Wild Blood

by Kathryn Lasky

Wait and they will come, Pego thought to himself. He had been following the Burnt River Clan for a few days. Their leader was immediately identifiable for the peculiar kind of “crown” that he wore. It was unlike any of the gold, jewel-studded royal crowns he’d seen in the Old Land. From the center of this “crown” the antlers of a deer soared, and from its branches hung the curved fangs of a mountain cat. The chieftain carried a club that was similarly festooned with the claws and teeth of ferocious animals. Striding beside him was a large brutal dog. He had all the accoutrements of power, and yet Pego smelled weakness, fear, and vanity. Perfect! thought Pego. He is ready to meet his god! And I am that god!

  For the next day and a half, Pego laid down meticulous clues, not only his hoofprints, but his waste. The dog was quick to find every clue. But Pego played it cleverly, continuing to elude the chieftain and the dog until he felt the time was exactly right. He had to admit to himself that he had learned a great deal from the traitorous coyote. Hadn’t the creature made him wait until the time was perfect to reveal himself to El Miedo? So now he waited for the ideal night, a flawless night when the moon was a quarter, not half, and when his constellation, Pegasus, was rising in the eastern sky. There could be no mist, not a drop of vapor to dull the starlight. His dark coat, nearly as black as the sky, would catch the reflection of those heavenly bodies, from the sceptered moon to the starry constellations.

  This perfect night had finally arrived. From his vantage point concealed by a thick stand of scrub, he could hear the dog’s panting and the footfalls of his master, the chieftain. There was no wind, and as the chieftain drew closer, Pego caught the small clacking sounds of the fangs and claws that jiggled from his headdress and club. Cloaked in symbols of power, this fool human thrust through the night.

  Pego watched the transit of the moon. He wanted it to be directly over his own head, to hover like a celestial crown. He waited patiently, his heart pounding in his chest. A few more heartbeats. One … two … three … four … He erupted from the scrub and, with his magnificently arched back, reared and pawed at the sky. He felt the rush of the Pura Raza blood in his veins, the bloodlines of the Jennets, the Barbs, the most noble horses to gallop across the earth. God’s horses.

  It worked precisely as Pego had thought. The chieftain was overwhelmed and so was the dog. They fell to their knees, trembling in awe and fear. Pego reared two, three times. Then began to buck. The ground shook. The chieftain and his dog cowered, but they were transfixed and could not scrape their eyes from this spectacle. Then it all stopped. Stopped as suddenly as it began. The horse, glistening in sweat, stood perfectly still. The chieftain dared not breathe. What happened next was perhaps the most miraculous moment of all. This mighty creature began to walk slowly, almost docilely toward him and his dog. He halted a short distance away, and slowly but effortlessly, considering his size, Pego lowered himself onto his knees in a gesture of complete submission and obeisance. The reflections of the stars still gleamed on his dark coat. It was as if a piece of the heavens had been torn from the night; it was as if a celestial god had descended to pay homage to an earthly god.

  Pego was surprised, but the chieftain sat well astride him. He had fashioned a crude halter from rope and with a bit made of bone was able to guide Pego to where he wanted to go. He had no saddle, of course, but had slung a blanket over his back. He had no spurs, either. But such tackle and tools were unnecessary. Pego and the chieftain had an understanding. But they were not equals. That was important. The chieftain thought that Pego was truly a god and that the horse could give him power, the power he needed not just to lead as a chieftain but to dominate the people of the Burnt River Clan and the clans beyond. The clans of the Blue Deer People, the Bone River People, the Walking Bear People, and the People of the Salt. All these he could control — a territory so vast that it would reach to the edges of where the Mighties grew from the earth and where the legend said more gods dwelled.

  His people, those of the Burnt River, were impressed. His mate had become even more docile and without his prompting began making her corn mush stew for the horse. Now, as Pego carried the chieftain through the encampment, the people parted. They were trembling, and their eyes were wide with fear and reverence. Respect, thought the chieftain. Veneración, thought Pego in the language of the Old Land. “Commander,” whispered the chieftain. Dios, Pego neighed softly. Tyrant and devil, thought the chieftain’s mate, Pinyot. The woman was trembling so much that the pan of grain she had just roasted nearly spilled from her hands. The dark stallion liked this. Her fear, the people’s fear, was as nourishing as the grain the woman carried. He knew his old master, El Miedo, dreamed of gold and dominion, dreamed of becoming a king in this new world. But he, Pego, could become a god — and kings served gods. And lest that stupid man had forgotten, gods could, with one buck, throw kings from their backs.

  Little Coyote woke up with a start, the strange encounter with the owl still weighing heavy on his mind. “I have a mission. I am to be called upon. But called upon for what?”

  The owl had said he had a mission to complete. But surely she couldn’t have meant it. How can I help them when I seek vengeance for killing my father? And even if I knew how to help, they would never trust me. The boy wears the pelt of my father on his shoulders, with my father’s head atop his own head. Does he need another coyote pelt to keep him warm? Another head?

  “Called upon?” He murmured to himself. “Called upon to help the horses?”

  All through the next day and into the night and then another day, Little Coyote shadowed the first herd. Initially, he tracked them as he would any enemy, but soon he came to know them as well as he had ever known any creatures.

  The filly Estrella was anxious. He could tell. Even in her sleep, she muttered to herself. Despite the fact that Little Coyote had never exchanged a word with her, he felt her anguish. He also listened to the natterings of the two old mares, who did not seem anxious like the filly. He could tell that these two were very kind and gentle.

  You can’t think like that, he reminded himself. The hide of your father is worn by the boy Tijo. And Little Coyote’s honor depended on avenging his father. He would have to kill one of them, exact a price. But which one should pay? The boy who wore his father’s head? That would be justice — wouldn’t it?

  The boy was closer to Little Coyote’s size than the rest of the herd, but he was quick and alert. The colts, Verdad and Sky, were curious but easily distracted. Little Coyote, who had been watching them from behind a dense thicket of sagebrush since the sun had set, shifted his position. He could tell the wind was about to change. The remarkable blind stallion could tell, too. He seemed to know things before they happened. Little Coyote lived in fear that the old fellow they called Hold On would discover him. He knew that these creatures would revile him if they ever caught his scent, for he dragged with him a horrible history. The history of his father’s betrayals of the first herd.

  And yet Little Coyote was inexorably drawn to them — to the daring and fearless filly, the wise old stallion Hold On, the steady mule Yazz. All of them, from the two elderly mares, Corazón and Angela; to the bold stallions, Grullo, Arriero, and Bobtail; and the young colts, Verdad and Sky. Although they shared not one drop of blood, this herd was a family. Little Coyote had never been part of anything despite the blood he had shared with his father, and now he was torn. Part of him wanted nothing more than to be part of such a family. And part of him knew he was honor-bound to tear it apart.

  Scouts had been dispatched, for there were signs that the first herd was near. Some of the men rode horses; others were on mules. Jacinto sniffed the air, pricking his large ears back and forth, ignoring the man who sat clumsily upon his back.

  Jacinto had already decided that if indeed he did find the track of the first herd, the one that his old friend Yazz had joined, he would do nothing to betray it to the lowly scout who now rode him. Yazz, that wise old she-mule, had been his friend, and how he cursed himself for not hav
ing the courage to leave the night Yazz had escaped. But things had not yet gotten so bad then in El Miedo’s expedition. And Jacinto himself had been a different mule — a good and obedient mule in the jerkline. However, El Miedo had begun growing more desperate by the day for gold, for more horses, for power. Never a kind man, he had become extraordinarily cruel, particularly when he heard that his archrival, the Seeker, had discovered gold to the south and captured Chitzen to use as slaves.

  Suddenly, more was demanded of the animals. Young mules hardly two months old were put in the yoke and beaten savagely if they did not pull the carts meant for mules twice their size. Some of the prize Pura Raza horses were even put in harnesses for hauling. This was unheard of in the Old Land. It was not only an affront to the noble bloodlines of the Barbs and Jennets, but they were ill suited to the task. Such horses were good in battle, disciplined and quick, with a powerful grace. But could they pull a fully loaded cart? Not really. None of them had the sure-footedness of an ordinary draft horse or a mule. Therefore they, too, were beaten, beaten until their haunches were bloody. The abuse had increased as the number of horses and mules had decreased.

  Jacinto in turn grew more and more ornery, and his back became striped with the marks of the whip. But the mule was not simply stubborn; he had begun to draw other animals to him in the corral and spread the story of Yazz’s inspiring escape. El Miedo grew suspicious of Jacinto. Although the man did not understand the brayings, he sensed that the mule was fast becoming a leader of sorts and finally confined Jacinto to a stall. Nonetheless, his old friends came to visit him. Through the cracks, they would whisper in low brays. Abelinda was especially attentive. They had long talks about Yazz’s escape and why neither one of them had left that night.

  It was odd how the cruelty had then begun to spread. The young boy who hauled water buckets to the troughs had always been, if a little dull, still nice enough. But after he saw a sergeant beating on a Pura Raza, he thought nothing of kicking a mule in the side of his head for refusing to get in the yoke. This instinct for brutality was like a contagious disease. Instead of valuing the animals that remained, the men became infuriated with them. And those who weren’t the perpetrators of cruelty simply ignored it. The padre who gave the blessings for the animals on Saint Francis Day turned his head the other way when he saw an animal being beaten, as did the blacksmith who took such care when hammering the shoes on a horse. It struck Jacinto that evil was always greater than the sum of its parts. Some men looked away and did not see it, others picked up a whip and joined in, but all in their own way were evildoers. Evil did not just happen. It had to be agreed upon and, oftentimes, silently.

  Yazz was the smartest, bravest mule Jacinto had ever known. Why hadn’t he gone with her that night? He could have. Or why not the following nights when others began escaping? Jacinto had asked himself this a thousand times. He had actually been named by his first owner, a priest, for a saint that performed miracles. But I can’t perform miracles, he had thought to himself. And he certainly was no saint. Then it dawned on Jacinto that before miracles could happen or be performed, one had to be brave. He wasn’t very brave. That was his problem.

  Now, carrying a lowly scout, Jacinto made his way down a narrow trail. The man sat clumsily, but heavier than the scout was the weight of the scout’s indignation. He was furious that he had been assigned this disreputable beast as his mount. Jacinto felt the scout’s rage with each swat of the crop on his haunches. He mumbled incessantly: “I am the son of Don Fernando, the richest man in the province of Castile. I am pure Castilian, a fourth cousin twice removed of the king. Yes, the king, and a sixth cousin just once removed of the Holy Roman Emperor. And yet they give me a mule. A stupid waddle-hipped mule.”

  You should bless those waddle hips of mine, Jacinto thought. They got you down that gorge this morning. A moment later, he caught the trace of a familiar smell. An alarming smell. He stopped in his tracks.

  “What is it, you fool mule?” The scout cracked his crop on Jacinto’s left haunch, but the mule barely felt it. He snapped his head down toward the smell. There were fragments of a lump of dung, horse dung and a distinctive hoofprint. A horse’s hoof shod with the special shoes reserved for an owner’s favorite horse. It bore the initials I. de C. Ignatio de Cristobal, the owner’s Christian name, or better known as El Miedo. Pego! The dark stallion was near.

  The country stretched before the herd as they walked across a ridgeline that rimmed the vast plains of the thunder creatures. The wind rippling through the tall grasses reminded Estrella of the soft billowing ocean waves she had spied when they had all been cast overboard from the ship. Were there savage creatures in this sea of grass that might kill them, as the great shark had devoured her dam? Should they split now, right now, and go the long way around to get to the Mighties? She looked back at the herd. They were all unbearably thin like herself. They needed to get to the sweet grass as soon as possible. But there was grass out there in front of her. Yes, it was coarse, made for the thunder creatures, but they could eat it. And who knew if they went the long way that there would be good forage at all. It seemed insane not to take what was right in front of them.

  Time was not the only problem. If they did arrive in the foothills of these mountains weak and on the brink of winter, what would be their chances of surviving? They needed to go now and cut directly across the plains. Tijo said it would not take more than two nights and a day. They must go! Haru was wrong. She did not understand how much nourishment they needed — she was a spirit after all. She weighed nothing. When she spoke of her lodge of the omo owl growing thin, that was the owl — not her.

  I know what my calling is … but how can I ever do it? Little Coyote felt beleaguered with confusion. He was stuck in a maze of unanswerable questions. Did that crazy omo owl really not understand how the horses would treat him? How they must hate him? How could that owl dare even think that Little Coyote’s destiny and the herd’s were connected in any way but the worst way? His father had deceived the horses. The majestic old stallion, the one called Hold On, had been blinded because Little Coyote’s father had led them into that canyon where they had all nearly perished from the fire. If Little Coyote approached, they would think he was like his father and that he was there to trick them again.

  But strangest of all was that Little Coyote, who had set out to seek vengeance for his father’s death, now felt only empathy for his killers. Still, he did not know how he could summon the courage to act on what he felt. I am a coward!

  How had all this transpired? How had he set out to destroy and then changed his mind? He felt doomed to a life of complete desolation. Not just doomed but cursed by his kind. His father when he chanted one of his boastful and taunting songs would often call himself First Angry. The words of the song clanged in his head.

  I am coyote,

  I am coyote.

  First Angry they call me.

  I am the dream maker

  and the dream taker.

  But why had his father been so angry? What had made him and all the creatures of their kind so angry? Little Coyote was exhausted from the disturbing thoughts that had his mind in a complete tangle. He combed the ground with one paw the way he often raked his fur when trying to scratch out a burr. He had a dim memory of his mother once running her paws gently through his pelt. Grooming, she called it. But all grooming had stopped when she died. He had become a veritable burr ball until he had learned to groom himself as best he could.

  “Stop!” a tiny voice squeaked with alarm. Though the voice was small, it startled Little Coyote. He heard an insistent buzzing and swiveled his head this way and that, trying to find the source.

  “Can’t you see what you’re doing?”

  “Doing? I can’t even see you.”

  “I’m right here. Do I have to land on your nose, for pity sake?”

  Little Coyote blinked. Then his eyes crossed as a pink blur flew in front of his face.

  “Wh … wh … what is t
hat?”

  “A petal.”

  “A flower petal?”

  “Yes. Calochortus plummerae, to be exact.”

  “What?”

  “More commonly known as a high desert lily. Now kindly remove your paw from my nest.”

  “I’m on your nest?”

  “Yes, you are about to scratch through. I haven’t plugged it completely, as I need a few more petals. So if you will quickly remove your paw, I can give you a peek.”

  “A peek at what?” Little Coyote pulled back his paw. There indeed was a little hole that had not been made by his claws.

  “The chamber!” the bee said in a hushed voice. “The larval chamber.”

  “Larval?”

  “My eggs, the larvae, when the nest is ready.”

  She buzzed in a descending swirl. There was a tiny spray of dirt. “Watch closely,” she called back from the hole. Little Coyote pressed closer.

  “Do you see?” the tiny voice called up from the hole.

  “It’s dark.”

  “Let your eyes get used to it.”

  It is always dark for me, Little Coyote thought. But just as he was having this doleful thought, he saw a smear of colors within the dimness. He blinked. There was pink and lavender, a lovely blue and a rich orange just the color of the sun as it set. He gasped.

  “Are you seeing anything yet?”

  “Yes! Yes! It’s like … like a rainbow. An underground rainbow!”

  “It’s a nursery for my little ones. Just think how happy they will be when they hatch out. But first things first. I haven’t even laid the eggs yet. One more petal and I’ll be ready. Perhaps some antelope brush. The stamens are the prettiest yellow. I think it will go nicely with the orange from the scarlet sage. I would love to have coral bean, lovely color, but the petals are poisonous. Wouldn’t want my babies hatching out near them. Be back in a sec.”