Comanche (A J.T. Edson Western Book 1)

by J. T. Edson

  When sure of his aim, Loncey held his breath and squeezed the trigger. Never had the big side-hammer appeared to move so slowly as at that moment. It seemed to creep down at a snail’s pace before it finally struck the copper head of the waiting percussion cap. After the faint pop of the cap’s fulminate charge, what seemed like several minutes elapsed before the powder in the barrel exploded and its gas sent the bullet Spitting from the barrel.

  Flame finally spurted from the barrel and a cloud of black powder smoke momentarily hid the sheep from the boy’s view. Although the Mississippi rifle packed a fair kick—Loncey did not use a bench-rest shooter’s extreme care in ensuring the charge of powder remained constant at each loading—the boy hardly felt its savage jab.

  Then the smoke cleared and through it Loncey saw a sheep disappearing over the rim above him. Only for a minute did fear and disappointment bite at him. The remainder of the smoke wafted away and he saw something lying on the ground. Loud in the still air rang his wild whoop of delight at the sight of the ram sprawled before him.

  Just as Loncey started to rise, meaning to dash forward and examine his prize, he remembered his experience upon his first hunt. With hands that shook a little, he reloaded and capped the rifle. Not until he held a usable weapon again did he advance towards the sheep. By that time his two companions had started the horses moving and rode as fast as they dared in his direction.

  ‘You did it, Loncey,’ enthused Loud Voice, dropping from his horse and looking down at the dead ram.

  ‘What a shot,’ Comes For Food went on excitedly. ‘It never moved after it fell.’

  ‘That was because the bullet broke its neck,’ Loud Voice pointed out. ‘Loncey shot it there so as not to waste the better parts of the meat.’

  Loncey coughed modestly and did not offer to mention that he actually aimed at the ram’s body.

  Chapter Ten – A Present for Sam Ysabel

  With the kill made, the boys went to work at butchering the carcass. Loncey allowed the other two to share the gall-soaked liver between them as a reward for their companionship. Even at so early an age, he knew how a name-warrior must act. In return Loud Voice and Comes For Food performed most of the butchering and left Loncey free to scan the surrounding area. Making the meat up into three equal bundles, the boys carried the sheep’s hide. They left behind the head, having split it open to feast on the brains. The Comanche had no use for horns as a mere trophy and the pack pony would be carrying enough without added, useless weight.

  Once again the boys’ inborn instinct pointed them in the correct direction. When they reached the rolling plains, landmarks noted on the way out would guide them back to the village. If their people had moved on during their absence, any one of the trio could read sign and follow the trail to the next camp-site.

  Having nothing more to hold them in the high country, and wanting to return to the warmth of the plains, the boys broke camp instead of staying for the night.

  ‘I kept thinking we were being watched all day,’ Comes For Food commented as he reached for the pack horse’s reins.

  ‘So have I,’ admitted Loud Voice, ‘but I’ve seen no sign of watchers.’

  ‘We are close to Apache country,’ Loncey reminded the others. ‘But, if they were Apaches watching, they have not come close.’

  For all that the boys rode on until well after dark and made a fireless camp. Next day they continued the journey and towards evening found themselves travelling through broken, wooded country. All kept a careful watch through the day without seeing any sign of danger. Coming from the wooded land, they approached a wide, gentle-sided valley.

  ‘Look!’ Loud Voice hissed, pointing.

  A party of riders came into sight on the other side of the valley; four stocky Indian braves, all well-armed, a tallish, slender woman and a boy of about the trio’s age, the latter couple each leading a pair of laden pack horses.

  On observing the boys, the other party came to a halt and the braves reached for their weapons. Having the width of the valley between them, the boys saw no reason for immediate flight; especially when the braves did not carry rifles and sat beyond arrow-shot.

  Clearly the braves decided there was no danger to themselves. Moving his horse forward, the oldest man made an unmistakable signal in the sign language all Plains Indians understood. Loncey raised his arm with the elbow bent and right palm facing the ground. By moving the arm to the right in a wriggling motion, he answered the request to be informed which tribe the trio hailed from.

  At some time in the distant past a party of the People made a long journey in search of new hunting grounds. Not caring for the direction being taken, several members of the party insisted on turning back. Filled with indignation at the lack of faith in his ability, the chief who led them compared the dissidents to a snake backing up on its tracks. Since then the Comanche, no matter which band he came from, always used the sign of the ‘snake going backwards’ when given a signaled request for the name of his tribe.

  ‘What tribe are you?’ signaled Loncey, although he could guess, after announcing that he and his companions belonged to the People.

  ‘Nemenuh,’ grunted Loud Voice when the brave confirmed their suspicions by repeating Loncey’s sign. ‘The men are of the People, but not the woman.’

  ‘She may be the pairaivo of one of the braves,’ Loud Voice remarked. ‘She’s a Mexican, I’d say.’

  Apparently the other party accepted the boys’ bona-fides, for they started to ride down into the valley and towards the trio. Not to be out-done in courtesy, Loncey led his companions to meet the visitors to their country half way.

  ‘The braves wear antelope skins,’ he said. ‘They must be from the Kweharehnuh coming to visit us.’

  As he spoke, Loncey studied the approaching riders. The men looked much the same as warriors from the Pehnane village, except that most of their clothing came from the pronghorn antelope instead of the buckskin favored, being more accessible, by the Wasps.

  From the braves, his eyes went to the woman. Like Loud Voice remarked, no Comanche woman, she was taller and slimmer, with less mongoloid features than one of the Nemenuh. Most likely a Mexican captive taken as wife by one of the warriors; such often happened, Loncey guessed. He might have thought of her as still retaining signs of beauty had he been older, but at twelve gave little thought to such unimportant matters.

  The boy would be the woman’s son if appearances meant anything. Stocky, typical Antelope Comanche in dress, his features held a sullen expression that would twist into real savage cruelty when older. Clearly he was a favorite son, or had performed powerful deeds, for a good knife hung at his belt and he carried one of the wood and elkhorn compound bows preferred by the Kweharehnuh, living as they did in country which held few trees. The boy sat a saddle upon a good horse and eyed the approaching trio with as much interest as they studied him.

  ‘Who are you?’ demanded the leading brave; speaking fluent Comanche, but with a quicker inflexion than a Pehnane gave his words.

  ‘We are from the Quick Stingers,’ Loncey replied. ‘These are Comes For Food and my brother, Loud Voice.’

  ‘And who are you?’ asked the woman.

  That came as something of a surprise and caused Loncey to revise his opinion as to the woman’s status. No mere wife would dare to intervene at such a moment. In. fact only a medicine woman of some power would do so.

  ‘My name is Loncey,’ he said.

  ‘You are not Comanche,’ the woman went on.

  ‘My father is Ysabel, of the Dog Soldier lodge,’ Loncey explained. ‘And my grandfather is one called Long Walker.’

  He could see that the latter name impressed the Antelope braves. However, the woman gave no sign of knowing the name of the Pehnane war chief. Instead she sat her horse and glowered at him with dark eyes which held a hint of something he could not understand. Young as he was, Loncey read the hate that flickered across the woman’s face at the mention of his father and grandfather, yet
he could not explain it. The woman might be a captive but that did not necessarily mean she suffered torture at her captor’s hands. Being a realist, the Comanche rarely wasted time inflicting punishment that might kill or injure a useful piece of property. It had never been Long Walker’s way to do so under any circumstances. If the woman had been a Pehnane, an ancient feud might have caused her dislike; but she rode among a group of Kweharehnuh.

  Although Loncey had heard of the death of Bitter Root, an unimportant detail like the feelings of the brave’s Mexican-captive wife had been omitted. Maybe Loncey would have understood had he known the facts; and felt concern at his present position.

  After long years among the Kweharehnuh, Fire Dancer was returning to the Pehnane. Following the line used in her second marriage, she insisted that each of her subsequent husbands announced his will on making her pairaivo. Of course snags arose when the other wives demanded a more even sharing of property than the dead man desired and in each case Fire Dancer failed to make the grand swoop she hoped for. However four Antelope marriages, each ending in the sudden, mysterious death of the husband, gave her wealth. Considerable reluctance developed among the Kweharehnuh braves when word went out that once more Fire Dancer sought a husband. Finding no takers, Fire Dancer settled down to a widow’s life; which did not prove too unpleasant as the braves saw that she never went hungry. She also made advances to the village’s medicine woman and, at the cost of much property, learned various secrets. That had begun four years before and Fire Dancer might have succeeded her instructor when the other died had she not decided that she possessed the knowledge to extract vengeance on the men who killed her first husband.

  Sitting her horse among the escort hired to guide her back to the Pehnane country, Fire Dancer glared at the tall, slim, handsome youngster. It seemed that the fates smiled on her, presenting her with such an early opportunity. Before her sat the son of the man she most hated; a favored son if his horse, saddle, knife and rifle be anything to go on. To cause the son’s death would make a fitting start to her revenge on Sam Ysabel, especially as it had been the boy’s birth which led to Bitter Root’s death.

  ‘I hear his thoughts,’ she told the men, staring at Loncey with cold, unwinking eyes. ‘He is—’

  ‘Up there!’ put in the youngest brave of the escort.

  All eyes followed the direction of his gaze and studied the two men who sat their horses at the top of the slope down which the boys rode. Despite the unexpected appearance, none of the Antelope braves showed any sign of alarm. While one of the pair might be a big buckskin-clad white man, the rifle over his arm reposed in a Dog Soldier medicine sheath, the second was clearly a Pehnane, as showed by the shield on his arm and the powerful wood bow in his other hand.

  ‘Ysabel!’ breathed Fire Dancer, recognizing the white man, and wondered how she might turn the meeting to her advantage.

  Before she could make any move, the Antelopes raised their hands in answer to the newcomers’ peace sign and relaxed. Starting their horses moving, Ysabel and War Club rode towards the others. Loncey felt some relief, mingled with surprise, at seeing his father and foster-father approaching when they ought to have been far off at the Pehnane village.

  ‘Greetings,’ War Club said to the Antelope leader. ‘I am Wepitapu’ni of the Pehnane Dog Soldiers.’

  ‘I am one called Burnt Grass of the Kweharehnuh. With me are Raider, Jose and Hawk Circling. This medicine woman asked us to bring her to your village. She is Fire Dancer and the boy her son, No Father.’

  ‘They will be welcome among our people,’ War Club promised formally.

  As a medicine woman, although originally a captive, Fire Dancer commanded respect from even a name-warrior and she knew War Club told the truth. Seeing all chance of creating doubt as to the boys’ identity gone, she accepted the situation. With an effort she masked the hate in her eyes and nodded gravely in answer to the Pehnane’s offer. Once established at the village, she could take her time in arranging her vengeance against all concerned in Bitter Root’s death.

  With the introductions completed, the combined party started to move once more in the direction of the Pehnane village. While making for a suitable camp-site in which to spend the night, War Club told the Antelopes of Loncey’s achievements. Showing as much pride as if the boy was his own flesh and blood, the Pehnane described Loncey’s defeat of ‘Piamempits’ and how he handled himself during the Waco attack. Grins creased the faces of the Antelopes and they praised the boy, being always ready to give credit where it be due.

  Bringing up the rear of the party, Loud Voice and Comes For Food told No Father much the same story. Boastfully the surly-faced youngster insisted that he had also performed great deeds, but acted evasive when questioned as to what they might be. Nor would he accompany the others when they swung away from the main body to see what food they might bring in for the night’s camp.

  ‘I wonder what our father is doing out here, Loncey,’ Loud Voice asked as they rode away.

  ‘Perhaps they went after sheep too,’ Comes For Food suggested. ‘If they did, they couldn’t have had good hunting.’

  Not until making camp for the night did Loncey learn the reason for his father’s presence. When the boys failed to return to camp, Ysabel and War Club questioned some of their friends. Considering the trio to be just a mite young for such an extended trip, yet not wanting to curb their spirits, the men took up the trail. On seeing how well the boys conducted themselves, Ysabel and War Club decided to remain in the background and not make their presence known. The meeting with the Antelope party brought them into the open.

  ‘We’d been watching you for three days, boy,’ Ysabel told Loncey, speaking English. ‘You did good on that last stalk, real good. Won me a good buffalo-horse off War Club, too. He said it’d take you another day at least to figure out how to get up close enough to drop a sheep.’

  ‘It wasn’t easy,’ Loncey admitted. ‘I thought for three days that somebody watched us, but never saw a sign of you.’

  ‘That figures,’ drawled his father dryly. ‘We didn’t aim to be seen. How’d you like to come down into Mexico with me next time I go, boy?’

  ‘I’d like it fine, ’ap,’ the boy enthused, for such a trip had all the glory of a raiding expedition due to the prevailing conditions.

  With feelings against Mexico still running high as a result of the war, and possibly seeking a more profitable source of revenue than the indifferent taxes paid by the Texans, the U.S. Government tried to impose import or export duty upon all good trafficked across the international border. Although originally sent to Texas as a law-enforcement and protective body, many U.S. troops found themselves engaged in the attempts to enforce the tariffs. That left the way clear for Indian depredations and brought much hostility from the Texans, who had disbanded the Rangers—a highly efficient Indian-fighting force—and found themselves left unprotected.

  Regarding their neighbors to the North in no better light, the Mexican Government also tried to impose customs duties upon people trading across the Rio Grande. Between them, despite the length of the area to be covered, the two governments managed to make trading—or smuggling as it soon became—a decidedly risky pastime for the men involved in it.

  Smuggling became highly profitable also, legislative prohibition invariably creates a demand for the banned items. People on both sides of the border suddenly decided that they could not exist without certain items obtainable only in the other country. All that remained was to find somebody willing to supply their needs—and there has never been a commodity that could not be bought or supplied, law or no law, if the price be right.

  To men like Sam Ysabel a thing like customs duties bore all the intolerable stench of an infringement of personal liberty. Having traded across the border from the days when Texas was a republic, he saw no reason why some fat Yankee politician shining his butt-end on a chair in Austin—or far-off Washington—should interfere. So Ysabel turned from trader to smuggler,
running goods across the border and defying the U.S. or Mexican army to stop him. As yet he operated in a small way, but sensed the day must come when he would be forced to make it his living.

  Already Ysabel could see the way things headed in Texas. Since the transition to Statehood gave the chance of stability and security, many settlers began to pour in from the north and east. As yet the influx made but little impression on the vast area of the State, but Ysabel knew it would eventually. Far-seeing men like the Hardin, Fog and Blaze clan on their vast Rio Hondo holdings, Big Rance Counter down in the Big Bend and Charles Goodnight up in the Panhandle country saw the possibilities of Texas’ untold miles of rich grass land. They began to breed cattle, turning the long horned stock of Mexican origin loose to fend untended on the range and building the nucleus of the great herds which would mean so much to the fate of the Lone Star State in the future.

  Gradually, but surely, the ranches expanded and grew in numbers, pushing ever closer to Comancheria. Soon the cattlemen would be approaching the Pehnane country and Ysabel knew what the outcome must be. Buffalo and cattle could not share the same range in the numbers that used it at that time. So the buffalo would have to go, and upon them the Indian depended. Sooner or later the Pehnane must adopt a different mode of life. Ysabel knew the futility of his friends trying to fight against the inevitable and hoped they would not try.

  Being a realist, Ysabel knew he would need a trade when the change came. One could not treat another man’s cattle as if they were buffalo, deer or antelope—not without considerable shooting fuss developing—so some other way of obtaining food must be found.

  Smuggling offered Ysabel a damned good way, while being as close as a man could come to retaining the good, free old Pehnane life. Not that he aimed to teach Loncey the business so young, but he figured his son deserved a trip and had reached the age when he ought to be seeing how white folks lived.