Follow the Wind

by Don Coldsmith

“The girl is not with them.”

  20

  Lean Bull crawled forward, one of the scouts at his elbow. Peering through the fringe of brush, he could see a clearing in the dim starlight. Recumbent figures lay scattered about the area and dying fires smoldered without giving light.

  The scout pointed ahead, indicating two figures close together on the west side of the encampment.

  “The old chief and the young war chief,” he whispered.

  Lean Bull nodded.

  “The young chief is mine. His black horse, also.”

  The black stallion and a gray mare grazed on picket lines nearby.

  “Yes, my chief.”

  He pointed beyond the camp.

  “There are thin woods to the north. Those we do not kill will run there and we can hunt them in the morning.”

  “It is good.”

  The two squirmed backward and made their way back to the rest of the party, waiting beyond the next range of hills. A small fire burned low. Lean Bull squatted and beckoned his warriors.

  By the light of the fire, he sketched a rude map showing the scattered slopes, the fires, and the semicircle of woods on the north.

  “We will crawl up close. I will cut the throat of the young war chief first, so they are without a leader. Then, when I give the war cry, we will all strike the others. We can divide their supplies and horses in the morning.”

  Quietly, the group moved out, following single file the route indicated by the scouts. There was still plenty of darkness left when they arrived in the vicinity of the travelers’ camp. In silence, the warriors spread in an attack line and began to crawl forward toward their assault positions.

  When everyone seemed ready, Lean Bull snaked forward, wriggling flat on his belly, raising his head ever so slightly to keep proper direction. A horse stomped and nickered softly and he dropped flat for a long moment to see if any activity ensued. There was none.

  The crawler neared his quarry and paused to look around for a sentry. He saw none and reflected for a moment on the stupidity of the strangers.

  Now he could see the long form of the sleeper before him. The sleeping robe was drawn up around the ears and it appeared that the man’s back was toward him. Lean Bull slipped the razor-sharp flint knife from his waist and took it firmly in his right hand. It would be a simple matter now to slide close enough to throw back the robe, grasp the hair with his left hand, and make one swift slash across the throat with the blade.

  He flipped the blanket aside and the grasping left hand encountered no hair, but a smooth, hard surface. What he had taken for the head of the sleeper rolled away, a smooth, round stone. His sequence of motion already begun, the knife was already thrusting downward, but slashed across emptiness. It glanced off the rotted end of the log which stimulated a sleeping body.

  Confused, unwilling to admit that he had been duped, Lean Bull voiced the yipping war cry of his tribe and the others rushed forward. Now several of the recumbent figures showed signs of life. A heavy multiple twang could be plainly heard as the Spanish crossbowmen released a volley. Shooting from the prone position, they had their unsuspecting targets silhouetted against the night sky. The short, heavy crossbow bolts found their marks with deadly accuracy. At least four Head Splitters would, this very night, have the opportunity to test the tradition of souls wandering in darkness.

  The others pressed forward, swinging clubs at the bundled robes. There were exclamations of astonishment as the weapons struck logs, stones, and brush.

  At that moment, there was a shout and a rush from the fringe of the scrubby trees. Cabeza led the charge, with a lance at the ready before him. At his side was Don Pedro himself, exuberantly wielding his great sword and roaring with the joy of joining battle once more. Close behind came the lancers, fighting on foot, closing in from the wings of the half circle of trees. Scattered among the professional soldiers were the Garcia servants, armed with an odd assortment of short swords, knives, even sticks, clubs, and stones.

  The entire effect was too much for the surprised Head Splitters. The warriors broke and ran, followed by another volley of crossbow bolts. Only one or two of the lancers were even able to overtake a fleeing adversary.

  Cabeza called them back from pursuit. It would make little sense to run into the darkness after armed warriors.

  Now Lean Bull called together the angry remnants of his war party. There was much shouting and accusation. Everyone had lost friends in the attack and their leader’s credibility was badly damaged.

  “Our chief has gone mad over that cursed girl!” someone accused.

  “We should never have attacked at night!”

  Lean Bull held up a hand for attention.

  “Listen, my friends! We did not know that these strangers like to fight in the dark. Now we do, so we will avoid it. We will attack them after daylight. They are few and many of them are not even warriors. We must avenge our fallen friends.”

  In the end, the possibility of revenge became the overpowering emotion. Lean Bull was not without his powers of persuasion and he was known as a leader in battle. Soon enthusiasm for the kill returned. The entire party took the back trail to retrieve their horses. Only Lean Bull and one scout remained to observe and plan.

  Dawn was breaking by the time the others returned, leading the horses of the fallen, as well as those of Lean Bull and the scout. The interval had allowed time for the warriors to work themselves into a frenzy of excitement.

  “We must be cautious,” Lean Bull warned. “Let us wait until they are spread out on the trail. Then we can strike and scatter them.”

  He took his horse from the man who led it and moved to an area near the top of the slope. Here they could relax and observe the travelers as they prepared to move out.

  21

  Don Pedro was exuberant as the sun rose that morning. His party had repulsed the attack without loss of life. The only casualties were two. A lancer’s left eye and cheek were grossly swollen from a glancing blow with a war club and one of the servants limped painfully. He had run into a jagged rock in the dark.

  The old don worried not at all at the treachery they had experienced. That was only to be expected. Such were the ways of diplomacy. He could remember well a campaign in northern Italy, many years ago. During the course of things, they had spent a delightful evening drinking and carousing with the dragoons of a local governor’s military unit. Next day, they had been attacked by the same troops. No matter. There were no hard feelings. Each was only doing his job.

  And it was only the same with these savages, Don Pedro thought. He had tried bribery and failed. No, not completely. They had had a pleasant interlude, secured provisions, and had learned of the hair-faced chief of some other tribe. That might be valuable information.

  True, the facts were sketchy. Young Cabeza was inclined to attribute that to the fact that the hair-face was considered an enemy by the Head Splitters. He was probably correct. In addition, that fact did nothing to enhance any ties of friendship between that tribe and the travelers.

  Then there was the matter of the girl. It was too bad she had disappeared. She might have given much valuable information. The young lieutenant, however, had spent many hours with her. Undoubtedly pleasant hours, Garcia chuckled to himself. More importantly, he had learned much from the girl about the hair-faced chief of her people. The old man was impressed that the basic facts were correct—in time, place, and circumstance.

  He longed to question the girl himself. Perhaps she would return or maybe they would encounter some of her people. At any rate, their course seemed clear. They must move in a northerly direction and let come what might.

  A more pressing problem was that of the Head Splitters. The little group of travelers had successfully met a surprise attack. They had killed four and, from the bloodstains discovered in the camp after daylight, at least three more had been severely wounded, to crawl away in the darkness.

  Some of the party were certain that the savages had been ta
ught a lesson. They would not return after so disastrous a rout. Don Pedro, the old campaigner, disagreed. Unless he judged his man very wrongly, he thought the one called Lean Bull would never give up. And, of course, Don Pedro’s profession was the judging of men and their tenacity.

  Evaluating last night’s surprise raid, Don Pedro thought it merely an error of judgment on Lean Bull’s part. The thing had looked too easy and the man had simply underestimated his adversary. An easy mistake. One he might have made himself in younger days, he reflected.

  Now, the question was, what would the savages do next? As Don Pedro saw it, there were two possibilities. Another attack was certain, the only question being when it would come.

  The party which had accompanied them as an escort the previous day had been only about the size of their own. It was now somewhat smaller, with the loss of at least four men. Furthermore, their intended victims were now forewarned of the danger.

  The prudent thing for Lean Bull to do would be to send back for more warriors. They would be needed for an all-out assault. Of course, it would take nearly two days for the reinforcements to return to this point and the travelers would be moving in the meantime, forcing rapid pursuit.

  This brought the other possibility to mind, that Lean Bull would strike immediately. There were advantages to this plan. He could send for reinforcements, but meanwhile attack and harass the travelers. This would delay their progress until the other warriors arrived.

  Either way, it seemed likely that there would be some sort of attack before the day was out.

  Don Pedro threw the saddle on the gray mare and tightened the girth. He had always insisted on saddling his own horse. No one else could quite do it properly.

  He glanced around the camp. There was a general feeling of optimism at the success of the defense. That was good, but not too much so. They must be cautioned.

  Ramon Cabeza approached, leading his black horse.

  “Señor Garcia, I would speak with you. I think we will be attacked today.”

  It is good, thought Don Pedro. This young man, son of my friend, will make a great leader. He has already anticipated the enemy’s moves. I will not have to explain it to him.

  “Yes, Lieutenant, what do you plan?”

  “I think, señor, we should push north as rapidly as possible. We may be able to keep ahead of any reinforcements they send for.”

  Garcia nodded noncommittally and was inwardly pleased. Ramon was planning well. He was equally pleased to note that there was no question of changing direction or turning black. The major quest of the expedition was not even questioned. It would go forward.

  Cabeza spoke briefly to the group prior to departure. He warned of impending attack and redistributed his forces. Lancers would ride four abreast, two squads before and two behind, instead of the usual double file. This would shorten the column and make it less vulnerable to scattering if they were struck.

  Likewise, those on foot were placed in the middle of the column of march for their protection. If attack came, the lancers would circle to form a perimeter with the baggage and foot servants in the center, along with the crossbowmen. The plan was a good one, Don Pedro thought. He could have done no better himself.

  The bowmen were not happy with this new arrangement. They had been leading the column directly behind the three officers of the party. It was bad enough to follow three horses, they grumbled. Now they were behind two whole squads of mounted lancers. Such an indignity was unworthy of weapons specialists such as they. Still, the grumbling was minimal and allegiance to Cabeza was strong. Had the lieutenant not executed the successful defense last night?

  Everyone was urged to drink well and to fill all available waterskins at the cold spring beside the camp. The horses were watered and the command to mount rang out.

  They would travel as rapidly as the pace of those on foot would allow. There would be only brief rest stops and, at least for today, there would be no noon halt.

  22

  Twice that morning, the Head Splitters made a feinting attack, but stopped outside of weapon range. Even the crossbowmen, with their long-range projectiles, refrained from launching them.

  The net result was only that the party was delayed each time while the lancers formed a defense perimeter. After the second encounter, Cabeza recognized the maneuver for what it was—a delaying tactic. The word was passed to keep moving, but merely to protect the flank from which the attack came. Then, if the enemy wished to cause delay, he would have to force an actual attack, not merely a feint.

  At the next sortie, the warriors of Lean Bull recognized immediately the tactics now used and pressed closer. A shower of arrows flew from the attackers. Most fell short, but one lucky shot felled the horse of a lancer.

  Quickly, the man stripped equipment from the dying animal, salvaging weapons, blankets, and water.

  “Keep moving!” shouted Cabeza, reining back to help the fallen trooper.

  A couple of warriors rode forward to intercept, but the lancer swung up behind Cabeza and he wheeled the black stallion back toward the main column. One warrior loosed an arrow in frustration, but it fell harmlessly short.

  The lancer slid to the ground to join the party on foot. There were no extra horses.

  “Sanchez!” called Garcia. “Give him your horse!”

  Sanchez looked for a moment as if he were going to object, but then realized that the time was not appropriate to assert his claim to authority. He slid clumsily to the ground. The trooper vaulted to the saddle and swung the bay mare into position. The party continued to move without pause and the disgruntled Sanchez took his place among those on foot. He placed himself squarely between two of the crossbowmen. It should be safer there among professional soldiers than with the poorly armed servants. Self-consciously, Sanchez touched his sword. He had never used a sword. Mother of God, how had he ever allowed himself to become involved in this idiotic expedition?

  The savages appeared to be preparing for another attack. Cabeza rode back down the column, shouting to close up the ranks. Then he pointed to a nearby creek bed, with a scattering of trees and broken rock which would offer some defensive possibilities.

  “Over here! Keep moving! Close it up!”

  The party swung in that direction and moved toward the stream. During this season, there was little water, except for deep holes and back eddies of the creek. The stream bed was half a man’s height below the level of the plain and would offer good cover and partial concealment.

  Cabeza swung the leading lancers aside as they reached their defensive position. They took up a protective stance to cover the retreat of the others. The people on foot reached the bank and started to jump and half stumble into its protective shelter. Sanchez and one of the crossbowmen clattered into a loose pile of white gravel and the soldier turned to place his weapon at the ready. The man dropped to his knees, methodically placed a heavy bolt in the channel of his already braced weapon, and assumed a firing position with elbows on the cutbank. Sanchez crowded as close to him as he could without attracting attention.

  Now the last of the servants had tumbled into the protection of the creek bed. Half the crossbowmen turned and took up positions to protect the rear and the lancers reformed to present a solid line in front.

  The savages were pushing forward now. Fascinated, Sanchez watched as the yipping, yelling warriors surged toward them.

  At what seemed the last possible moment, Cabeza stood in his stirrups and waved his sword in the signal to attack. Side by side, he and Don Pedro Garcia led the platoon of lancers in a short charge to meet the yelling warriors.

  Sanchez’s heart rose in his throat. What if they rode too far out and the savages came around them? He gripped the hilt of his sword.

  It was soon apparent that the lancers were not too far out in their defensive charge. The two groups met with a clash and the momentum of the savages carried the battle back toward the creek bed. Dust rose around the combatants. Sanchez saw Don Pedro expertly do
dge the blow of a war club and thrust with his sword—and his adversary fell and lay still. An arrow whistled past and Sanchez ducked, long after it would have done any good.

  He glanced at his companion and saw the crossbowman beside him, leaning over his weapon, sighting and seeking a target. No clear opportunity presented itself.

  Then, out of the thickening dust of the melee, Sanchez saw Cabeza and a muscular warrior emerge. They were circling and sparring, coming closer to the cutbank. Still, the bowman had no clear shot.

  The lieutenant was now crowding the other horseman, wielding his sword rapidly and pushing the warrior backward. Suddenly, the black stallion seemed to sag. His hindquarters sank and the knees buckled. With one last spasmodic lurch, the great horse fell and, for the first time, Sanchez could see a hand’s span of feathered arrow shaft protruding from the animal’s rib cage.

  Cabeza attempted to kick free of the entangling stirrups, but one boot caught and he fell heavily, trying to free the encumbered leg. As he struggled, the other horseman circled and readied for the final blow. His heavy stone war club dangled, swinging, ready.

  The scene seemed only an arm’s length in front of him and Sanchez was frozen, immobilized by his inability to help. He kept expecting the bowman to loose his bolt. “Shoot, in Christ’s name, shoot,” he whispered. Still, nothing. He glanced at the other.

  The soldier slumped over his crossbow in precisely the same position as before, the weapon aimed in the general direction of the battle. It took a long moment for Sanchez to notice that something was different. The man’s posture was loose, his hands limp. Only then did Sanchez see the end of a feathered shaft jutting from the front of his tunic.

  Panicky, he seized the weapon from lifeless hands and pointed it at the circling warrior. Cabeza still fought to free his left foot from beneath the dead animal.

  Sanchez struggled with the unfamiliar weapon. He had never held one before. Now, how in Christ’s name did they loose the bolt? Somewhere, there must be a lever or knob. Almost accidentally, the searching fingers of his right hand struck the release mechanism under the stock and there was a jarring twang. The crossbow bucked from the recoil and the deadly bolt leaped forward. Startled, Sanchez squealed in alarm and dropped the weapon, falling to his knees to cover his eyes with both hands.