As soon as the rangers were out of sight Blue Duck quickly scattered the rocks and pulled out the corpse—of course it was stiff as wood. He tied the corpse on his pony and followed the whites all day. He was alone. The other braves had spotted three antelope and had gone off to run them down. He doubted that they would catch up with the antelope, but he didn’t try to stop them from leaving. There was more bravery in following the Texans alone. Perhaps he would be able to kill Gun-in-the-Water, or even Big Horse Scull. After all, even Big Horse would have to shit sometime. Perhaps he could get him with an arrow, while he squatted.
That night, when the rangers camped, Blue Duck made a big circle around them, carrying the corpse. He wanted to put the dead ranger where the others would find him in the morning. First, though, he untied the corpse and began to hack it up. He scraped the icy scalp away from the skull. Then he cut off the man’s privates and sliced open his body cavity. He pulled out the frozen organs and smashed the man’s ribs with a big rock. He had with him a little axe that he had found in a burned-out farmhouse near the Brazos. With the little axe he cut the man’s feet off and threw them into the canyon, to assure that the ranger would be a cripple in the spirit world. Finally, with a single blow of the axe, he split open the man’s skull. Then he shot three arrows into the man’s legs—his arrows. He wanted the whites to know that he was Blue Duck, a warrior equal to his father, Buffalo Hump.
In the darkness he brought the hacked-up corpse as close to the ranger camp as he dared come. He didn’t want them to ride away and miss it, so he put it near the horses. It was only an hour before dawn. Soon the rangers would be stumbling off to do their shitting. He would wait, a little distance away. Perhaps Big Horse would walk out, hoping to shit in private. If he came Blue Duck meant to wait until his pants were tight against his legs, before trying to kill him.
While it was still dark he walked over toward the canyon, to make sure his horse was still there. Once while sneaking up on some Kiowa he had failed to secure his horse, a skittish pony. The horse ran off, causing him to miss the battle. He had to walk all the way back to the Comanche camp, a humiliation he had not forgotten.
It was while returning to his horse that he saw Gun-in-the-Water. The other one, Silver Hair McCrae, was walking back toward the camp, his shoulders hunched. It was cold and misty; the clouds of McCrae’s breath were whiter than the mist. Blue Duck thought McCrae would surely see him, but McCrae was taken by a fit of coughing as he stumbled on toward the camp.
He was almost to his horse when he saw Gun-in-the-Water walking along, a pretty rifle in his hands. Blue Duck immediately decided to kill him. Gun-in-the-Water went into a little shallow gully near the edge of the camp and began to take down his pants.
It was then that Blue Duck made his mistake. He had a gun and a bow as well—he preferred the gun and was out of practice with the bow; it was a failing his father had often chided him about. His father still practiced every day, shooting arrows at prickly pear, or jackrabbits, or anything he thought might sharpen his aim.
Blue Duck knew that he could easily kill Gun-in-the-Water with his gun; but he had not yet checked on his horse. If he fired a gun and his horse was not still there, the rangers could run him down and kill him. He thought he had better attempt to kill Gun-in-the-Water with an arrow, which meant creeping a little closer. He crept a little closer and was just raising up to draw the bow when Gun-in-the-Water, still squatting, brought up his rifle and shot him. Blue Duck shot his arrow just as the bullet struck him; the arrow missed completely, sailing over Gun-in-the-Water’s head.
The bullet had gone into his side, spilling blood down his leg, but Blue Duck could not pause to think about how badly he might be hurt. He had to run for his life. Gun-in-the-Water fired again and hit him again, this time only in the arm. Blue Duck ran as fast as he could. He could hear the rangers yelling. Soon the great Buffalo Horse would be thundering after him. His horse was still there, and in a moment he was on him, clutching his rifle and his bow. He flailed at the horse and the horse ran well, but before he had gone many yards there was a shot and his horse fell. Blue Duck was up at once—he saw that it was McCrae who had shot his horse. McCrae, mounted, was already in pursuit, and, just behind him, Blue Duck saw Scull, on his great steed. Big Horse Scull was waving a big sword—it was known that he liked to kill with the sword, when circumstances allowed it.
Blue Duck ran for his life, embarrassed by his own carelessness. He knew that the whites would tell that his arrow had flown over Gun-in-the-Water’s head; Buffalo Hump would be dark in his displeasure. He raced along the edge of the canyon, looking for a place that he could go down but that a horse could not. The Buffalo Horse had already outrun McCrae, whose mount had come up lame. It was Big Horse Scull and the Buffalo Horse who were pounding down upon him.
Then, desperate, Blue Duck jumped—he had come to a place where the drop was not sheer. He jumped fifteen feet and rolled and rolled—the slope was slick with frost. He could not stop rolling but he held on to his weapons. Bullets were hitting all around him, zinging off the frozen ground. But the depths of the canyon were still in darkness—the farther he rolled, the more the night protected him. A hard little rock gouged his ribs and then he slammed into a large boulder, stopping his roll. The shots had stopped. The rangers could no longer see him and had decided not to waste any more bullets. Blue Duck crawled behind the boulder, panting. He knew that Big Horse Scull had almost caught him. He wasn’t scared—he knew that even the Buffalo Horse could not follow him down the steep sides of the canyon—but he was out of breath and confused. When he could breathe a little better he stood up and satisfied himself that his wounds would not kill him. He heard the beat of wings and looked up to see a red hawk, flapping just above him, climbing into the air, higher and higher, toward the rim of the canyon. He wished he could become a hawk—then he could glide down into the canyon on hawk wings and drop right into the camp.
But he was not a hawk. The slope was icy and the drop steep but Blue Duck limped along. He knew it was not wise to wait. Gun-in-the-Water and McCrae might be bold enough to climb down into the canyon after him. As he made his way down, slipping now and then on patches of ice, he took care to keep his weapons tight in his hands. His father might approve of his bold attack on the rangers, but only if he came back with his weapons in good order. Buffalo Hump was always scornful of warriors who lost weapons in battle. A bow to him was a special thing—it should always be in the hands of the warrior it belonged to, not in the hands of his enemy. If the enemy had his bow, a witch doctor might be able to witch it in such a way that it would never shoot arrows accurately again. Rifles, to Buffalo Hump, were of lesser importance; they came from the whites and were not made with skills the Comanche had learned. The gun Buffalo Hump allowed Blue Duck to have was old and not very reliable, but it was a gun, and it would be foolish to let any gun fall into the hands of an enemy.
When Blue Duck stopped a minute he listened for the sound of horses. Surely the shooting had been heard in camp. Some warriors ought to be on their way to investigate. Now, to the east, the canyon rim was orange with light. If the rangers were following him they would soon be able to shoot at him from a long distance. He hurried as much as he could, trying to get well down into the canyon before light came, but he had to be careful. He did not want to lose his footing on a patch of ice and start rolling again.
Perhaps his father would come, Blue Duck hoped. Sometimes Buffalo Hump rode out just before dawn, on a short hunt. He was better than anyone in camp at surprising young deer at their morning feeding. Often he would arrive back in camp with a doe or a big yearling fawn slung over his horse. Buffalo Hump’s young wife, Lark, was good at working deerskins. She had made a soft cloak that Buffalo Hump could throw over his great hump. Lark was comely and plump—Blue Duck thought that Lark was one of the reasons his father had little interest in fighting. He preferred to stay with Lark, letting her feed him, and enjoying the warmth of her young body. Lark had
come from the band led by old Slow Tree, who was so afraid of Buffalo Hump that he had let him take the girl for only a few horses, a thing that made Kicking Wolf angry. He himself had bought two wives from old Slow Tree and had even tried to buy Lark before Buffalo Hump saw her. But Slow Tree had never given Kicking Wolf any bargains, when it came to purchasing wives; the contrary old chief had refused absolutely to let Kicking Wolf buy Lark only a month before he let her become the wife of Buffalo Hump.
Blue Duck limped on down and finally reached the floor of the canyon. When he looked up he saw to his astonishment that the Buffalo Horse was still at the canyon rim, high above him. Big Horse Scull was not on him—the horse was just standing there. It was a worrisome thing: the Buffalo Horse might be some kind of witch animal that would cause his death if he were not careful.
Blue Duck hurried as fast as he could, worried about the witch horse high above him. Probably it was the witch horse that had alerted Gun-in-the-Water, enabling him to put a bullet into Blue Duck without even aiming his gun. The more Blue Duck thought about it, the angrier it made him—the next time he had an opportunity to kill Gun-in-the-Water he meant to come on him while he slept and cut his throat—he vowed never again to embarrass himself by sending an arrow over an enemy’s head. There was no question of missing when you drew a knife across a man’s throat.
Blue Duck knew he had better get home and explain that a witch had been involved, before his father heard the story from someone else. Buffalo Hump had a way of knowing what had happened to one of his people before anyone else in the tribe. Old women told him things that they had heard from crows or hawks—things that had happened far from camp, so far that no warrior would have time to return and report. Some old woman might already have heard about the wild arrow from a bird, and told his father, which would not be a good thing, particularly not on a day when he had lost a horse—it was a loss his father would be sure to resent. The whites had a lot of horsemeat already; perhaps they would not even bother to butcher his horse, in which case he could go back later and get the meat and bring it to Lark, who was the only one who could cook for his father now. His other two wives were angry because of Lark and rarely lifted a hand to cook for Buffalo Hump now. Since he liked the plump young woman so much his older wives saw to it that she did all the work. One of the wives, old Heavy Leg, even made Lark go around the outside of the camp and collect the turds that people dropped in their shitting. Heavy Leg told Lark that they might need the turds for fuel, but that was absurd. The Comanches did not burn human turds for fuel, not in a wooded canyon where there were many buffalo chips to be gathered. When Lark protested, the two old wives, Heavy Leg and Hair-on-the-Lip, beat her with an axe handle they had found in a white man’s wagon. Hair-on-the-Lip got her name because she had a mustache, like a white man. Even so, Hair-on-the-Lip had been Buffalo Hump’s favorite wife for many years. Even now he sometimes made Lark leave the lodge so he could joke around with Hair-on-the-Lip.
Blue Duck walked halfway across the canyon—he was angry that no one had responded to the shooting and come to see if he was in trouble. Then he saw Slipping Weasel and Last Horse riding toward him. They were just trotting their horses, not in any hurry; even after they came close enough to see that he was limping they only put their horses into an easy lope. Buffalo Hump was not with them, nor were any of the other warriors. Though he was now in sight of the camp, no one was paying much attention. The sun had touched the bottom of the canyon now—people were just standing around looking at it, enjoying the warmth after so many cold days.
“You have a lot of blood on your leg,” Slipping Weasel said, when Blue Duck came limping up to them.
“Where did you get all that blood?” Last Horse inquired.
“Are you stupid? It’s my blood,” Blue Duck told them. “It’s my blood and it came from inside me.”
He regarded Slipping Weasel as one of the most ignorant members of the band. Why was it necessary to ask where he got the blood on him when it was obvious that he was wounded? Slipping Weasel was so dumb that Blue Duck tried to avoid going on raids with him. He made too many mistakes, and was forgetful as well. Once he had even forgotten a captive and the captive had drowned in a flooded creek, trying to run away.
“You have many wounds today—you have been busy,” Last Horse said, as if being wounded was a pleasant thing.
The two warriors were not trying to help him, particularly; they had just ridden over out of curiosity, to see what might have occurred. Even when they realized he was wounded they did not become any more helpful. Neither of them offered him a horse to ride to camp, a discourtesy that made him want to pull out his knife and stick it in both of them.
He wanted to, but he held back, afraid of what would happen if he killed them both. Slipping Weasel had already told him that the old men had talked to Buffalo Hump about sending him out of the tribe. It was because of his Mexican blood, Blue Duck felt sure. Several young men in the tribe had been born of white captives, or brown captives, and the old men didn’t like it. The half-breeds were sometimes driven out. The old men might tell his father that it was because of his behavior, his fighting, that he should be sent away, but Blue Duck didn’t believe it. They wanted to be rid of him because he carried his mother’s blood. He often thought of leaving the tribe himself, but hadn’t, because he was not ready and not equipped. He had only a poor gun, and now he had no horse. When he was ready he meant to leave of his own accord—one morning his father would just discover that he was gone. He would shame the old ones, though, by killing more whites than any of the young men who were pure blood, of the tribe.
“Get off your horse, I need it,” Blue Duck said, walking over to Slipping Weasel.
Slipping Weasel was shocked that Blue Duck would be so rude. There was a polite way to inquire about borrowing horses, but Blue Duck had not bothered about the polite way—more and more he did not bother with the polite way, which is why many of the younger warriors did not want to go with him when he wanted to hunt or raid. He was not a great chief, like his father. He could not simply order people to give him horses. It was true that he was wounded and would probably like to ride a horse to camp, but the camp was not far away. Why would he need a horse now, when he had to walk only a little distance farther?
Besides, Slipping Weasel and Last Horse had been thinking of going on a deer hunt. If Blue Duck had been badly hurt they would have helped him without question—but he wasn’t badly hurt. There was no reason they should waste time when the deer were farther down the canyon, waiting to be killed. Last Horse had seen them just at dusk—they would not have grazed far in one night, especially since they would have to paw at the sleety grass with their hooves before they could eat it.
“I see the Buffalo Horse up there,” Last Horse remarked. The whole rim of the canyon was bright now, with the sunny dawn.
“If he had stepped on you, you would not need to borrow anybody’s horse, because you would be dead,” he added. “That horse has big feet.”
“I see him standing up there,” Slipping Weasel said, looking up at the Buffalo Horse. He would have liked a closer look at the great horse—all the Comanches would have liked a closer look. But there was no way to get one without having to fight Big Horse Scull.
“I have heard that the Buffalo Horse can fly,” Last Horse said. “They say his wings are larger than the wings of many buzzards put together. If he flies down here while we are talking I am going to run away.”
“If he flies down here I will shoot him,” Slipping Weasel said. He too had heard the rumor that the Buffalo Horse could fly. He watched the horse closely; he too meant to run if the Buffalo Horse suddenly spread his wings and flew down at them.
Blue Duck didn’t bother replying to such foolishness. If the Buffalo Horse could fly, Scull would long ago have flown above the Comanche people and killed them all. His father had once told him that there were vision women who could teach a man to fly, but no one had introduced him to such a vision
woman. Buffalo Hump admitted that he himself might not be able to fly, because of the weight of his hump, but he thought that other men might be able to, if they could find the right old woman to teach them.
Blue Duck walked on away from the two men—he decided not to bother with their horses. The two vexed him so, that he might forget and kill them if he stayed around them; then he would be driven from the camp before he was ready to go.
When Blue Duck walked away, Slipping Weasel saw that most of his back was covered with fresh blood. The sight made him feel a little guilty. Blue Duck might have a worse wound than he and Last Horse supposed. What if he were to die before he reached camp? Men could die very suddenly, once they lost too much blood. One minute they might be walking and the next minute they might be dead.
Part Mexican or not, Blue Duck was the son of Buffalo Hump, and Buffalo Hump was their great chief. Though he didn’t seem to be particularly fond of Blue Duck, there was no telling what Buffalo Hump might do if his own son dropped dead from a wound received fighting the white men. It would come out, of course, that he and Last Horse had failed to lend him a horse, although he was bleeding a lot. It would not please Buffalo Hump; there was no telling what he might do.
With that in mind Slipping Weasel trotted after Blue Duck—the deer down the valley could wait a few minutes, before they were killed.
“You had better take my horse,” he said. “You have too much blood coming out of you—I don’t think you should be walking.”
Blue Duck ignored him. He was close to the camp now. Why should he take a horse when he had already done the walking?
Besides, now that he was close to camp and no longer had to fear that Gun-in-the-Water or Silver Hair McCrae would slide down the canyon wall and ambush him, he was in no great hurry to get home. He would soon have to admit to his father that he had lost a horse, and his father would not be pleased.
The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4) Page 56