Sundance 11

by John Benteen

  Sundance took his silver dollar from his pocket, showed it to the Comanche, then tossed it high into the air. When the coin reached its zenith, he fired a single shot from his six-shooter. Hit by the slug, the dollar flew even higher before it began to fall to the ground. He knew this would impress White Buffalo and the other four warriors, for Indians were notoriously poor marksmen. Somehow they could not completely master the firearms of the white man. White Buffalo was indeed impressed. He uttered a bark of hollow laughter.

  “If a warrior won’t trade a horse, he won’t trade a horse,” he said. “My friends and I will take you to the village of the chief of the Quahadis.”

  Sundance laughed, mockingly. “So you can catch me off guard and kill me for my horse, guns and gear. Everyone knows the Comanches are the greatest thieves on the face of our Mother Earth. I know my way to the Quahadi village and will go alone. Hai-yu! It is said, and so it will be.”

  He picked up his bow, placing it and his quiver of arrows in their panniers. He holstered his revolver, then once more lifted his rifle from its boot. Swinging onto Eagle’s back, he gazed steadily at the face of White Buffalo, which was fierce and cunning even in repose.

  “I’ll shoot the first brave that comes within reach of my long gun,” he said. “And it reaches far. That too is said and will be. Hai-yu!”

  He touched his moccasined feet to the Appaloosa and rode away at a lope.

  They came after him, as he knew they would. But they kept well back, out of rifle range, in case he should stop and throw lead at them. He held Eagle to that steady lope for perhaps a half a dozen miles, then slowed the big horse to a walk. Looking back, he saw that the Comanches had fallen behind. Their ponies became spent on a long haul, as he had expected. When he was ready, he would lose them. They’d get no scalp and plunder from him.

  He continued northwest the remainder of the day, aiming toward the Palo Duro. The land remained unchanging; it was endlessly flat, without landmarks. He marked his direction by the sun, which my now was lowering from its zenith. Once he sighted a band of Indians in the far distance and stopped to focus his telescope on the group. It was a hunting party, returning to its village with buffalo meat and hides. Braves, squaws, children, and dogs. They traveled slowly, with laden travoises. No harm in them perhaps, but, always cautious, he gave the band a wide berth.

  At sundown he made a stop, gathered some buffalo chips, and kindled a fire. The five warriors who dogged his footsteps also stopped, still out of reach of his rifle. He kept a wary eye on them while he cooked his skimpy supper, feeling sure they wouldn’t close in until darkness. They would expect him to bed down after eating, and he would disappoint them.

  He had a smoke when he’d eaten his meal then lay flat on the ground, with his rifle beside him to get some rest. He let himself relax completely, knowing he would hear the drumming of hooves if they charged at him. With nightfall, he mounted the now-rested Appaloosa and lifted the animal to a hard run. The five made their try; they charged in his direction, screaming loudly and shooting wildly. He rode for a half a dozen miles at that fast pace and then, reining Eagle to a walk, continued across the immensity of land at an easy lope that he alternated with a brisk walk. He had lost them as he had hoped. He might well have been the only human abroad in the night.

  He made a halt in the small hours, sleeping with one eye and one ear open, as he would have put it, then woke at the first faint trace of the new day in the eastern sky. He made and ate another meal, then saddled Eagle and after mounting, scanned the Plains in every direction. He saw nothing of the five Noconas.

  At midday he saw another small band of people directly ahead. He reined in Eagle and reached for his telescope. This was another hunting party, with some of its ponies drawing travoises laden with butchered meat, hides, and the other parts of the buffalo of which the Indians made use. A hunting party was seldom hostile, and he rode toward this group with the hope of making friends with its members and thus avoiding more trouble with warriors on the prod. They acknowledged his friendly gesture when he raised his right hand high. An elderly man rode out to meet him. The warriors, seven or eight in number, sat their ponies at a distance and watched with an obvious wariness. The squaws continued walking, each leading a pony with a travois. The children followed the women; the dogs followed the children.

  “Greetings, Stranger-Who-Rides-a-Spotted-Horse,” the old warrior said. “What would you have of us?”

  “My name is Sundance, and I am a Cheyenne. I’m a friend of Quanah Parker and on my way back to see him. Do you go into the Palo Duro?”

  “That we do, for we are Quahadis and our village is there. If you would see our chief, travel with us. You are welcome.”

  “My thanks to you, Generous One.”

  “My name is One Leg, Sundance. I have two as you can see, but one does not serve me well. I was crippled by a White-Eyes’ bullet in Texas many years ago, during a big raid. You come far, being a Cheyenne?”

  “Yes, very far,” Sundance said, and thought: Farther than you could imagine, old one. Such was the truth. Few if any Indians had roamed as far as his meandering course had taken him across the western states and territories.

  So he rode with these Quahadis, and thus could be comparatively free of worry about encountering more warriors as hostile as the Noconas he had left behind during the night.

  One of the squaws had hazel eyes and her skin, now very dark from constant exposure to the elements, had certainly once been white. She was middle-aged and carried a papoose on her back. A gringa, certainly. Now her manner was no different from that of the Indian women. Sundance would have liked to talk with her, to ask if she knew of a young gringa who had recently been taken prisoner, but he decided against it. He did not want to antagonize these friendly Quahadis. Friendly toward him, that was—because they took him for a full-blooded Cheyenne.

  Late in the afternoon the band arrived at the rim of the canyon. They came to it unexpectedly; one moment they seemed to be traveling across unbroken tableland, then abruptly, without warning, they arrived by the edge of the vast chasm that rent the earth for many miles. At this point a switchback trail had been cut into the face of the canyon wall. It offered a narrow, precarious footing for humans and animals as it led to the chasm floor hundreds of feet below. A sizable stream flowed through the gorge. Pasturage was plentiful, and there were great groves of cedar trees. Scattered through the canyon were the tepees of numerous Comanche and Kiowa villages, with the former in greater number.

  Once the band of which Sundance was now a member made the descent of the cliff like wall safely, it turned north through the canyon. Dusk had already settled in these depths, and soon, having passed a great pony herd, they saw the glare of numerous cook fires in the thickening darkness.

  “Our village,” One Leg told Sundance. “Here you will find the great Quanah.”

  The entire populace of the village turned out to welcome the hunting party, and to stare wonderingly at the big warrior in the garb of the Cheyenne dog soldier. Quanah Parker appeared last of all, his people separating to form an aisle for him to approach the returning party. He was well into middle age, and his hair, which was not Indian black but light brown, was touched with gray at the temples. Like his hair, his eyes, being gray, were a legacy from his white mother. His features were classically Comanche, however; he had a sloping brow, prominent cheekbones, a square chin and jaw line, and a hawk’s beak of a nose. His eyes had a piercing intensity, and his gaze became fixed on Sundance.

  “One seems to remember you from another time, my friend.”

  “I am Sundance, Quanah. You don’t recognize me because my hair is a different color. Once it was the yellow of gold. I made myself wholly a Cheyenne so as not to stir enmity in the Comanche heart. Even so I had trouble with some warriors who liked my horse too well.”

  “What Comanches were these, my old friend?”

  “They were Noconas.”

  “Ah, yes. They are eager to coll
ect scalps these days, the Noconas. You do not stay, Sundance?”

  “I wait for your invitation, Great Chief.”

  “You have it,” Quanah said. “Get from your horse and come to my tepee. We’ll eat the evening meal, then smoke the pipe of friendship—and talk. I would hear of your fight to keep the Indian Ring from cheating the red brethren who are forced to live on the reservations. You are still fighting for that?”

  “Yes, I am, and I’ll keep on fighting as long as Mother Earth gives me the strength,” Sundance said, still not dismounting. “But before I share your meat and smoke the pipe with you, my friend, I had better tell you why I’ve come to your village. Maybe then you will turn me away like one with the plague.”

  “Why have you come?”

  “To find a white woman who was captured by a Comanche war party that raided into Texas within the time of the last two moons,” Sundance said. “I’ve come to take her away from the warrior who has her—back to her people.”

  Quanah’s face, as dark and seamed as old leather, turned rock-hard and totally devoid of friendliness. His pale eyes, incongruous in his noble Indian countenance, gleamed fiercely. Sundance fully expected him to gesture imperiously and tell him to leave his village and return no more. With Quanah Parker, as with all the Comanche chiefs, the Anglo or Mexican captives were a taboo subject of conversation for an outsider to broach.

  Chapter Seven

  With Quanah’s people all about, and seventy or eighty of them warriors, Sundance realized that his situation was precarious to the extreme. A single word or sign from the aging half-breed chief, and he would be filled with arrows and bullets before he could lift a hand to defend himself. He had indeed incurred Quanah’s wrath, and for a long moment he was skewered by the Comanche’s pale eyes.

  But Quanah Parker proved himself a fair man by saving, “You wouldn’t have come here to me with such a thing in mind without a good reason. Dismount, as I invited you. We will eat and smoke the pipe, then I will listen to your reason.”

  Sundance heaved a sigh of relief, then dismounted and followed the chief away from the gathering of people, Eagle trailing at his heels. Numerous tepees stood in a wide, double circle, with that of Quanah Parker in its center. A cook fire burned in front of his lodge, and over it was a spit of roasting meat, while beside it a large iron kettle bubbled. At the moment the fire was unattended, Quanah’s wife, or wives, having gone with the other people to welcome the hunters home. Sundance led the Appaloosa around behind the tepee and in Cheyenne told the animal to remain there.

  On entering the tepee with his host, Sundance found it carpeted with buffalo hides, the hair side up, and a small fire burning in a pit in the center of it for light and also for warmth against the coming night chill. Smoke from the blaze wafted upward and escaped through the vented opening at the top of the conical lodge. To one side were piled beaver, wolf, and other pelts, to be used for bedding. Also in evidence were items traded or stolen from the white men: blankets, gourds that no doubt held whiskey, knives, tin ware, bolts of calico cloth, a stock of food that included baked bread, a half a dozen Winchester repeating rifles, and a miscellany of other articles. Sundance was reminded of the white man’s saying that a man’s home was his castle. Quanah Parker’s lodge was indeed his castle, and better still, the chief still lived a free life.

  Host and guest seated themselves cross-legged on the buffalo robes, close to the firepit. The women had returned; they were chattering together around the cook fire. Through the tepee opening Sundance could see that there were three of them. One was Quanah’s age, one in early middle age, and one quite young. When they came with the food, heaped on tin plates, the youngest served the two men. The three then seated themselves at the rear of the lodge to eat their own meal. An Indian ate with his fingers, of course, and Jim Sundance, though he had learned to use a knife, fork and spoon during his hobnobbing with whites, preferred it this way. He ate roasted tongue and succulent ribs, both from the buffalo, and a dish of cornmeal and wild grapes. There was also bread, quite stale, that had certainly come from a Comanchero.

  The Indian custom was to gorge oneself when there was full and plenty, and the Comanches, unlike the reservation Indians, had food in abundance. After the meal, Quanah had his youngest wife fill two tin cups with whiskey from one of the gourds. Sundance found it to be truly firewater; raw of taste, and extremely potent. Trade whiskey was the poorest quality possible. Then, at last, the pipe ... a long-stemmed affair with a small, ornately painted bowl, from which hung a ceremonial eagle’s feather. Quanah packed it with tobacco, which he lit with a burning brand from the firepit. The squaws, who had not uttered a word since entering the lodge, removed the tin plates and went outside. The pipe fired, the chief passed it to Sundance. The half-breed puffed on it briefly, then returned it to his host. It went back and forth for some minutes, then Quanah laid it aside.

  “Now we will talk about your reason for coming here, my friend.”

  “When you call me your friend, I am that, Quanah. I am a friend to all Indians. I say this from my heart.”

  “I believe you.”

  “The woman I seek is just a woman, I admit. But there are other matters to be considered.”

  “And they are?”

  “The stealing of women and children from Texas has gone on too long. The Texans grow in number and are now very strong. They are angry over the Comanches making off with their women and children. The Great White Father in Washington will have to listen to their angry words and send soldiers to fight the Comanches and Kiowas. ... So many soldiers that the pounding of their horses’ hooves will make the very ground tremble.”

  “They won’t find our villages in this place.”

  “They will find it, believe me, Great Chief.”

  “How could that be, when they never found it in the past?”

  “From a Comanchero, maybe.”

  “No Comanchero would guide soldiers here.”

  “Ah, but one surely will. If one should be seized and a wagon tongue propped up so that it points to the sky and the Comanchero is hanged from it by a rope about his neck, the man’s tongue will be loosened. He will say, ‘Please, General, let me guide you to Palo Duro Canyon like the fine fellow I am.’ They will come, Quanah, and maybe all the sooner because of this young woman who was taken captive lately.”

  “But as you have said, a woman is only a woman.”

  “The White-Eyes think highly of their women, and this one is special. She comes from far away, from a city in the East, from a part of the land you and I don’t know. She is a soft women, her hands unused to butchering meat, tanning hides, cooking, and sewing garments. She has never even had to gather firewood. Already a great sum of money—ten thousand dollars—is offered for her return. If she is not returned, her family is likely to go to see the Great Chief in Washington ... he who commands the soldiers.”

  “Why does this concern you, Sundance?”

  “I don’t want to see your way of life ended forever, Quanah.”

  “We will fight, no matter how many soldiers come.”

  “Then you will not help me find the woman so I can return her to her people?”

  “I did not say that.”

  Sundance said no more. He would be stoically patient while Quanah Parker made up his mind. Whatever the chief’s decision would be, he would have to abide by it—and perhaps have to seek another way to find Virginia Stevens. But then it would be difficult. Without Quanah’s help, it might well be a suicidal undertaking. Many minutes passed, during which the Quahadi’s countenance wore a thoughtful frown that finally became a scowl. Anger was roiling in Quanah’s breast.

  At long last he said, “I have decided. I have long known the truth of what you have said. It has been clear to me that the Texans won’t let us raid at will much longer. We have taken too many women and children, too many horses and cattle. We have killed too many Texas men. What has gone on since the days of my grandfather must come to an end. If you ge
t the young white woman, will we be given a little more time?”

  “You will,” Sundance told him. “But it would gain you more time if no more women and children were taken captive.”

  “But the horses and cattle?”

  “One day that too will have to stop.”

  “Then we will have nothing to trade to the Comancheros.”

  “Better to do without the trade than to be defeated in battle and herded onto a reservation, my friend.”

  Quanah nodded, a dispirited look on his face. “I can’t take you to the woman, but I can tell you who has her.”

  “That will be enough, Quanah.”

  “A Nocona war party took the girl, and the warrior who actually seized her was named Running Wolf. He made her his squaw, and though he had two others, who were Comanches, he favored her above them. You have seen her, Sundance?”

  The half-breed shook his head. “Only a picture of her.”

  “She is a beautiful maiden. She has hair with flame in it. I have seen bottles made by white men that were green in color. Her eyes are like this. Her skin is very white, and without blemishes. Her body is as graceful as that of a doe. And she has a fierce spirit, such as no Comanche girl dares show. I heard from Nocona himself that when Running Wolf tried to enter her for the first time she fought him like a she-puma. And not only then, but also the second and the third time. He could subdue her only when her strength was spent.”

  “Some white women are like that, my friend.”

  “Running Wolf could have beaten her, to break her spirit. But this he would not do. He had become fond of her, you understand. He had a prize, and he desired to keep her as she was when he won her. This was not to be, for another coveted her.”

  “Ah?”

  “The other’s name is Broken Nose,” Quanah said. “He is a Kiowa who lived with the Noconas because he married a girl of that Comanche band. One night, nearly a moon ago, Broken Nose stole into the lodge of Running Wolf and stabbed him to death. He stole the woman. Running Wolf’s two brothers set out to find the squaw-stealer, but Broken Nose is very bad medicine. He bushwhacked them—killed both. Since then other Noconas searched for him but didn’t find him. Each of these others want the white woman for himself, I think.”