It soon developed that he was right. Ahumado took the little pot of dye and drew a line from the nape of the caballero’s neck straight down to his heel. The line was not even an inch wide. Ahumado lifted the boy’s foot, drew the line across the sole of his foot, and stepped around him to the other side. Then he carefully continued the line all the way up to the boy’s chin.
Ahumado pulled the boy’s face around so he could look right in his eye.
“I do not raise horses for cougars to eat,” he said. “I am going to have Goyeto take an inch of your skin. Goyeto is so good with the knives that you may not feel it. But if you do feel it please don’t yell too much. If you disturb me with too much yelling I may have him skin your cojones or maybe one of your eyeballs.”
Then he walked back to his blanket and sat down. He could see that Tudwal was anxious to tell him something. Usually, while a torture was being performed, he made his couriers wait—it was hard to take in the news accurately when a man was screaming only a few feet away. But Tudwal had been sent north, toward the border, and it was never wise to ignore news from the border country.
He motioned to Tudwal, who came hurrying over. Just as he got there old Goyeto made a few cuts and began to peel the little strip of skin down the nape of the young caballero’s neck. The boy, not understanding that he was being given only a light punishment, began to scream as loudly as he could. As Goyeto pulled and cut, pulling the strip below the boy’s shoulder blades, the boy screamed so loudly that it was impossible to hear Tudwal’s news. Before the strip of skin was pulled away past his hips the boy fainted, and Goyeto stopped and squatted on his heels. Ahumado did not approve of him skinning unconscious men.
“Two Comanches are coming,” Tudwal said quickly. “They are almost to the Yellow Canyon now.”
Ahumado was disappointed by the quality of news from the north. Two Comanches were worthless. He had been hoping that Tudwal might have spotted a party of rich travelers, or perhaps a small troop of federales. The rich people might have money and jewels with them; the soldiers they could torture.
He motioned for Goyeto to get on with things, so Goyeto pricked the caballero’s cojones with the knives until he woke up. Soon he was screaming again, though not so loudly.
Of course Tudwal had known that Ahumado would not be excited to hear about the two Comanches; he decided to spring the news that he had been holding back.
“One of the Comanches is riding the Buffalo Horse,” he said. “Scull’s horse.”
Ahumado had been watching the practiced way Goyeto twisted the boy’s foot up and held it between his knees as he continued to peel the strip of skin across the sole. Goyeto’s expert knife work was a pleasure to watch. It took a moment for Tudwal’s information to register with him. The boy was screaming more loudly again.
“Scull’s horse?” Ahumado asked.
“Scull’s horse,” Tudwal said. “I have more news too.”
“You are a braggart,” Ahumado informed him. “You are no better than a crow.”
The old man’s face was thin. His eyes were as flint when he was displeased, and he was often displeased.
“But I am the Crow-Who-Sees,” Tudwal said. “I have seen the two Comanches and I have seen Scull. He is following the Comanches on foot, and he is alone.”
“Scull wants to kill me,” Ahumado mentioned. “If he is alone, why didn’t you catch him?”
“I am only a crow,” Tudwal said. “How can I be expected to catch such a fierce man?”
“I think Scull wants his horse back,” Ahumado said. “There is no other horse like the Buffalo Horse.”
“Maybe he wants his horse back, I don’t know,” Tudwal said. “Maybe he just wants to visit you.”
Ahumado watched as Goyeto worked the strip of skin up the boy’s leg. He worked with such delicacy that the wound hardly bled. Nonetheless, when the peel reached his hip, the young caballero fouled himself. Then, for the second time, he fainted.
“I am going to sell this boy as a slave, when he wakes up,” Ahumado said. “He is too cowardly to work for me. If the federales caught him and squeezed his cojones he might betray me.”
Tudwal agreed. Only a little skinning had reduced the young caballero to a sorry state.
“What do you think those Comanches want?” Ahumado asked. “I am asking you because you are the Crow-Who-Sees.”
Tudwal knew he had better be careful. When Ahumado was disappointed in one of his men, his disappointment could turn into fury, but a cold fury. The old man kept his eyes hidden and spoke in soft tones, so that the man he was angry with could not see, until it was too late, that his eyes were like those of a striking snake. Someone would be struck, usually to the death, when Ahumado began to question things.
“One of the Comanches is a man called Kicking Wolf,” Tudwal ventured. “He took the Buffalo Horse. Maybe he means to sell him to you.”
The old man, the Black Vaquero, said nothing. Tudwal was scared, and when he was scared he spoke nonsense. Ahumado did not buy horses from the Comanches, or do anything else with them except kill them. The best any Comanche could expect from him was a quick death. The Comanche who was bringing him the Buffalo Horse was doing a foolish thing, or else he was playing a trick. The man could well be a trickster of some sort, allied with a witch. If he was just a plain man with horse trading on his mind, he was making a foolish mistake.
“Go eat,” he told Tudwal. “Goyeto has to finish his work.”
Relieved, Tudwal left at once. Goyeto peeled the strip of skin up the unconscious caballero’s chest and up his neck to his chin. Then he cut it off and walked away with the thin, light strip. He meant to peg it out, salt it a little, and hang it in the big cave, with all the other human skins he had taken for Ahumado. On little pegs in the cave were more than fifty skins, a collection any skinner could be proud of. From time to time Ahumado would come into the big cave for a few minutes, take down the skins one by one, and admire them. He and old Goyeto would reminisce about the behavior of this captive or that. Some men, like the German who had tried to steal the rocks, behaved very bravely, but others, weak like the young caballero, were disappointing to work on. They broke down, fouled themselves, and bawled like babies.
Outside on his blanket, with the winter sun reflecting off the yellow walls of the canyon, Ahumado sat, thinking about the three men who were coming from the north—Big Horse Scull and the two Comanches. The notion that they had come for a visit was amusing. No one visited him in the canyon of the Yellow Cliffs.
When the time came for a visit, he would visit them.
4.
“WHAT WILL YOU SAY to the Black Vaquero when he catches us?” Three Birds asked.
They were camped in a long canyon with high walls, a place Three Birds didn’t like. He had lived his life on the open prairie and didn’t like sleeping beneath a cliff of rocks. Someone with the power to shake the earth could make one of the cliffs fall on them and bury them, a thing that could never happen on the plains. In his dream he had seen a great cliff falling and had awakened in a sweat.
Kicking Wolf had killed a small pig with spiky hair, a javelina, and was too busy roasting its bones to respond to Three Birds.
Then Three Birds remembered another bad story he had heard about the Black Vaquero, this one having to do with snakes. It was said that the old man had such power that he had persuaded the rattlesnake people to give up their rattles. It was said that Ahumado had many snakes with no rattles, who could crawl among his enemies and bite them without making a sound. Though Three Birds normally didn’t fear the snake people, he didn’t like the thought of rattlesnakes that made no sound. The pig they were eating was tasty, but not tasty enough to make him forget that the Black Vaquero had a number of evil ways.
“Have you heard about the snakes without rattles?” Three Birds asked. “There might be a few of them living in this canyon right here.”
“If you are going to talk all night I wish you would go home,” Kicking Wolf
said. “I don’t want to sleep tonight—I want to stay up and sing. If you want to sleep you had better go somewhere else.”
“No, I will sing too,” Three Birds said, and he did sing, far into the night. He had the feeling that they would be dead very soon and he wanted to sing as much as possible before death closed his throat.
The two Comanches sang all night and in the morning took pains to paint themselves correctly. They wanted to look like proud Comanche warriors when they rode into the camp amid the Yellow Cliffs, the camp of the hundred caves, where Ahumado had his stronghold.
Kicking Wolf was just about to mount the Buffalo Horse when he felt a change come. The sun had not yet struck the cliffs to the south; they were still filled with blue light. Three Birds had just finished painting himself when he felt the change. Sometimes, hours before a storm, the air would begin to change, though there was no sign of anything to fear.
That was how the air changed in the long canyon.
“I think he is here,” Kicking Wolf said, coming over to Three Birds.
Just then Three Birds saw a rattlesnake without rattles going under a rock near where they had their blankets. He knew then that Ahumado must be near. He wondered if Ahumado’s powers were such that he could turn himself into a snake and come near to spy on them. It might even have been Ahumado who crawled under the rock near where the blankets were. He didn’t mention his suspicion to Kicking Wolf, though—Kicking Wolf didn’t believe that people could turn themselves into animals, or vice versa, though he admitted that such things might have been possible in the old days, when the spirits of people had been more friendly with those of animals.
Then the Buffalo Horse snorted, and swung his head. He looked around the canyon, but didn’t move.
“I don’t want to camp in any more canyons,” Three Birds observed—he was about to outline his objections when he turned and saw an old man sitting on a high rock a little distance behind them. The rock and the man were in shadow still; it was hard to see them clearly. He sat cross-legged on the rock, a rifle across his lap. When the light improved a little they saw that he was as dark as an old plum.
Kicking Wolf knew that he was in great danger, but he also felt great pride. The old man on the rock was Ahumado, the Black Vaquero. Whatever his own fate might be, he had completed his quest. He had stolen the Buffalo Horse and brought him to the great bandit of the south; he had done it merely for the daring of doing it. If a hundred pistoleros rose up in the rocks and killed him, he would die happy in his courage and pride.
“I have brought you the Buffalo Horse,” Kicking Wolf said, walking closer to the rock where the old man sat.
“I see him,” Ahumado said. “Is he a gift?”
“Yes, a gift,” Kicking Wolf said.
“He is a big horse,” Ahumado said. “I shot him once but the bullet only scratched him. Why did you bring him to me?”
Kicking Wolf made no answer—there was no answer that could easily be put into words. He knew that at home, around the campfires, the young men would sing for years about his theft of the Buffalo Horse and his inexplicable decision to take him to Ahumado. Few would understand it—perhaps none would understand it. It was a thing he had done for no reason, and for all reasons and for no reason. He stood on his dignity as a Comanche warrior. He would not try to explain himself to an old bandit who was black as a plum.
“I will take this horse and the other one too,” Ahumado said. “You can go home but you will have to walk until you get to Texas. Then you can steal another horse.”
Kicking Wolf picked up his weapons. He and Three Birds started to walk out of the canyon past where Ahumado sat. But when Three Birds moved Ahumado made a motion with his rifle, pointing it directly at Three Birds.
“Not you,” he said. “Your friend can go but you must stay and be my guest.”
Three Birds didn’t argue. What had happened was exactly what he had expected would happen. He had come to Mexico expecting to die, and now he was going to die. He was not upset; it was a moment he had been waiting for since the shitting sickness killed his wife and his three children. He had wanted to die then, with his family, but his stubborn body had not wanted to go. But some of his spirit had gone with his wife and his little ones and he had not been able to attend much to the things of the world, since then. Now he had had a good journey with his friend Kicking Wolf—they had traveled together to Mexico. He did not want the evil old man to do bad things to him, but, as to his death, that he was at ease with. He immediately stretched up his arms and began to sing his death song.
Though Three Birds wasn’t upset, Kicking Wolf was. He did not like the disrespectful tone the old man had used when he addressed Three Birds. Even less did he like it that Ahumado meant to keep Three Birds a captive.
“This man helped me to bring you the Buffalo Horse,” he said. “He has come a long way to bring you this gift.”
Ahumado kept his rifle pointed at Three Birds. It was clear that he had no interest in what Kicking Wolf had just said.
Kicking Wolf was very angry. He had half expected to die when he had decided to bring the Buffalo Horse to Mexico. He knew that Ahumado was a very dangerous man who killed on whim, that death might be waiting for him in the canyon of the Yellow Cliffs. Besides, Three Birds had talked of little else on the trip except his conviction that Ahumado would kill them.
What he had not expected was that he would be spared and Three Birds taken. It angered him so that he had a notion to put an arrow through the old bandit immediately. Did he think a Comanche warrior would simply surrender his friend to torture and death? By that one stroke Ahumado made him seem a fool, the very thing Three Birds had been telling him he was, all the way south.
To make matters worse, Three Birds accepted the decision. He was already singing his death song and his eyes were looking far away.
As Kicking Wolf was about to draw his bow he saw three pistoleros to his left—they rose out of the rocks with their rifles pointed at him. Three more rose behind Ahumado.
“In my country rocks grow men,” Ahumado said.
Kicking Wolf dropped his weapons and made a gesture of surrender. He could not simply walk out of the canyon and leave Three Birds to his death. If it was to be death for one, it would be death for both. But Ahumado made a gesture with his hand and several horsemen rode out of the rocks swinging horsehide ropes. Kicking Wolf tried to run but before he could escape three lassos caught him. The horsemen began to drag him over the rough ground, out of the canyon. He could not see Three Birds for the dust his own body raised as the men spurred their horses and pulled him faster. They pulled him through a field of big rocks. Then his head hit one of the big rocks, which sent him into a black sleep. But, even as he sank into the darkness he thought he heard someone singing a death song.
5.
WHEN BUFFALO HUMP came into the big store in Austin, some of the warriors had found an old woman upstairs and had pulled her and had thrown her down the steps. Now they were dragging her through some white flour. They had killed the old man who owned the store with one of his own axes and had used the axe to chop open a couple of barrels of white flour. Some of the young warriors had never seen white flour and took delight in throwing it in the air and covering themselves with it. They also liked dragging the old woman through it while she shrieked. Two of the young warriors outraged her while Buffalo Hump picked out a few hatchets and put them in a sack. Then he came over and waited for the warrior who was outraging the old woman to finish. The woman’s husband was lying dead only a few feet away, while, outside, his warriors were setting buildings afire and killing people as they tried to escape the flames. Some warriors rode their horses into white people’s houses and looted everything they could carry. Six Texans were shot down in the street and scalped where they fell. The people of Austin ran like chickens and the Comanches pursued them like wolves, killing them as they ran with lances, or arrows, or tomahawks.
The raid had begun just at dawn but now t
he sun was well up. Buffalo Hump knew it was time to leave. The young men would have to throw away much of the loot they carried; they would not be able to carry it if there was a fast pursuit. They had killed four rangers in one little house but had seen no soldiers.
When the warrior got off the old, flour-splotched woman Buffalo Hump stood over her and shot three arrows into her chest. He shot them with all the force of his bow, so that the arrows went through the woman and nailed her to the floor. The woman died immediately, but Buffalo Hump didn’t scalp her. She was just an old woman whose thin hair was worthless.
He let his men take what baubles they wanted from the store, but told them to hurry. When he came outside he saw that some of his warriors had caught a blacksmith and were burning him to death on his own forge. One of them pumped the bellows and made the flames leap while the blacksmith screamed. The high flames set the man’s hair on fire.
In the street a young man with no trousers was running, pursued by three warriors. They had stolen ropes from the big store and were trying to rope him, as a vaquero would rope a cow. But they were warriors, not ropers, and they kept missing. Finally, unable to rope the young man, the warriors began to whip him with their ropes.
Then Red Cat joined the fun. He had stolen an axe with a long handle from the store. While the young man was fleeing, Red Cat swung the axe and tried to cut the young man’s head off. The blow killed him but his head was still on his neck. The warriors dragged him around for a while, to make sure he was dead. Then Red Cat finished cutting his head off and they threw his body in a wagon, along with some other bodies.
Buffalo Hump saw an old man rolling around in the street—he was dying but not quite dead. He rode over and did what he had done with the old woman with flour on her: he shot three arrows into the old man so hard that they went through him and pinned him to the ground.
The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4) Page 75