Bill Dugan_War Chiefs 04

by Quanah Parker

  “How did you know … I never … but, I am not ready to be married. There is …”

  “There is nothing left for you to accomplish that you cannot accomplish with a wife. And if you have a family, I think maybe you will even live longer. As a friend, that is something that is important to me. You know how the hot-blooded young men are. They are so busy trying to impress one another that they don’t stop to think. They think war is a game.”

  “It is a game.”

  “No. Nothing which leads to death is a game. Life is too important for that. You are a great warrior. Everyone knows that. There is nothing left for you to prove. I think maybe it is time that you paid more attention to how long you live and less to how close you can come to dying.”

  “I don’t know. I …” He stopped again and tilted his head, looking at his friend out of the corner of his eye. “She is pretty, isn’t she? She is a good woman. But she is a little older than … “

  “Not so old. Only twenty-two or twenty-three winters. Younger than you are. It would be a good match. You know that, and so does everyone else in the village.”

  “Do you think that she knows it, too?”

  “Yes, I think she knows it. But if it will make you feel better, I will ask her.”

  “You can’t just come right out and ask her something like that.”

  “Why not?”

  “What if she says no?”

  “Will that hurt your pride so much? Besides, who will know? Only you and me and Black Feather. I will tell no one, and neither will she. So, if anyone learns about it, it will be because you pull a long face and mope around. But I don’t think she will say no.”

  “Maybe you could … “

  “What?”

  “What about the marriage gifts? She has nothing. How will it look?”

  “I will take care of that. Since I will speak for her, I will take that responsibility. It is the custom, and you know that. You are just looking for excuses. The great Black Snake, who eats Apache for his morning meal then cuts the heart out of a Pawnee for his evening meal is afraid of a woman, a white woman at that. Now that I will not keep to myself, and you will have no one to blame. “

  “Sometimes,” Black Snake said, laughing in spite of himself, “I wish I were chief, so I could make you do things that make your skin hot and the women laugh at you behind your back.”

  “No, my friend, you would not really want to be chief. Not if you knew the things I have to worry about. Arranging a marriage for a friend is an easy thing. But it might be the only easy thing.”

  Suddenly, both men were aware of the jubilant chaos around them, and the press of women and children on all sides. Nocona knew that meant that the thing was settled and that they were free to think about other things.

  “I will ask her about keeping the boy right now. I will speak about the other thing later.”

  “When?” Black Snake sounded eager, in spite of himself.

  “Tonight. Unless you want me to do it now.”

  “No!” The answer came so quickly, Black Snake was embarrassed. Nocona smiled, but didn’t make the obvious observation that his friend was more terrified of the woman than of any foe.

  “Come with me,” Nocona said.

  Black Snake shook his head. “No, I think it …”

  “He is your captive. You should be there when I talk to her.”

  “You won’t mention the other thing?”

  Nocona smiled. “No. I won’t mention the other thing. I promise.”

  He glanced down then, as if aware for the first time that he held a small white hand in his own. He saw the girl looking up at him, her face apprehensive but composed. It was, he thought, as if she knew what we were talking about, knew that it concerned her and the boy. Then, as if something had been settled permanently in his mind, he tugged on the hand and started toward Black Feather’s lodge, pushing through the crowd and turning back to see Black Snake hoist the small boy onto his shoulders and start after him.

  Black Snake was smiling, and Nocona thought he knew why. When he reached the lodge where Black Feather lived by herself, he announced himself, and heard her invite him in. He ducked through, pulling the suddenly reluctant girl in after him. He waited for Black Snake to come inside before he spoke.

  Black Feather was sitting by the fire pit, but there was no fire in the oppressive heat. She had the sides rolled to let in light and to try to find some relief from the sweltering air. She looked at Nocona, then at Black Snake and only then did she permit herself to glance at the children.

  Nocona thought it was because she was afraid of what she would see. She averted her eyes quickly, and he started to speak, but then saw the silver glistening on her cheeks, and he stopped.

  She swallowed hard before asking, “What do you want?”

  Nocona indicated the boy with a nod of his head.

  “What about him?”

  “I think it would be a good idea if he stayed with you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you need someone to help you. And he needs someone to help him.”

  “That is what a family is for,” she snapped. “He probably has a family. Why don’t you take him to them?”

  Nocona cleared his throat, embarrassed at the impeccable logic of her question, and more than a little intimidated by the anger straining to break through her clipped speech.

  Black Snake started to say something, but Nocona held up a hand. “Maybe you should leave us alone for a while,” he said. “Take the children outside.”

  When Black Snake was gone, Black Feather stood up and turned her back, as if she were afraid to say what she had to say while facing Nocona. “A long time ago, I was taken from my family. Now you come here with other children, taken just as I was taken, and you think that makes it all right, because I will understand what they are going through. And you would be right. I would understand. What I don’t understand is why they have to go through it. Why didn’t you just kill them?”

  “Has it been that terrible for you?”

  She whirled around, then. “What do you think? How do you think it’s been? You knew your parents. You sat in your mother’s lap. You learned to hunt with your father.”

  “I saw them grow old and die.”

  “Is that why you did this? To spare them the pain of watching the people they love and who love them grow old and die? Then why don’t we give away all our children, let someone else heal their wounds and quiet their fears? Maybe we shouldn’t have children at all. Maybe it would be better if …”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “Don’t I?”

  “No. But you are right, and I am sorry. I just thought that …”

  “You thought that I would take the children because I have none of my own. That they would be my family because I have none, and I would be their family because you saw to it that they have none.”

  “No! I brought the boy to you because I thought you were one of us. It is what we do. I thought it would be what you would do, because you are one of us.”

  “You’re right. I am one of you. But not by choice.”

  Nocona smiled. “I am not a Comanche by choice, either. But I am a Comanche. And so are you.” He turned then. “I am sorry. I will … “

  “No, wait … I … of course I’ll take care of the boy. I just … “

  “I understand,” he said. “I had a family of my own, once. But no more. … “

  “Bring in the boy,” Black Feather said. She turned to look at him, saw that his back was turned, and walked over to rest a hand on his shoulder. “There are enough orphans,” she said.

  Chapter 10

  GRANDMOTHER WALKS ON WIND was appalled at the condition of the child. She grabbed Cynthia around the waist and started peeling off the mud and sweat-soaked clothing as she carried her toward the river. By the time the old woman reached the sandy bank, Cynthia was naked, squirming like a fish, her arms and legs flailing in every direction. As Walks on Wind held her
out over the water, she thought for one terrified moment that the woman meant to drown her. It seemed unfair to be taken all this way just to have it end so cruelly and suddenly.

  But that wasn’t what the old woman had in mind. Letting Cynthia down rump first into the water, she kicked off her moccasins and waded in after the girl. Grabbing her by one arm, as if to reprimand her, she collapsed into a sitting position and started scooping water with one hand. Gently, trying to avoid contact with the worst of the cuts, she washed away most of the dirt, then moved into deeper water.

  The river felt cool, its water taking some of the sting from her body and making the deepest of the scratches sting even more. The old woman’s hands were rough, but not unkind. Her no-nonsense approach quelled whatever impulse Cynthia might have had to resist, and when the woman crooked a finger at her and nodded her head downstream, Cynthia followed.

  Leaving the girl in water to her chest, Walks on Wind moved toward the shallows, bent over as if looking for something lost in the current. Finally, spotting what she sought, she moved to the shore, her arms pumping, doing something Cynthia couldn’t see. When Walks on Wind turned around, she had both hands full of some sort of plant. She was already crushing the leaves and stems as she started back to where Cynthia stood shivering as much from the cool water as from fright. She started to smear the pulpy green mass over the child’s head and face. The smell was pleasant, and as the woman’s hands worked, a thin lather started to appear, trickling down over Cynthia’s forehead and into her eyes. It didn’t sting like her mother’s soap, but she knew it was meant to cleanse her matted hair.

  Forced under for a moment, she came up spluttering. Picking her up under the arms, Walks on Wind hoisted her overhead until only her toes were tickled by the current. Turning her this way and that, the old woman made sure her new charge was clean, then grunted, let her down and held out a hand. Not knowing what else to do, Cynthia took the offered hand, letting her fingers rest in the callused palm.

  Walks on Wind turned then and started toward the riverbank, tugging the girl in her wake. Cynthia felt embarrassed, naked in front of a thousand pairs of savage eyes, but Walks on Wind didn’t seem to notice. When they reached the shore, she picked up the girl, rested the weight on one hip, and started back to her tipi.

  Once inside, Walks on Wind turned her attention to the scratches and cuts. She rummaged in a basket in one corner, found what she was looking for with some difficulty, then moved close to the small fire at the center of the tipi and patted her lap as she sat down. Cynthia understood and walked close, enjoying the feel of the soft buffalo robe beneath her bare feet. Some sort of greasy ointment was applied to her cuts, and Walks on Wind, whose eyes were not the best, kept leaning forward, gesturing for the girl to turn so that she could scrutinize every square inch of ravaged skin.

  Satisfied that she had missed nothing significant, the old woman then moved into the dim light at the edge of the tipi once more, returning with what appeared to be a ball of skin. Only when she shook it out was it revealed as a buckskin dress. She held it up, shook it again, then brought it close to Cynthia. The firelight played on an elaborate beadwork design on the front as the old woman moved it this way and that.

  Then, handing it to the girl, Walks on Wind mimed donning the dress. Grateful for a chance to cover herself, Cynthia wasted no time slipping the soft leather over her damp hair and tugging it down. It was too large, but that was no wonder. Walks on Wind measured the fit with a long-practiced eye, then pinched the dress here and there, suddenly a seamstress.

  Once more, she moved away, this time returning quickly, a pair of moccasins in her hand. They, too, were too large, but close enough to a proper fit that they would stay on her feet as long as she didn’t move too quickly. Then it was time for her hair. Even wet as it was, it was much lighter than the old woman’s hair, which was thick and black, and hung over her shoulders in a thick cloak, decorated with beaded bands.

  Using her fingers to get out the tangles, Walks on Wind worked swiftly and expertly, then took a bone comb and raked the long tresses into a thick cape that hung down over Cynthia’s back. The fingers moving nimbly fashioned braids, then tied them off with pieces of buckskin. Finally, satisfied that her transformation had done as much as it could, Walks on Wind sat back, holding Cynthia at arm’s length and turning her once, then again to admire her handiwork.

  She reached into a basket and handed the girl a cheap mirror with a wooden back. It was old, its silver crazed and laced with a network of oxidized veins, but it was still good enough for the girl to see herself, clouded in the glass and, even if the mirror had been perfect, all but unrecognizable.

  But she smiled.

  The old woman grunted again, took the mirror and tucked it back into the basket, and stood up. Her ancient knees cracked in the silence, sounding like logs on a fire, and she was breathing heavily, as if the morning’s work had drained her. Holding up a finger for Cynthia to stay put, she went outside, and returned a few moments later with strips of dried buffalo meat, which she held out, smacking her lips, telling Cynthia she should eat. The girl took the offered food reluctantly, even though she was famished. Chewing greedily, she downed the meat, then bent to wipe her hands on the dirt near the fire, smacking them together to clean them.

  She could hear voices outside now, one deep and curt, the other, a woman, higher pitched and impatient. Then a shadow darkened the open entrance flap and a young woman entered. She said something to Walks on Wind, and then moved closer to the girl, circling her and the fire at the same time. She kept shaking her head, and Cynthia noticed that her cheeks were wet, as if she were crying.

  One brown hand moved up to wipe away the dampness, and she moved close to the girl with the suddenness of an attack, gathering her in her arms and nearly crushing the air from Cynthia’s lungs.

  She sat down then, still holding onto Cynthia’s hand. “Name … “

  It sounded odd, like the Stebbins boy, who wasn’t right in the head, and mumbled a pidgin English that was somewhere between human speech and animal grunting. It sounded almost as if the words were stuck in her throat, coated with thick phlegm and refused to come out.

  Again, the newcomer said, “Name …?” This time, it was apparent that it was a question, and Cynthia, her own lips trembling, said, “Cynthia Ann Parker. I want to go home….” Then, in spite of her resolve, she started to sob.

  The woman reached out to her, but Cynthia turned her back. She felt hands then, tugging at the hem of her buckskin dress, and the old woman moved in front of her, placed her hands on the child’s shoulders, and pushed, gently but firmly, until the newcomer’s lap caught her when she stumbled.

  She looked up then, and saw that the woman was crying once more, this time making no effort to wipe away the tears. “Black Feather,” she said, less tentatively, tapping herself on the breast. “Black Feather.” Then, one quivering finger reached out to touch Cynthia’s nose and the woman smiled as she said, “Cynthia Ann Parker.”

  Cynthia nodded. Black Feather pointed to the old woman and said, “Walks on Wind. … “

  “Walks on Wind?” Cynthia said.

  The younger woman nodded her head. “Name,” she said. “Walks on Wind. She is your mother, now.”

  “No, she’s not my mother. I want my mother, my real mother.” It was nearly a scream, the voice shrill, sharp, the words almost enough to slice the tipi walls to ribbons, but Black Feather held her tightly and said, “Walks on Wind is mother now.”

  Walks on Wind leaned over her and reached down. Cynthia took the old woman’s hand, and followed her out of the tipi, Black Feather right behind them. As soon as they were out in the open, children gathered around, the girls rushing in close, the boys, perhaps shy, hanging back a bit. A hum started then and soon Cynthia realized the whole village had gathered to see her. She felt almost proud and a little bit like a prized heifer as the old woman led her around, pointing things out rapid fire, and turning each time to Black Fea
ther, who had to rummage around in the misty attic of her English to find the right word or words, then giving Cynthia the Comanche equivalent.

  Walks on Wind was determined that Cynthia’s education would be rapid and comprehensive. The girl wondered that the old woman’s legs didn’t give out as she darted here and there, jabbing a crooked finger at a horse or a tipi or a bow or shield. Half the village, mostly women and children, trailed like a comet’s tail in the wake of the trio. The Comanche words were difficult for her, some of the sounds being totally alien to her. But she was quick-witted, and seemed to realize that if she were to get along, she would have to go along, until such time as a chance for escape presented itself.

  Occasionally her mind would wander, and she wondered whether John were in some other village, getting the same treatment. He would be terrified, so much younger than herself and with no one to turn to. She found herself being grateful for the presence of Black Feather, but started to wonder how the woman had come to speak English. The more curious she became, the closer she watched her interpreter, and it began to dawn on her, not only how she had come by the language, but why she had been crying—she was a captive, too, Cynthia thought. Just like me, she had been taken from her home and forced to learn the Comanche ways, the Comanche language and, with her skin sun-bronzed and her dark hair, seemed almost to have become a Comanche herself.

  And now the reality of her future began to gather in her mind, a storm cloud far off on the horizon, blackening, thickening, growing more and more turbulent as if rushed unopposed into the center of her consciousness. Black Feather had been here a long time, years, maybe even most of her life. And if that were true of Black Feather, it would likely be true of Cynthia herself. She began to cry then, letting the water seep from the corners of her eyes, but soundlessly, trying not to call attention either to her tears or to herself.