“Would you mind if I look at it?” Son reached out for the knife, and Odell noticed that a couple of the other men were looking on with equal interest.
Odell passed the knife across the fire to the plainsman. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt a jealous pang at seeing the knife in someone else’s hands. There was something about the knife that that he liked, something special.
“Where’d you say you found this?” Son turned the knife in his hands and studied it as if it were the intricate workings of a watch.
“I found it at the foot of a runt oak in a thicket,” Odell said.
Son turned to look at Hatchet Murphy who had ceased sharpening his hatchet with an Arkansas stone to stare at the knife. “Murph, it couldn’t be, could it?”
Hatchet Murphy took the knife for a while, and then passed it on to the man beside him. “I was in San Antonio when Colonel Jim came back from these parts. He said he’d lost his knife and thought maybe he’d left it lying on the ground at one of their camps.”
Odell didn’t have a clue what they were talking about. It was just a big blade the length of his forearm with a wide brass hilt. The handle was so brittle and dry-cracked when he found it that it broke when he accidentally dropped it. He had taken a wet strip of rawhide and wound it around the broken grip to hold it in place.
“There’s no way that’s the knife,” Manuel Ortega said in his strongly accented English. “I always heard the handle was mounted with silver.”
“To hell it ain’t,” Hatchet Murphy said. “I rode with Colonel Jim, and I’ve seen that knife many a time. He had a fancy one that he wore when he wanted to show off at some fiesta, but his original knife was as plain as a spinster’s dress.”
Son Ballard pointed to the knife in the little Mexican’s slender hands. “Feel that balance. There hasn’t been another one made to match its like since.”
Odell held out his hand for the knife, and when he got it back, he hefted it in his palm. Now that he thought about it, the knife did have a wonderful feel for being so big, like it was a natural extension of his arm. “What are y’all talking about?”
“I’ll trade you a pound of powder and a half bar of lead for that rusty blade,” Son said.
Odell needed makings for his rifle, and he hated to have to arm himself by the charity of strangers. He studied the big knife but couldn’t bring himself to part with it, no matter how badly he would be beating the older man in such a trade. “Why would you give so much for this old Bowie?”
“That isn’t just any Bowie. That’s the Bowie,” Son said.
It was slowly dawning on Odell just what Son meant. He thought for a minute and then shoved the knife protectively back in the sheath he had made for it. “Do you mean to tell me . . . ?”
“That’s what I mean. That knife isn’t any old cheap, Sheffield-made Bowie,” Son said. “That was Jim Bowie’s original sticker.”
Odell had been in Texas more than long enough to hear all about Jim Bowie, the famous knife fighter, and one of the martyred heroes of the Alamo. Even the folks back in Georgia were telling stories of Bowie and his brothers when Odell was just a boy.
“When Murph saw Colonel Jim in San Antonio, he and his brother Rezin Bowie were just back from hunting the San Saba Mines. They never found the silver they were looking for, and all they got for their troubles was a big fight with about a hundred Tehuacana and Waco Injuns,” Son said.
“That fight took place somewhere right close to this old fort,” Hatchet Murphy threw in. “And Colonel Jim’s boys took cover in a thicket.”
“Bowie’s name is carved into the rock wall of that gate.” Manuel Ortega pointed into the dark in the direction of the arched gateway leading into the ruins of the presidio.
“I reckon I’ll have to keep it,” Odell said to Son, “but thanks for the offer.”
Son nodded as if he was almost pleased with Odell’s decision. “I don’t blame you.”
“They say the steel in that knife is as hard as a whore’s heart and tempered in hellfire by the greatest blacksmith that ever lived.” Hatchet Murphy pitched his whetstone to Odell. “Such a weapon dull is sacrilege, so you sharpen that old gut knife up until it has an edge as fine as a frog’s hair.”
Odell pulled the knife back out and began to try and put an edge back on it. It was too long to pass across the stone without cutting his hand, so he worked the stone along the blade like he had seen the Prussian do when sharpening his sword. The swish of the softer stone passing along such hard steel was sweet, and he understood why the Prussian enjoyed the sound so much.
“That cutter has taken the life of some pretty brave men. Do you think you’re as tough as Jim Bowie was?” Dub Harris didn’t try to hide his jealousy. He had a bully’s eyes and fists the size of feet, with every knuckle scarred or knocked down.
“I can’t ride alligators or kill ten Mexican soldiers from my death bed, but I aim to keep this knife just the same.” Odell put the knife away again.
“With a knife like that the kid might be a match for the Prussian and his sword,” Son said.
“Well, he has the gun for it too.” Hatchet Murphy cackled like a setting hen. “That cannon must weigh twenty pounds or more.”
Odell picked up his rifle proudly. “My pappy traded a Pennsylvania Dutchman out of this gun on his way to Texas. That fellow had it custom built to fight Injuns and shoot the buffalos he’d heard about in Texas, but he took sick coming down the Mississippi before he even made it past Natchez.”
“I don’t care if it does have two shots, I’d hate to carry it.” Dub Harris sounded like he still wouldn’t mind picking a fight with Odell.
“It ain’t too heavy for me.” Odell met the brawler’s stare and unconsciously puffed his broad chest out against his buckskin shirt. “I’d say it’s just about right for a man with some size to him.”
Dub Harris was a big man in a little package. He was as wide as he was long, and liked nothing more than whipping men noticeably taller than he was. He clenched his big fists and jutted forward his bulldog jaw.
Son Ballard knew what a troublemaker Dub could be and moved quickly to change the subject. “With that monster gun and Bowie’s knife, old Major Karl out yonder had better keep a sharp eye on this kid.”
Odell had heard enough talk of trouble between him and the Prussian, and he rose and stalked away. He didn’t know why the men were trying to get his goat, but he wasn’t going to let them have any more fun at his expense. He threaded his way through the mix of men gathered around several fires and made his way near the river. The cool night air helped to steady him. He walked and mulled over everything he had come to learn.
He couldn’t believe that Red Wing would marry another after what he thought she had hinted at when he last saw her. Perhaps he was a fool to have read too much into what she had said and what he felt from her. Bitterly, he had to admit that the Prussian had far more to offer as a husband. The man had money and was building a plantation that showed promise. Odell could think of nothing he had to give Red Wing.
The thought of losing her to either the Comanches or the Prussian was almost as hard a lick to take as the death of his pappy. Even if she was to marry the Prussian, Odell couldn’t abandon her. He didn’t care if she was really Comanche, Mexican, or black as a well digger’s ass. She was his closest friend and the most beautiful thing he held dear, and he would see to it that she was freed or die trying.
He wandered to where the horses were corralled within the broken walls of the old fort. He petted Crow some while he talked to him about what he had learned and what it was he had to do. The horse didn’t answer, but Odell knew that all those men back there had nothing to ride that would keep up with Red Wing’s good black gelding. The Prussian might intend to fight Comanches and risk losing Red Wing, but Odell had different plans. Given the chance, he would steal her away from the Peace Commission
and the Prussian and his men could play hell catching him on Crow.
His bedding was within the round stone tower at the northwest corner of the presidio, and he wound his way through the rubble toward an arched doorway. A shadow rose out of the night and Odell almost brought his rifle up.
Placido’s voice sounded out of the darkness. “Don’t let those men bother you. They are warriors, and when there is no fighting such men must talk of fighting.”
It bothered Odell that the Tonk had snuck up on him. “They seem like they want to make trouble.”
“No, they just want what the world wants—to know if you are brave. Those men want to know if you bleed well, if you are a warrior.”
“I don’t have anything to prove.”
“Ah, but you do. When we meet the Comanche, you will have to prove to them that you are willing to die to kill them. When you suffer on the trail, you will have to prove that you can last. Cuts Deep wants the woman, and you will have to prove that you are more worthy than him.”
“Come trouble, I’ll be ready to scrap with whoever I have to.”
Placido shifted in the night and his moccasins scratched on stone. “The priests once built a mission near here to teach the Apache about their god who hangs on a cross. They were fools and thought the Apache wanted this. What the Apache wanted was someone to fight the Comanche. Soldiers had to come to protect the priests and they built this rock fort in the time of my grandfather.”
“Mexicans?”
“No, Spaniards in steel hats with slow-shooting guns and long lances like the Comanche. They were warriors who thought they had nothing to prove to the world, but then the Comanche and many more tribes came to give them battle. The Spaniards died and there is nothing left of their fort but these walls.”
“I’ve fought the Comanche and ridden their country alone.”
“Good. The Comanche are proud like the Spaniards were, and the only thing they understand is death. We will have a heap big fight soon, and the world can see how brave we are.”
The Tonk disappeared as quietly and quickly as he had appeared. Odell tried to follow the warrior’s movement or detect a hint of sound, but he couldn’t. He went inside the tower and lay down with his rifle clutched to his chest. He fell asleep thinking of the strange chief’s words and wondered if he could bleed well enough to save the woman he loved.
Chapter 17
Little Bull rode his horse to the top of the little mountain where he could look down on the Comanche camp below. Gray light was just showing where the sandy swath of the riverbed disappeared into the eastern sky. He sat in contented silence and studied the immense country that surrounded him until the pewter world was set afire by the slow climb of the morning sun. There was a brief sense of peace and perfection at the beginning of the day that he could never seem to keep within him. Many of the Kotsoteka warriors believed in personal medicines and spirits to guide them and give them power, but he had never felt a force outside or within him as strong as the land. For a Comanche, all that the eye could take in, and for many horses farther, was Comancheria. There was power in pride.
The only thing disturbing his peace that morning was the dull ache in his stomach and the bile that rose up in his throat and burned his chest. Even on his best days the discomfort was always there, and that morning was a little worse than normal. The milk cow he had hoped would cure him had turned out to be a silly idea, and the long hard winter had proved too much for her. She had lost weight rapidly after the first snow, and quickly ceased to give milk. He had come out of his lodge one morning to find his prize dead and frozen. Apparently, she was no hardier than the Tejano farmers he had taken her from, and he felt a fool to have gone through so much trouble to get an animal he knew nothing about taking care of. If he had it to do over, he would have captured a white woman to tend to the cow.
The smoke from the lodges hung lazy and heavy in the air as he came down off the hill. A dog yelped where somebody kicked it out of their doorway, and quiet greetings were passed by the women going about their morning’s chores. He made a slow tour through the horse herd and noticed that his favorite buffalo runner seemed injured. He shook out a loop in the braided rawhide riata he carried and roped the gray gelding as expertly as any Mexican vaquero. Once the loop was settled over his head, the horse limped to him docilely.
Little Bull dismounted and lifted the gray’s left forefoot. There was no swelling of the leg, but when he pressed firmly on the sole of the hoof with his thumb the horse flinched with pain and almost jerked away. He could see where fluid was seeping out around the spot where he had pressed, and he touched his thumb there again and then passed it under his nose. It smelled like rotten death.
He remounted and led the gray in the direction of his tepee. Halfway there a group of boys playing stopped him. Dressed in nothing but moccasins and breechclouts, their slim brown bodies flashed among the willows along the river. They were having a rowdy game of chase, and the smallest of them was proving to be the fastest. Try as they might, none of the bigger and older boys could run the wiry seven-year-old down. He leapt and dodged through the thicket like a deer, and Little Bull’s heart warmed with pride at the sight.
The small boy was deeply involved in the game, but he finally saw Little Bull sitting his horse nearby and veered his course toward him. Comanche children grew up with horses, and the boy had the good sense to slow his approach, lest he spook the mounts. He smiled up at his father and danced slowly from one foot to another, as if unable to contain the happy energy that made him want to run and play before the sun was even good and up.
Little Bull studied his son’s round little face staring up at him. Comanches tended to run toward the short side, but the boy was small even for his age. Pony Heart might be little, but he was already showing signs of being brave and smart. Little Bull was very short himself, even for a Comanche, and knew that being a warrior had little to do with physical might and more to do with cunning.
“Come with me. We need to work on Badger’s hoof,” Little Bull said.
The boy cast a longing look over his shoulder to where the other boys had started to chase a new victim, but he didn’t hesitate long. He took hold of the hand his father held out to him and let him swing him onto the back of the gray. He tried to hide his desire to stay and play.
“There will be plenty of time for your friends later. A warrior must learn to take care of his horses, even little Pony Heart,” Little Bull said more sternly than he intended to.
The boy’s education was important, but Little Bull wasn’t at all disappointed that at such a young age Pony Heart would rather play games. He was proud of how the people of the camp loved the boy, and how easily he made friends. Little Bull’s two wives spoiled his only child, but he had to admit that he was just as guilty. The love for his son almost filled the spot in his soul that had all but been emptied so long ago.
Fate had been kind, and his son didn’t know what it was like to be a shunned orphan moving constantly from one lodge to another, from one band to another, seeking food and shelter from anybody that would have him until he was big enough to fend for himself. Little Bull knew all too well how harsh life could be. His family taken from him and his friends few, he had grown up the butt of every childish joke and a whipping post for boys his age with the social network to protect them.
His boyhood had been hard, but somehow he had scrapped and clawed his way to a place among the Kotsoteka band. At thirteen, he had left the village alone and returned two weeks later with a small herd of horses and two Apache scalps. None of the people could recall a warrior so young raiding alone. In the years to come he went against Tonkawa, Osage, Ute, and Mexican. His horse herd grew and his lodge was always full of meat. He never forgot those who befriended him, or those who had once insisted that he was less than a real Comanche because of the tainted blood in his veins. He was only twenty-three, but many believed there was no
warrior among all the Comanche who could stand his equal in a hunt or a fight, even the great Iron Shirt. The people might have laughed at the poor half-breed boy with no family or band to protect him, but not the man, Little Bull. His friends were still few, but those willing to follow his leadership on raids were many.
Buffalo Butt, the fattest of his wives, was preparing his breakfast over a fire built outside their tepee and she looked up from her cooking long enough to smile and motion them to get down and eat. She seemed to always read his mind, and this breakfast was no different. She knew he was long tired of eating buffalo meat and had broiled four big blue quail. He and the boy dismounted while she went to fetch his wicker backrest from the tepee. Buffalo Butt was his first wife and Pony Heart’s mother. Some said the five good horses he’d given her father for her were too much to pay for such a homely woman, but he had never regretted it. Her heart was as big as the outside of her, and she was a loving wife, if a bit strong willed.
Speckled Tail should have been helping with the morning’s chores, but as usual, she had managed to be elsewhere when there was work to be done. The Kiowa thought she was beautiful enough to do as little as she wanted to and that he would forgive her laziness. Thus, she spent far less time tending to his lodge than she should. She was nowhere to be seen at breakfast, but Little Bull assumed she was in the tepee preening and admiring herself before the mirror he’d given her. She was very vain. He’d sworn to dash the looking glass to pieces many times, but could never bring himself to do it. Buffalo Butt kept him well enough fed and clothed by herself, and it wasn’t as if Speckled Tail didn’t have her own qualities. She was always waiting for him under his blankets and seemed to thoroughly enjoy what, in Little Bull’s experience, most women merely tolerated. He knew he should send her back to the Kiowas, but rutting with Speckled Tail always made him forget how lazy she was.
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