His attention swung back to the circle, where Coyote was speaking. Heads Off had seen the keen mind of his father-in-law shift and probe at the question, changing his position. It had become obvious that Coyote had been instrumental in the concealment of the developments. It was just as obvious that he had done so for the good of the People and Heads Off found it easy to forgive.
Now it was equally apparent that the new information was swinging Coyote’s opinion closer to that of South Wind.
“—and I think,” he was saying, “that it makes little difference who these Hair-faces are. If they are enemies of the Head Splitters, they are friends of the People!”
There was a shout of approval from the Blood Society and much shaking of weapons in the air. It appeared that the collective thought of the People was reaching unanimity.
“We must hurry before we are too late!” cried South Wind.
Yet there remained one more thing.
“White Buffalo,” called the chief, “can you give us a vision, uncle?”
The old medicine man shuffled forward and spread a tanned skin on the ground. Its inner surface was decorated with painted designs and mystic symbols. Crow Woman beat the ceremonial drum while her husband circled in dance steps around the painted skin.
Apparently, many thought the outcome a foregone conclusion. Men were running here and there, obtaining their weapons and catching up their best horses. In the distance, someone exuberantly voiced the full-throated war cry of the People.
White Buffalo continued to chant and the mind of Heads Off raced ahead. The village must be defended and they could leave that in charge of the Bowstring Society. They were older, proven warriors, most of whom had been initiated before the advent of the horse. They were experts in the art of warfare on foot. They would do an admirable job of looking after the village.
The war party would include members of both the Elk-dog and the Blood societies. Heads Off was a trifle uneasy. The headstrong Bloods had nearly caused the annihilation of the People only a season ago, but then relented and returned to join in combat against the Head Splitters.
Heads Off caught the eye of Red Dog, leader of the Blood Society, and motioned to him. The warrior approached, standing proud and stiff before his chief, and Heads Off had the ludicrous idea for a moment that the young man was about to salute.
“Red Dog,” he asked quietly, “can we count on the Bloods to stay with the war party and act well?”
“My chief,” Red Dog’s face lit up, “the Bloods are ready to follow you anywhere!”
Heads Off smiled. He well remembered the surprise charge by the rebel Bloods which had saved the day for the People and brought them back together. Red Dog himself had led the assault, routing the enemy. There was no question of the bravery of the Bloods, only of their judgment. That would remain to be seen. However, the chief was inclined to think that the problems of discipline were behind them. Red Dog seemed a sensible subchief, although young.
White Buffalo had reached the end of his chant and dropped to his knees before the painted skin. People came running to watch the end of the ceremony. The medicine man raised his arms and turned his face to the sky for just a few moments more of the chant. It was always good to have a large audience.
Finally, he raised the horn high and, with a magnificent sweeping gesture, cast its contents across the skin. Small bits of wood, horn, bone, and bright pebbles bounced and skittered across the colored surface and came to rest.
There was absolute quiet. The old man squinted and poked at the small objects on the skin, then stiffly rose to go and stand before the chief. Crow Woman began to gather up the equipment of her husband’s profession.
“My chief,” White Buffalo announced clearly, “the signs are good!”
There was a rising chorus of shouts as warriors rushed for their horses.
18
Cabeza sat loosely in the saddle as they traveled, his thoughts a confused jumble. He was alert to the possibility of danger, but felt that the time was not now. According to the girl, South Wind, they would be attacked in night camp tonight.
He was inclined to believe her and, in fact, was certain that she could be trusted. After all, the girl had come to warn him, at considerable risk to herself. It had all happened so rapidly, yet there were some things about her evening visit to him that were evident.
Most obvious was the wrath of Lean Bull. Cabeza was puzzled over the man’s change in attitude. That first night, he had practically thrown the girl at the visitor, yet he had later appeared almost jealous of their relationship.
And that was another puzzling thing. Even allowing for the great differences in their cultures, Cabeza thought that he was an accurate judge of people. The emotions that the girl had shown reflected something more than the ordinary. Unless he was badly mistaken, South Wind was exhibiting genuine affection—and of a rather special sort. Again, he recalled that she had risked her life to warn him of the danger ahead.
This line of thought called his mind again to the odd direction his own feelings had taken. He could still hardly believe that he had almost been involved in a fight with knives over a woman. Mother of God, that was the sort of thing that happened in sordid taverns and brothels and back alleys. Yet it had happened to him, merely because he had tried to protect the girl. That had seemed only a gentlemanly thing to do at the time.
At least, that was what Cabeza kept trying to convince himself. There were other disturbing thoughts. He was irritated that he was unable to remove the girl from his mind for very long at a time. He repeatedly wondered what was to become of her. After the Garcia party had left the area, Cabeza would no longer be able to protect her. The very thought made him feel sad and depressed.
Then the young lieutenant would shake his head in disbelief. He could not be concerned with the welfare of every young native on the plains. Yet, even as he derided his own stupidity, he would remind himself once more that this was no ordinary native girl. South Wind was a special person who had not only shown special feeling for him, but had risked her life to warn him of danger. He kept coming back to that and felt that his thoughts were moving in a circle.
He glanced over at the well-armed native who rode a few paces to his left. Cabeza was not certain how the travelers were expected to regard this native escort. It was clear that Don Pedro Garcia considered the contingent of warriors a sort of military honor guard. He seemed pleased and flattered.
True, the native leader had been convincing when the party of travelers had prepared to depart. Vowing friendship and assistance, he had announced by means of the sign talk that warriors would accompany them to show the way. He himself would go, Lean Bull announced.
Cabeza suspected other motives. There had been an unpleasant scene shortly after daylight. The native chief had approached the Garcia camp in a rage. He flatly accused Cabeza of stealing his horse and the young woman, South Wind. Only by much persuasion on the part of Lizard and some of his own people could Lean Bull be convinced. His missing property was simply not there.
He then made the accusation that there was some plot for the escaped girl to meet the travelers later with the stolen horse. Again, Cabeza denied the accusation. Privately, the young man wished he had been able to formulate such a plan.
Finally, Lean Bull tired of his harangue and turned away, obviously not convinced. Later, he appeared with the “honor guard” as they were about to depart. By this time, he was smiling and full of friendship again, though he avoided Cabeza.
Cabeza was convinced that there were ulterior motives here. First, it was obvious that if the runaway girl did try to contact the Garcia party, she might be recaptured and the horse recovered. Beyond that, as the day wore on, Cabeza became more and more convinced that the warning of South Wind was accurate. The present situation placed a war party of well-armed Head Splitters in or near the camp of the travelers when it became time for the night halt.
So far, Cabeza had spoken to no one of his warning from th
e girl. It would be necessary, of course, but he could wait for a time. He might discover more information about the plot. Then he could inform the others. Meanwhile, he was as friendly and jovial as he dared, to the warrior on his left, especially.
He tried to engage the other in conversation in the sign talk, but the native was noncommunicative. He answered either very briefly or not at all.
Cabeza’s suspicions were strengthened after a noon rest halt. Lean Bull approached Garcia with dignity and announced that they were returning to their village. Two men, he added, somewhat as an afterthought, would stay with the travelers for a time to guide them on the way. Garcia was profuse in his thanks.
How clever, thought Cabeza. They now have spies in our camp. The others stay back just out of sight, ready to attack when the spies give the word. He must speak to Don Pedro.
It was nearing evening before he found opportunity to ride next to the old man and share his information.
“Señor Garcia, I must speak with you of serious matters.”
“Yes, Ramon, what is it?”
The elder man was so cheerful, so optimistic and exuberant, that Cabeza was almost reluctant to lay the burden he carried on the proud old shoulders. But he had to. He kneed his black horse closer and lowered his tone.
“I have cause, señor, to think we may be attacked tonight.”
True to his military training, Garcia’s facial expression never changed. He sat the gray mare and looked straight ahead as he responded calmly.
“Why do you think so, Lieutenant?”
Rapidly, Cabeza sketched in the events of the past two days, some of which Garcia already knew. The young man skipped lightly over his true feelings for the girl, but Don Pedro was observant. He smiled.
“You like this girl a great deal, Ramon?”
“More important, sir, I trust her!”
Garcia nodded.
“I wondered what the scene this morning was all about. Are you certain about this attack?”
“Oh no, señor. But the girl was. And everything fits. Do you not think it strange that our escort left us, but left spies?”
“Guides, Lieutenant,” Garcia laughed.
Then he sobered.
“Yes, Ramon, I did think it odd. It will do well to be on guard and no harm is done if we are wrong.”
The two men rode in silence for a time, then Garcia spoke again.
“You must quietly alert your lancers and the bowmen, but be sure they do not arouse suspicion. I will do the same with the others. When we camp, put your blanket near mine.”
He wheeled the gray horse and sauntered off, as if they had merely been discussing the weather. Cabeza continued for a time in the casual fashion of a bored traveler. Then he reined over to ride beside bushy-bearded Sergeant Perez of the lancers.
In this way, the word spread quietly, with the caution not to take any overt action or even to look as if anything were suspected.
The routine chores of setting up camp proceeded as twilight drew near. Cabeza spread his blankets near those of Don Pedro and joined the old man as he sat on a rock to contemplate the evening.
“Do you notice anything, Ramon?”
“No sir.”
“Nor do I. But we must watch those two.”
The sky darkened and the stars began to come out. Cabeza watched as the men, one by one, sought their blankets. Finally, he rose, stretched and yawned, and, bidding a loud good night to Garcia, turned to his bed. The older man soon followed.
The camp was quiet, the fires only piles of warm white ashes, and Cabeza was still wide awake. The Great Bear had swung only a fraction of his nightly circle in the northern sky when one, then the other, of the natives rose quietly to his feet and slipped silently into the darkness.
The lieutenant reached to alert Garcia, but the old man’s voice showed that he, too, observed.
“Wait a few moments, Ramon. Then we will wake the others. There is much to do.”
19
Lean Bull lay in the shade of a gigantic old oak tree and waited for time to pass. Not until well after dark would his scouts return to bring word of their quarry. Meanwhile, the war party waited, hidden in a heavily wooded canyon. Some of the warriors gambled, rolling the plum stones on a robe spread skin-side upward. Others slept. Lean Bull was too preoccupied with his thoughts.
Much had happened in the past three suns. First, the hair-faced strangers, seeking a hair-face living among the people of the prairie. From the descriptions, it appeared that the man they sought was Lean Bull’s sworn enemy, leader of the Elk-dog people. It had seemed good to pretend to help the travelers, taking their gifts and deluding them with promises of help.
Then there had been the other developments. It had seemed a logical way to punish the unruly slave girl, to give her to one of the strangers.
Sometimes, Lean Bull had wished that he had never seized her. But it had been so easy. He had been on a scouting expedition and had blundered upon the girl, where she should not have been, and it seemed foolish not to take advantage of the situation. He rode down on her with his horse, scooped the running girl to the back of the animal, and made his retreat. She had fought like a spotted cat and finally he had been forced to knock her half-senseless with the handle of his war club to quiet her.
And that, he recalled, had been only the beginning. Lean Bull had several wives, as was the custom among his people. Still, he took the captive girl to wife, his right by tradition as her captor. Unless, of course, he wanted to sell her. He probably should have done that. Instead, he tried, by every means he could think of, to break the girl’s spirit and bring her under his command.
True, she did as she was told, but her attitude never changed. She was proud, defiant, even cheerful. The way she sang at difficult, malodorous tasks became infuriating to Lean Bull. He actually began to worry a little. Sooner or later, he knew she would try to escape. When she did, it was not impossible that she might also try to kill her captor. Such things had happened and this defiant woman would be just the sort to try such a crazy thing.
Then, when the strangers came, Lean Bull thought of an ideal scheme. At least, it seemed so at the time. He knew that among the tribe of the captive girl, women were regarded differently. They were not bought and sold, even captive women. This seemed wasteful to Lean Bull, but he had heard that it went even further. Women of South Wind’s tribe, he had heard, could even own property and could speak in the councils.
What an excellent way, he schemed, to teach a woman with such ideas her proper place. He would give her to one of the hairy strangers, to do with as he wished. The young subchief who appeared to be the leader of the hair-faced warriors. When that one was finished with her, he would probably give her to some of his spearmen. By the time they had spent the night with her, the girl should be happy with her lot in the lodge of Lean Bull.
But something had gone wrong. Apparently, the young chief had kept her for himself all night and the two had become friends. That the pretty young captive would prefer the company of a hair-faced stranger to his own became intolerable to Lean Bull. His scheme had turned sour and was replaced by the bitterness of jealousy.
His hatred focused on Cabeza and, especially after the incident with the knife, Lean Bull had decided. That one must die and he would take great delight in carrying out the act.
Yet, even before he was able to accomplish this, another insult was heaped upon Lean Bull. The girl had disappeared and, with her, his best buffalo horse. Slow-witted old Elk Woman had actually seen the girl go and had said nothing till morning. She professed to think that the captive was only watering the stallion.
Lean Bull was certain that the hair-faced young chief was involved, but could not prove it. No matter. When darkness came, he would have the pleasure of cutting that one’s throat. He fully expected to find the escaped captive in the travelers’ camp also. Maybe he would cut her throat, too. It seemed a waste, but she had been such a problem so far.
Yes, that was prob
ably best. He would have his vengeance and would claim not only his own horse, but the black stallion of the hair-face. Let the others divide the supplies and goods the strangers carried.
So intent was Lean Bull on his revenge, that he decided to forego one of the basic taboos of his people. It was widely believed among the Head Splitters that a person dying during the night risks losing his soul. The disembodied spirit, lost in the darkness, may wander forever. For this reason, they would rarely engage in battle during the hours of darkness.
Lean Bull, confident in his ruse to surprise the stranger, had planned his attack at night. The travelers, he assured his followers, would be as helpless as an orphan buffalo calf before wolves. There would be no risk at all. They could creep among the sleeping men and, at a signal, wield the massive stone war elubs that were the mark of their tribe.
Except, Lean Bull brooded, he wished to use the knife. It would be so gratifying if the hated hair-face were able to know, for a moment before he died, who his assailant was. Then Lean Bull could use his war club on the girl and the others as opportunity presented.
Darkness finally descended and Lean Bull rolled in his buffalo robe to sleep a bit while waiting for the scouts. It seemed forever and he slept little. He had just dozed off when there was a stirring in the camp. He tossed aside his robe and reached for his weapons.
“They are camped where we expected?”
“Yes, my chief,” the scout nodded. “I can show you where the young hair-faced leader sleeps.”
It was good.
“What of the girl?”
The scout spread his palms in perplexity.
Follow the Wind Page 8