by J. T. Edson
‘I thank you, Cuchilo,’ replied Raccoon Talker, senior medicine woman of the Pehnane and who had acted as midwife at his birth.
‘And what do you see ahead, old one?’ asked the Kid, after dismounting and unloading a quarter of the deer’s carcass from the pack horse.
‘Trouble comes, Cuchilo. This council will not go easily. There are men, white and Nemenuh, who do not want peace.’
The Kid listened attentively, having seen something of the old woman’s predictions coming true. Back when he rode on his first buffalo hunt she warned him of danger and his horse fell — or had it been shot? He still did not know for sure — while running a bull. Later, while the Kid camped over a mile from the village so as to train his newly acquired white stallion, Raccoon Talker told his two best friends that he was in danger, needing their help; which he did. Accompanied by a group of captive boys, Fire Dancer and No Father tried to murder the Kid and steal the horse. A twinge of regret ran through the Kid as he remembered that both his friends died in the fighting.
‘They died as men, Cuchilo,’ Raccoon Talker remarked. ‘It was a good way to die.’
If the Kid felt any surprise at the way she followed his thoughts, he hid them and nodded in agreement. Any Nemenuh who met his end in battle, especially while trying to help a friend, could be assured of a place in the Land of Good Hunting.
‘What of No Father, pia?’ he asked. ‘I hear that one is a great man now.’
‘A gopher is a great one — to worms,’ the old woman answered dryly.
‘Is he here?’
‘Neither he nor that black-hearted witch who spawned him.’
‘Now that’s a real pity,’ said the Kid mildly and in English.
‘This is a peace council, Cuchilo,’ Raccoon Talker warned, although to the best of his knowledge she spoke none of the English language. ‘You could not satisfy your revenge oath here.’
‘You could be right at that,’ grinned the Kid, ‘I must see my grandfather.’
‘And I must cook my meat,’ smiled Raccoon Talker, then she nodded to where a bunch of young braves played tir’awwawkaw, throwing specially designed arrows by hand at a mark. ‘The tuivitsi are restless.’
‘Tuivisti always are,’ drawled the Kid tolerantly, having ridden sufficient war trails, despite his youth, to be classed as tehnap, a seasoned warrior.
Like a cowhand, no Comanche brave walked when he could ride, so the Kid swung back into his saddle and continued to ride. He stopped off to leave another present of meat with the family of Wepitapu’ni, War Club, who acted as his foster parents after his mother’s death. War Club was over at the Iteha’c camp playing the old Comanche gambling game of ‘Hands’, so the Kid promised to return and rode on to his grandfather’s group of tipis.
Admiration glowed in his grandmother’s eyes as he dismounted. Greeting the old woman warmly, the Kid distributed presents and then walked over to the main tipi, having learned he would find Long Walker there. Halting outside the door, a grin came to the Kid’s lips.
‘Ehhaitsma,’ he called, using the answer given when the grandfather visited a birth tipi to inquire as to the sex of the new baby and meaning ‘It’s your close friend.’ With the father away on the war path or other man’s business, most of the baby boy’s upbringing and training fell on the maternal grandfather and he did indeed become the child’s close friend.
Lifting the flap, the Kid entered the tipi. Long Walker advanced with a welcoming smile. Medium-sized, with a stocky, iron-hard frame that advancing years had not weakened, and a strong, dignified face framed by whitening hair, Long Walker looked much as when the Kid saw him last. He wore the ordinary buckskin clothing of a wealthy Comanche during normal times. In the centre of the tipi stood a rawhide wardrobe case, shaped like a white man’s letter envelope and called a nat’sakena, which held his best clothing, and a tunawaws tube-shaped bag containing his war bonnet, war paint, brush and mirror. When the time came for the big council, Long Walker could appear dressed as befitting the senior war leader of the Pehnane band.
‘Greetings, tawk,’ said the Kid, using the word by which grandfather and grandson addressed each other.
‘It is good to see you, tawk,’ replied Long Walker, shaking hands white-man fashion. ‘Is Magic Hands with you?’
‘He went into the Fort to see the chief of the soldiers.’
‘It is as it should be.’
‘How goes it with you, tawk?’ asked the Kid.
‘Well enough. Some of the tuivitsi grow restless and talk of going back to the old ways. It is only the old ones who know there can be no going back.’
‘One of the old ones must have told you, tawk,’ the Kid said. ‘It will be many summers before Long Walker is tsukup.’
‘Living among the white men has not made you forget how to talk to your elders,’ smiled the chief.
‘I am still a Pehnane,’ answered the Kid. ‘Now, I have presents and then we eat.’
At the main gate to the Fort a sentry halted Dusty’s party and the sergeant of the guard came over. Being a grizzled eteran who knew all sides of Indian wars, he showed some relief at hearing the identity of the new arrivals.
‘You’ll be housed in officer’s country, gents,’ he said. ‘Here’s the officer-of-the-day. Likely he’ll show you where to go.’
‘Now there’s something I’ve not seen in a long time, Dusty,’ Mark put in.
Following the direction of his amigo’s gaze, Dusty saw a couple of soldiers riding by and understood the comment. They wore the usual blue kepi and uniform of the US, Army with the cavalry’s yellow stripe down the trousers’ legs, sat a normal McClellan saddle and might have been the guidon-carriers for their company. Only no guidon rode on a nine foot shaft of best Norway fir, or carried an eleven inch long, needle-pointed steel tip.
‘Lancers,’ Dusty said and looked at the sergeant, ‘I thought you gave them up in the War?’
‘And so we did,’ the non-com agreed, eyeing the Lancers with faint contempt. ‘But some foreign duke came over here and got up a company of ‘em at his own expense. Look real fancy, Cap’n Fog, don’t they.’
‘Real fancy,’ agreed Dusty, recalling the Kid’s comments on the nature of a Comanche warrior who carried a lance into battle.
Before he could say more, Dusty saw the smartly-dressed officer-of-the-day draw near. Studying the uniform and general appearance of the lieutenant, Dusty pegged him as a well-to-do career officers Handsome, tall, with a cavalryman’s carriage, 1st Lieutenant Farley Manners struck Dusty as being the kind of officer who would go far; and Dusty had something of a way at picking such men. The guard sergeant drew back and Manners introduced himself, eyeing the Texans quizzically.
‘General Handiman would like to see you, Captain Fog,’ the lieutenant told Mark.
‘I’ll come as soon as I’ve seen to my horse,’ Dusty answered and saw Manners struggle to hold down surprise.
‘You are Captain Fog?’ Manners asked, poker-faced by an effort of will.
‘So I’ve been told, mister.’
Something in Dusty’s tone gave Manners a warning, One did not attain first lieutenant’s rank in peace-time without learning the value of discretion and diplomacy. When Manners came to look harder at Dusty, he recognized the real man under the insignificant exterior and figured it would go hard on anybody who crossed the small Texan. Yes, sir; there sat a man who could be the Captain Dustine Edward Marsden Fog whose name had been spoken of in rage, mingled with respect and envy, during the War.
‘The General said after you’d attended to your horse,’ Manners agreed, holding back his inclination to stiffen into a brace under the cold grey eyes. It annoyed him to have somebody make him feel like a West Point plebe addressing a very senior cadet. ‘I’ll escort you to the stab1es.’
‘Who else’s here, mister?’ Dusty asked as they made their way to the stables.
‘Only Colonel Goodnight so far,’ Manners answered, striding out at a brisk pace. ‘The Senator
ial Committee are coming in on the evening stage — if they managed to catch it in the first place.’
Having served in the Army, if on the other side, and under senior officers of irascible temperament, Dusty and Mark could sympathize with Manners’ desire to carry out his orders. So they wasted no time in talk. On arrival at the stables, the two Texans put up their horses while an enlisted man saw to the buggy and pack animals. Finding that he had not been invited to meet the General at that point, Hollenheimer promised to see to Dusty and Mark’s belongings and attend to settling it in the room allocated to them,
Manners showed some relief as he led the Texans towards a small cabin mostly used as a store for officers’ travelling trunks and boxes which would be too large to keep in their limited accommodation. Wishing privacy, Handiman had had the cabin turned into a temporary office. After knocking and announcing the two Texans, Manners withdrew.
Big, bluff, capable-looking, hard as a combat soldier despite being based in Washington, General Handiman appeared little changed since their last meeting. He had discarded his jacket and wore a dark blue uniform shirt with a wide falling collar and the two stars of a major general on his shoulders. Holding out his hand, he walked towards the Texans.
‘Dustine, Counter,’ he greeted. ‘Do you know Colonel Goodnight?’
‘You might say that,’ Dusty smiled. ‘Howdy Uncle Charlie.’
‘Howdy, Dustine, Mark,’ Goodnight answered. ‘Ole Devil all right?’
‘Why sure. Said to me to tell you two not to get too drunk as he can’t be here to keep you under control.’
‘Did you have any trouble getting here, Dusty?’ Handiman inquired, face losing its smile.
‘Nope,’ replied Dusty, darting a glance at Goodnight, then to a couple of telegraph message forms which formed the only items on Handirnan’s desk. ‘We had a mite at the ranch before we left, though.’
‘Indian trouble?’ asked Handiman.
You might say that. Three Waw’ais tried to jump Lon and Uncle Devil. Have you been having trouble, Uncle Charlie?’
‘Not trouble, but close to it,’ Goodnight replied and explained about the men following him. ‘I can’t say as it was Indians, mind.’
‘We know that a Waw’ai Comanche killed Colonel Huckfield,’ Handiman put in, nodding to the telegraph forms. ‘And it’s likely that the Reverend Boardwell was murdered by an Indian.’
‘Have you heard anything from the Big Bend?’ Mark asked anxiously.
‘Not a word,’ the General replied.
A small sigh of relief left Mark’s lips. If there had been an attempt on his father’s life, he could rely upon it that either his brothers or Tule Bragg would send him news of the incident.
‘Nothing from Temple Houston?’ Dusty asked.
‘Not yet.’
The situation ran parallel to Mark’s case. Unless Houston had been ambushed and killed somewhere that his body could not be found, word was sure to have come in of his death.
‘I sure hope old Temple makes it,’ Mark drawled.
‘And so do I,’ Handiman agreed fervently. ‘This situation’s tense enough without any further complications.’
‘How do you mean?’ Dusty inquired.
‘As you know, there’ve been a heap of objections to the treaty. We’ve offered the Comanche a fair piece of real good land for their reservation and that doesn’t sit right in some places. Word has it that there’s a plan to bust the council up and stop the treaty being signed.’
‘Is that why you’ve been sent?’ Mark wanted to know.
‘I’m here in my capacity as head of the Adjutant-General’s Department,’ Handiman answered a shade stiffly.
While Goodnight regarded Handiman as a distinguished combat soldier currently acting as a figurehead commander of the US. Army’s legal department, Dusty and Mark knew that he ran the Secret Service since Pinkerton’s retirement at the end of the War. Clearly Handiman wished to avoid word of his appointment leaking even to Goodnight and the Texans respected his desire.
‘There’s smart brains behind the attempts and killings,’ Dusty said,
‘How do you mean?’ asked Goodnight.
‘Take the way they picked their victims, Uncle Charlie. Every one of them a well-known and well-liked figure who’s sympathetic to the Comanche cause. If you’d all been killed, there’s precious few would stand up for the Indians. Most of your supporters and all the fence-sitters would allow there’s no sense in standing by folks ungrateful enough to murder their friends. And the men behind the attempts likely have the means to get the stories going.’
‘You mean that white men planned them and used Indians to do the work?’
‘That’s just what I mean, General,’ agreed Dusty. ‘I know that a Comanche can find his way across the range easy enough. But not to go to a town and pick out the right man. We took a prisoner and he told us plenty. A half-breed brought his bunch to the Rio Hondo and they’d laid up a ways off for two days watching for a chance to get Lon and Uncle Devil. Indians alone wouldn’t do that.’
‘Did you find the half-breed?’ asked Handiman.
‘He lit out when the shooting started. Lon took his trail, but lost it and we hadn’t time enough to spend on a long hunt.’
‘I’m inclined to agree with you, Dustine,’ Handiman stated. ‘It goes along with a few things I’ve learned.’
‘What I don’t get,’ Goodnight drawled when Handiman did not disclose the nature of his learnings, ‘is how the Waw’ai come to be mixed in this. They’ve never been friendly to the whites.’
‘From what we learned, their witch woman must be,’ Mark answered. ‘She sent the men out to kill and threatened them with a death curse if they failed or talked happen they were caught.’
‘Then how’d you make him talk?’ Goodnight said, knowing something of the store Comanches set by their oaths and curses.
‘We played a couple of tricks on him,’ Dusty replied. ‘What did you want to see me about, General?’
‘This business. What do you suggest we do?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Shall we cancel the council until we’ve made a try at getting the men behind the trouble?’
‘If you cancel it now, there won’t be one,’ warned Goodnights ‘The Comanche will think this’s another trick and pull out.’
‘I’d say keep it going,’ Dusty went on. ‘Only watch every move. Those jaspers’ll try to break it up and we have to stop them. If it fetches them out into the open, we might nail their hides to the wall.’
‘That’s what I thought you’d say,’ Handiman said. ‘All right, Dustine. We’ll go on with it and I’m relying on you to see that nothing happens. Do what you liked Make any arrangements you want. I’ll back you all the way.’
‘And the Army?’
‘You tell me what you want and I’ll see you get it,’ promised Handiman.
‘I’ll do just that,’ Dusty drawled. ‘If there’s nothing more right now, sir, I’d like to go see Long Walker and ask his opinion on those Waw’ai attacks!’
CHAPTER SEVEN
CAPTAIN FOG KEEPS THE PEACE
WHILE General Handiman would have liked to continue the discussion, two things prevented him from doing so. First, he knew that Long Walker expected a courtesy call from Dusty and would co-operate better if he received it. Secondly, the officer-of-the-day sent word that the expected stage coach had made a record trip and was in sight. Knowing that he must pander to the important passengers’ ego, Handiman told Dusty they would meet later and rose to leave. One of the Democrat senators being a family friend, Mark decided to go with Handiman, Goodnight wished to settle in at the officers’ quarters. So Dusty walked alone to the Pehnane camp.
A number of troublesome thoughts nagged at Dusty as he approached the tipis. So far everything seemed peaceable enough, the Indians going about their ordinary affairs and ignoring the white folks. However, if some trader started peddling whiskey, or a brave indulged in the ancient Coma
nche art of horse-stealing — to name but two eventualities — the whole situation could blow up, There were enough Comanche braves in the vicinity to start a fair-sized war and likely more within a day’s ride just waiting to see what happened.
Having grown tired of their game of tir’awwawkaw, the group of tuivitsi hung about bored and looking for some diversion. One of them gave his nearest companion a nudge, then nodded to where Dusty approached. While most Texas ride-plenties were big, dangerous-looking men, this one did not appear to be. It might be amusing to make some sport at the newcomer’s expense. With that thought in mind, the tuivitsi raised his right arm and flicked the throwing-arrow in Dusty’s direction.
At the door of his tipi, Long Walker saw the incident and started to move forward so as to intervene on his visitor’s behalf. At his grandfather’s side, the Kid held out a restraining hand and grinned,
‘Leave them, tawk,’ the Kid advised. ‘Ole Dusty won’t hurt’ any of them.’
While it had not been his young braves’ welfare which worried the chief, he halted and watched.
Dusty came to a halt as the throwing-arrow sank its point into the ground at his feet. Coming abruptly from his reverie, he looked at the bunch of tuivitsi and knew exactly what he faced. Often he had seen cowhands or soldiers of that same young age act in such a manner and had the answer to their behaviour.
Ignoring the braves as they drew closer, Dusty plucked the arrow from the ground, Slowly he lifted it and looked straight at the tuivitsi. With a contemptuous gesture, Dusty snapped the arrow and flung it aside. A low growl of anger left the lips of the arrow’s owner. He had spent much time and effort in producing the arrow; selecting a straight shaft, picking and fitting the feathers and working to attain a good balance. While he might have taken the destruction had it been done by a Comanche name-warrior, he refused to do so at the hands of a small Texas ride-plenty. Just an instant too late the tuivitsi discovered that what he faced was not a small, insignificant cowhand, but a big, dangerous grown man.