San Domingo: The Medicine Hat Stallion

by Marguerite Henry

  Peter glanced sidelong at his mother. If she had been caught in Pa’s storming, she was hiding it well. He would try, too. It was better this way.

  “Aileen has never seen a baby colt,” she was saying. “With Domingo’s spotted markings, she’ll probably think he’s a dog like Dice.”

  Revived in spirit, Peter ran out to the saddling shed, coaxing Lucia inside with a handful of corn. While she was busy grinding it into mush, he threw an Indian rug over her back. “As long as you’re Indian broke,” he told her, “we won’t need a saddle nor any mean old bit.”

  He slipped a hackamore over her nose, attaching a hair rope for the reins. Then he sprang onto her back and headed across the road to the house.

  Lucia, content with the lightness of her load and the absence of metal restraints, stepped out briskly, her colt kicking and capering alongside. Dice, not to be outdone, leaped in ten-foot bounds. Grandma was already in the doorway, peering out from the folds of her shawl like a somber turtle. Peter’s mother steadied her with one hand while with the other she held Baby Aileen on her shoulder.

  Peter paraded Lucia in and out among imaginary barrels, yelling and whooping until his audience caught the flame of his excitement. Aileen shouted in glee, clapping her pat-a-cake with vigor, and Grandma threw out her hands in such rapture she almost toppled.

  “Why, they’re identical!” Mrs. Lundy said. “Marking and coloring both.”

  Around and around in a small circle Peter rode. Then he pulled up at the doorstep so everyone could have a close view. Lucia spraddled her legs ever so slightly and the foal rushed to her side. He bunted her in fierce play, then nuzzled up to nurse. All in an instant his flappy tail was keeping time to the suckly noises he made.

  The audience in the doorway watched in silence. When at last Domingo had drunk his fill, Grandma threw Peter a kiss and disappeared within.

  Peter turned to his mother. “I’d like to ride Lucia to the spring,” he said. “She could paw and drink and have some fun.”

  “Yes!” his mother agreed. “She probably could use a bit of a holiday from that hungry baby of hers.”

  “You really think so, Ma?”

  “I most certainly do. He’ll beller some, left behind. But it’s the best way to begin his weaning. He’ll learn to give up his mother gradually.” Then as an afterthought she added, “But short gallops only, Peter. Remember, she’s pretty young to be a mother.”

  When Peter heard the high whinkering of San Domingo as he and the mare left the corral, he almost mistrusted his mother’s advice. The crossfire of squealing and neighing lasted until they were well out on the plain, traveling in the path made by iron-rimmed tires and countless feet of emigrants and beasts of burden. With the wind in Lucia’s face, the cries of Domingo thinned out and were silenced. A wagon train approached with two colts running free. One of them kited in Lucia’s direction. She hesitated. Then, realizing it was not her youngster, she stepped out confidently, almost larking her way along.

  Peter found himself whistling. Riding an Indian pony was a different feeling from riding Kate, the pacer. Much as he loved Kate, she had a funny side motion when she walked, a kind of wriggle. Pa called her a side-wheeler. But Lucia’s step was all forward going, and so smooth he felt suspended somewhere between earth and sky.

  Maybe now was the time to keep on going and never come back. Who cared for arithmetic anyway? What matter the cost of flour? Freedom was the staff of life, not bread. If he just kept loping along like this, away to the ridged mountains, and over and beyond, his father could never find him, never taunt him, never again say, “Yellow head to yellow head laughing.” And his mother would never again be hurt because of him. Dice, racing on ahead, seemed to like the idea.

  They came to the spring, and Peter’s dreaming was so deep he didn’t notice the fresh tracks around it. Lucia’s drinking and plashing were pleasant to his ears.

  He did not head back home. The early afternoon sun was warm on his back, and warm on the mare so that the smell of her was good in his nostrils. “It will be hard on little Domingo,” he thought. “He’ll have to grow up without a mother. But Ma’ll take extra care of him because of grieving for me. And Pa’ll miss Dice when it comes to shoein’ the frisky ones. He might even miss me and call out in his sleep, ‘Pe-ter! Pe-ter! Come home!’ ”

  Still busy with his dream, Peter rode on. He’d make out just fine. A person could live for years on berries and fish. And Dice could eat jerky. In time he’d grow rich from rounding up stray cattle and horses lost by the emigrants. As for Lucia, she’d fatten on just buffalo grass.

  Peter flicked his rope end at a fly that had landed on her neck. Maybe it’d be better to join up with just one train, instead of going from one to another. That way, it’d be more homey.

  Or maybe, to earn a heap of money, he’d work for the Majors and Waddell Express Company. With a pocketful of dollars, he’d go back to his father and buy Domingo outright. Any moment now one of their freighters would be coming along, looking for an extra hand. And soon he’d be riding ahead, scouting for Indians and buffalo and outlaws. And when he wasn’t scouting, he’d take the driver’s place, sitting up on the box, driving the six-horse hitch. Lucia’d be the leader because theirs had just broken a leg and the driver, with tears streaming down his face, had had to shoot him.

  But there was no dust cloud in the distance announcing the approach of a stage, or anything at all. There was just grass and wind and sky, without even a bird coasting in it. Nor a cloud. Except along the horizon where tufts of feathers scudded along like the wool-dust Ma swept up every day and threw into the fire.

  Peter felt a sudden loneliness as he passed an abandoned wagon, tongue and all wheels missing, and the skull of a cow lying near with new grass growing through the holes where the eyes had been.

  He whistled for Dice to stay close.

  “Funny,” he thought, “with millions of buffalo and wild horses, and thousands of wagon trains crisscrossing the plains, there’s no one but us.” He thought of home. Ma would be slicing potatoes about now, and Aileen looking for him to give her a piggyback ride. With his eyes closed, he tried a halfhearted laugh. “I swear,” he said to the empty land, “more’n more I mind me of Grandma, a-rockin’ and rockin’ and on her bad days keening: ‘I hear eyes a-lookin’ at me. I hear eyes . . .’ ”

  Alert now, he opened his eyes and swiveled his head like an owl’s. And still there was only emptiness—until—far along the skyline in the purling clouds he saw,’ or thought he saw, a quiver of movement. It was no more than the shimmer of heat on an August afternoon. But here it was only spring! It must be something alive! Mustangs, likely. In wild exuberance he galloped in their direction. Lucia seemed eager to meet them head on. Her new shoes drummed the earth. The grasses parted to her touch. Peter laughed. He was Moses crossing the Red Sea!

  The movement in the cloud stilled. “If it’s Indians hiding,” Peter thought, “they’ll know me and come riding out . . . unless they’re a faraway tribe.”

  He heard them before he saw them. Heard their piercing yells, heard arrows singing past him and a rifle ball whining. He reined in, shouting, “Kola washté! Kola washté! (Me friend!)”

  His voice was lost in their hollering. Only four Indians coming on, but sounding like a nation. He tried sign language, thrusting his right hand to his heart; then guiding Lucia with his knees, he threw both arms forward, forefingers held tight together in friendship. But the Indians swept on, coming closer, brandishing lances and bows. One waggled a rusty rifle.

  Where to hide? Which way to go? In all the vast prairie he was the target. Instinctively he wheeled toward home. Lucia broke out in sweat. She was headed back to her youngster! Dice, yipping and yawping, led the way.

  The world was all noise and hissing arrows, and the blood roaring in his head, and Indians gone crazy. If only they’d take a direct course; but they came at him in half-circles, first on one side then the other, each time nearer and nearer until they
were ahead and he tailing; and now the four of them dashing at him, shooting their arrows, aiming at the earth in front of him, throwing clods of dirt in Lucia’s face, trying to stop her. Suddenly Peter knew. They took him for a horse thief! They were after Lucia!

  Peter skinned off his shirt, waving it as a peace sign. A young warrior with red horseshoes painted on his face swung alongside, speared Peter’s shirt into the air, grinning and waving it on high. He was riding broadside of Peter, and now careened sharply in front of him. The mare reared to miss him, but one of her forefeet raked the Indian’s thigh, drawing a ribbon of blood. Laughing, the warrior wiped the crimson on his hand and smeared it over his face. Then he slid off his horse and grabbed Lucia’s rope, ripping it out of Peter’s hands and jerking him to the ground.

  The other three Indians surrounded Peter. They wore their hair in double braids down their backs. Peter felt a moment of hope. They were Sioux! The Sioux were his friends!

  “How!” he said in a thin voice. “How!” he tried again, deeper this time, while Dice’s growl grew strong and threatening until a whack with the rifle brought a whimper of pain and shame. Then more growling, fiercer than before, and Peter trying to think fast before they killed Dice. “Go home, Dice! Go home!” he shouted.

  Three of the Indians were arguing among themselves, even as they came at him, lances prodding. Peter caught the word “Péhin,” meaning “hair.” And then fiendish laughter and the youngest Indian saying, “Péhin shokala,” meaning “thick hair.”

  Peter froze. He’d seen a scalped man. He remembered the throb of blood beating in the skull, marking the count of the heartbeats. Peter would rather die.

  His eyes sought the big Indian with the rifle, asking in sign language to be shot instead of scalped. The man understood, but his powder was gone. He reached into his quiver, pulling out an arrow. The others were silencing Dice with blows, now prodding Peter with their lances, turning him around and around until he was dizzy. They were planning to shoot him in the back!

  Suddenly he heard his own voice, big in his throat, and he was commanding, “Makpia Luta tipi ichuwo! (Take me to Red Cloud’s tepee!) Kolapi washté! (We good friends!)”

  The Indians stopped their shouting. Their eyes hunted one another’s. The Indian with the rifle motioned Horseshoe Face to give Lucia’s rope back to Peter, motioned Peter to put his shirt on and climb aboard.

  In single file, with Peter in the middle and Dice limping in the rear, they took off toward the camp of Red Cloud.

  “Him Damn Lucky”

  INSIDE HIS tepee Red Cloud, chief of the Sioux Nation, sat cross-legged on his throne of buffalo robes. His hair was pierced by a single eagle’s feather. Rattlesnake tails dangled from his ears, and bear claws circled pendants in his ears, and a string of grizzly-bear claws circled his neck. For clothing he wore only leggings and a breechclout; yet he was resplendent in the magnificence of his shoulders, the depth of his chest, the glossy sheen of the blue-black braids. Dignity marked his cold face.

  Peter moved slowly toward him, frightened when the firm lips did not move. He tried a timid “How.”

  The jaw muscles tightened. There was no familiar twinkle in the dark eyes. No flashing of white teeth. He was not the same Indian who tossed Aileen into the air, and shook hands with Ma and ate her rice pudding, saying, “Damn good!” and “More sugar, thanks.”

  Outside, Peter heard dogs barking and men and children shouting, but all was stillness within the tepee. The only sounds came from a half coyote bitch licking a ragged gash on Dice’s leg. The silence was suffocating; it was like being caught in quicksand, being sucked down, down, down until even his lungs were squeezed of air. He said a quick prayer under his breath, felt it answered when Red Cloud stirred, pointing an outstretched arm toward Lucia, who was just visible beyond the opening of the tepee. Then the big hand scalped Peter in sign language, and the gruff voice said: “Red Cloud make war! Kill many!” Both arms shot wide, as though slaughtering the whole world. “Who steal Injun pony? You tell Red Cloud and we no make war. Maybe.”

  Peter let out his breath and gulped for more. The memory of Lefty Slade came sharp and clear. Even the ratty smell of him. Peter thought of Pa’s advice: Observe how each man is one of a kind. Doc Slade would be easy to describe, but it would mean the man’s almost certain death . . . unless he and old Kate had made it over the mountains to Oregon. Peter weighed one life against many. There was no choice.

  A straggle of children came into the tepee, returning an armful of almost grown pups to the bitch. One pup was biting at fleas. Peter was suddenly reminded of Lefty’s lice. He shoved an imaginary hat back on his head and scratched at imaginary lice to gain thinking time. Where should he begin? With the man’s withered hand? With his firearms?

  As the scratching went on, the boys were tittering behind their hands. Lice were something they understood. But there was neither amusement nor friendliness in Red Cloud’s eyes. His face was sealed as if with wax.

  Peter’s mind went hopping from lice to guns to the crippled hand. He decided to show the guns first. He went into pantomime, wrapping the buscadero belt low about his hips, keeping his thumbs and middle fingers inches apart, showing how very wide the belt was. After tying the make-believe thongs securely, he patted the two guns, one on either hip. Next he made as if he were slipping a pistol into a holster pocket fastened onto a vest, chest high—not over his heart but to the right.

  Red Cloud leaned forward, eyes squinted in concentration as Peter began acting out the withered hand. With his left hand he now pointed to his right hand, which he slowly drew up into his right sleeve so that only the fingers showed, dangling puny and helpless. Then in a lightning-quick motion his strong left hand made a cross-draw and shot Red Cloud dead!

  There was total silence. For a terrible instant Peter’s stomach sickened at his daring. Then, slowly, the eagle feather in Red Cloud’s hair waggled up and down. He nodded at the clue, and at long last the waxen face melted into a slow grin of understanding.

  “Him road agent,” Red Cloud said, strangling the man with both hands. Then his eyes went kindly. “Chante ohitika!” he said, praising Peter for his brave heart. He called to his squaw, whose wrinkled face poked into the tepee. “Wota,” he said to her. He sawed himself in half with his thumb and pointed to Peter.

  “Ah, Yellow Hair hun-ger-y,” the squaw said, grinning at the sign talk.

  With the grace of an antelope, Red Cloud bounded to his feet and went out to the mare. He studied her, felt her legs, admired her new shoes. “Washté! (Good!)” he said.

  Then he noticed her full milk bag and the drops of milk on the ground. He looked straight at Peter.

  Peter placed his hand over his heart. “Me, I have colt.” He crossed his forearms, forefingers pointing: “Trade. Me trade,” and he pointed to Lucia’s new shoes. “Me give shoes for colt.” He clasped his left forefinger in his right fist and held it firmly. “Me keep colt?” he asked hopefully.

  Red Cloud’s eyes looked beyond Peter, looked past Horseshoe Face and the three young warriors who stood waiting, past the wagons and the children to some other time and place. To Peter he suddenly seemed a wise judge or a prophet out of the Bible. He wondered how this fatherly person could have killed the eighty-one men in the massacre at Fort Kearney. “They must have someway deserved it,” he thought.

  At last Red Cloud came back to the here and now. He crossed his arms, ready to trade. “Washté!” he said again. “You keep colt. She,” he said, stroking Lucia’s neck, “she make many more for me. Many as fingers of Red Cloud’s hands.” And he ticked them off on his ten fingers.

  He disappeared into the tepee and returned with his squaw carrying a blue jug. While Red Cloud held Lucia still, the squaw deftly milked her until the bag was no longer swollen. To Peter’s open-mouthed amazement, she presented the jug to Red Cloud, who drank noisily, smacking his lips with pleasure.

  Then Peter and Red Cloud sat down to wota, consisting of hot pemmican
cakes and a bitter brew that Peter managed to swallow. “No wonder Red Cloud found Lucia’s milk so tasty,” he thought.

  The huddled puppies were asleep, and Peter was wondering where he would sleep this night when Red Cloud arose, made him a present of the blue jug still encrusted with Lucia’s milk, and his rattlesnake earrings.

  “For Mama,” he said, “and baby ’Leen.”

  Peter thanked him in his best Sioux. “Pilamayelo! (Oh, thank you!) Pilamayelo!”

  Red Cloud was pleased. “Yellow Hair gude boy,” he said. He clapped his hands, summoning the four braves to escort Peter home.

  Riding double behind Horseshoe Face, Peter kept sluing around, first to make sure that Dice was keeping up, then looking backward, to watch Lucia until she was lost in distance. Horseshoe Face reached around and held Peter’s leg still. “Yellow Hair still have yellow hair!” he said. “Him damn lucky.”

  It was getting on toward evening when Peter walked into the house carrying the blue jug. Mrs. Lundy, in the middle of supper preparations, ran to him in relief. For a moment she held Peter close and whispered: “I warmed milk for Domingo.” Then quickly she turned to her skillet, flipping the sliced potatoes that were browned on one side.

  After supper Peter acted out his meeting with Red Cloud, doing the pantomime all over again, playing the roles of both Lefty Slade and Red Cloud.

  Her cheeks pink with pride, his mother applauded heartily. And Grandma said, “What’s wrong with your pore dangly arm?” His father’s reaction took him by surprise, though afterward he wondered why it should. “Least you could’ve done,” Mr. Lundy grunted, “was make a decent trade! Who but Peter Lundy would give away an Injun-gentled three-year-old mare for an untried suckling? You should’ve brought home furs—ermine and fox and white wolf. Eh, Emily?”

  The mother dared to say, “He made the best trade of all. His life for the mare.”