by Judd Cole
But he had little time to worry over such things. With the darkness they made straight for the Blanco Canyon, determined to either make it or die in the attempt. River of Winds had told them about the single entrance trail. But it would be too heavily guarded. Instead, Touch the Sky planned to enter the canyon well to the east of this trail, on foot leading the sure-footed ponies. It would be risky, but by now every move was.
“Brother,” Little Horse said just before Touch the Sky gave the order for total silence, “what happened to Black Elk’s band? Are you thinking what I am?”
“You too? Yes, I think Black Elk cleverly lured us into a trap meant for him.”
“And that he is already in the canyon?”
Touch the Sky nodded. “If he can save our women and children, then let him. I am not locked in a contest to play the hero. But I no longer trust his judgment. And do not forget, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling and Swift Canoe are there to goad him on in his spiteful foolishness. I will proceed with this rescue as if the others were not here.”
Strict silence was ordered now as they once again neared the rim of the vast canyon, this time bearing further away from the entrance. Their only hope now was to get to cover and learn what they could. When they reached the canyon rim, they dismounted and ran their weapons and equipment through one final check.
The descent here would be steep and treacherous, threading their way down a rocky slope and through dangerous piles of talus or loose rock. Each Cheyenne made sure his equipment was securely tied to the horses. Moonlight occasionally leaked through openings in the clouded sky, showing the edge of a huge horse herd below. Using hand signals, Touch the Sky reminded the rest: If they were surprised by herd guards, they must kill them silently.
They soon realized, however, that silence was hardly necessary.
They had made their way about one-third of the distance down the canyon wall, the going rough all the way. The horses, tired and hungry and thirsty, were reluctant to advance toward the unfamiliar smell of so many new horses and men. Handholds were few, a scrub tree here and there, and it was difficult to avoid rock slides. Touch the Sky had already lined his moccasins with handfuls of wiry bunchgrass. Still, sharp pieces of flint cut through the elk skin and into his soles.
Even as they advanced, they had watched a huge fire spring up well to their left, following the curve of the Rio de Lagrimas. The warriors who were not on guard had gathered, drinking corn beer and talking and laughing. Touch the Sky was grateful for the distraction—until a woman’s scream of unimaginable pain suddenly rent the dark fabric of the night.
Before any other words entered his mind, Touch the Sky thought: Honey Eater!
Again the woman screamed, again, and cheers and shouts and pistol shots rose from the gathered Kiowas and Comanches. As much as he hated the sound, Touch the Sky strained to hear each scream. Was it Honey Eater? Pain had so distorted them there was no way to tell.
It hardly mattered, he reminded himself sternly, if it was Honey Eater. That they were torturing a Cheyenne woman was enough. Something had to be done, and immediately.
More screams from below as he huddled down with Tangle Hair, Little Horse, and Two Twists.
“As I said, we must become our enemy! They take pride in their stealth on foot. I need one man to go below with me. There must be herd guards around. We are going to get one ourselves and pay them back in their own goods.”
All three volunteered, but he selected Little Horse. They hobbled their ponies and left their long arms with their companions, taking only their knives and tomahawks. Thus unencumbered, they made good time gaining the canyon bottom. The wind was in their faces, and so far they had avoided spooking the herd.
More screams punctuated the stillness of the night and urged them to even greater speed. Touch the Sky had guessed correctly. Plenty of guards were out. Using clumps of grazing ponies for cover, moving quietly to keep from shying them, they crossed closer to the trail where the guards rode.
When the next brave rode by, Touch the Sky suddenly leaped out behind him, took a running jump, and sailed up onto his pony behind him. Even before he landed the flat edge of his tomahawk was arcing toward the Comanche’s skull. The man went limp as death when the weapon clubbed him over the right ear. But Touch the Sky held him up on his pony while Little Horse grabbed the reins and led the animal back up to join their companions.
Quickly, before the brave could recover consciousness, Touch the Sky bound him at wrists and ankles with lengths of rawhide. Below, the girl again unleashed a hideous scream.
“Brothers,” Touch the Sky said, “unlike them we cannot build a fire. Nor is there time for anything but what must be done. One of our own is being tormented. They know we are here. Let us now let them know they will also pay for their sport.
“As your leader, I cannot order any man to do what I would not be willing to do. Yet I confess, I have been under the knife, over the coals, too often myself to inflict torture. Will someone else do it? If not, I will.”
This time the volunteers were not so quick. But finally Tangle Hair said, “Torture sickens me also. But what must be done must be done. I am a Bowstring soldier. Turn your backs, brothers, for it must be fast and hardly pretty!”
The brave had already come to and was staring up defiantly at them. Tangle Hair drew the knife from his beaded sheath.
“Beg,” Touch the Sky told him in English, knowing a Comanche was more likely to speak it than Touch the Sky’s language. “Beg loudly. It is your only hope.”
He turned his back. Below, more screams from the canyon bottom. But suddenly a piercing scream from behind him made Touch the Sky wince. Tangle Hair was indeed doing a good job of inflicting pain with his blade.
More screams, and shouts for mercy in Spanish and Comanche. Now all the commotion in the canyon had quieted.
“Give him more,” Touch the Sky said grimly. “We only have their attention.”
Whatever Tangle Hair did next evoked a cry that echoed long out over the canyon.
“Perhaps they will understand our terms,” Touch the Sky said. “Let us see if they have lost their appetite for this sport.”
Indeed, the entertainment was apparently over. Now the braves, angered that one of their own had been captured, were scattering to search the canyon.
But even as the Cheyenne warriors moved to a more secure position in a thicket of scrub oak, Touch the Sky agonized: Had the victim below been Honey Eater? And did her sudden silence signify release—or death?
Chapter Nine
Juan Aragon decided to travel alone when he went to inspect the Cheyenne prisoners.
The word-bringer from Iron Eyes’ camp had warned him that Cheyenne braves were in the area. So he knew that, even if the deal were concluded quickly, he would not be herding the prisoners back. His Comanchero band were experienced fighters and killers, but they were only six strong. Instead, the Kiowa-Comanche band would bring the prisoners to Over the River, assuming a price was agreed upon.
Aragon selected his best blood bay for the ride, a big mare trained for speed and endurance. As always, his shoulder scabbard and machete were strapped over his shirt and the long-barreled cavalry pistol rode low in its stitched-leather holster.
He hoped there were plenty of young women. Valdez and a few others in Over the River would pay well for good woman flesh. Young boys were easy enough to sell also. But they required a longer trip, to Old Mexico and the haciendas of Chihuahua. There they would be put to work in the fields and orchards and mines. Because of the constant threat of rebellion, only young boys were used—when they reached young manhood, “accidents” happened to them or many became “lost.” No one really cared what became of Indians.
Aragon trusted no one, but he had little fear of treachery from the Kiowas or Comanches. They were both crafty tribes who recognized the difference between personal feelings and profit—unlike these proud, hotheaded tribes from the lands of the short white days in winter. He had no way of knowing
if the Cheyenne tribe knew about him and the local Comanchero slave trading. So he played it safe and assumed they did.
He let his bay set her own pace along a seldom-used trail which wound down from the northern edge of the Blanco. It ran through Comanche burial grounds, and thus was avoided by all area Indians—just as the Blanco Canyon was avoided by all whites. Even Aragon, who though a mestizo was raised like most Apaches and thus was not very superstitious, avoided glancing at the heaps of rock which marked the graves.
But other things troubled him more than fear of ghosts. He had been drunk on cactus liquor during the night of the raid on the cave of his Apache clan. He remembered now. The Mexican soldier named Alvarez had called over to him and told him that Victorio was as dead as last summer thanks to a bullet in the head. But Alvarez was a soft-brained fool whom the Mexican Army employed for dirty work no one else would do. Aragon chastised himself yet again. He should have personally made sure that his cousin was dead.
Any Apache was sweet on revenge. But a Grayeyes of the Jicarilla? Victorio’s father had actually infiltrated a Mexican fort to kill the officer who had murdered his first wife. Aragon knew their clan well. The blood of the father flowed in Victorio. Now Aragon regretted getting so drunk and making the offer to help the soldiers. But he felt a little better when he reminded himself that, after all, Victorio was probably dead.
Still, as his horse picked her way along the rough trail, Aragon’s slitted eyes scoured the terrain carefully. The small river, its water tainted by salt springs but drinkable, wound along on his right, separated from the trail by cottonwoods and hawthorn bushes. To his left, tall, lush grass was dotted with trees and huge boulders which had fallen from the canyon walls. There were plenty of places to seek cover—whether you were a Cheyenne or Victorio Grayeyes, Aragon told himself.
It was small comfort, but an old habit, when his right hand went to the ivory haft of the machete and gripped it.
~*~
“Take her clothes off.”
Hairy Wolf was happy to comply with Aragon’s request. Singing Bird said nothing, only trying to cover her nakedness after the Kiowa war leader pulled her doeskin dress off.
“See?” Iron Eyes said. “She has her rope. Still a virgin.”
“I can rub mud on my horse and call her a claybank,” Aragon said. “Besides, I can call any girl a virgin yet lose money when she’s as sickly and sad as this one. Yes, her face is pleasant to look at, but look how weak she is. Count her ribs!”
“Some bucks like this,” Iron Eyes said. Like the other two, he spoke in Spanish. “It makes them pay for a second time with her perhaps.”
“The men who buy these women cannot think about this. Their worry is to at least break even—a sickly girl, on a rough night in Over the River, can die before she has earned back her owner’s price. Turn her around and slap her hands away so I can see her better.”
Aragon looked at her for a long time, circling her, examining her from every angle.
“Well, both of you have brought me steady business. So I will be generous and include her in the lot.”
He nodded toward the corner, where Blue Feather sat, still naked though she had huddled into a tight ball to conceal herself. Both girls wore a glazed, battle-shocked look and had given up protesting long ago when they saw it was useless.
“One more like her,” he said, “and that old fart Valdez would throw his gold teeth into the bargain. She has meat on her bones, yet plenty of curves and soft places. Just one more like her.”
Iron Eyes and Hairy Wolf exchanged a quick glance, but said nothing.
The children Aragon had inspected outside, pronouncing them a fit lot. Girls over eleven or so were lumped with the women; the younger ones would be transported with the boys to be sold in Mexico. Down there, they would face greater indignities than forced labor, but that was not Aragon’s problem—to him, human beings were commodities, and Mexican gold spent as easily as American.
“This is the last one, then?” Aragon said.
The two war leaders nodded.
“It is a good group, you are right. I agree to your terms, if you agree to mine. I will supply you and each of your men with a new carbine, ammunition, and rations of tobacco and liquor. You will inspect the merchandise first and approve it before you surrender the prisoners to me.
“In exchange, you two agree to oversee the safe passage of the women prisoners to the outskirts of Over the River, where I and my men will take over for the actual delivery. You will also take the children to my camp.”
“I agree,” Hairy Wolf said.
“I too,” Iron Eyes said.
“I see from all the guards you have out that you are worried about these Cheyennes. Have you had trouble?”
“Just slapping at gnats,” Hairy Wolf assured him. “They grabbed one of our herd guards and slit his belly to pull his intestines out. But they cannot strike in any force. We know this canyon like a fox knows its favorite hole. Soon our dogs will eat their livers.”
~*~
Honey Eater had lost the last of her will to resist when Big Tree announced that he had killed Touch the Sky.
He could be lying, but why? He could not possibly know she loved Touch the Sky. And certainly Big Tree was a brave capable of killing many men.
She knew that something ominous was going on today. She could hear the signs of it: the children crying as they were herded together, men’s voices speaking in Spanish, occasional sobs from one of the Cheyenne women. But a buffalo hide had been draped over the entrance to her jacal, hiding her from view. By now she could guess her fate. The two war leaders had their eyes on her. So she was to remain behind while the rest of her tribe was sold into slavery elsewhere.
She knew, of course, that she would commit suicide at the earliest opportunity. Though they had taken her knife, there were certainly other ways. With Touch the Sky dead, she had nothing to live for even if she were rescued. Life as Black Elk’s wife was intolerable. He had always been a hard man, but at least he had once been fair. Now jealousy and hatred had bent him.
Suddenly it occurred to her: She did not have to stay quiet in here, helping her tormentors to hide her so they could separate her from her tribe. And at the same time, she could rally the others.
There was a prayer song she used to sing at the annual Sun Dance ceremony. She sang it now, her voice rising sweet and pure and clean and carrying the notes outside of her jacal:
Oh, Great Spirit,
Whose voice I hear in the winds,
And whose breath gives life to all the world,
Hear me! I am small and weak, I need your
strength and wisdom.
Aragon was about to swing up onto his blood bay when he heard the lilting voice singing in a language he recognized as Cheyenne. Several children who had been crying inside their jacal now quieted, listening to the comforting words:
Let me walk in beauty, and make my eyes ever behold the red and purple sunset. Make my hands respect the things you have made and my ears sharp to hear your voice.
Make me always ready to come to you with
clean hands and straight eyes.
So when life fades, as the fading sunset,
my spirit may come to you
without shame.
To avoid making Aragon suspicious, Big Tree had been ordered to watch Honey Eater’s jacal from a distance. So he was unable to get to her in time to stop her from singing her prayer song. Aragon had been standing near her when she broke into song. Before the two war leaders could make a move to stop him, he had stepped up to the jacal and flung the buffalo hide aside.
His dead-as-stone eyes met Honey Eater’s, and the singing stopped.
For a long time Aragon stared, his eyes feasting on beauty the likes of which he could not recall seeing before. He took in the perfectly sculpted, high cheekbones, the flawless skin like wild honey, huge, almond-shaped eyes. Even the ragged crop where her braid had been cut off could not detract from her beauty.
Finally he turned to Hairy Wolf and Iron Eyes.
“So,” he said. “No explanations are necessary. You are saving her for yourselves.”
Neither man said a word. Honey Eater noticed how the Kiowa and Comanche jealously watched each other around her, watched to see which of them she was looking at. She tried to make each man think she was glancing only at him. She could not understand the Spanish they spoke in, but their meaning was clear enough in the burning eyes they turned on her.
“I cannot blame you for wanting to add her to your own string,” Aragon said. “But are you fools? For this one alone I can get as much as I will for the other girls put together. When I get more, you get more.”
Still both braves held their silence. This thing was awkward. Their men had still not been told of this decision to keep the Cheyenne girl—nor had Iron Eyes’ wives.
“How will you decide which of you gets her?” Aragon persisted. “A man does not willingly share a beauty like this. Will you cut her into two lengths like firewood? She will only cause trouble between two old friends.”
Hairy Wolf again glanced at the girl. Her eyes seemed to meet his with secret cunning.
Iron Eyes too found her eyes with his, and was convinced she was telling him she secretly favored him.
“Throw her in with the rest of the lot,” Aragon said, “and I will be generous.”
Both braves shook their heads.
“She stays here,” Hairy Wolf said.
“Right here,” Iron Eyes agreed. “We are longtime friends. We can decide this matter.”
Aragon laughed, a harsh bark that made Honey Eater wince. “There are no friends where women are involved, compadres! You are both wading into deep waters here. Give her to me with the others. You will avoid much trouble and profit handsomely.”
But still the Kiowa and Comanche war leaders refused.
“’Sta bien,” Aragon said, still staring at Honey Eater. Secretly, the Comanchero leader had already decided he would sell this sweet little morsel. Valdez was a tight old bastard, but the lecherous old Mexican would buy her for his own regular night woman, and he would pay handsomely.