Comancheros (A Cheyenne Western. Book 7)

by Judd Cole

  Touch the Sky nodded, agreeing with this. But time was nearly up. If an attack was out of the question, what else could possibly work?

  “There’s only a few of you. I can get you some horses, I think,” Riley said. He was gazing thoughtfully at his men. A plan was forming in his mind. A plan which would tell him once and for all how loyal his men were to him.

  Now Riley walked closer to the squad where they were deployed at the edge of the Blanco.

  “Men,” he called out, “you don’t know this Cheyenne, but I do. His people call him Touch the Sky, but he grew up as Matthew Hanchon in Bighorn Falls in the Wyoming Territory. And I’ll tell you this much right now: I’ve fought rustlers and murderers beside him. He’s all grit and a yard wide. He’s solid bedrock, and I’d trust him with my life.

  “You men know me. You know I’m no Indian lover. I’ve killed my share of Kiowas and Comanches and Pawnees and it hasn’t cost me any sleep. But I believe in live and let live, and I don’t hold with this policy of exterminating all Indians just because some of them are killers. You also know that there’s not a one of you I wouldn’t die for if I had to. Though don’t try to get that in writing.”

  A few of the men laughed.

  “Now I’m telling you this: I need five volunteers to join me for a dangerous mission. It’s a mission that will have to remain off the record. You’ll wear civilian clothes, and you will not be acting in your official capacity as soldiers. Some of you might not come back. Any takers?”

  There was a long silence while the last of the dying flames snapped and sparked, an occasional ember blowing off over the vast opening of the Blanco.

  “Ahh, this mother’s son didn’t join the Army for three hots ’n’ a cot,” Sergeant McKenna said, stepping his horse forward a few paces. “There’s no glory in peace. Whatever’s cooking, Cap’n, serve me up a helping.”

  One by one, four more soldiers nudged their horses forward a few paces.

  Riley grinned. “Well, nobody ever credited you boys with any brains, but you don’t lack for sand.”

  He turned to Touch the Sky. “All right. Let’s move you and your men to a new position while I tell you what I’ve got in mind. It’s crazy, I reckon, and we’ll have to move quick. But I’ve been aching for a chance to lock horns with Juan Aragon and his Comancheros.”

  ~*~

  On the morning after the grass fire on the Llano Estacado, the bustling town of Silverton shook itself to life like a sleeping horse rising from the ground.

  Businessmen rolled out their green canvas awnings; a stagecoach rolled into town, tug chains rattling in the traces; miners, their hobnailed boots thick with dried red clay, showed up early at the land office to register new claims.

  A dry tributary stream, once officially a river, marked the southern edge of Silverton. In marked contrast to the activity north of this boundary, the little shanty-and-sod hovel to its south known as Over the River was settling into sleep. By day it was nearly deserted. But after dark the usual denizens would take over: Indians employed by nearby Fort Union, half-breeds and criminals on the dodge from the law in the U.S. and Mexico, a few adventuresome soldiers with a taste for Indian women.

  But as usual, the respectable citizens of Silver-ton ignored this blighted area nearby. Each side kept to itself, the way a snake and a badger might coexist in the same area: wary, suspicious of the other, but keeping their distance.

  The heart of Silverton was a park in the center of town, a Spanish style promenade known as El Paseo. Surrounded by a spiked-iron fence and lancet-arched gates, this exclusive area was the meeting place for the white citizens of Silverton.

  By mid-morning the park was busy as usual, alive with gossiping women, screeching children, and idling men discussing business and politics and the growing trouble between the North and the South.

  The area around Silverton was rich in silver and minerals. Thus the boomtown drew many businessmen and speculators from back East. So no one paid much attention to the little knot of six men who sat conversing on iron benches around a spewing fountain, dressed in the familiar linsey-woolen and broadcloth suits of men of commerce.

  Had an experienced eye studied the men more closely, some odd details might have been noticed. For example, the dark tan lines around their skulls which did not match up with their hats, or the rough-and-ready look about their eyes—watchful eyes trained to scour vast distances for enemies, not to add up columns of figures in a ledger. Also, as a group they were far younger than most of the speculators who visited the town.

  But few paid any attention to them. This was the frontier, where few questions were asked and prying men seldom died of old age.

  The men had chosen benches close to the spiked-iron fence. Gradually, the hollow thunder of hooves grew louder, approaching the park. More and more people began to glance up curiously as a furious yellow dust cloud boiled closer down the main street.

  The pounding hooves drew closer, a horse whickered, and suddenly a group of five riders leading remounts broke into view outside the fence. A woman screamed when, one by one, the riders suddenly leaped the fence into El Paseo.

  “Indians!” somebody shrieked.

  Touch the Sky, leading the others on horses supplied by Riley, vaulted the fence and bore down on the “businessmen,” his rifle at the ready.

  “Throw down your weapons, or die right now!” he shouted in English.

  The men rose from the bench in confusion, but were suddenly surrounded by the savages. A few of them drew hideout guns from inside their suits and dropped them into the lush grass.

  “Search them,” Touch the Sky said to Victorio. “Kill any who kept a weapon.” When this was done, he indicated the spare mounts on lead lines and said, “Mount up! Quickly, or we kill one of you now to teach the others some respect for the Cheyenne people!”

  He spoke loudly enough to make sure plenty of the gaping witnesses could hear him. The account of this “kidnapping” would be reported later in circulars and the local newspaper, and he wanted to make sure it was colorful—and that the Cheyenne people were mentioned.

  One of the businessmen made as if to run. Touch the Sky appeared to reach out and kick him. Now the rest, their faces draining white with fear, hastily complied with the order.

  The Indians discharged their weapons in the air as they left, again vaulting the fence. The entire raid had taken little more than a minute. But already frightened citizens were racing in every direction, some running for safety, others to the sheriff—and one to the offices of the Silverton Register, the town’s daily newspaper.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Of course I heard the story,” the old Mexican named Valdez said. “How could I not? It has brought down the wrath of the entire white community of Silverton. So? It means nothing. We made a deal.”

  “In a pig’s ass, you fat sack of suet. We talked terms, that’s all.”

  Aragon paused to sip milky white pulque from a cracked pottery mug. The two men occupied the pair of nail-keg chairs in the slope-roof partition built off the side of Valdez’s saloon. A special edition of the Silverton Register lay on the table between them. CHEYENNE RENEGADES INVADE NEW MEXICO blared the triple-deck headline on page one.

  “This is no coincidence,” Aragon said. “Tonight the delivery is set, so this morning Cheyennes nab white hostages? No. It is no coincidence. They hope to trade those white prisoners for their own people.”

  “So what if they do?” Valdez fumed. “By the twin balls of Christ, we made a deal.”

  Aragon laughed, a harsh, protracted bark of derision. “You fat brown whore! You know damn good and well what the Territorial Commission will pay me, no questions asked, for the safe return of six white men. They’re scared spitless that investors will be scared away from this area. You top their offer, and I’ll tell the Cheyennes to kill their businessmen and go to hell.”

  Old Valdez was livid with rage. The dark brown adobe huts out behind his clapboard saloon now stood mostly e
mpty. Women didn’t last long in Over the River. But he was losing money every night. He desperately needed an infusion of fresh woman flesh.

  “Have you heard from these Cheyennes?” he demanded.

  Aragon sipped his pulque and shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “So you’re still coming tonight as planned?”

  “Did I ever say otherwise, old man? I’m just telling you now: I’ll sell the female prisoners to you if the Cheyennes don’t make contact with me first. Otherwise, they go to the highest bidder. Money talks and horseshit walks.”

  “All the women?”

  “They won’t leave any behind, you fool. However, as I said, I have a fine young Apache girl for you.”

  “Very fine indeed, eh? I hear it’s your own cousin, you flint-hearted bastard. Still a child.”

  Aragon’s dead-as-driftwood eyes held the old Mexican’s. “That won’t stop you from pointing her heels to the sky before you lock her up out back, will it, you filthy old goat?”

  Before Valdez could reply, a knock sounded on the leather-hinged plank door.

  In a heartbeat, Aragon’s hand snaked to the machete in his shoulder scabbard and slid it out.

  A half-breed named Guadalupe stepped inside.

  “I have a message,” he said in Spanish, looking at Aragon. “Bring the prisoners to Over the River tonight, as planned. But be prepared to exchange them for the white businessmen.”

  Only through an effort did Aragon repress a smile of satisfaction. Old Valdez cursed.

  “I will be there,” Aragon said.

  “There is more,” Guadalupe said. “Bring the Apache children too.”

  Aragon lost the urge to smile. A cold sense of dread seeped through him.

  “Who gave you these messages?” he demanded.

  “A tall Cheyenne with chest and shoulders like an Apache and your cousin, Victorio Grayeyes.”

  Aragon’s cold sense of dread gave way to a moment of outright fear. So his suspicion had been right, after all. Grayeyes had survived the attack in the cave. And now he had somehow thrown in with these scalp-taking fools from the north.

  He slowly slid the curved machete back into its scabbard. So—at least he was warned.

  “Tell the Cheyenne and the Apache that I will be there,” he said.

  ~*~

  From their new position further north along the canyon rim, Touch the Sky and his little band watched below in the Blanco as preparations were made to transport the Cheyenne prisoners. Huge camp fires were augmented by a full moon and a star-spangled sky.

  Anxiously, although in his mind he had given her up for dead, Touch the Sky watched for a sign of Honey Eater among the prisoners.

  “There is Singing Bird!” Two Twists said excitedly. “There is my sister! But brothers, look at her! They have used her badly, she is not long for this world.”

  “If she can hold on a bit longer, little brother,” Touch the Sky replied, “she will soon be safe in her clan circle.”

  He refused to let Two Twists see the pain in his own face as he strained, unsuccessfully, for a glimpse of Honey Eater.

  “All right, you prisoners,” Riley called out to his men, “check your weapons. Then come over here so I can tie you up.”

  Touch the Sky saw Victorio gazing down into the valley with a grim, determined set to his lips. The Cheyenne did not like what he saw.

  “I know how you feel,” he said. “I know how much you lust for revenge. I too want it, and worse than you could ever know. They have killed the woman who was the soul of my medicine bag. But know this, Apache. I have other people to save first before my thoughts can turn to revenge. Do nothing to interfere with the return of my people.”

  Touch the Sky’s bitter, saddened tone made the Apache look at him closely. “Do not shed so much brain sweat worrying, buck. I too want my brother and sister back. But neither will I forget that my parents now lie under heaps of stone, dead by Aragon’s hand.”

  “Brother!” Little Horse interrupted them. “Look!”

  Below, the Kiowa and Comanche leaders had just stepped outside of a mesquite-branch hut—and Honey Eater was between them!

  For a moment Touch the Sky only stared, unable to believe what he was in fact seeing. A massive stone was suddenly rolled off of his chest. Honey Eater was still alive!

  Again he looked at Victorio. This time the sadness in his tone was replaced by a note of urgent command.

  “Do nothing to interfere with the return of my people.”

  ~*~

  Hairy Wolf of the Medicine Lodge Creek Kiowas surveyed the two long columns of warriors with approval. Between them, each lashed at the wrists and mounted with another brave, were the Cheyenne prisoners.

  “Have ears for my words,” he said to the Comanche leader Iron Eyes. “There could be trouble. We cannot let this one”—he nodded toward Honey Eater, whose eyes were cast downward in defiant silence—“ride on her own pony. I will take her up with me.”

  “Nonsense, Kaitsenko,” Iron Eyes said. “You are a big man, the size of a bear. I am little. Let her ride with me.”

  “Quohada, how could this thing matter? She is little, but a mere reed. I will take her up with me.

  Big Tree stood nearby, grinning as he understood the real meaning of this strained politeness between the two leaders. In case something did happen, and flight proved necessary, each wanted to be assured of having her.

  “A pity you cannot understand them,” he said now to Honey Eater in Cheyenne. “They are deciding which one will bounce you in his lap. Perhaps I shall hold you close on my pony? I can do many things while riding at breakneck speed.”

  Honey Eater made no sign that she understood. But even without Big Tree’s remark, she knew the two leaders were again arguing over her. Now, as she glanced at the knife in Hairy Wolf’s beaded sheath, she reminded herself that big men generally moved slower than little ones. So far no one had remembered to bind her wrists. She also reminded herself that this journey might be her last chance to act before the rest were sold. Time was a bird, and the bird was on the wing.

  Iron Eyes, anger deepening the furrow between his eyes, turned to Big Tree.

  “Tell her,” he said, “to pick the one she wishes to ride with.”

  Big Tree spoke, and Iron Eyes and Hairy Wolf released their grips on her.

  Again Honey Eater cast an imperceptible glance at the knife in the Kiowa leader’s sheath.

  Then she stepped close to Hairy Wolf’s big sorrel with the handsome hand-tooled saddle.

  “Do not worry, Quohada,” he assured Iron Eyes, trying to keep the gloating from his voice. “It is only my horse she likes better than yours.”

  “Do you think I am worried?” said Iron Eyes, his voice tight with irritation. “I have more wives than I can service now. I am a Quohada Comanche, a Red Raider of the Plains. I have killed Texans and Mexicans and stolen horses from every tribe north of the Platte River. Just remember this. She goes with us tonight only because she is not safe here alone. She is not for sale.”

  ~*~

  Once Grayeyes was sure the Kiowa-Comanche band was headed toward Over the River, he showed Touch the Sky a shortcut through a series of cutbanks leading up from the Rio de Lagrimas. It was too narrow to allow easy passage for a larger formation. But Touch the Sky’s small band managed the cutbanks easily in the moonlit darkness.

  Despite his elation at finally spotting Honey Eater alive, Touch the Sky was plagued by another thought: Where were Black Elk and his band? There had been no sign of them since the deliberately set fire. But he feared they had more reckless plans in store—and the last thing they all needed now was anything that would place the Cheyenne prisoners in danger on the trail, or interfere with their arrival in Over the River.

  They picked their way carefully through the rock-strewn canyon, their faces grim in the milky moonlight. Riley and the rest of the prisoners rode in a tight group, hands loosely tied behind them in fake knots that would allow them to free themse
lves from the rawhide whangs in a second.

  Despite his tangled thoughts, Touch the Sky had not forgotten Arrow Keepers admonition: Stay attuned to signs, portents, and the language of the senses. They were about to emerge from a long cutbank when, abruptly, it felt like a cool feather was tickling the bumps of his spine.

  Touch the Sky pulled back on the reins, halting the well-trained cavalry black Riley had loaned him. He glanced all around them, slowly, his head lifted as if sniffing the wind.

  Moon wash glimmered on the sterile peaks and pinnacles surrounding them. The wind was quiet here, the only noise the steady singsong of cicadas and the occasional snorting of the horses.

  “What it is, brother?” Little Horse said, watching his face.

  Victorio Grayeyes too watched him with curiosity. The Apache believed in no gods and was skeptical of those who claimed to have visions and read signs. Yet something about this tall young Cheyenne was different—he seemed marked for some great destiny.

  Touch the Sky finally settled his stare on a huge sandstone shoulder just to their left. It overlooked the main part of the canyon and the wider trail their enemy would follow to reach Over the River.

  “I am not sure,” he finally told Little Horse. “Humor me, brothers, and ride with me while I look at something.”

  Leaving Riley and the soldiers behind, the four Cheyennes and the Apache let their horses set their own pace toward the sandstone shoulder. They rounded it carefully in the moonlight and emerged onto a wide limestone shelf on the other side.

  “Look!” Tangle Hair said, pointing.

  A clump of ponies had been hobbled just in front of them. Touch the Sky recognized Black Elk’s paint and Wolf Who Hunts Smiling’s pure black. He also spotted his chestnut and the rest of the ponies that had once belonged to his band.