by J. T. Edson
Just how worthwhile Loncey did not learn until much later. Even Hondo Fog failed to find out until after the attack on the cantina had been successfully made, for he withdrew to go and meet the soldiers before it was light enough to see the two dead men outside the building.
Although the men arrived and began their advance before the loss of the horses was discovered, an occupant of the cantina saw them and raised the alarm. At first the bandidos prepared to make their fight from the bullet-proof safety of the building, but a shell from the howitzer changed their minds. Dashing out, they found the corral empty and at that moment Hondo gave the order to launch a charge.
Knowing the cornered-rat courage of the bandido, Hondo felt puzzled at the comparatively weak resistance. He found the reason when advancing to secure the men who surrendered. The few who tried to reach the safety of the Rio Grande on foot were run down by a mounted party under Branston Blaze. Sprawled before the building, clearly dead before the attack, lay two bodies.
‘It’s Montego and his second-in-command,’ Hondo told the U.S. Mounted Rifles officer.
‘That accounts for why the others didn’t fight,’ replied the officer. ‘They had no leader. Your work, sheriff?’
Looking down at Montego, lying with bare feet and fancy clothing soaked in the blood which poured from the ear-to-ear gash in the throat, Hondo shook his head.
‘Not mine. The Ysabel Kid’s.’
‘Here, brother,’ said Loncey, standing in the center of a circle of people and passing the reins of one of the cantina horses to Loud Voice. Then he turned and looked at Comes For Food. ‘And this is for you, amigo.’
After rejoining their Mexican helpers, Loncey and Ysabel pushed on to the Pehnane country. They found the village with no great difficulty, returning in the manner of a triumphant raiding party. Having brought in a fair bunch of horses, including the two acquired by his own efforts, gained possession of a Colt revolver and counted coup twice, Loncey could only be honored by receiving another Give-Away Dance. For the first time, he was in a position to be able to supply the majority of the gifts arranged in the center of the circle and took a warrior’s right by ensuring that his foster-brother and best friend received the pick of the loot.
Nobody expected a brave-heart to part with such a highly desirable trophy as the Dragoon Colt of course. It proved to be one of the straight-backed trigger guard type later known as the First Model, almost in mint condition and not altered from when it left the factory. A store in the last white man’s town visited before entering the Pehnane country supplied Loncey with a Colt powder flask suitable for the Dragoon and a .44 caliber bullet mould. While offered paper cartridges, the boy declined. He preferred to use a round lead ball backed by forty grains of loose powder. Such was the simplicity of design and operation that Loncey could strip, clean, maintain and load his weapon long before he reached the village, but handling it with accuracy took far more practice.
It seemed that the fates conspired to keep alive Fire Dancer’s hatred of the Ysabel family. Only the day before, No Father made his first major hunting kill, a large bull elk, and his mother planned to give a dance to make sure everybody knew of his achievement. Unfortunately a mere hunting trophy could not compare with the horses brought in by Loncey and so Fire Dancer’s celebration had to be postponed while the village honored the greater success. Such would have been intolerable to Fire Dancer under any conditions; that a member of the hated Ysabel family caused her son’s being forgotten made matters far worse.
After Loncey told of his exploits, with the crowd listening and the braves nodding grim approval, Ysabel walked to his side. Holding out his hand, the big man asked to see the boy’s knife. Obediently Loncey handed it over, watching as his father examined it. At last Ysabel gave a grunt and tossed the knife aside.
‘That was for a boy to carry,’ he said, reaching behind his back and producing something hidden beneath his pants waistband. ‘But this is a man’s knife. Take it—Cuchilo.’
Only by straining every nerve did Loncey prevent himself from showing the emotion which welled up inside him at what he saw. In his father’s hands lay a knife—yet such a knife as the boy only dreamed of owning. It had an ivory hilt curved so as to fit in the palm and never slip, a brass guard to protect the hand from an enemy’s cut or stab, and a blade full eleven and a half inch long, two and a half wide, thick across the back for strength, yet with an edge a barber might desire on his razor, the convex swoop of the edge forming a central point with a two and a half inch concave false edge on the back, the latter so sharpened as to form a continuation of the blade itself.
Loncey did not need to ask what kind of knife his father presented to him. There might be good copies available, but only the true, genuine James Black bowie knife gave that impression of superlative excellence. Bought some time before, the knife had been stored in buffalo tallow and kept hidden until Long Walker and Ysabel decided the boy to be worthy of owning it. Loncey’s actions at the cantina proved him to be ready to take possession of one of the finest fighting knives ever made.
Standing in the light of the fire, Loncey hefted the knife and tried a tentative slash. He felt the knife’s superb balance throw its weight behind the blade and knew he held perfection when he mastered its use. A dull rumble rose from the watching crowd, a single word. Yet in the moment the boy was Loncey no more to the Pehnane. At last he received formal granting of his man-name. It roiled like distant thunder through the still of the Texas night.
‘Cuchilo!’
‘Look at him!’ hissed Fire Dancer, standing in the darkness at the edge of the crowd and jabbing her son with an elbow. ‘You are a better warrior than him, yet they give him honor and none to you.’
While No Father heartily agreed with his mother’s views on his greatness, he grudgingly admitted that nothing he had so far achieved even approached the deeds which brought Loncey acclaim. Of course he could seek to devalue the slim boy by physical means, but had no wish to make the attempt. While No Father wished to achieve the greatness his mother frequently prophesied, he possessed a broad streak of caution and felt disinclined to take unnecessary risks. All too well he knew the other boy’s deadly fighting skill and did not aim to tangle with Loncey, Cuchilo as he now was, unless sure of holding the advantage.
‘I will kill him!’ No Father promised.
‘So my medicine tells me,’ his mother assured him.
‘Does it tell you when and how?’
‘Only that you must watch your chance and take it when it comes.’
Which, while not satisfactory, proved to be the only answer No Father received. However once the idea had been planted in his head, he devoted much thought to how he might find a safe, sure way to bring about the other boy’s death.
Further fuel was added to No Father’s hate when it became apparent that he could not arouse interest in celebrating his big kill. The time being mid-October, everybody in the village thought only of the forthcoming winter buffalo hunts. At that period of the year, only a major event like Loncey’s could distract public interest from what amounted to the Pehnane’s harvest time. With the Give-Away Dance ended, preparations for the big hunt began.
During the days which followed, No Father received little or no chance to make a move against Loncey. With so many exploits to his credit, Loncey found himself the hero of the young and adolescent boys. However, a few resented his fame and among them No Father recruited a small band of followers. Try though he might, No Father failed to stir any of his band into chancing an attack on Loncey. So matters rested and the everyday life of the village continued its flow towards the supreme period of the year.
Naturally such a major event could not be jumped into without planning and preparation. While scouts ranged far in search of the choicest herds, men saw to their weapons and women made ready packs, hunting tents, supplies of food to be used while away from the main village. For all the hard work involved, everybody showed the best of spirits, looking forward
to plenty of food and the gathering of the necessities of life. Each night the Buffalo Dance fires blazed and an even number of musicians, never an odd, beat out the traditional rhythms for all who wished to join in.
When the scouts returned, a huge council gathered, listened to the reports and gravely debated the findings. At last, when all who wished had spoken their piece, the war chiefs gave a decision on where the hunt would take place and went into details of its organization.
On the appointed day, almost four weeks after the preparations began, the majority of able-bodied men, women and older children left the village. Only a small, well-armed guard remained behind to protect the younger children, old people, tepees and property. With numerous pack animals, the hunters rode out in search of the big herd on which they intended to live until the summer hunts. Even at the temporary camp, the Buffalo Dances continued. These had no religious significance, the coming of the buffalo still being so assured that no medicine was required to find them, but merely served to show everybody’s high spirits.
Working swiftly, the men cut poles and erected scaffolds upon which the meat could be hung to dry in the sun and the women put up hunting tents made of a couple of undressed hides draped over a wooden frame in the fashion of a white soldier’s pup tent.
When all had been made ready, the hunting began. Several parties had been formed, each under the command of a noted hunter. By common consent Ysabel led his group and took along Loncey, Comes For Food and Loud Voice. Being of the right age, No Father also attended the hunt, working with an Owl lodge party. The boy brought along a Hawkens rifle as well as his bow and arrows.
Long experience had taught the Comanche never to use a saddle when hunting buffalo. Such strenuous work put the horses involved under a strain and every extra ounce of weight carried lessened the chances of success. To offer some assistance in riding and using the bow, a rope would be wound loosely about the horse’s body just behind its forelegs. With his knees in the coils, the rider stayed on in safety if not comfort. Stripped to their breechclouts, with full quivers on the shoulders, the hunters gathered before dawn and rode out with their leaders. Although Ysabel and Loncey each left his rifle behind, knowing he bow to be superior for their kind of hunting, they retained heir gunbelts, each with a revolver butt forward in its holster n the right and sheathed bowie knife at the left. Some of the men carried lances instead of bows, but they belonged to the elite of the tribe who used the same weapon in war and scorned fight from a distance.
The ideal location for a herd was in a narrow valley with numerous ravines splitting from it. In such an area, the hunters formed a semi-circle around the grazing animals, mounted but staying down-wind and concealed. On their leader’s signal, the men charged down on the herd, rapidly forming a complete circle. Properly executed, the surround—as it was called—made the herd bunch and not try to run, and allowed easy killing.
Unfortunately Ysabel’s party did not find their herd in such a place, but grazing out on open land which did not allow for the neat surround. So he held his men in a line and they stalked carefully from down-wind towards their prey. While the buffalo had a fair sense of smell, being essentially a creature of vast herds made it far less wary then deer, antelope or elk.
Sitting the buffalo-trained horse loaned to him by Long Walker, Loncey watched the herd and restrained his eagerness. For once the individualistic Comanche did not give free rein to their desires, but stayed obedient to orders. A premature rush by a small group might easily scatter the herd and certainly cause it to run. Meat from an animal overheated by a long chase spoiled quickly, so the mass rush which brought a number of the animals down was needed to prevent long chases.
Loncey locked an arrow to his bow string and felt the horse quiver under him. Much as he enjoyed the prospect, he wished that he owned and had trained the horse. That would be the last, final sign of manhood; to capture, break and train his own horse, turning it into the friend, companion and guard which a warrior’s favorite mount must be.
All thoughts of horse-training fled abruptly as Ysabel, satisfied that the moment had come, gave the signal to charge. From low, cautious walk, the line sprang forward in a wild rush, its flank turning in to form a crescent and try to encircle the herd. Too late the buffalo realized their danger and started to lumber away across the plains.
Riding like the wind, Loncey led the flank riders towards the herd. His attention centered upon a young bull in the prime of condition. Without needing more guidance than a knee-touch in the required direction, the horse ranged itself slightly behind and on the fleeing bull’s right side. Drawing back his bow until the arrow’s flight brushed his cheek, Loncey aimed at the area between the bull’s hip bone and short rib. Only there could he hope to obtain sufficient penetration for his purpose. A buffalo’s heart lay low in its chest cavity and an arrow launched from above stood its best chance of reaching the vital organs at that angle.
Wise in the ways of buffalo, the horse started to swing away as the bow twanged and arrow flew. If a charge came from the wounded bull, the horse aimed to be clear of it. Loncey heard a thud and twisted his head to see the bull sliding with buckled legs and head on the ground, to crash on to its side. Even as he whooped his joy, he felt something strike the horse, thought he heard a shot mingled with the thunder and grunting of the fleeing buffalo and scream from the horse.
Only before the sound could register in his mind, he felt the horse falling under him.
Chapter Fifteen – The White Stallion
Without conscious thought, Loncey realized his danger and reacted to it at top speed. Jerking his knees from the rope, he tossed his left leg over the falling horse’s back and thrust himself clear. Years of practice saved him, for he landed on his feet with all the agility of a cat. Even though he did not fall, the boy round himself to still be in serious danger. During the rush, his light weight enabled the horse to carry him ahead of his companions and he had been up with the leaders of the fleeing herd when the accident happened.
Led by a big bull, a considerable section of the herd swung in the boy’s direction and came boiling down on him. Fortunately the bull turned ahead of the others, its following merely acting on herd-instinct. Down went Loncey’s right hand, turning palm-out and closing on the Dragoon’s butt. While he could not make a real fast draw, he brought out the revolver in a passably swift move. His left hand came across to close on the right and give support, while both thumbs eased back the hammer. From so close that he could not possibly miss, Loncey fired and drove a bullet into the center of the bull’s lowered head. Forty grains of black powder gave the old Dragoon revolver a power unequalled in handguns until the coming of high-grade steel and smokeless explosives, so the bullet shattered through the bone of the skull and into the brain beyond. Down went the bull, crumpling forward and sliding along the ground.
Loncey flung himself to one side, avoiding the dead bull, but he was not yet out of danger. More of the herd thundered down, trampling upon the fallen horse in their flight. Yet no buffalo ever went over the body of a fallen companion, so Loncey sprang forward to land on the bull’s back and lie there. Shaggy bodies brushed by on either side as the herd split around the dead bull, leaving the boy untouched.
With the danger past, Loncey dropped to the ground and looked around him. The dust churned up by hunters and hunted swirled away and he could see the result of the run. Not until then did any of the others notice his predicament, so busy and engrossed had they been. Whirling his horse, Ysabel galloped towards his son with Loud Voice and Comes For Food hot on his heels.
‘What happened, boy?’ asked Ysabel.
‘I’m not sure, ’ap,’ Loncey replied. ‘But I thought I heard a shot and then the horse fell.’
Dropping from his saddle, Ysabel strode to the fallen horse and looked down. In passing the buffalo had hooked the horse with their horns and trampled on it, ripping the flesh almost beyond recognition.
‘There’s no way of telling what happen
ed,’ Ysabel said, examining the horse’s legs. ‘But it didn’t bust any bones.’
Which proved nothing, as he well knew. In the heat of a buffalo run, a chance false step might bring the horse down without breaking bones; and, before it could rise, the buffalo had been upon it. More than once Ysabel had seen buffalo deliberately gore and trample a fallen horse, as if seeking revenge on the animal for its part in the hunt.
‘Are you sure there was a shot?’ Ysabel asked.
‘No,’ admitted Loncey. ‘I may have been wrong.’
‘None of our men has a gun along,’ mused Ysabel. ‘Maybe—’
At that moment one of the hunters galloped up. ‘Ysabel, there is a dispute over who killed a bull.’
‘I’ll come.’
One of the hunt leader’s tasks was to keep the peace and give judgment in doubtful cases where two men both shot the same animal. Riding over to the disputed animal, Ysabel examined the arrows in its body with a view of deciding which inflicted the more serious injury. In this instance either arrow would have killed, so he insisted that the meat be divided between both men and the hide—major point of dissension—go to some tsukup who had no son on the hunt. Accepting their leader’s decision—Which pride prevented either hunter from suggesting, lest he be thought afraid of the other—the men withdrew their arrows and waited for the arrival of the women. Ysabel found himself fully occupied with the business of butchering the kill and Loncey joined the other warriors to enjoy the perks of their labor, a feast of the usual delicacies. So the boys forgot his thoughts on the cause of the horse’s death, although he wondered what he would do through the rest of the hunt.
Up on a rim overlooking the kill-area, No Father saw with relief that no search had been made to discover who shot Loncey’s horse. Instead of accompanying a hunting party, he had trailed along unnoticed behind Ysabel’s group. On seeing Loncey take up a position on the end of the line, No Father decided to grab any opportunity to make his mother’s prophesy come true. Leaving his horse, he took his rifle and cut across country until ahead of the herd. Then he found a well-concealed place and settled down to wait. Watching the rush begin, he lined his rifle and, as Loncey approached, prepared to shoot. Pure luck caused the horse to turn almost level with No Father and he had seen it fall. Ka-Dih Himself must have been riding with the hated Loncey, for the white boy still lived.