For a moment Clara wondered whether life was a happier affair with men, or without them.
Pearl, who had calmed a little, was walking back and forth, looking down the road where the rangers had gone. Her face was the shape of a moon and now looked like a moon that had been rained on.
“My baby’s a boy, I know it,” she said. “He’s going to need a pa.” In a few more minutes the sun came up and the women parted. Pearl, somewhat relieved, went back to her house. Two or three wagons were in the street now—Maggie Tilton discreetly went home through an alley, and Clara Forsythe, soon to be Clara Allen, walked slowly back to her parents’ store, wondering if, before the summer came, a child would be growing in her too.
Book II
1.
FOR THREE DAYS Buffalo Hump and his warriors rode south in a mass, singing and chanting during the day and dancing at night around their campfires. They were excited to be going to war behind their leader. Worm, the medicine man, made spells at night, spells that would bring destruction and death to the Texans. They flushed abundant game and ate venison and antelope when they rested. At night, when the half-moon shone, the warriors talked of killing, raiding, burning, taking captives, stealing horses. They were still well north of the line of settlements and forts—they were lords of the land they rode on and confident in their power. The young warriors, some of whom had never been in battle, did not sleep at night, from excitement. They knew their chance for glory lay at hand.
On the fourth morning Buffalo Hump stayed long at the campfire, watching some of the young men practice with their weapons. He was not pleased by what he saw. Many of the young warriors, his own son included, were not good with the bow. After he had watched for a while he called all the warriors together and issued an order that took everyone by surprise, even Worm, who knew what Buffalo Hump felt about the proper modes of warfare.
“Those of you who have guns, throw them down,” Buffalo Hump said. “Put them here in a pile, in front of me.”
More than two hundred warriors had firearms of some sort—old pistols or muskets, in most cases, but, in some instances, good, well-functioning repeating rifles. They prized their firearms and were reluctant to give them up. There were a few moments of silence and hesitation, but Buffalo Hump had planted himself before them and he did not look to be in a mood to compromise. Even Blue Duck, who far preferred the rifle to the bow, did not say anything. He did not want to risk being chastised by his father in front of so many warriors.
Buffalo Hump had not expected all the warriors to be happy with his order. He was prepared to have it challenged. Many of the warriors were from bands who scarcely knew him, over whom he held no authority—except the authority of his presence. But he had thought much about the great raid they had embarked on. He knew it might be his last chance to beat back the white man, to cleanse the land of them and make it possible for the Comanche people to live as they had always lived, masters of the llano and all the prairies where they had always hunted. He wanted the warriors who rode with him to fight as Comanches had always fought, with the bow and the lance—and there were reasons for his decision other than his devotion to the old weapons.
After he had faced the warriors for a time, Buffalo Hump explained himself.
“We do not need these guns,” he said. “They make too much noise. They scare away game that we might need to eat. Their sound carries so far the bluecoat soldiers might hear it. There are bluecoat soldiers in all the forts but we do not want to fight them yet. We will spread out soon. We will slip between the forts and kill the settlers before the soldiers know we are there. We must slip down on the settlers and go among them as quietly as the fog. We want to kill them before they can run and get the bluecoats. Kill them with your arrows. Kill them with your lances and your knives. Kill them quietly and we can ride on south and kill many more. We will go all the way to the Great Water, killing Texans.”
He stopped, so the warriors could think over what he had said. He had spoken slowly, trying to bring all his power into the words. His fear was that some of the young warriors would defy him and split off. They might make their own raid, shouting and raping, in the way of young warriors. But if such a thing occurred there could be no great raid into the large towns of the whites. There were many forts now, all along the Brazos and the Trinity. Unless they could get below the forts, into the country where white settlers were thick as sage, the soldiers would pour out of the forts and come after them. Then the Comanches would have to defend themselves, rather than bringing war to the settlements. It was not what he wanted, not what he had prayed for.
The half-moon was still visible in the morning sky. Buffalo Hump pointed to it.
“Tomorrow we will break into small parties,” he said. “We will fan out, as far as the headwaters of the Brazos. Go quietly between the forts and kill all the settlers you find. When the moon is full we will come back through the hills to the Colorado and strike Austin, and then San Antonio. When we have killed as many Texans as we can, we will go on to the Great Water. If the bluecoats come after us we can go into Mexico.”
The warriors listened silently. There was no sound in the camp except the stamping and snorting of horses. No one, though, had stepped forward to lay down his gun. Buffalo Hump feared, for a moment, that he was not going to be obeyed. The warriors were too greedy and too lazy to surrender a gun, even a poor gun. With guns they didn’t have to hunt so hard and carefully. Too many of them had ceased to depend on their bows, or to practice with them. He decided he had better keep speaking to them.
“Now is the time to fight as the old ones fought,” he said. “The old ones had no trouble killing Texans with our own weapons. It was only when we first tried to use guns that we lost battles to the Texans. The old ones believed in the power of their weapons. They fought so hard that they made the Texans run back down the rivers. We took their women and made their children captives. The Mexicans feared us worse than they feared their own deaths. Leave your guns here and let us make war like the old ones made it.”
At that point old Yellow Foot pushed through the crowd and put his musket on the ground. The musket looked even older than Yellow Foot, one of the oldest warriors to come on the raid. He had wrapped buffalo sinew around the gun so that the barrel would not jump off the stock when he shot at something. It was such a bad gun that no one wanted to stand near Yellow Foot when he shot it, for fear that it might do more damage to them than to whatever Yellow Foot was shooting at.
Nevertheless, Yellow Foot was very proud of his gun and wasted many bullets shooting at game that was too far away to hit. Twice he had killed young horses because his vision was poor and he mistook them for deer. Buffalo Hump was pleased when he saw the old warrior come forward. Though a little crazy, Yellow Foot was much respected in the tribe because he had had over a dozen wives in his life and was known to be an expert on how to give women such extreme pleasure that they would remain jolly for weeks and not complain as other women did.
“I am leaving my gun,” Yellow Foot said. “I don’t want to smell all that gun grease anymore.”
All the older warriors soon followed Yellow Foot’s example and put their guns in a pile. Buffalo Hump said no more, but he did not move or look away, either. He looked from warrior to warrior, making them face and accept his command or else reject it in front of everybody. In the end only one warrior, a small, irritable man named Red Cat, refused to put his weapon on what had become a great pile. Though Blue Duck was almost the last man to lay his gun on the pile, he did finally put it there. Red Cat, who was indifferent to what any chief thought, kept his rifle.
Buffalo Hump did not want to make too big an issue of one gun.
“If you are going to keep that smelly gun, then raid far to the west, where the Brazos starts,” he asked. “If there are any Texans out that way, you can shoot them. I don’t think there are any bluecoats out there to hear you.”
Red Cat made no answer, but he thought it was stupid of old Buffalo
Hump to leave behind so many guns. He meant, when he had time, to slip back to where the guns were and pick out a new rifle for himself.
2.
WHEN FAMOUS SHOES saw that the tracks of the Buffalo Horse were going straight into the Sierra Perdida, he sat down on a rock to think about it. Scull was studying a small cactus, for reasons Famous Shoes could not fathom. Very often Scull would notice a plant he was not familiar with and would stop and study it for many minutes, sometimes even sketching it in a small notebook he carried. Sometimes he would ask Famous Shoes about the plant, but often it would be a plant Famous Shoes had no use for and knew little about. Some plants were useful and many were very useful, yielding up medicines or food or, as in the case of some cactus buds, yielding up important visions. But, as with people, some plants were completely useless. When Scull stopped for a long stretch to examine some fossil in the rocks or some useless plant, Famous Shoes grew impatient.
Now he was very impatient. The little cactus Scull was studying was of no interest at all—all anyone needed to know about it was that its thorns were painful if they stuck you. Now the situation they faced was apt to be far more painful than the thorns of any cactus. They were near the country of Ahumado, the Black Vaquero, a man who had wounded Scull once and who would do worse than wound him if he took him prisoner. Scull needed to recognize that their situation was perilous. Under such circumstances, studying a cactus was not the proper behaviour for a captain.
When Scull finally came over to where he sat, Famous Shoes pointed at the mountains.
“Kicking Wolf has taken your horse into the Sierra,” he said. “Three Birds is still with him, but Three Birds does not want to go into the Sierra very much.”
“I doubt that he does, but how can you tell that from a track?” Scull asked.
“I can’t tell it from the tracks,” Famous Shoes said. “I can tell it because I know Three Birds and he is not crazy. Only a crazy man would ride into the country of Ahumado.”
“That qualifies me for the asylum, then, I guess,” Scull said. “I went there once and got shot for my trouble and now I’m going again.”
“Some of the mexicanos think Ahumado has lived forever,” Famous Shoes said.
“Well, they’re a superstitious people,” Scull said. “I expect they have too many gods to worry about. The good thing about the Christian religion, if you subscribe to it, is that you only have to worry about the wrath of one God.”
Famous Shoes didn’t respond. Often he could only understand a small fraction of what Scull was talking about, and that fraction was of little interest. What he had just said made him seem a fool. No intelligent man would walk the earth long without realizing that there were many gods to fear. There was a god in the sun and in the floor, a god in the ice and in the lightning, not to mention the many gods who took their nature from animals: the bear god, the lizard god, and so on. The old ones believed that when eagles screamed they were calling out the name of the eagle god.
He thought that Scull would do well not to criticize Ahumado’s gods, either—even if the Black Vaquero hadn’t lived forever, he had certainly lived a long time. Men did not live to a great age in dangerous country without cleverness in placating the various gods they had to deal with.
“We are in Ahumado’s country now,” Famous Shoes said. “He may show up tomorrow. I don’t know.”
“Well, Kicking Wolf’s ahead of us with my horse,” Scull said. “If he does show up he’ll have to take care of Kicking Wolf first.”
“Ahumado is always behind you,” Famous Shoes said. “That is his way. These mountains are his home. He knows trails that even the rabbit and the cougar have forgotten. If we go into his country he will be behind us.”
Inish Scull thought the matter over for a moment. The mountains were blue in the distance, dotted with shadows. The way into them was narrow and craggy, he remembered that from his first assault. He picked up a small stick and began to draw figures in the dirt, geometric figures. He drew squares and rectangles, with now and then a triangle.
Famous Shoes watched him draw the figures. He wondered if they were symbols having to do with the angry Christian God. In Austin Scull sometimes preached sermons—he preached from the platform of the gallows that stood behind the jail. Many people gathered to hear Scull preach—white people, Indians, mexicanos. Many of them could not understand Scull’s words, but they listened anyway. Scull would roar and stomp when he preached; he behaved like a powerful medicine man. The listeners were afraid to leave while he was preaching, for fear he would put a bad spell on them.
“I think you ought to find this man Three Birds and take him home,” Scull said, when he had finished drawing the little shapes in the dirt. “He ain’t crazy and you ain’t either. What’s left to do had best be done by crazy folks, which means myself and Mr. Kicking Wolf.
“If I was perfectly sane I’d be on a cotton plantation in Alabama, letting my wife’s ugly relatives support me in high style,” he added.
Famous Shoes thought he knew why Kicking Wolf was taking the Buffalo Horse to Ahumado, but it was a subtle thing, and he did not want to discuss it with the white man. It was not wise to talk to white men about certain things, and one of them was power: the power a warrior needed to gain respect for himself. He himself, as a young man, had been sickly; it was only since he had begun to walk all the time that his health had been good. Earlier in his life he had done many foolish things in order to convince himself that he was not worthless. Once in the Sierra Madre, in Chihuahua, he had even crawled into the den of a grizzly bear. The bear had not yet awakened from its winter sleep, but spring was coming and the bear was restless. At any time the bear might have awakened and killed Famous Shoes. But he had stayed in the den of the restless bear for three days, and when he came out the power of the bear was with him as he walked. Without risk there was no power, not for a grown man.
That was why Kicking Wolf was taking the Buffalo Horse to Ahumado—if he went into Ahumado’s stronghold and survived he could sing his power all the way home; he could sing it to Buffalo Hump and sit with him as an equal—for he would have challenged the Black Vaquero and lived, something no Comanche had ever done.
There was nothing crazy in such behavior. There was only courage in it, the courage of a great warrior who goes where his pride leads him. When he was younger Buffalo Hump had often done such things, going alone into the country of his worst enemies and killing their best warriors. From such daring actions he gained power—great power. Now Kicking Wolf wanted great power too.
“You brought me where I asked you to bring me and you taught me to track,” Scull said. “If I were you I’d turn back now. Kicking Wolf and me, we’re involved in a test, but it’s our test. You don’t need to come with me. If you meet my rangers on your way home, just give them the news.”
Famous Shoes did not quite understand the last remark.
“What is the news?” he asked.
“The news is that I’m off to the Sierra Perdida, if anyone cares to know,” Scull said.
Then he walked away, following the tracks of his big horse, toward the blue mountains ahead.
3.
THEY HAD REMOVED the young caballero’s clothes and were tying him to the skinning post outside the big cave when Tudwal came loping into camp with news he thought Ahumado would want to hear. Ahumado sat on a blanket outside the cave, watching old Goyeto sharpening his skinning knives. The blades of the old man’s knives were thin as razors. He only used them when Ahumado wanted him to take the skin off a man. The young caballero had let a cougar slip into the horses and kill a foal. Though Ahumado never rode, himself—he preferred to walk—he was annoyed with the young man for letting a fine colt get eaten by the cougar.
Ahumado also preferred sun to shade. Even on the hottest days he seldom went into the big cave, or any of the caves that dotted the Yellow Cliffs. He put his blanket where the sun would shine on it all day, and, all day, he sat on it. He never covered himself fr
om the sun—he let it make him blacker and blacker.
Tudwal dismounted well back from the skinning post and waited respectfully for Ahumado to summon him and hear his news. Sometimes Ahumado summoned him quickly, but at other times the wait was long. When the old man was meting out punishment, as he was about to do, it was unwise to interrupt him, no matter how urgent the news. Ahumado was deliberate about everything, but he was particularly deliberate about punishment. He didn’t punish casually; he made a ceremony of it, and he expected everyone in camp to stop whatever they were doing and attend to what was being done to the one receiving the punishment.
When the young caballero, stripped and trembling with fear, had been securely tied to the skinning post, Ahumado motioned for old Goyeto to come with him. The two men were about the same age and about the same height, but of different complexions. Goyeto was a milky brown, Ahumado like an old black rock. Goyeto had seven knives, which he wore on a narrow belt, each in a soft deerskin sheath. He was bent almost double with age, and only had one eye, but he had been skinning men for Ahumado for many years and was a master with the knives. He carried with him a little pot of blue dye to mark the places that Ahumado wanted skinned. The last man whose skin he had removed entirely was a German who had tried to make away with some rocks he had taken from one of Ahumado’s caves. Ahumado did not like his caves disturbed, not by a German or anybody.
It was rare, though, for him to order a whole man skinned—often Goyeto would only skin an arm or a leg or a backside, or even an intimate part. Tudwal didn’t expect him to be that hard on the young vaquero, who had only made a small, understandable mistake.
The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4) Page 74