“But if there’s an Indian I want to see him,” Willy said. “Why can’t you find him and show him to me?”
“If I found an Indian I wouldn’t have to show him to you,” Gus told him. “He’d be shooting arrows at us quicker than you can think. If I didn’t kill the Indian, he’d kill us.”
“Of course, you would kill him, I’m sure,” Willy said, moving a little closer to Gus as they walked toward camp.
Call was prepared for an early start, and was up before sunrise—but to his surprise, Lady Carey had risen ahead of him. She was standing beside her easel, waiting for the first light from the east.
“I know you’re restless, Corporal Call,” she said. “I painted the sunset—now I want to paint the dawn. Go and ask Emerald to cook the bacon.”
It was almost midday before Lady Carey was content to pack up her easel and her oils and mount the black gelding.
For three days more they moved eastward, past the line of the rimrock but not beyond the desert or the mountains. On the afternoon of the third day, Call, Gus, and Long Bill all began to feel uneasy. There was no reason for their unease, yet they had it. Call debated scouting ahead, to see if he could detect any sign of Indians; in the end he decided against it. There were only the four of them to fight, in case of attack, and Wesley Buttons was a notably unreliable shot, at that. It was probably better to stay together, in case of trouble.
Toward evening, they passed a solitary mountain—a lump of rock, mainly. Lady Carey rode off toward the mountain, to have a closer look. Despite many warnings about the Indians, she still darted off at will, now ahead and now behind. She took a keen interest in the desert plants and would sometimes dismount, with her sketch pad, and draw a cactus or a sage bush. Once or twice, she had galloped so far away that Call had ridden out, protectively, to be in a position to help if he needed to help. Lady Carey, though, made it clear that she did not welcome even the best-intentioned supervision.
“I’m not a chicken, Corporal Call,” she said to him once. “You needn’t act like a hen.”
Gus felt a deep disquiet, not about Lady Carey but about the place. Looking at the high, rocky hump he suddenly realized that he had looked at it before—only before, he had been racing toward it from the east, in the hope of killing mountain sheep. Now they were coming toward it from the west—the sloping ridge the Comanches had hidden themselves behind was just ahead of them.
Call had the same recognition, at the same time. They had gone east from El Paso, and come back to the bluff where Josh Corn and Zeke Moody had been killed.
“I hope there ain’t no mountain sheep up there,” Gus said. “If there are, we’ll know they’re Comanches and that big one is somewhere around.”
“Maybe he’s still north,” Call said, remembering the day when the Comanches had walked their horses along the face of the Palo Duro Canyon.
“No, he ain’t north—I feel him,” Gus said.
“Now, that’s mush,” Call said. “You didn’t feel him the first time, and he was closer to us than I am to Willy.”
“I don’t say he’s close, but he’s somewhere around,” Gus said. “I feel funny in my stomach.”
“At least Major Chevallie would be proud of us if he could see us now,” Call said.
“Why would he?” Gus asked. “He never even made us corporals.”
“No, but now we’ve found the road to El Paso,” Call said. “It’s south of them high bluffs. If he was alive, he could start up a stagecoach line.”
Gus was still thinking about Buffalo Hump—how quickly he could strike. Lady Carey was almost out of sight, at the base of the mountain. If Buffalo Hump was close, even the fast gelding wouldn’t save her.
“Look at her,” Gus said, to Call. “If he was here, he’d get her.”
“Not just her,” Call said. “He’d get us all, if he was here.”
5.
WHEN BUFFALO HUMP RODE into the trading place, the valley called the Sorrows, with his captives and the last group of Mexican horses, the old slaver, Joe Nibbs, was there waiting, with Sam Douglas and two wagons full of goods. A band of Kiowa had been there the day before, but they had only raided one settlement: the only captives they had to offer were a nine-year-old girl, and a little Negro boy. Joe Nibbs wouldn’t take the girl—she had a sickly look; very likely she would be dead within the month. Joe Nibbs had come west with the first trappers to leave St. Louis—he was too experienced a slaver to be wasting trade goods on a sickly girl.
Joe had been coming to the Sorrows for ten years; he had seen mothers kill themselves because he sold their children away; more than one husband had tried to kill him, because he had sold a wife. But Joe was a decisive man—he kept a hammer stuck in his belt and used it to dispatch troublesome captives quickly, silently, and cheaply. He knew where the human skull was weakest—he rarely had to strike twice, when he pulled his hammer. Bullets he normally saved for buffalo, or other game too big and too swift to be dispatched with a hammer. When the Kiowa arrived, with one sickly girl, Joe Nibbs upbraided them for laziness. The Texas settlements were creeping westward, up the Brazos and the Trinity. If the Kiowa didn’t want to make the long ride into Mexico for captives, they could at least be a little more active around the new settlements. Most of them weren’t really settlements anyway, just groups of scattered farms, always poorly defended. They ought to yield more than a sick girl and a small Negro boy.
In the wagons were blankets and beads, knives, mirrors, a few guns, and some harmless potions and powders that Joe passed off as medicine. He did not trade liquor. Life was risky enough on the Comancheria without pouring liquor into wild men skilled at every form of killing.
He traveled in the Indian lands with Sam Douglas, a youth of twenty-two, reedy but strong. He kept the wagons repaired and the captives secured. Sam had come from a whaling family, back in Massachusetts—he was so skilled with knots that in the three years he had been helping Joe Nibbs, not a single captive, male or female, had escaped. Sometimes, if the Comanche seemed restive, Sam would entertain them by tying intricate knots. Kicking Wolf was particularly fascinated by this skill—he would sit by Sam and encourage him to run through his whole repertory of knots; then he would want Sam to untie all his knots and tie them again, over and over.
Sam Douglas had grown up by the sea; he was used to cool, moist air. He had hated the West, with its sand and its dust, and had no fondness at all for Joe Nibbs, a greedy, profane, violent old man with black teeth, and a blacker heart. More than twenty times Sam had seen Joe Nibbs fly into a rage, yank out his hammer, and crack the skull of some man or woman who could perfectly well have been sold for a fine profit, if only Joe had been able to hold his temper. But Sam stayed with the old slaver because he was handicapped by a clubfoot and a harelip, both impediments to the satisfying of his considerable lust. In the settlements women shied from him, but traveling with a slaver solved that problem; there were always budding girls amid the captives, and sometimes grown women, too. Since it was Sam’s job to tie the women and to guard them, he had access to many females he could not have approached or succeeded with, had he met them in Massachusetts. Many of them writhed and squirmed, or begged and wept, or cursed and spat, while Sam was enjoying his access; but he paid no attention. They were slaves, and he was their slaver; they had to submit and most did, without him having to whack them or whip them or tie their legs to opposite sides of the wagon bed. Even if he had to beat the women a little, he was still kinder to them than Joe Nibbs. Joe was apt to whip them for no reason, or torment them with the handle of his hammer, or to tie them over a wagon wheel and rut at them from behind, like the rough old billy that he was.
The moment Buffalo Hump and Kicking Wolf rode into the Sorrows with their bunch of Mexican children, Sam noticed the girl, Rosa. Joe Nibbs noticed her, too. She had a beauty not often seen in captives.
“Why, he’s caught a pretty one,” Joe Nibbs said. “Them lazy Kiowas could ride for a year and not catch a girl that rar
e.”
“Let’s buy her, Joe,” Sam Douglas said. “Maybe the Apaches would buy her. They’d give us silver for her. They take lots of silver off them Mexicans they kill.”
What Sam was really thinking was that they would get to keep the girl for awhile. Old Joe could go first and rut at her from the back, if he wanted to. Then it would be Sam’s turn, and he might take it two or three times a night, under the pretense of seeing that the girl was properly bound.
“Ssh . . . hush about the ’Paches,” Joe instructed. “Buffalo Hump hates everybody but his own tribe, and he don’t like too many of them. We don’t need to let on what we aim to do with this gal.”
They watched closely as the Comanche raiders rode down into the shallow valley—just a cleft between two ridges, really. In the distance, they could see a curve of the Rio Rojo. The wind was blowing hard from the north; spumes of sand curled over the lip of the ridge to the north and blew into the eyes of the Mexican captives. The Mexican children appeared to be well fed, Sam noted. Some of them were as plump as the little Negro boy who was tied in the first wagon. Several of the Mexican girls looked to be eight or nine years old—they could be used, if there was no one better, but Sam Douglas didn’t figure on having to drop that low, not if the wily Joe Nibbs could talk Buffalo Hump out of the young woman. Joe had bought captives from most of the major chiefs, north of the Santa Fe trail and south. He knew a route through the Carlsbad Mountains that allowed him to slip back and forth between Comanche and Apache, desert and plain. He was the oldest slaver on the plains, good at figuring out what a given Indian would take for a prize captive. The girl who rode behind Buffalo Hump, her wrists tied with a rawhide thong, was the prettiest woman to come up the Comanche war trail since Sam had been driving a wagon for Joe.
Joe Nibbs was rarely nervous, when among the red men. He cheated white men freely, but he didn’t cheat Comanches or Apaches, or Kiowa or Pawnee or Sioux. A trader who cheated Indians might survive a year, or even two—but Joe Nibbs had survived almost twenty, by saving his tricks for the whites. Even an Indian who didn’t speak a word of the white man’s tongue would know when he was being cheated—it was a practice that didn’t pay.
Buffalo Hump, though, was one Indian who made Joe Nibbs nervous. He dealt with the humpback because Buffalo Hump raided deepest into Mexico and brought back the most captives. But with Buffalo Hump, Joe was always careful, always aware that he was doing something not quite safe, not quite within the normal range of hazards that went with the slaving trade on the wild Texas prairies. Joe Nibbs was always aware that the day might come when Buffalo Hump would rather kill than trade. In his dealing with the humpback, he had only once looked the war chief in the eye. What an eye! What he saw then unnerved him so that he immediately gave the war chief a brand-new rifle and several fine blankets. As soon as the Comanches had gone, he warned Sam Douglas to keep his eyes to himself, when dealing with the big Comanche. No wise man met the eye of a mad dog or a wolf, a bear or a panther. The animal might come out, and blood be spilled, over nothing more than a glance.
“Hell, I won’t look at him at all,” Sam said. “That damn hump is an ugly thing, anyway.”
Buffalo Hump saw immediately that the slavers wanted Rosa, the Mexican girl. He had once come upon the slavers while the old one was tormenting a dead missionary’s wife. He had watched from a distance as Joe Nibbs beat the woman with the handle of his hammer—beat her and did more. That night the woman died from the beating and abuse—she had not been young.
What he mainly wanted from the slaver was knives and needles. It would soon be time for the fall hunt—they needed to kill many buffalo before the winter came. Often ice storms came, coating the plain for several days at a time, making hunting difficult. The white men made good knives, far better than the stone knives his people had had to use when he was a boy. After the hunt, there would be much cutting—the women would need knives, and also needles, for sewing leggins from deerskin, and stitching buffalo robes. The white man’s blankets Buffalo Hump mostly scorned—buffalo robes were warmer. But he liked the yellow cloth that shed the rain and allowed his braves to hunt on wet days and yet be dry like ducks. The rifles he was offered were cheap, and his young braves were rough with guns: soon half would be broken, and the ammunition used up. It was not worth giving up good captives for weapons that would be broken in a month. He himself had the fine gun the white chief Caleb Cobb had given him. He was careful with the gun—no one in the tribe was allowed to touch it. Kicking Wolf was bitterly jealous that Buffalo Hump had such a gun, but he knew better than to disobey the edict. Buffalo Hump only rarely shot the gun; he had not even taken it with him on the raid, preferring to depend on his bow and his lance. But once he had shot it at an antelope, a very great distance away, and the antelope fell.
But if the old trader, Joe Nibbs, thought he could trade a few cheap weapons for the Mexican girl, he would have to think again. Buffalo Hump was willing to give him several of the Mexican children for a box full of good, sharp knives. The girl he meant to keep. It might be a cold winter—a fresh young wife to lie with would be good to have on days when the ice covered the plains.
“Now, don’t be mentioning that girl—don’t even look at her,” Joe Nibbs warned Sam Douglas. “I’ll trade for the brats first. And remember what I said. Don’t look him in the eye.”
“Why would I want to—he’s a goddamn stinking Indian,” Sam said.
Kicking Wolf at once wanted the Negro boy. When the boy was brought out of the wagon, naked, and saw Buffalo Hump, he was so frightened that he tried to run away, speeding on his little legs toward the ridge the sand spumed over. The Comanche braves followed, curious; Kicking Wolf and the others had seen few blacks. They thought the boy might be some kind of small black animal—perhaps he could be trained to gather firewood, or just be kept as a pet, like a bear cub. Just as the little black boy was about to get to the ridge, Kicking Wolf picked him up, screaming, and brought him back to the wagons.
“That’s my brat, give him back,” Joe Nibbs said. Kicking Wolf, too, was a man to be wary of—everyone on the plains knew what a good thief he was. Joe and Sam had two extra donkeys with them, besides the horses that pulled the wagons. He meant to see that the donkeys were close hobbled that night, else Kicking Wolf would come back and take them.
Kicking Wolf motioned toward two of the captives, indicating that he would trade them for the black boy. Before Joe Nibbs could even walk over and inspect the children, to be sure that they were healthy, Buffalo Hump lowered his lance and put it in front of the children. Kicking Wolf had not set foot in Mexico. Who was he to be offering the captives in trade? While they had been raiding he had lingered near the Pecos, torturing one scalp hunter to death. Of course, Kicking Wolf had made many raids and taken many children—he would have to be allowed some booty. But he could not simply trade away children that were not his. Fast Boy had taken the two children in question—if anyone had the right to dispose of them, it should be he.
Kicking Wolf was very annoyed by Buffalo Hump’s intervention. He himself, not Buffalo Hump, was the great child thief. He had taken more than fifty children from their homes, and brought them north. It was because of his skill as a child thief that the tribe had had plenty of knives the last few winters. Who was Buffalo Hump to deny him two children, when all he wanted in exchange was the small black animal?
“Even swap—even swap,” Joe Nibbs said, pointing at a Mexican boy who was about the same size as the little Negro. He didn’t like trading blacks, not on the plains. He had only given a packet of needles and a small blanket for the black boy. In the south it was profitable to trade little blacks, but not on the plains, and even less so west of the Carlsbad Mountains. The Apaches had superstitions about blacks—they usually killed them.
Buffalo Hump allowed the trade—one Mexican child for the black cub Kicking Wolf held. He had merely lowered his lance to remind Kicking Wolf that he was not the war chief. Of course, Kicking Wolf was an
unusually good raider; the need to torture Kirker had distracted him; but his pride had to be considered. He could have the black cub.
Joe Nibbs produced tobacco, and the trading went quickly. Buffalo Hump kept four captives, including the girl, Rosa. The other three were Mexican boys old enough to be useful slaves. The others he traded for three boxes of knives, many needles, some mirrors, a box of fishhooks, and four rifles. Several of his younger braves considered themselves to be great marksmen. It was well enough to take a few guns for them to break.
“He don’t like guns much,” Sam said, to Joe. “He only took four. How are we going to get this girl if he won’t take guns?”
Rosa, still tied, sat by a little bush near Buffalo Hump’s horse. She had seen the two traders looking at her—she felt no hope. Either the white men or the Comanches would use her and kill her. She watched the sand spuming over the ridge as the wind gusted. She wished she could simply lie down and be covered with sand; be dead; be at peace. She watched the sand come, and tried not to think.
Joe Nibbs was wondering the same thing as Sam—what could he offer Buffalo Hump that might make him part with the girl?
“I’ve got that old Gypsy glass,” he said. Some months before he had found a wagon and a dead man, an old Gypsy, on the Kansas plain near Fort Lawrence. Probably the old man had been killed by Pawnees, who had ripped up his body and his wagons, taken his whiskey, and left. Joe had happened to notice something shining through a crack in the wagon bed, and had discovered a ball of glass, or crystal, hidden so well that the Pawnees had not noticed it.
“He might want that glass,” he said, going to his wagon and taking the glass from a blanket he had wrapped it in. It was the size of a small melon. When you looked into it, it made your face elongated.
“It’s Gypsy glass—take it to your medicine man, he can use it for prophesying,” Joe said, offering the ball of glass to Buffalo Hump.
The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4) Page 47