Stampede

by Len Levinson

  “Don’t fire till I give the word!” Truscott said.

  Everyone got ready, aiming his or her rifle, while Comanches raced toward them, screaming and yelling, waving weapons in the air. Stone could see with his professional cavalry officer’s eyes that they were hugely outnumbered, the Indian attack was focused and coordinated, and it would certainly wipe them out. He looked at Cassandra, and her face was in repose as she held her rifle steady and sighted down the barrel. She appeared resigned to death, and a tremendous affection for her came over him when he realized she’d go down like a soldier.

  He wanted to say something tender, but there wasn’t time. The warriors galloped toward them, sliding up and down the sides of their horses, even passing underneath their horses’ bellies. Wind rustled their ornate warbonnets and their horses’ manes as they charged closer. Stone aimed his sights at one of the leaders, and waited for Truscott to give the order. In moments the massacre would begin, but he’d save his last bullet for a Comanche, and when he ran out of bullets, he had his old Apache knife stained with Ephraim’s blood.

  Arrows whizzed over his head, but he didn’t dare duck because firepower was the only weapon they had, and every shot had to count. The end, when it came, would be swift and bloody. He sighted down the barrel of his rifle, and at its end, behind bead curtains, the Gypsy hag threw down the ace of spades.

  “Unnh!” the segundo bellowed.

  Everyone looked toward him, and he was on his feet, rifle in hand, walking woodenly toward the barricade. He climbed over the horses and marched toward the charging Comanches.

  “Git back here!” Truscott hollered.

  The segundo didn’t respond, and continued his advance toward the Comanches. Everyone was sure the Comanches would shoot him down and trample him into the dirt, ride right over him, and keep going.

  Like a monster from a cave, the segundo walked rigidly toward the Indians, and the young warriors headed for him, aiming rifles, arrows, and war lances. They let fly their arrows, and bullets whizzed like angry gnats, but the segundo didn’t falter. He continued his lone harrowing trek toward them, and they raced closer, firing pistols and arrows. One warrior dashed in boldly, whacked the segundo’s head with his hatchet, but the hatchet bounced off the segundo’s skull, and the segundo continued walking, making his weird nasal sound. “Unnh! Unnh!”

  The charge broke apart around the segundo. Somehow the Indians couldn’t kill him, and they pulled back their reins, eyeing him curiously. War ponies danced about excitedly as the warriors shouted at each other.

  The segundo stopped and raised his arms, shaking them mightily in the air. “Unnh!”

  The Comanches shrieked in terror, turned their ponies around, and galloped away. The cowboys watched in amazement as the Comanches fled in disarray toward the hills, while the segundo stood triumphantly in the middle of the prairie, bellowing nasally and shaking his fists in the air.

  Chapter Ten

  It took the rest of the day to round up the horses and locate the main herd. The longhorns munched grass and looked up lazily as the cowboys approached. Cassandra had been around cattle long enough to make an approximate count, and she figured a thousand were missing, scattered all over the region. It’d take days to round them up, if the Comanches left them alone.

  “Might as well make camp right here,” Truscott said.

  They unsaddled their horses and turned them loose to graze, while the herd rumbled and mooed. The cowboys gathered wood for a fire, and at sunset Ephraim returned with two vaqueros.

  “Injuns burned the chuck wagon,” Ephraim said. “Stoled everythin’ worth stealin’.”

  Everybody groaned, because they knew it meant nothing but beef until the next town, if they made it to the next town. Ephraim returned with a steer and butchered it methodically, with no special flourishes. He chopped off chunks of meat and parceled them to the men, who stuck the meat on the ends of sticks, and held the sticks over the fire. Life would be primitive until they could buy more kitchen utensils.

  The campsite filled with the fragrance of roasting meat, and the sun sank behind the vast plain to the left, silhouetted by a blood-red sky. Globules of fat dripped into the fire, and Stone looked at Ephraim through the flames. They hadn’t spoken since the fight, and neither had suggested they go off to finish what they’d started. Stone wasn’t anxious to tangle with Ephraim again, and Ephraim evidently felt the same way.

  The cowboys pulled the meat from the fire and lay it on the grass, attacking it with their knives, and if it wasn’t done enough, they put it back over the flames. Meat and water for dinner, but it was better than eating a goddamned lizard.

  “Injuns won’t be back,” Truscott said.

  “What makes you think so?” Cassandra asked.

  “They was scared shitless.” He looked at the segundo, gnawing a bone like a dog. “And I don’t blame ’em.”

  Cassandra turned to the segundo. What would they do with him when they reached Abilene? The people might not understand, and Cassandra wasn’t even sure she understood.

  “Hey, Ramrod,” Slipchuck said, the thread of his thought unbroken, “why don’t you tell us the end of that story?”

  “What story?” as if he didn’t know.

  “The one about the whore in the fancy cathouse in San Francisco.”

  “Oh, that whore. Where was I?”

  “You was in bed with her, and she had this great trick you was gonna tell us. What was it?”

  “Wa’al,” Truscott explained clinically, “I got on the bottom, and she got on the top, and she kind of …”

  Cassandra cleared her throat. “Excuse me, but I think we ought to raise ourselves from the muck into which this conversation has fallen. May I suggest we get down on our knees, and thank God for His assistance and love?”

  The men groaned, because they’d rather hear the story of the whore. Truscott turned to Cassandra and said, “These men fought off a Comanche war party today, and if they want to talk about whores, I believe it’s their right.”

  Cassandra couldn’t argue with the inexorable truth of that statement, but she didn’t want to listen to their whorehouse banter. She arose to leave, when suddenly Ben Thorpe stopped eating. “I heard something,” he said.

  They reached for their guns. The sound of hoofbeats came to them through the night, and it sounded like a large number of horses walking slowly.

  “They’re headed this way,” Truscott said. “We better git set.”

  Once more the story of the whorehouse was forgotten as they arranged their saddles in a line facing the oncoming riders, and then took cover. Holding rifles ready to fire, they listened to approaching hoofbeats, and it sounded like a procession instead of a full-tilt Comanche attack.

  “Might be the cavalry,” Moose Roykins said hopefully.

  “Cavalry makes more noise than that,” Slipchuck replied. “Soldiers carry too much junk.”

  “Can’t understand it,” Truscott said. “Injuns generally don’t attack at night.”

  The cowboys, vaqueros, and Cassandra got ready, and everyone expected a hand-to-hand battle with naked savages in the dark. The segundo sat cross-legged behind his saddle, his back straight, staring at the sounds and muttering “Unnh” quietly to himself.

  Comanches came into view out of the night, a long line of riders wearing ceremonial dress but no war paint. They stopped, and then two young warriors rode forward, each carrying the white flag of truce, while behind them rode an older warrior wearing an elaborate warbonnet.

  “They want to powwow,” Truscott said, “but it’s a trick, if I know injuns. Git ready to fire.”

  “Wait a minute—don’t anybody fire!” Cassandra countermanded him. “Let’s see what they want!”

  Truscott turned to her. “They’ll stake you on an anthill, after they pass you around the tribe.”

  “Better talk than fight, but if I have to fight, I will!”

  Cassandra rose to her feet, and Stone stood beside her. The s
egundo lumbered drunkenly to her other side, and then Truscott joined them. Together they waited for the three Comanches to come closer. If it were only cattle they wanted, Cassandra’d give it to them. Anything was better than dead men.

  The Comanches drew closer, and the two young ones pulled their horses to the side, making way for the older warrior behind them who raised his arm and showed his open palm. “How, John!” he said.

  Truscott raised his own empty hand. “How!”

  The Comanche sat proudly on his saddle, his hair hanging to his shoulders, and the front of his warbonnet decorated with silver disks. He cleared his throat and spoke slowly. “You have great medicine man with you. Our medicine man … want powwow with him.”

  The cowboys looked at each other in confusion for a few moments, then slowly turned to Ephraim, who was raising himself to his full height, a strange glint in his eyes. “Tell your medicine man we can powwow whenever he want.”

  The warrior turned around and shouted something, then three other warriors detached themselves from the main body of Comanches and moved forward. The warriors on the outside were young, but the one in the middle was a wizened old man with skin the color of parchment, his ribs showing through his skin, wearing a ceremonial warbonnet with two buffalo horns sticking out. He wore numerous necklaces of beads and stones, a silver bracelet encircled his wrist, and he held a dried hawk in his right hand.

  “This is Iron Pants,” the spokesman said.

  Iron Pants climbed down from his horse, stood before Ephraim, and touched his fist to Ephraim’s heart. “Come.”

  Iron Pants walked toward the prairie, and Ephraim hesitated for only a moment before following him. Everyone watched them go, and soon the night swallowed them up. The Comanches climbed down from their horses and sat cross-legged upon the ground, while Stone watched them warily.

  Truscott stared in the direction Ephraim had gone with Iron Pants. “Wonder what that’s all about?” he said, scratching the back of his head.

  “You were all set to fight,” Cassandra told him, “and if we listened to you, we’d be dead.”

  “It ain’t over yet.”

  “At least we’re still alive.”

  Truscott took off his hat and threw it on the ground. “If I ever sign on another cattle drive with a goddamn woman, I hope God reaches out of the sky, grabs me by the hair, and dumps my head in horseshit!”

  “You smell as if God did that three weeks ago,” Cassandra said. “You’re just a crotchety old polecat who always has to have his own way.”

  Cassandra turned up her nose and walked away, while Truscott sputtered into his mustache. Several minutes passed, and Ephraim didn’t return. The cowboys sat around their campfire, cleaning and loading guns, casting glances at the Comanches encamped nearby.

  Truscott lit a cigarette. “Maybe they killed him,” he said.

  “Don’t think they’d dare,” Slipchuck replied. “They’re skeered of him, and to tell you the truth, so’m I.”

  Cassandra sat near Stone, who smoked a cigarette and looked in the direction Ephraim had gone with the Comanche medicine man. The breeze picked up, and the sky filled with clouds. The cowboys threw more logs on the flames, and the Comanches drifted toward the campfire, sat down with the cowboys and vaqueros, who were tense and defensive, expecting an attack at any moment, but the Comanches appeared friendly. The Comanches asked for tobacco, and the cowboys gave it to them. The atmosphere became relaxed, the prairie was silent, and Slipchuck saw his chance.

  “Hey, Ramrod,” he said, “you ain’t finished the story about the whore.”

  Truscott looked at him blankly. “What whore was that?”

  “The one in the fancy whorehouse in Frisco, who had the special trick. What was it?”

  “Oh, that,” Truscott said, and then spit a lunger into the fire. “Well, she …”

  Cassandra cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, but I don’t like this story. Tell it when you get to Abilene, when I’m not around, if you don’t mind.”

  Duvall slapped her leg. “Aw, don’t be a pain in the ass, Cassandra. It’s a good story, and all of us might learn something, even you.”

  “I’m sure it’s something we all can do without. We should direct our attention to the finer things.”

  Slipchuck replied, “They say the finest whorehouses in the world are in San Francisco. If that’s not fine, then what the hell’s fine?”

  She sighed in exasperation. Nothing could be done with them. They were just a bunch of billy goats. Meanwhile, a burly Comanche warrior plopped himself down beside Truscott. “I give you three horses for the woman,” he said, pointing at Cassandra.

  “She ain’t worth three horses,” Truscott said gruffly.

  “How many horses you take?”

  “She’s ain’t for sale, but by Christ I wish she were.”

  The Indian arose and walked toward Cassandra, looking down at her. “He your man?” the Indian asked, pointing to Stone.

  “No.”

  The Indian turned to Stone. “I fight you for her.”

  “She’s not mine.”

  The Comanche appeared confused, then grabbed Cassandra’s arm roughly. “If the old man not your father, and you not belong this man, you belong me.” He yanked her to her feet.

  “Get your hands off me,” Cassandra replied in a deadly tone, pointing her Colt at his nose.

  The Comanche blinked in astonishment as Cassandra drew back the hammer with her thumb. Another Comanche shouted, and the warrior let Cassandra go. Grumbling something unintelligible, the warrior walked away from the fire as the other Comanches laughed.

  Cassandra returned to her seat on the ground, and looked at the Comanches. For a moment she’d thought the party was over, but the Comanches appeared calm and jovial, and there was something free about them, whereas her cowboys and vaqueros were edgy, and never let their hands roam far from their guns.

  Nobody dared sleep with Comanches in the vicinity. But the Comanches didn’t seem tired. A group of them chanted near the campfire, while others casually wandered into a circle and danced. At first their movements were lazy, but gradually became more lively as they jumped around first on one foot and then the other.

  “Hey . . . hey . . . hey . . . hey .. .”

  They chanted into the night, and Cassandra thought how strange it was to be alone in the middle of a vast wilderness, with Indians dancing around a fire. Some Indians on the sidelines tapped sticks together, and one made an eerie whistle like a hawk descending on his prey. The fire projected flames onto their bodies, and they looked as though they were dancing in hell.

  “Hey . . . hey . . . hey . . . hey . . .”

  A Comanche leaned toward Stone and held out his hand. “Come—dance.”

  Stone rose to his feet and followed the Indian toward the circle of dancing warriors, while other Comanches led cowboys and vaqueros toward the dancers. Soon all of the cowboys were jumping in a big circle around the bonfire, while a few Comanches beat sticks and chanted in the center.

  A Comanche warrior with a hatchet in his belt walked toward Cassandra. “You too.”

  “Oh, no,” she replied. “I don’t dance. It’s just for men, isn’t it?”

  “For all warriors. You are warrior too. You must dance.”

  He took her hand and pulled her toward the fire, and it lighted tiny emeralds in her eyes. She moved into the circle and hopped first on one foot and then the other, like the rest of them. Then she clapped her hands and joined their chant.

  “Hey . . . hey .. . hey . . . hey . . .”

  Stone wagged his arms and danced around the circle, studying the Indians, trying to understand them. During the day they’d cut off your private parts and stuff them into your mouth, and at night they danced with you. Indians, Mexicans, and Americans wiggled around the fire, under the constellation of Orion the Warrior.

  The dance continued into the night, and the fire blazed brightly, illuminating the strange scene, casting elongated shadows
upon the ground. Occasionally someone threw another log on the fire, and the sparks flared up. The repetitive chanting and dancing drew Stone into a mild hypnotic trance, but the Comanches appeared happy, and he figured a happy Comanche was probably not a dangerous Comanche.

  A cheer went up among the Comanches, and all of them looked toward the prairie, where Ephraim and Iron Pants were emerging from the darkness side by side, and Ephraim carried a small leather pouch in his hand.

  “Hey . . . hey . . . hey . . . hey ...”

  The Comanches made a path for them, and Iron Pants and Ephraim walked side by side toward the fire, their eyes glassy. They stopped near the bright flames, faced each other, and touched each other’s hearts with their fists.

  Then Iron Pants turned to the nearest Comanche, who shouted an order. A different Comanche appeared with a horse, and Iron Pants climbed into the saddle. He rode away from the fire, with the warriors behind him, a long procession leading into the darkness. Cassandra and the cowboys watched them disappear, and then only their faint receding voices could be heard.

  “Hey … hey ... hey ... hey ...”

  Cassandra and the cowboys were alone by the fire, and everyone’s attention turned to Ephraim, who’d dropped to a cross-legged seating position, staring fixedly at the dancing flames, as if they contained the truth of the universe. Everyone wanted to know what happened, but were afraid to ask. They remembered the segundo, the cure of John Stone, and now the Comanches. Who was this Ephraim?

  Stone stared at him, chilled deep in his bones, because Ephraim knew things he’d never dreamed of. It wasn’t healthy to have an enemy like Ephraim.

  “You all right, cookie?” Truscott asked.

  Ephraim didn’t respond for several seconds as he continued gazing through half-closed eyes at the fire. “I’m all right,” he said at last.

  “Injuns gone for good, you think?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s in the bag?”

  Ephraim sat still, and the wind blew a gust that made the fire crackle and grow hotter. A log exploded, showering sparks into the air.