Soaring Eagle nodded his head as Cuchillo translated for him. The mass of wrinkles that formed his mouth deepened into a frown. “You speak truly, Storm Rider. Nermernuh medicine could not defeat the medicine of the whites.” Then his old eyes sharpened. “But now we have the only medicine the whites respect - gold! The white man will slit the throat of his own mother to have it.” His voice grew stronger. “I think now we have a chance to survive. Now we can buy what we need.”
“You'll still need a white to act for you,” Tucson replied, after a moment’s thought. “No Comanche should ever go to a white banker with gold. It would be stolen from you just like the last time. And after they stole the gold they'd take away your land, like Durant is trying to do now.”
“What we do then?” the old chief asked. “If we cannot sell gold, it is no use to us.”
“I have an idea,” Tucson replied. “There's a white woman in Howling Wolf. Her name is Catherine Murry, and she runs a boarding house. She's honorable, and is sympathetic to the Comanche. I believe she would agree to act as your agent.” After pausing to consider for a moment, he added, “But it will still be dangerous. Anyone—no matter who it is—would cause a stir if they showed up at a bank carrying gold. People will want to know where it came from. The danger is that the source may still leak out. If that happens, you'll be moved off your land, most likely to a place even worse than this. You’ve got to realize, Great Chief, that you're taking a big chance.” He stared piercingly into the old man’s face. “What you’re trying to do could mean your final destruction.”
Soaring Eagle sighed, closed his eyes and sank down within himself. Tucson and Cuchillo sat silently and waited. The heat inside the lodge was stifling. Tucson wiped the sweat from his brow and listened to the flies buzzing in the air and to the snorting and stomping of the horses outside.
Finally, Soaring Eagle opened his eyes and looked at Tucson. “We must do whatever we can to survive,” he said. “If we stay like this we will die. Both roads may bring death, but with the gold at least we have a chance. Without it we have nothing. We will go to the white woman in Howling Wolf and pay her well to help us.”
Tucson nodded. “Then all I can do to help you is to eliminate Charles Durant. That issue will be settled by sun-up tomorrow. When that's done, if I'm still alive, I'll be heading out of Howling Wolf.” He started to rise, but turned back. “By the way, Great Chief, if I find that pouch of gold you sent to Durant - I'm keeping it!”
* * * *
Tucson was putting his boot into the stirrup when Cuchillo came out of the lodge. “Wait, Storm Rider,” called the boy. “I need to talk to you.”
Tucson glanced at him, noting again his traditional Comanche garb, different from the clothes he had worn when he went into town. “Okay...” he replied, as he lifted himself into the saddle. “...talk”
Cuchillo swung effortlessly onto the bare back of the pinto then lifted his thin arm and pointed north. “Let's ride that way.”
It was early afternoon, and the air Tucson drew into his lungs was hot and dry. The very earth seemed to reel under the impact of the heat as if from the blows of a huge hammer. The chaparral, the prairie grass, the yucca and the oaks, all seemed to be gasping for breath.
Tucson and Cuchillo rode down the Old Spanish Trail in silence. Tucson held his peace and let the boy come to what he wanted to say in his own time.
“I'm goin’ on my spirit quest today,” Cuchillo stated, finally, with a tinge of pride edging his voice. “In the north of our land there's an arroyo with a spring where I can stay. I've put up a teepee and built a sweat lodge for vigils.”
That explained the boy’s traditional clothes.
“You're searching for your own medicine,” Tucson commented quietly.
“I knew you'd understand.” Cuchillo gazed up at him worshipfully. “But what do you think,” he asked, “can a Comanche still get puha, power, or is it all dead now that The People have been almost wiped out?”
“Shouldn't you be asking Soaring Eagle?” Tucson replied with surprise. “Why ask a white man about Comanche medicine?”
“Because you ain't no ordinary white man!” Cuchillo exclaimed. “Soaring Eagle told us before you came that he'd seen Storm Rider, the great white warrior, in his spirit vision—and he put out the call to you for help.
“He said that you're a warrior like the Nermernuh used to be,” he explained. “And you understand our ways and traditions. But I don't know...” he glanced away; then his eye was caught by the majestic form of an eagle circling in the clear sky above them. “It seems to me,” he said dejectedly, bringing his gaze back to Tucson, “that the spirits have deserted the Comanche. Our medicine's been destroyed by the white man with his farms and towns and soldiers. I wonder if lookin’ for my medicine now is useless.” He shrugged his thin shoulders. “I thought, since you understand both sides, you maybe could tell me.”
They rode on, side by side, while Tucson thought over what to say. He too had seen the eagle, and was impressed by the fact that it was circling in the sky at just that moment. His gaze sharpened as he looked again at the boy.
“The first thing you have to understand,” he said, “is that you can't ask anyone else about your own medicine. Power is a personal matter, and it depends on the man whether or not he can attract enough puha to himself. Still,” he added sadly, “it is a fact that the Comanche's medicine has been wiped out. The same is true for all the Tribes. The trail for The People will be long and hard from now on,” he concluded with a shake of his head, “and I don't see any light at the end for them—not in the sense of a return to your old ways. That's gone for good.”
As Cuchillo listened to Tucson, his shoulders slumped despondently. Then the pinto stumbled as a jack rabbit shot out of the prairie grass and across the trail in front of them, and he pulled back on the reins to steady it.
“What's the use, then?” he asked in despair. “Maybe I should just lay around the village, soak up whiskey, swat flies and plant corn! Why search for puha when it's already deserted us?”
“Because,” Tucson explained patiently, “even though Nermernuh medicine is gone, you can still discover your own way as a man. Listen to me, boy...” He shifted in the saddle and stared at Cuchillo. “Your spirit vision can help you to find out who you are and what your purpose is in life. It's a great achievement for a man to discover his purpose—what he was born to do.” Remembering the eagle, his gaze concentrated into a point. “I believe you have an important purpose. Now, more than ever, the Indians need leaders. They need men with an awareness of the past, but who can also see into the future and can help them prepare for it. Soaring Eagle is such a man, but he's old now and ready to join his ancestors. I think that you can become such a man.”
Cuchillo sat up straight and squared his shoulders. “Y'know,” he said, looking up at Tucson with renewed hope gleaming in his dark eyes. “I've had visions since I was small. What I saw scared my father, but Soaring Eagle always told me that I'd been chosen just as our ancient medicine men had been chosen. Since the Comanche have fallen so low, I didn’t really believe him. But what you said makes me think that maybe Soaring Eagle was right.”
“Listen,” Tucson said earnestly. “The white man's medicine is strong right now. Because they're so successful at laying waste to the earth they don't realize how sick they really are. But the day will come when they begin to see it. Then, what the Nermernuh have and what the other Tribes have, may help. You need to preserve the traditions of your people for the future. Make your medicine, then keep it strong and pass it on to your son or to another who's been chosen as you've been chosen.”
“Yeah,” Cuchillo replied enthusiastically. “You're right.”
“Another thing,” Tucson added. “You should be the one to see Catherine Murry about being the agent for your people. Folks are used to seeing you around Howling Wolf and won't think anything of you going there regularly. You can tell Soaring Eagle that that was my suggestion.”
They parted company at the rim of the arroyo where Cuchillo was going to seek his vision. Tucson watched for a moment as the boy put his pinto over the edge and started down the trail to the bottom; then he turned the stallion around and headed back south.
* * * *
Tucson scanned the countryside as he rode along the Old Spanish Trail. It was pushing into late afternoon, the shadows thrown by the chaparral were lengthening, and the almost unbearable heat was beginning to lift. Struck by the long rays of the sun, the range of mountains far to the east sparkled and glittered like a pile of jewels.
But, although Tucson maintained his habitual watchfulness, his mind was troubled by his conversations with Soaring Eagle and the boy, Cuchillo.
He seriously doubted if gold would solve any of the problems the Comanche faced. They would have to be very careful to keep word from getting out about its source. The money-greed of the whites was obsessive; nothing this side of hell could hold them back once they got a whiff of gold in their nostrils.
Still, he thought, the Comanche had to do what they believed was best. Who knows, they just might succeed. And they were right about one thing - only money, and plenty of it, would get them the treatment they deserved.
Tucson’s eyes went bleak as he reflected on the inhumanity of the white man's treatment of the defeated Indians. They had been denied any graceful, dignified way to assimilate into their conqueror's culture. They had been treated like erring children, or ravenous animals. Their religious customs had been forbidden as heathenish, and their marriage ceremonies had been tossed aside as immoral. Their medicine, which had kept them healthy for hundreds of years, was seen as useless superstition. And finally, their children were taken away from their parents and sent to white schools, and their supplies and rations had been taken away as a form of punishment.
With a sigh of sadness, Tucson’s thoughts moved on to the total psychological devastation suffered by the Indians. Their personal and tribal identities as well as their whole way of life had been obliterated and proven to be powerless against the onslaught of the whites. There was nowhere left for them to go and nothing for them to do but die, which was what they were doing.
Tucson went out of his way to help the Tribes whenever and wherever he could; but he was only one man, and he knew that all of his efforts would never be enough. He hoped that more—many more—young men like Cuchillo would grow up wise enough to help their people avoid total annihilation. If they could help their people to survive, it was just possible that things would change enough to allow The People to recover their dignity and sense of themselves as human beings.
* * * *
Tucson's gaze sharpened as the Trail began to wind its way between two hills. The chaparral was especially thick along the slopes and there was an ominous stillness to the atmosphere. The stallion was skittishly throwing back its head and shaking its mane.
Unwilling to take any chances, Tucson reined the stallion off to the side, intending to circle the hills and come back to the Trail where the going was safer.
Suddenly, a rifle shot rang out from a thick clump of brush along the slope and a slug kicked up a cloud of dirt in front of the stallion's hooves. The horse reared, neighing and pawing the air, while Tucson whipped out his gun and scanned the trail.
Then a voice, strangely familiar, called out to him, “All right, Kid, you're covered by ten guns. You can drop your Colt and live for a while, or you can be stupid and die right now. Make up your mind quick!”
Tucson didn't need to think very hard about that one. As long as he was alive he had a fighting chance—dead, his chances were over. He dropped his Colt into the dust and raised his hands. “Okay,” he said disgustedly. “You got the drop on me.”
Miraculously, as if the chaparral had suddenly blossomed, ten men appeared in the brush. They were dressed like cowmen in wide-brimmed Stetsons, vests over their shirts, and leather chaps, but there the similarity ended. Their eyes were as cold as marbles, their faces were set in cruel lines, and each of them held a six-gun or a rifle pointing straight at Tucson.
They were obviously a gang of hired killers.
Then another man appeared from behind a clump of brush and Tucson was able to place the voice.
“So, the mighty Tucson Kid can walk into a trap just like us ordinary folk,” Prince sneered, as he climbed down the slope and onto the Trail. He was dapperly dressed as usual, but now he wore a yellow duster to keep the dust off his suit. He stopped when he got to Tucson's Colt, picked it up and dropped it into the pocket of his duster.
Tucson met Prince's eyes steadily but he didn't say anything. Inside he was disgusted with himself. For all his awareness, he hadn't tumbled to the ambush until it was too late. His job had just become all but impossible, that is, if he even got out of this with his life.
“Listen to me, Kid,” Prince continued. “With the thumb and forefinger of your left hand, reach inside your jacket real slow and pull that .32 out here and drop it on the ground.”
Tucson did as he was told and let it fall. Prince scooped it up and dropped it into the other pocket of his duster. Then he spoke over his shoulder to the two men closest to him. “Charlie, you and Red stay here with me and help keep Tucson covered.” He raised his voice and called to the others. “The rest of you go on around the hill and get our horses and bring them back here.”
The three men holding the guns, and Tucson with his arms in the air, stayed as they were while the others disappeared to get the horses. No one spoke, but Prince had a big smile on his face. Then the other men were back, mounted, leading the horses of the three covering Tucson.
The dust cloud from the horses was thick, and Prince stifled a cough. “Alright, Kid,” he said, once he was mounted. “I won't tie your hands now, but if you break bad, your stallion won't get two paces before ten guns rip you to shreds. So the calmer you stay, the longer you live—got it?”
They rode east over the hills and through the chaparral.
With ten men (eleven including Prince) riding behind him, Tucson felt like he was leading a parade. He assumed they were on their way to the headquarters of the Lazy T. Since it butted up against the reservation, they must already be on the ranch. The gunmen rode in disciplined silence—no one cursed or cracked jokes. They must be taking their job of guarding him very seriously.
They were professionals, Tucson thought with a dull, sinking feeling in his guts. That would make it tougher, if not impossible, to get away. He didn't know how many more men were at the ranch house, but there must be some. It looked like Charles Durant had rigged a foolproof trap for him.
A thin trickle of sweat meandered from the top of his spine down to the bottom, and Tucson knew that it wasn't from the heat.
The sun was setting as they rounded a butte thrusting its way up from the prairie floor into the purple sky. It was a burst of multi-colored rock and soil fighting heroically to preserve its identity against the merciless onslaught of wind-driven sand. Tucson glanced sympathetically at the butte as they rode by, watched its colors fading in the waning light, and felt a pang of kinship for it.
Then he looked ahead and saw the headquarters. A small range of rolling hills rose in a circular bowl behind it, like a group of sentinels guarding a treasure, or a setting for a gem. The ranch house was a two-story affair, with two wings jutting off a central hall. A red barn and smithy were off to the left and a long bunkhouse sat on the right. Huge corrals spread out to the north and south, filled with horses and cattle. As the group rode into the compound, Tucson noticed the smoke rising from a small building beside the ranch house, and smelled the welcome aroma of cooking food.
As they pulled their mounts to a halt at the hitching rack in front of the house, a man stepped out of the door and onto the porch. Tall and barrel-chested, he wore a white shirt open at the throat and faded Levi's. His sweat-stained Stetson was pushed to the back of his head, revealing a receding hairline. A thick wad of chewing tobacco was stuck in his right ch
eek under a swirling handlebar mustache.
“Howdy, Ed,” Prince called out.
“So this is the Tucson Kid!” Ed Thompson commented in a harsh voice, his brown eyes looking Tucson over.
When Tucson didn’t answer, Prince spoke up. “Yeah, Ed, the Kid walked right into the trap like some greenhorn. If I hadn't seen him take out Ramon Vasquez and Wolf Cabot with my own eyes, I'd think his rep was all talk.”
Ed Thompson had been studying Tucson's face. “Nope,” he said decisively, spitting a long stream of brown juice into the dirt. “The Kid here's the real thing. We need to keep 'im under close guard all the time.” His glance went hard as it traveled over the gunmen. “Any one o’ you men who gets caught sleepin' on the job'll be beggin' fer death before I give to 'im.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the bunkhouse. “Take the Kid and put him in the tool shed at the end o’ the bunkhouse. I want two men watchin' 'im all the time. The rest o’ you men can eat, then relieve the two guards and let them eat. Prince,” he glanced at the gambler, “why don't you come on in and set a spell?”
“I’d be glad to, Ed,” Prince replied with a smile. “I'll take the Kid over to the shed and get him settled in first, then I’ll come back.” He spoke to two of the men. “Red, you and Charlie take first watch.” He glanced at the others. “The rest of you get yourselves something to eat.”
With Prince beside him and Red and Charlie behind him, Tucson turned the stallion about and rode over to the bunkhouse. The light glowing from the windows cast a pale sheen over the ground out front. The men's faces were a blur to Tucson as he dismounted, wrapping the reins loosely over the saddle horn as usual.
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