Follow the Wind

by Don Coldsmith

  A long moment later, he jerked his hands away. The warrior still sat on his horse, but his club now dangled loosely. He had turned and was now facing Sanchez, a confused, surprised look on his dark face. Slowly, he turned the horse and rode directly toward the stricken Sanchez. Cabeza was free now and scrambling to his feet, shouting something.

  Just as the warrior had almost reached the gully, where Sanchez stood frozen to the spot, he paused. The surprise in his eyes faded to incoherence and he tumbled limply to the ground. The horse bolted and ran back the way it had come.

  Cabeza trotted over, weapon ready, but the man was quite dead. The lieutenant pointed with his sword to a small round hole in the right armpit, from which blood oozed slowly.

  “Your bolt struck just as he raised his arm to use the club,” he said wonderingly.

  Cabeza was still visibly shaken by his close call, but not so badly as Sanchez. The little man could not speak, could hardly breathe in and out. He sank to a sitting position in the white gravel of the stream bed.

  The sounds of combat were fading and Sergeant Perez trotted up to report that the savages were retreating. Cabeza nodded, still weak-kneed.

  “They will be back, with more warriors.”

  23

  Night had fallen. The travelers had posted a heavy guard, though it was not thought that the savages would attack again. Small fires flickered. The hollow cry of an unfamiliar night bird was a sharp contrast to the moaning of the injured.

  Cabeza threaded his way through the camp, pausing here and there to speak to a soldier or check on an animal. Casualties were heavy, though not so severe as he had feared at first. Two or three men down and bleeding look like half the platoon, he realized.

  He passed the point where the body of his black stallion lay in the dim starlight a few steps away. A little further down the dry creek bed burned a tiny fire, where Don Pedro Garcia lounged. Cabeza clattered through the shifting white stones of the stream bed and sat beside the old man. Garcia looked up expectantly.

  “Three horses dead, one missing. Three men, two more wounded.”

  “Badly?”

  Cabeza nodded and sipped from the waterskin.

  “One very bad. Won’t live the night. The other has a lance wound—here.”

  He touched his left upper arm just below the shoulder.

  “How many of them?”

  “Who knows? They carry off their dead and wounded. It does not matter. They will bring more now.”

  Don Pedro acknowledged, seemingly unconcerned.

  “Tell me, Ramon, is it true, what the men are saying? Did Sanchez really save your life?”

  Cabeza nodded soberly. He had not fully recovered from the close encounter.

  “It surely is! The other man was ready for the last blow and I was caught under my horse. It was close!”

  Don Pedro chuckled and glanced up the creek to where Sanchez squatted with a couple of crossbowmen. He shook his head in disbelief.

  “Remember that, Ramon. Men have strengths and weaknesses that do not show. You will see strong men whimper and weak men become heroes.”

  He shook his head and chuckled again.

  “By Christ’s blood! Sanchez!” he muttered, half to himself.

  Don Pedro had emerged from the fight unscathed, but the story of his valor was unquestionably second to the story of Sanchez’s remarkable feat. One of the bowmen had chanced to see the entire episode, as the frightened little man snatched the dead soldier’s crossbow.

  As the story was told and retold, it grew slightly in the telling. Sanchez became practically a hero. He was suddenly accepted without reservation by the bowmen, friends of the dead man. They took him as one of themselves and began to teach him the use of his newly acquired weapon. Sanchez was responding admirably, with restraint and some degree of awe.

  “What about tomorrow?” Cabeza was greatly concerned.

  Don Pedro shrugged. “Who knows? It may be the best fight of our lives!”

  Yes, thought Cabeza. Or the last, more likely. It was virtually certain that the Head Splitters would have sent for reinforcements after the first abortive attack. He tried to estimate how long it might be until a messenger could go and return with other warriors. It would probably be noon tomorrow before they could arrive. Then the assault would begin. Then, or next morning. It would matter little.

  Cabeza had racked his brain, but saw no clear solution. Theirs was a fairly defensible position. Water was accessible, but food was limited. The attacking force would be able to acquire both. He tried to guess how long they could hold out before they were picked off one at a time or succumbed to a final assault. Bad as their position had become, to attempt to improve it would make it worse. If they tried to move, they would be even more vulnerable.

  The possibility that the warriors of Lean Bull would leave without a fight hardly seemed worth considering.

  He was also concerned about the fighting strength of his party. They had lost three lancers, two dead and the one now moaning in the gully, mortally wounded. The other wounded man was a servant who had attempted to join the battle with a short sword. He had been simply outmanned. And, of course, the crossbowman, victim of a lucky shot, which was also nearly the death of Cabeza. He would have nightmares about that for a very long time.

  Equally important to the living was the loss of the horses. With part of the party already on foot, the horses could become a critical element. They had now lost five animals. From a tactical standpoint, his force was now reduced by nearly one fourth already. Loss of another horse or two would cripple the lancer platoon. Cabeza wondered whether any of the packhorses could be ridden in an emergency. The present situation certainly represented such an emergency.

  “Señor Garcia,” the lieutenant tried once more, “you are more experienced in such matters than I. What is to be done?”

  The old don shrugged once more.

  “Ramon,” he began in a kindly and patient tone, “I have been in harder places.”

  Cabeza was afraid for a moment that the other was about to launch some of his endless and oft-repeated war stories. But it was not to be.

  “We must take one day at a time. Something may happen to change things. Now I am going to sleep.”

  Now Cabeza was even more alarmed. It was apparent that Don Pedro did not intend to give him any help. He was irritated at this turn of events as he sought his blankets. He should be able to count on his superior officer to aid and support him. Don Pedro was acting as if there were not even a problem.

  Suddenly, the whole truth sank home and the lieutenant sat bolt upright in shocked realization. The old warrior’s mind must have slipped. What had appeared to be bravery during the day was more like a reflex action. Don Pedro, stressed constantly and concerned over the search for his son, had finally snapped. His tired brain had refused to accept the reality of failure for the mission. He had happily returned to relive the campaigns of his best years.

  “Mother of God!” Cabeza whispered to himself. “Señor Garcia has gone mad!”

  A chill gripped him as he rapidly recalled the events of the past day. He could not remember that Garcia had even mentioned the search since they had left the Head Splitters’ village. True, there had been no occasion to, but Don Pedro was fond of talking about it anyway. Today, nothing. His entire approach to the current happenings had slipped in and out of reality with a detached military effectiveness. Complete professionalism as a soldier was the only emotion left. This was the reason, Cabeza now realized, that the old don had seemed relaxed, almost happy. He was doing the thing he loved and that which he had done best.

  The realization did not help the troubled thoughts of Cabeza as he settled down for a sleepless night. The sudden sense of total responsibility for the doomed expedition was almost overwhelming.

  It was some time later when he noticed that the moaning in the darkness upstream had ceased.

  24

  Heads Off reined his gray mare toward the ridge. Perh
aps from there he could see some sign. Sun Boy was overhead and they had found no sign of the travelers or of the Head Splitters.

  This was a matter of some concern. If the information brought by the girl, South Wind, were correct, the travelers would have been attacked last night. Even though they had been warned, they might have been killed.

  The plan of the war party of the People was simple. They knew approximately where the first night camp of the travelers was to have been. The direction of travel was north and it was decided to move so as to cut the trail of the travelers to the north of the night camp. Then, with the plain track of the moving party before them, they could follow rapidly and assist in whatever way they could.

  It had seemed a logical plan, but something had gone wrong. In some way, they had missed the trail of the moving strangers. Heads Off was certain they had not crossed it. Both Long Elk and Standing Bird were excellent trackers and both had seen nothing. Either the travelers had taken another direction for the day’s travel or they had been killed in the sneak attack in the night.

  Overlooked was the fact that they might be alive but pinned down, unable to move. Thus, the People had passed to the north of the beleaguered party.

  Scouts could be sent out, but it was known that Head Splitters were in the area in strength. The scouts would be at great risk, alone and badly outnumbered. They should probably be no further out than to act as outriders to the main force.

  Heads Off fretted and chafed under the frustration involved. Time was an important factor. Already, they were a day later in starting than he wished. The party of strangers had been forced to make their initial defense alone.

  He turned in the saddle and beckoned to Long Elk, who cantered forward.

  “What now, my brother? You have been this way. Where do you think they are?”

  Long Elk shrugged.

  “We should have crossed their back trail by now. Maybe they turned west.”

  “Then we should move south to find them?”

  “I think so. Maybe we will find their back trail there.”

  South Wind came loping up to the two men. She had insisted on accompanying the war party.

  “My chief!” she sounded urgent. “We have missed them somewhere!”

  The men nodded and Long Elk spoke.

  “Yes, little one. We turn south to try to find their trail. They may have turned west from the night camp.”

  “But they may not have!”

  She turned to Heads Off.

  “My chief, we should go to their last camp! We can read the sign and follow their trail!”

  It was so obvious a solution that it had been overlooked. Return to the last location of the missing party.

  “South Wind, do you know where they planned to camp?”

  “Of course. It is the only good camp within a sleep of here.”

  “Lead the way, then.”

  He raised an arm and signaled the change in direction. The girl set out at a good stiff lope until finally Long Elk cautioned her.

  “Aiee, little sister! If we kill our elk-dogs with speed, we are on foot again!”

  Heads Off had begun to sense urgency in the attitude of the girl. There must be something not apparent, that she was so concerned over a group of strangers. He rode up beside her, as they walked the horses to rest them.

  “South Wind, tell me more of these Hair-faces.”

  “There is little to tell, my chief. What did you wish?”

  “Why should you care about these strangers? They are of no good to you.”

  The girl’s eyes filled with tears. She had endured much and had slept little for the past two days. She blurted her story.

  “My chief, there is one of the Hair-faces called Rah-mone. He is their war chief and he is special to me. We have good medicine together. I am afraid for his life.”

  She paused, embarrassed.

  “There is the old man, too,” she continued. “He may be your father!”

  He wished to hear more. His mind had reeled in confusion ever since he had heard of the Hair-faces’ party. Heads Off had become so thoroughly one of the People that he felt detached. Still, when he heard of people from his previous life, there was a tug of sentimental memory. Sometimes, he felt as if he were two different people. He must know more of these strangers.

  “Tell me, South Wind. Do you think this man is my father? What does he look like?”

  “I do not know, my chief. He is tall and old. His hair is as white as that of White Buffalo, the medicine man. The fur on his face is white, also.”

  She gave a quick side glance and a self-conscious little smile.

  “I did not know that would be so. He carries a very big knife that shines in the sunlight.”

  Her spread hands indicated what must be a sword.

  So far, the physical description could be Don Pedro Garcia. It could also fit a thousand other men.

  “Do they ride elk-dogs?”

  “Of course. The white-fur rides a gray mare, like yours.”

  Correct again, he thought, but still, there are many gray horses.

  “How is he called?”

  She shook her head.

  “I do not know. Their words are strange to my ears. I cannot remember the sounds.”

  “Except for Rah-mone,” observed Long Elk, who was listening.

  The girl blushed and smiled.

  “Yes, tell us more of this Rah-mone.”

  “He is tall, nearly as tall as you, my chief. His fur is like yours. He rides a big black elk-dog and carries the big knife instead of a spear.”

  Ah, thought Heads Off. An officer.

  “What do his warriors carry?”

  “Spears, mostly. The ones with spears ride elk-dogs. About this many.”

  She held up fingers, first both hands, then one.

  “Some walk and carry a strange weapon. It is a short bow, tied to a big stick. It throws a little arrow, very hard.”

  Heads Off nodded.

  “Any others?”

  “Only those who carry supplies. One or two others.”

  So, he concluded, a platoon of lancers, a short squad of crossbowmen, and a contingent of servants. From the description, a well-equipped expedition. The name Rah-mone meant nothing to him.

  Their mounts were now rested somewhat and they resumed a ground-eating steady canter. It was nearly time to slow to a walk again, when Red Dog, scouting ahead, suddenly turned at the top of a hill and signaled the party forward.

  The main group held back to allow the trackers to examine the abandoned campsite. Piles of fluffy white ashes marked the campfires, abandoned only since daylight.

  Had there been a fight? Yes, Standing Bird reported. Probably before dawn. Several had been killed or wounded, judging from bloodstains on the grass in several places.

  “Mostly Head Splitters,” observed Long Elk.

  Heads Off was astounded.

  “How do you know that?”

  “There are no bodies. The Head Splitters took them away.”

  He pointed south, then turned to indicate a plain trail headed north.

  “Hair-faces went that way.”

  Long Elk shrugged as if any child could read such sign and pointed to the horse tracks crossing a soft area. All were of uniform depth, none markedly different from the others.

  “No elk-dogs with double loads. No bodies.”

  Heads Off had not realized the relief such a find would bring. At least, the party had been alive and traveling this morning.

  The girl, too, appeared much more optimistic as they turned north again on the trail.

  The trackers were in the lead and soon Standing Bird returned to report that the travelers were being harassed by a small war party of Head Splitters. Trampled places in the tall grass were seen, where a defensive circle had been formed. There were a few stray arrows near three places, but no blood or evidence of a fight.

  Late in the afternoon, Long Elk signaled. He had found a dead horse, a well-built gra
y, with an arrow jutting from the upper neck. It had been killed only today.

  “Hair-face’s horse,” observed Standing Bird, pointing to the shiny military saddle.

  Heads Off was more interested in the dead animal. He examined it for some time, then suggested that someone salvage the saddle, and the group moved on. Long Elk, who had discovered the horse, was given the honor of removing the saddle. He immediately gave away his old saddle pad to one of the younger Elk-dog men and the group moved on.

  Sun Boy’s torch was sinking when Standing Bird again came back to advise caution. They had discovered that the track ahead was all but obliterated by the tracks of a large number of horsemen. The pursuers of the fleeing party had been joined by more warriors than two men have fingers and toes.

  It was decided to camp for the night. It would be madness to pursue a large force of the enemy in darkness in his own country.

  There was much frustration, but none quite so severe as that experienced by Heads Off. He was the only one present whose knowledge enabled him to read the entire story of the dead horse. He was the only one of the People who understood the importance of the scar on the animal’s shoulder. It was a brand, the gracefully shaped identifying mark placed with a hot iron on the left shoulder of every Andalusian stallion in the stables of Don Pedro Garcia.

  25

  Lean Bull lay stretched on his robe, propped on an elbow so that he could observe the twinkling of the distant fires. He had no desire to sleep. It had been a day of frustration.

  Once more he had been thwarted in his effort to crush the young war chief of the Hair-faces. It should have been possible, even easy, to attack the column successfully. Instead, he had lost more warriors.

  He felt the slipping of prestige among his followers. It would be necessary to accomplish an overwhelming victory, with many honors counted and many horses captured, to restore his respect.