Comanche Dawn

by Mike Blakely

  “As you wish, governor,” the scribe said, collecting his tools. “Will there be anything else tonight?”

  “No, that is all. I will sign the letter tomorrow. Juan, you will stay and have a glass of brandy with me.”

  When the scribe left, Del Bosque watched him walk quite a way through the torch-lit garden before he closed the pine door. He poured the brandy in silence, handed Jean a glass, and sat facing him across the desk. “Juan,” he began, “you have prospered since I became governor.”

  Jean gulped half his brandy and narrowed his eyes at the governor. “I have been fortunate. Your trust has benefited me.”

  “I know it was hard for you after Maria died. You with two sons to raise alone. I have always done everything I could to help you in your business ventures.” He raised his glass and half whispered. “To the point of overlooking certain rules and royal decrees, my friend.”

  Now Jean knew something strange was happening. Never had the governor spoken to him in such terms. “I am grateful for all you have done, Antonio.”

  There was a long silence as the governor watched the brandy swirl in his glass. “I need your help, Juan. I am in trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “The worst kind. Financial trouble.” He sighed. “I have made loans to certain family members in New Spain. Bad loans. I am in debt. I have no way to pay, and worse still…” He rubbed his brow with trembling fingers. “I have invested the funds of this colony in my attempts to recoup my losses. I have made bad investments.”

  Jean gulped the rest of his brandy and got up to refill his glass. “How much money have you taken from the colonial funds?”

  Del Bosque looked at the floor. “About three thousand pesos.”

  “Three thousand. How did you divert that much?”

  “In the form of deductions assessed from the salaries of the soldiers.”

  Jean took several deep breaths to consider that substantial amount. “Does anyone know you have used government funds?”

  “Not yet, but there is going to be an audit of my records before winter.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Del Bosque smirked and looked Jean in the eye. “Your informants are among the Indios. Mine are in the government.”

  Jean nodded. “Three thousand pesos. I would give it to you if I had it, but I don’t. I can’t make that much money in three years of trading and farming. How am I going to help you?”

  “You mentioned something to me once. One of your wild ideas. You said the profits for this colony would be incredible if we could but trade with the Frenchmen across the plains. Do you remember?”

  He nodded. “It is still true. We have things the French need—gold and horses. They have things we need—gunpowder, guns, iron tools, textiles … things we cannot seem to get from Mexico City. But trade with the French is forbidden by the Crown. You told me that years ago.”

  “Were it not forbidden, how would it work?”

  Jean began to pace, feeling somewhat trapped, yet excited by the conversation. “I would hire Indio traders to move the horses and other goods across the plains, and bring back the French goods. I would sell the French goods here or in New Spain. The guns would be in particular demand among the colonists.”

  “And the profits?”

  “Very high. We would triple or quadruple our investment. The Indios will work for a small part of the horses and guns. But such a trade would break all manner of laws. It would be very risky, not only legally, but bodily.”

  Del Bosque reached under his desk and produced a pair of saddlebags. They were well-used bags of sturdy but ordinary manufacture. He used both hands to lift the sagging bags onto the desk top, and they rattled with the timbre of hard metal when he set them down.

  “What is that?” Jean said.

  “A thousand pesos in gold. All I could possibly take from what is left in the treasury without bankrupting the colony. If we can triple it before winter, I can avoid prosecution for misuse of funds. Then, I can begin to settle my debts with next spring’s trading expedition.”

  Jean looked at the saddlebags, a storm of excitement building in his stomach. Just the thought of trading with Frenchmen was enough to make him crave the adventure.

  “Beginning with the spring expedition,” Del Bosque continued, “we will divide the profits two to one, in your favor. I will be getting out of debt while you are getting rich, my friend.”

  Yes, and while I am taking all the risk, Jean thought. But he knew he would have to pay off the governor to allow the continuation of the illegal trade. That was the Spanish way. The way of the mordida.

  “Juan, will you help me? I have nowhere else to turn.”

  Jean threw the brandy back, and felt its heat engulf his lungs. “You have been a good friend, Antonio.” He reached for the saddlebags.

  50

  Hair grew long from the heads of the Grasshopper Eaters, and each chose his pony. Crazy Eyes seemed to use his peculiar gaze to charm a brown colt. This colt was two winters old and had never been ridden. His mane and tail were dark, connected with a perfect dark stripe that ran down his back. Across his withers, he wore another dark stripe that crossed the one running from mane to tail.

  Crooked Teeth chose a yellow mare that would soon foal. “I will return the foal to you when it is weaned,” he promised.

  Horseback smiled. “You have chosen well. Keep the foal.”

  Crooked Teeth was soon riding his mare, but Crazy Eyes had to ask for help from Horseback to train the young line-back colt. Each day, as they worked with the colt, boys from the camp would come to watch and learn. Even Sandhill would watch for a while, before running back to the camp to be with Teal. Horseback was happy that his son loved horses.

  “Crazy Eyes, what have you learned while you watched the horses and your hair grew?” Horseback asked the Grasshopper Eater who wanted to join the Horseback People.

  Crazy Eyes looked at two different things for a while, then said, “I have learned much about horses, but I cannot say what I have learned.”

  “You must learn to speak what is in your heart, so that you may teach your sons. I believe the spirits were wise to choose this pony for you, Crazy Eyes. The dark lines on this colt have strong power. The line that runs down the back will hold you on the pony’s back if your heart is good and strong.”

  “And the line across the withers?” Crazy Eyes asked. “Does it hold power, too?”

  “This is a magic line, my friend. All horses have this spirit-line, but with most it is invisible. The spirits have revealed the magic line on this colt so that you may learn about horses.”

  “What power does the line have? Is it different from the line down his back?”

  “Very different. I will show you.” Horseback took the colt’s lead rope from Crazy Eyes and approached the pony from the front. The colt raised his head and backed away a few steps. “If I stand in front of the line, the horse wants to go backward,” he said.

  Now he handed the rope back to Crazy Eyes and moved around the colt until he stood behind the dark line that ran across the withers. Approaching from this angle, the colt moved forward, toward Crazy Eyes. “Stand behind the line, and the pony wants to go forward,” he said. “The line goes through the heart. When you ride a pony and you want it to back up, wrap your legs around in front of the line and the pony will learn to back up. When you want your pony to go forward, touch him with your heels behind the line, and he will go forward. That is the power of this line.”

  Crazy Eyes smiled. “My pony shows the magic line. I have chosen well, hah?”

  “Hah. Very well. But the warrior who chooses ponies well must learn to ride well. You have much to do.”

  The next day, as Horseback helped train the colt, the young pony shied from Crazy Eyes when he reached to touch his head.

  “The hand strikes,” Horseback explained, holding his palm flat and his fingers outstretched. “The hand grabs and holds. The horse knows this. But
a single finger will charm the wild spirit in this pony.”

  He curled all but one finger against his palm and approached the colt slowly. The colt watched the finger Horseback extended toward him, seemingly more curious than afraid. His nostrils quivered as the finger eased closer to his head. Finally, Horseback touched him between the eyes with the single digit, then slowly spread his other fingers and rubbed him on the forehead. The colt nodded his head in appreciation and leaned into the palm that rubbed him now between the eyes.

  “Begin with one finger,” Horseback said, “then slowly move your hands over every part of the pony. You must touch him everywhere. Go slowly. He may kick at you when you touch his flank. Stay out of the way, and he will get tired of kicking after a while. Touch him everywhere and do not hurt or frighten him. Then he will trust and serve you.”

  Crazy Eyes looked somewhat disappointed. “When will I ride him?”

  “When he trusts you. You have much work to do before you ride this pony.”

  After two days, Crazy Eyes was able to touch the line-back colt all over. He could walk behind the colt without getting kicked. The colt would stand sleepily while Crazy Eyes moved a hand gently under his belly or between his hind legs.

  “Now breathe from the nostrils of your pony,” Horseback said. “His breath is warm and sweet and carries his spirit. You will breathe in his spirit, and he, yours. You will know his heart.”

  “Breathe from his nostrils? Will he not bite?” Holding the lead rope, Crazy Eyes turned away from his colt to cast his crooked glance at Horseback. When he turned, the colt promptly bit him on the shoulder. “Anah!” he cried.

  Horseback burst into laughter, along with all the young boys who were watching, trying to learn.

  “I will not breathe from her nostrils!” Crazy Eyes found blood on the tips of his fingers where he had grabbed the bitten place on his shoulder.

  “This is good!” Horseback said. “He treats you like a pony. But you must know how to talk the pony talk. It is a sign of disrespect for one pony to turn its back on the other. That is why he bit you.”

  “I must turn my back on my pony to lead him,” Crazy Eyes argued. “Will he bite me every time I turn?”

  “You must earn the right to turn away from him. Next time he bites you, bite him back. Kubetu!” he growled, gritting his teeth.

  “Next time?” Crazy Eyes said, uncertainly. “Will he bite my nose off if I breathe from his nostrils?”

  “Come, elder sister. Will a pony bite kill you? Do you wish to ride with the Horseback People?”

  Crazy Eyes drew himself taller and held his chin high. “Hah! I am not afraid of pony teeth!”

  “Breathe from the nostrils of your pony, and his soul will be yours—his power, his spirit.”

  Crazy Eyes approached his colt cautiously. He put his hands on the round jaws and eased his nostrils closer to the colt’s. The first time he felt the blast from the pony’s lungs, he pulled back, causing the colt to flinch. Soon, however, he was nose-to-nose with the colt again, seeking its spirit. The exchange of breath seemed to charm both man and horse for a moment. Then the line-back colt’s head turned and his mouth opened. Yellowed teeth parted and reached for the side of the warrior’s head.

  The Grasshopper Eater was quicker. In an instant he had the soft nose of the colt between his own teeth. He bit so hard that the colt reared, lifting Crazy Eyes’s new moccasins from the ground before he released his hold.

  The onlookers fell about the grass and laughed as the trainer calmed the pony on the end of his lead rope.

  “Good!” Horseback said. “Now he knows you will bite something bigger than a grasshopper. He begins to respect you, my friend.”

  Crazy Eyes’s grin glistened with pony blood.

  The next day, Horseback gave Crazy Eyes a war bridle to use on his pony. They looped the length of corded rawhide, twice the length of an eagle’s wingspan, around the lower jaw of the colt and gave him some time to grow accustomed to the feel of the thing in his mouth. When he stopped trying to push it out with his tongue, they began leading him around with it, teaching him to stop when he felt the rawhide tighten around his jaw.

  The first time Crazy Eyes climbed onto the back of the line-back colt, he darted so quickly away that Crazy Eyes landed on his rear in the grass.

  “Come,” Horseback said. “This one has the quickness of a heron. Let him plunge into the river.”

  Gathering around the colt, the cluster of onlookers urged him into the water until he stood knee deep. He drank as Crazy Eyes gathered in a handful of dark mane with the same hand that held the reins. When he sprang from the water to throw himself across the colt’s back, the colt tried to dodge, but the power of the river prevented him from moving quick enough to get out from under the rider.

  Soon, Crazy Eyes was astride the dark line that coursed the colt’s back. He smiled until he felt the pony rolling.

  “Slip off!” Horseback said. “He will lie down!”

  Crazy Eyes came off one side as the colt sank and rolled toward him.

  “Now, back on!” Horseback said.

  Crazy Eyes mounted again as the colt found footing in the mud. The colt turned for the bank, but the rider tightened the war bridle and pulled hard with one rein.

  “Good!” Horseback said. “Make him walk. Make him turn. Use the power of the river!”

  The sun moved three fists across the sky before Crazy Eyes let his colt come out of the water. Now he rode at a walk across the grassy riverbank and made the pony turn with hard pulls on the reins.

  Horseback said nothing now, for Crazy Eyes had found the heart of his pony. After the river water had dried from the colt, and he began to tire and make sweat that turned as white as the tufts of a sohoobi tree in spring, Crazy Eyes dismounted to let him rest. He rubbed the colt with grass all over, making his coat look sleek and shiny and good.

  Placing his palm on the flanks of the colt where the rays of Father Sun struck most directly, the Grasshopper Eater smiled, and said, “He is warm. He feels good.” Crazy Eyes placed his cheek against the flanks of the pony to warm his face. His eyes grew wide.

  Horseback chuckled. “What do you hear with your ear pressed against the flanks of your pony, my friend?”

  “I hear a great heartbeat, strong and steady.”

  “What else?”

  Crazy Eyes listened a long time. “A sound.”

  “What is this sound?”

  “It is a spirit-sound. It rumbles like the cloud-lodge of the Thunderbird, and roars like the winds of a storm in a canyon. It sounds far away, but it is near, for my pony possesses it within his own hide.”

  Horseback eased around the opposite flank of the colt so he, too, could listen, though he knew the sound well. “You hear the power and feel the warmth of the fires of the sun, my friend. This is your pony. This is your gift from the spirits. Honor it. Use it. Consume it. Ride it to glory. When it is gone, get another.”

  As the colt lowered his head and began to graze, the two pony-warriors listened, one to each side, their ears pressed against the ribs of the animal.

  51

  Jean L’Archeveque climbed up the ladder of his cubicle and looked out over the village of Tachichichi. The red face of the sun clung hopelessly to the eastern horizon, lending its glow to the earthen walls of the town. He wondered how low the same sun now shone on Paris. Was it noon in the pirate town of Petit-Goave? Did the cannibal coast of Fort St. Louis still reek of death and slime pits?

  Jean had seen much of the world in his thirty-nine years. He missed France, and Petit-Goave, where the language of his people drifted through the taverns and streets, lilting from the lips of women like the songs of warblers, growling from the throats of men like the threats of grackles. But a man who wore the Raccoon-Eyed tattoos of the wilderness on his face belonged on the frontier.

  Scanning the grounds, he found Speaks Twice mounted and waiting. The translator had even gone so far as to saddle Jean’s horse for him, seemi
ngly anxious to meet with his friends upstream.

  Jean, too, looked forward to seeing the Comanches again, especially Horseback. Six winters had passed since these first Comanches rode into Santa Fe with Bad Camper, the Yuta chief. Six winters had passed since Padre Ugarte and Capitán Lujan had attempted to beat Horseback into slave captivity. Six winters had passed since Horseback’s little band of mounted warriors had stormed through the governor’s trade caravan, and through the entire frontier kingdom of Nuevo Mexico, taking every pony they cared to own.

  Often Jean had wondered how Horseback had fared in the Snake lands far to the north. Somehow, he had known the young rider would return. Jean lowered the ladder to the ground outside the little rock-and-adobe room that served as his lodge and trading post. He made his way down the steps and walked briskly across the plaza to join Speaks Twice. He said nothing as he mounted, but smiled and nodded westward. Speaks Twice returned the smile, and they rode.

  * * *

  Their shadows darkened the grass below the bellies of their horses when Jean first noticed the tall hide lodges ahead in the valley of the Rio Napestle. He reined in his mount to observe the surprising size of the camp. Even the lodges themselves were larger than he had expected. He had always heard that the Snake People were poor. Even Horseback, who would naturally shed the most favorable light upon his own people, had described the Noomah as surrounded by enemies, forced onto poor hunting grounds, and constantly in search of food.

  Were the people of Horseback’s band still Snakes? Had they not broken away from their brethren hundreds of leagues to the north? Yes, they still spoke the Snake tongue, and held fast to the Snake customs. But Jean had seen poor Indios, and this camp spoke of wealth. Little things told of a rise from Snake poverty. The lazy camp dogs lounged in the shade of river timber instead of prowling hungrily through the valley. Most of the lodges were painted with bright designs, bespeaking leisure time for artistic endeavors. Sacred shields and weapons stood in neat clusters, hanging from tripods of lances bedecked with feathers and furs. The drying racks sagged with the weight of meat. Many square frames stretched the upright skins of deer, antelope, and bear, while buffalo and elk hides lay staked to the ground like leaves scattered under a maple tree.