication of life.
It was cold in the predawn darkness, and Colonel Covington and his staff officers moved to the crest of a small hill to stare down at the Comanche village. All the teepees appeared to be tightly shut against the cold, and no one was moving anywhere. Wisps of smoke curled up through the smoke vents in the top of all the tepees, and the smell of wood smoke mixed with the aroma of last night’s cooking, clear indications of habitation.
Warpath of the Mountain Man Page 33
