“Yore people live in freakin’ Mexico,” says Cha’a.
“My ancestors, not me. We speak Rarámuri, and I speak bloody English because my white mother does. I grew up Brit, more or less.”
“If you had western clothes,” says Cha’a, looking her up and down. “It would help. Them robes is too foreign. And too identifiable as us. I had any spares, I’d loan you some.”
Zastee shudders at the thought.
“My clothes is fashionable here,” says Cha’a, with a wry twist of her lips. “We’ll find a store.”
“Blast,” she says. But, Cha’a is right, the robes are a dead giveaway.
They head back to the road and turn toward the main part of town, once more.
As they walk past the first few houses, people turn to stare.
There are horsemen and freight wagons traveling the streets along with them. Cowhands, gamblers, ruffians. And ladies of the evening, out for a stroll with their parasols held high to protect their fair complexions.
“That woman there looks like a pure dee schoolmarm,” says Cha’a, of a woman walking on the opposite side of the street from the harlots. Her nose is held high in disdain. “A sure sign that we have done found civilization. Like to be churches built here, too. Preachers preachin’. All that stuff. Fer better or worse.”
Zastee nods, but keeps her eyes on the ground.
“What they all starin’ at, anyhow?” asks Cha’a.
“Me walking beside you,” she says, out of the corner of her mouth. “Niggers are supposed to walk three bloody steps behind, eh?”
“Fuck that,” says Cha’a. “I got bullets fer folk like that. ‘Sides, niggers have kinky hair.”
“Injins then.” The girl turns to face her. “Chinamen, the lot. Everyone who isn’t bloody white.”
“Bastards.”
“What do you bloody care?” asks Zastee, surprised at the pale girl’s venom.
“I got a brown husband, in-laws, too. And Mose, whose ancestors was African.” She looks at Zastee. “You know damn well us MadDogs come in all shades and from many continents, tan to black.”
“Sure, okay,” says Zastee, sucking it up. “Unfortunately, I got stuck with one of the bloody damned blondes.”
Cha’a grins. “I’m all you deserve.”
“Blasted bitch,” says Zastee.
Cha’a grins at her. “Evil cunt.”
“Hey,” says Góshé. “What about me?”
“You, young sir, are an enchanting mahogany brown,” says Zastee, stealing a glance at him. “Like your handsome father.”
“Yeah, Ma’cho,” says the boy. “He’s an Apache warrior like me.”
“Hey, boy,” says Cha’a. “No Apache talk. We can’t act like Injins in a white town. Don’t wanna be scalped, eh?”
“Hey,” he says, peering around. “Ma’cho told me that white men invented scalping. Taught it to Injins.”
“True, but that’s Injin talk, too,” she says. “Cool it.”
“He’s only bloody six,” says Zastee. “People will discount it as a child’s imaginative play. Children love cowboys and Injins. Little enough one’s that haven’t been attacked by them or heard about the scalping and torture anyway.”
“It goes both ways,” says Cha’a indignant.
“I bloody well know,” she says. “It’s a longstanding feud now. No telling which side is the worst.”
“It’s fuckin’ genocide is what it is,” says Cha’a. “They won’t be happy til the last of us is dead.”
“The last Injin or the last Viking?”
“Yeah, I know, I’m related to both sides of the dispute.” She sighs.
“Anyhow, I hope they ignore him,” says Cha’a, peering around at the gawkers. “Sometimes the little guy sounds sixteen, though.”
“Yeah, sixteen,” says Góshé, beating on his chest with his fists.
“It seems to be his favorite number,” says Cha’a, bright eyed. Then, she sobers. “Hey, I don’t know about you, but I value my particular scalp.
“So do I,” says Zastee, running her fingers through her new hairdo.
55 Bigan: Raising Hair
Bigan pulls his fingers out of the track, hand headed for his pistol grips, as he shoots a glance up at the ridge.
There is a line of four legged silhouettes there above him on top of a square-edged bluff. His first thought is of dinosaurs. Shit.
He blinks, shaking his head.
His eyes focus. The sight he sees up there? Only men, not monsters.
The very best men to their allies, who are few, and the very worst to their enemies. They are considered by many to be world’s greatest fighting force.
A line of riders, Injins, lounging on their steeds. Lances and bows held casually in hand.
He laughs to himself at the fright. Bigan is not usually one to frighten. Not at anything.
He waves at them and shouts a boisterous greeting. Hoping, no, expecting acceptance.
Firmly held belief is as important between men as it is between man and horse. Confidence rules. With perseverance and belief in yourself, you can move mountains.
Too far away for talk, he must resort to sign language, the lingua franca of the plains. A language Ma’cho and Güero have taught him, of subtle moves and signs. Of fingers and hands held at precise places, their movements fluid. Ten fingers are a must.
He has had to devise his own version, close enough he hopes, after months of practice, that strangers can understand his personal variation with one fluid hand and one stiff steel hook.
Right now, his life depends on it.
His outfit looks pretty much like theirs. Men judge each other by their clothes. Why he was careful to dress Nemene. Comanche. And ride Magpie. Just like he did in the half-forgotten dream.
They raise their lances high. Holding them there. He waits, smiling in a friendly way. And signing his peaceful intentions.
After a long, interminable pause while they watch his signs, and a lengthy conference among themselves, they wave their lances at him in welcome. He waves back and rides up to join the band.
He had sent up a thin smoke signal before. In case Güero hadn’t yet found and spoken to them. Hoping some one of the People would be near and spot it. Just to be sure.
The dream had said that they too shared the premonition, but he didn’t dare trust it. All he trusts is his belief that Cha’a is too special to lose.
By the time he arrives at the ridgetop, the bronzed warriors have a tiny smoke going. Big enough for hospitality, yet small enough it won’t attract undue attention.
The Nemene are standing around it. All but a few perimeter guards.
Bigan dismounts. He tries his bits of Comanche and expands with English and Spanish. A tall fellow strides forward.
“Quanah Parker,” he says. “Quahadi.”
Quanah is about six feet tall, with dark brown skin, high cheekbones, a straight, narrow nose and pale grey eyes. He is almost a head taller than the others. And almost a head shorter than Bigan.
Bigan dips his head and introduces himself to the much smaller men. The Comanche are a short people. The opposite of his six and half feet.
“Greetings cousins, I am Bigan Dalaá,” he says, smiling, gripping each one’s forearm with his hand. “Thank you for answering my call. I am honored to meet you.”
He briefly explains the clan connection.
He has heard about Quanah from his grandparents and also read a few stories.
Although the Comanche and Apache are sworn enemies, the Comanche tradition of taking women as hostages of war and breeding with them has brought many different bloods, including Apache, European and Mexican, into their ranks. The use of his Apache name doesn’t faze them.
In fact, Quanah’s height and European features attest to the mixing. His mother was a famous white eyes hostage of war who married a Comanche war chief. And would never have left him had her kin not kidnapped her back.
Quanah, having been raised Coman
che, speaks a clipped version of English. Much like Ma’cho has chosen to do. He is a famous fighter among the Nemene and their elected leader.
Quanah’s first wife was a Mescalero Apache woman.
The Comanche are a patriarchal culture. So, when the two married, they went to live with his people. But, she missed her clan, the Apache being matriarchal, so left him after a short time.
The Quahadi return their names in kind and invite him to sit. He lowers himself, cross-legged, between two of them. All are seated around the little blaze, the center of life. The pipe is passed.
He tells the tale of his journey here. And, despite his earlier reticence, of his dream. No, his nightmare.
Comanche lives are ruled by dreams, prophecies and legends. They understand without question. Like Ma’cho will if he shares it with him.
There are oohs and ahs of approval over his journey, and grunts of dismay as they have him repeat the evil dream foretelling his loss of Cha’a.
As they share one of many pipes, more stories are swapped. The moccasin telegraph at work.
He and his cousins talk long of the lineage, the ties between them. Their shared ancestry has an extended provenance. They can each add new information to the centuries long oral clan history which is carefully memorized by each man.
Much head shaking and amulet rubbing is done at the wonder of the universe above and around them. They talk of the vastness; the country around them, the stars and suns above. And the closeness; horses and family.
But, not of the confinement. The loss of their nomadic life and traditional ways to the evil white eyes. Twenty-odd years later, the wound may still be too fresh.
A whole generation of youngsters, ones who never knew the wild life, have grown to adulthood. Only the stories.
The distant storms come near, the crashes of thunder and lightning threaten, but other than the occasional smattering of huge drops, never arrive.
As the afternoon fades, he tells them, “I saw a herd of deer earlier, they should be grazing above in the hills.”
Quanah grunts. There are nods of approval around the circle.
“That is,” he says. “If deer is good enough for antelope eaters.”
They laugh. Quahadi means ‘eaters of antelope’.
“We go soon,” says Quanah, lighting another pipe.
Magnificent sunset colors wax and wane. Each fading into the other: oranges, reds, purples, and blues color the noctilucent clouds as the sun says goodnight.
They gather their ponies and ride out into the late twilight. Bigan takes out his rifle and rides along with them.
The herd is not far, browsing peacefully on spring forbs. They have stayed long in the low country, waiting for the late, deep snowpack above to melt.
The Comanche braves tell him it’s safe to shoot carefully.
While they are allowed off the reservation to hunt as long as they stay south of the Arkansas river; it is best to avoid the white eyes. Feelings among the local settlers still run high.
They can’t afford not to hunt though; few government rations ever reach them. Starvation is becoming a way of life. Leaving them weak, and with far too many untimely deaths.
And Quanah still feels vengeful. The bluecoats killed his father. White eyes are no friends of his.
They are far from all but the Rourke Ranch a few miles upstream, and the tiny settlement of Dolores, a similar distance downstream.
Between their bows and his rifle, they kill an even dozen deer. His risking of the one shot is relatively safe. One shot by itself is hard to triangulate.
And they are well up out of the bottom, where the buildings lay. Chances are slim that the small caliber shot was heard at all.
“A day to remember,” he says, when they get back to the fire to cook up a meal of innards. “A reminder of shining times.”
The fierce men grunt and nod in agreement.
“Alas brother, we must ride,” says their leader, sucking the marrow out of a bone. “Our home is many day’s ride. We have spare horses. Ride fast. Our people need meat now. Come, meet them.”
“I am honored. I also have fresh elk meat in my packs to share,” says the big, tanned man.
The chief nods peremptorily and says. “We have not much fresh meat now. We welcome you at our fires, cousin.”
As they ride east toward the reservation, the Comanche ask him for more details of the missing women and child.
Bigan tells them of his warrior wife. A tall, beautiful Apache/Osage woman, a strong son. And the new Rarámuri, a troubled girl. How Cha’a is a good partner. A hardened killer in battle; a saucy temptress under the blankets.
Word is passed up and down the line of former warriors. Alas, they have heard nothing of the lost ones. There are vows to keep a listening ear to the ground.
The new friends make haste, eastward bound.
56 Zastee: Pancakes
“Hey, I think we’d best switch to white names here,” says Cha’a. “What’s yores? Bessie, Jemima, Missy?”
“Damn you to bloody hell,” says Zastee, thinking her spirit name, Mia, is too like Missy. “It’s Jet, like the stone. Ma’cho named me. Remember?”
Cha’a is grinning at her discomfiture. “Sure I do. And it’s good, it sounds like a man’s name. Once we get you the cowboy clothes, you’ll be Jet Black.”
Jet shakes her head. “Blast.”
Cha’a chuckles.
Is the woman that insensitive?
“I always go by Bob when I cross dress up,” the bombshell says. “And Doug is the name Góshé’s adoptive parents give him.”
“Bob and Doug, fine,” says Jet.
“Doug?” Bob asks. “What’s my name?”
“Bob.” He points. “And she’s Jet.”
“Okay. Doug, Bob and Jet it is,” says Cha’a/Bob. “We need to find our damn men. You got any ideas?”
“I’m a man,” says Góshé.
“Don’t forget, Bob, you’re a bloody man, too,” says Jet. “With that smooth face, you look about eighteen.”
Bob nods at her and turns to the boy, saying, “Six going on sixteen is a boy yet, Dougie.”
“I’ve got no bloody damn men,” says Jet. “And no need for any of the lascivious bastards.”
Bob snorts.
“I don’t,” she repeats.
“What about me?” asks Doug.
“Ah, well, that’s different,” asks Jet, melting at the look in little boy’s lavender eyes. “Would you care to be my boyfriend?”
Doug slaps at her and says, “No way!”
She pokes him in the stomach.
He giggles so hard, she reaches out to be sure he doesn’t slide out of the saddle. The lightness improves her mood.
“First, we need money,” says Bob, all business. “Since you apparently ain’t got no female hormones, we can’t sell yore body. What other skills you got?”
“I’m no man’s slave,” she says.
Bob grins, then sobers. He dips his head and says, “Sorry, not funny.”
“Rather,” says Jet, feeling the ultra-black that she is. Damned bloody ancestors, what a thing to share with your children. She has hazel eyes though, bright reddish orange. And fine Norse features. A mixed bag, she is.
“A breed,” says Bob, reading her mind.
“What?” Jet asks, instantly pissed off. Again.
“I’ll wager that they’ll call you a half breed,” Bob says, showing his palms in surrender at her dark look. “Don’t get yore back up. That’s just the word they use here. What’s the Brit word?”
“No matter,” Jet replies, not wanting to voice it. “We’ll not hear much Brit in bloody Colorado.”
They walk a while, ignoring the curious citizens. A small Injin boy and two very tall people. One, a dark woman in foreign looking robes. The second, a blonde cowboy. Plus, the huge white dog, who has stayed with them this time. And a flashy spotted sorrel horse. It’s an uncommon mix. Which works against their need to keep a low profile.
“There’s a livery,” says Bob. “We get you a sidearm, blue jeans and a hat, you’ll fit in better.”
“Blasted ugly hats,” says Jet. “No matter. I’ve not any money for anything.”
“Keep you from gettin’ sunburned,” says Bob, grinning and tilting the brim of his at some well-dressed ladies.
“Damn you.”
“And I got…” Bob reaches into his pocket. “This big ass shiner.”
He opens his hand so only Zastee can see it.
“What?”
“The dead gal give it and a few smaller ones to me. We need to find the assay office if my skirts prove to be empty.”
“Blimey.”
“New clothes it is,” says Cha’a.
“I’m hungry, Ma.”
“Not Ma, Pa,” says Bob, out of the corner of his mouth. “Or, better yet, Bob. Okay?”
Góshé nods and looks at Jet. “Will you be my Ma?”
“If you say it by mistake, I will be until I get my damn cowboy clothes,” says Jet. “But Jet or silence is best here.”
Doug nods.
“Hey,” says Bob. “You stick with me, help me with Doug here, I’ll keep you alive. But, you decide to go yore own way, that’s okay, too. Yore choice.
“If my guys were here, we’d be rippin’ on each other over this, big time. Just a habit. I ain’t gonna go easy on you, ‘cause a goodly share of the local folks won’t go easy. It’s easier to take, if you get used to hearin’ it from a kindred spirit. The slap don’t feel so sharp the second time around.”
“Blast,” Jet says. “I bloody well know. You’ve met Kabó.”
“That white bastard is really yore brother?” She sounds incredulous.
Jet looks sharply at Bob and sees the smile in his eyes. “Okay, right, I bloody well give. Do yore damnedest you bloody idiot of a blonde.”
“There we go, sister, kick my ass,” says Bob, grinning as he turns down the street toward the livery.
“I’m not your bloody sister.”
“Yep, my sister is dark brown, not black.”
Zastee scoffs, but realizes she’s being a bitch. She grew up in a world where she and her da were the only nonwhites.
Bob is mixed heritage, too. He knows all about it. It’s still the bloody shits, though. There’s no way a blonde could know just how awful it is.
Hell of a Horse Page 15