“It’s a big country to go looking for a little flappin’ end.” Anglin’s dark eyes drooped and he wriggled to dislodge a root that was poking him in the back.
“Who are you telling, Abe? I rode over every spiny inch of it, seems like. But she’s out there, and someone’ll find her.”
David’s son Evan shivered as the wind curled an icy paw over the edge of the bank and tousled his hair, like a cat batting at a ball. High overhead, the same wind whimpered through the naked tops of the pecans, swaying black against the steel gray sky.
“Do you reckon Hunter’ll be back soon with that canoe?” Evan muttered. “It’s getting right cold.
David grunted noncommittally. The remains of their foundered raft lay awash nearby. They had made it to cross the river and round up their scattered horse herd while Hunter and Douthit went back to Fort Houston for a canoe.
Anglin dozed off, and the lullaby of his soft snores crooned David and Evan to sleep. It had been a long, hard day, and they were all tired.
In front of them, along the edge of the river, a seam of moccasin tracks stitched the water to the sand. The men weren’t worried about them. The massacre at Parker’s Fort seemed to have settled the score in this area as far as the Indians were concerned. The Caddo had blamed the whole thing on marauding Comanche, and there had been no retribution. The Caddo had been quiet and docile ever since.
The gunshots were so close they seemed to be going off inside David’s head. His ears rang with them and his skull vibrated. He was running before he was fully awake.
“Come on, boys, it’s time to go.” He plunged into the river, an arrow driven deeply into his back. Abram felt a blow on his thigh under his powder horn. The horn had been shattered by a bullet and splinters from it were driven into his leg. He felt the sting of them just before his leg went numb. He threw his gun into the river and leaped after it, swimming with powerful strokes toward the opposite shore. David was ahead of him, but tiring. The water faded from red to pink behind him, curls of blood swirling gracefully in the eddies of his passing.
Anglin swam alongside, turned David on his back, and grabbed him around the neck. Stroking with his right arm, he pulled him toward the far bank. The lead raindrops of rifle fire sent up small geysers around them.
When they reached the far shore, Abram felt the sting and burn of arrows slicing through his arm and burrowing in his leg. He hauled David into the cover of the brush, and they lay, panting, and gathered strength to go on. The arrow had punctured David’s lung from behind, and his breath came in whistling gasps.
“Abram, get away. Bring help. I’ll hide here someplace.” They both knew Faulkenberry wouldn’t be alive by the time Anglin could run to Fort Houston and back, but neither of them mentioned it. Anglin broke off the arrow in his calf and quickly tied pieces of his shirt around that wound and the hole in his upper arm. He held one end of the bandage in his teeth while he knotted it. He lifted David and helped him further into the thick undergrowth before starting down the river toward Fort Houston.
While David and Abram escaped, Evan held the Caddo’s attention on shore. He took cover behind the trees while the renegades ghosted through the brush, circling him like hawks gliding lazily in for the kill.
The relief party found David dead the next morning. He had pulled grass to make a soft bed near a clear pool of water, and he had laid himself down on it to die. They never found more of Evan than his tracks leading to the river. But the Caddo talked of him for years, until the story became one of their legends.
He had fought like a cornered bear, they said, killing two of the renegades and wounding a third. One of the Indians crushed the back of his skull with a hatchet, and four of them held him down while a fifth scalped him. Still he found the strength to throw them off, dive into the river, and swim to midstream before sinking.
David Faulkenberry had many friends around Fort Houston, and his funeral was a large one, though simple. Most of the Parker clan stood at the edge of the hole and watched the yellow pine box lowered. John Parker, scrubbed and brushed, dressed in painful shoes and a tight collar, stood with them. Cub’s legs burned under the scratchy black wool pants that had belonged to an older cousin. His calves and upper thighs and buttocks were crisscrossed with red welts from a willow switch.
Behind Cub’s stony gaze, fury raged. They had cut his hair short, tying him up to do it. Now he looked like a girl in mourning. And his uncle had beaten him. Never in his six years with the People had anyone struck him. He had never seen a child, other than a slave, more than lightly slapped to get his attention.
John’s pony had been taken from him when he tried to escape again. And he wasn’t allowed near the horses. They were kept hobbled with a steel contraption for which only Elder James had the key. Without a horse he was nothing, not a man and hardly a person. He had to ask permission for anything he wanted to do, and it was usually denied. He was forced to sit each day and listen to his uncle read from the big book. He read words Cub couldn’t understand and refused to learn.
He got up each dreary morning to face the same set of hills and . trees, the same smelly yard, beaten bare and filthy with the dung of the farm animals. He felt as though he were wading in the years accumulation of filth and being slowly poisoned by it. He had to go to bed when the sun did. And there were no dances or all-night talks to eavesdrop on. Other white people danced, but Elder James Parker did not believe in it. That’s what he said. He didn’t believe in it. Not to believe in dancing was like not believing in sunlight.
Never would Cub ride at the head of that wonderful, laughing, jingling, clattering procession as the village moved. Never would he stage mock battles with his friends and hunt small game as they traveled. Never would he feel the wind blowing his hair as he raced for the horizon. Worst of all, the white eyes expected him to grub in the dirt like a Tuhkanay woman, a Wichita. They imperiled his soul by forcing him to desecrate Mother Earth. He could almost hear her cry out in pain as the hoe and iron plow blade bit into her, ripping her hair, the grass.
Fighting back his tears, John stood absolutely silent and as straight as a lodge pole beside his uncle. He looked at his mother, her head bowed, on the other side of the grave. Next to her stood the stranger who was his stepfather. Of them all, he cared only for his mother. Their first meeting had been uncomfortable for him. She had cried and thrown her arms around him while he stood stiff and unresponding. But his heart went out to her, even if he couldn’t show it.
He would stay for a while, until his hair grew out. And he would try to get to know her. But as soon as he was old enough to make it all the way back to Old Owl’s band on his own, he would leave. And he would go on his vision quest and receive his new name and become a warrior. And someday he would ride back here at the head of a war party and kill the man who stood next to him.
The Caddo had saved him the trouble of doing the same to the one who had ransomed him. As David Faulkenberry’s casket was lowered and Cub’s great-uncle, Daniel, stepped forward to read the burial service, there was another small revenge that Cub couldn’t appreciate. It would have galled David to know that one of the Parker Baptists was mumbling prayers over him.
Cub knew that word of his ransom would find its way to his sister. Old Owl had promised to tell her and to warn her and her family to take care that she not be caught. So he stood, forcing himself to remain absolutely still. He pretended to be a wolf keeping vigil on a mountain crest, looking out over his prey. And like the wolf, he would wait patiently.
A stranger passing through stood among the mourners. He was watching silently and tasting Texas, getting a feel for it and its people. Samuel Hamilton Walker was on his way to Bastrop to join Jack Hays’ rangers. After he’d spent five years fighting Seminoles in the mosquito soup of the Florida swamps, his home in Maryland had been too tame. He’d heard that the Republic of Texas was the place for excitement and opportunity, so he’d come.
As he looked around him, Sam smiled a little. T
hey do grow them big in Texas. There must have been a huge seine across the Sabine and Red rivers, sifting out men under a certain size and sending them back east. Or maybe they seemed big because they talked big. Or they just looked bigger under all that leather and fringe and those outlandish hats. Nothing like a pair of bear’s ears on a cap to add inches to a man’s height and pounds to his courage.
Sam was a small man, and slender. He had a shy smile and wispy, curly brown hair. There was nothing remarkable about him, although women noticed him immediately. Maybe that was because he didn’t speak much. And men who didn’t speak much often were fascinating. Especially when their eyes were as eloquent as Sam’s. Quietly, Sam turned and threaded his way politely through the groups of people. A man killed by Indians. This looked like the place for him, all right. He mounted his wiry, longlegged gray gelding and rode slowly away.
CHAPTER 35
It was the spring of 1843. A year and a half had passed since Old Owl had come looking for Naduah when his band arrived to spend the winter with the Wasps. She had known what he had come for as soon as he entered the lodge. He had sat with her and her family around their evening fire and told them that Cub had been ransomed and had not returned. Tears had splashed over the red rims of his yellowed eyes. They had rolled unheeded along the craggy bluff of his nose, and in and out of the crevices in his face. Finally they hung, poised, on the sharp edge of his jawbone before falling off.
Spring had come, then summer. In the fall, after the big hunt, Naduah began looking forward to seeing Cub in the winter encampment again. Because she saw him so rarely, it was hard to think of him as truly gone, almost dead. She wanted to tell him many things. She wanted to see if she could still beat him at footraces, and to measure which of them was taller. She wanted to watch him swagger through the village with his friends, leaving trouble strewn behind him in his path.
She kept busy that winter, helping at home and watching Deep Water court Star Name. Sometimes it was questionable as to who was courting whom. Time had softened and blurred the smallpox scars some, and his large, sad dark eyes overshadowed them anyway. But Deep Water was still shy around Star Name. Which was probably one reason why she was determined to have him.
“He’s not vain like those others. He doesn’t worry about his looks or strut and gobble like a turkey cock.”
“You don’t have to defend him to me, Sister,” said Naduah. “I like him. He’ll be one of the finest warriors some day.”
“He already is. He doesn’t waste his time staring at himself in the mirror and begging hair from the women.”
“Remember the winter when Skinny And Ugly was parading around with his braids dragging the ground?” Naduah mimicked him. She stalked regally, then turned slowly, holding her head carefully on her rigid neck. As she turned, she kicked at the pretend braids to position them behind her.
“Only they weren’t his braids.” Star Name was doubled over with laughter.
“And when he got up to dance, they fell into the fire.” Naduah held her nose. “They smelled worse than the time Weasel tried to light a fire with chicken feathers.”
“He must have taken hair from every pony’s tail in the herd. And when he bent over to try to pull the braids out of the flames, Cub set fire to the back of his breechclout.” Star Name had to sit down to keep from falling.
“He’s never danced better.” And Naduah joined Star Name on the ground.
“Then Pahayuca pushed him down and sat on him to smother the blaze. Can you imagine being sat on by Pahayuca?” By now the two of them were helpless with laughter. They rocked back and forth in spasms of it, and Naduah pounded the ground in front of her with her moccasin. Finally they lay out on their backs, using their robes to keep them from the cold earth. Star Name rolled over on her side and propped her head on her hand.
“Which of the boys do you like best?”
“None of them.”
“The men, then. Which of them do you like?”
Naduah laced her fingers behind her head and pretended to study the tree branches above her. “I haven’t thought about it.”
“Yes, you have. You’re waiting for Wanderer.”
“I am not!” Naduah jerked up to a sitting position.
“There’s nothing wrong with that. He’s worth waiting for.”
“I’m not waiting for anybody. And he certainly isn’t waiting for me. He’s probably married already.”
“Did he say when he’d be back?”
“Two years, or three.”
“Then he still has time. If he said he’d be here, he will,” said Star Name. “You can be sure of that.”
“I can be sure he has no interest in me. A child. A nobody.”
Star Name smiled at her as she got up and threw off her robe. “Enough chatter. I’ll race you to the river. Loser cooks dinner for everyone.”
As winter passed, the sky turned from gray to blue and a pale green fuzz covered the brown of the plains. The scent of flowers saturated the air. Naduah lay awake each night breathing the fragrance. As the earth and the People celebrated spring, as the days became longer and warmer and the flowers turned the hills into an ocean of brilliant color, Naduah became more miserable.
While her family slept peacefully, she tossed and turned, searching for the cause of her misery. But it lay, tiny and hard, buried deep inside her. It was like the root of a plant that has died back, leaving no trace of itself on the hard winter earth. If she could find it and identify it the way Medicine Woman found hidden roots in winter, maybe she could help herself.
As she worked each day amid the laughter and chatter that surrounded her, she pulled deeper and deeper into herself. To her, the women sounded like the magpies and jays and wrens that rioted in the treetops all day long. Star Name was preoccupied with thoughts of Deep Water and walked around humming. Her joy only intensified Naduah’s vague longings.
She couldn’t hide her feelings. There was very little hidden in the warm lodge. One morning as they were all stretching and yawning and getting ready to bathe at the river, Takes Down spoke casually. As she talked, she went on shaking out her clothes and moccasins to make sure no little creatures had moved into them during the night.
“Has your time come. Daughter? Are you bleeding?”
“No, Pia. It’s only been ten days since I stopped.” And she knew that Takes Down knew it. Naduah had begun her monthly bleeding a year before. Once the initial excitement was over, she resented it. The men wouldn’t let her ride or train their horses while she bled. It was very bad medicine. She had to stay away from everyone, and fast for four days. She couldn’t wash her face or she would wrinkle sooner. She couldn’t comb her hair or she’d turn gray. Now she almost wished she were bleeding. At least she wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. Medicine Woman spoke up.
“Do you feel sick, Granddaughter? Does something hurt you?”
“No.” She started to cry, and cried harder because there was no reason to cry. “Just leave me alone.” She tried to dart out of the lodge, but Takes Down’s round body blocked the doorway. She caught her daughter in her arms and held her. Naduah tugged and pushed to get away, but couldn’t.
“What’s wrong, little one?” said Medicine Woman.
“I wish I were dead.”
“Granddaughter, never wish that.”
“I do.”
“Remember what Sunrise told you. Get up each morning and listen. Look around you. Give thanks for the sunlight and for your own body and spirit. For your family and food and the joy of living.”
“Those things don’t make me happy. I’m tired of living.”
“Then there is a lack in yourself. Look carefully around you. Study the beauty of the world. We don’t need you here today. Go work with Sunrise’s new pony. And when you come back this evening, tell me the three most beautiful things you saw or heard or smelled or touched. Share them with me. Describe them so I can see them with these sightless eyes. Will you do that for me?”
Na
duah was suddenly ashamed. “Yes, Grandmother.” She hugged her mother, her arms almost reaching around Takes Down now. Then she went to Medicine Woman’s bed and, kneeling down, held her close.
Water dripped from Naduah and from Sunrise’s new sorrel pinto as she rode him barebacked out of the river and onto the slightly sloping bank. He stood straddle-legged on the coarse red sand, trembling and snorting while she stroked his neck and rubbed the area in front of his ears. She often broke in a pony by mounting him in the water, where he couldn’t run or buck as much. But she used that method only in warm weather, because she was always thoroughly soaked when she finished.
Gradually the pony calmed as she crooned to him, leaning over to put her mouth close to his ear. He flicked it, shook his head and sidestepped, but she clung to him. Her lean, strong thighs sensed his moves before he made them. Her long blond hair was braided to keep it out of her eyes, and she wore only moccasins and an old dress.
The water felt good, a cool layer between her skin and the heat of the sun’s rays. When she was sure the pony had quieted and wouldn’t bolt, she reached up and untied her braids. She shook her head so the hair would fall free and begin to dry in the heat.
“Hi tai, hello, woman friend.” She looked up, startled by the familiar voice. He hadn’t changed much in the past year and a half. His features were a little more angular, chiseled closer to the bone by responsibility. His eyes seemed deeper and more luminous, with golden glints in them, like phosphorescence in the black waters of underground pools. He rode toward her, Night picking his way delicately over the tumbled, polished rocks at the edge of the narrow beach,
“Hello, Wanderer.” Naduah stopped in confusion. She was suddenly aware that her skirt was hiked to the tops of her thighs, and that she had become a woman since last she had seen him. The wet, thin suede dress clung to her body. With his leg almost touching hers he sat on Night, studying her in that way of his. Enough, she thought. I’m no longer a child for you to tease and embarrass. She lifted her chin slightly and stared steadily back at him, waiting for him to finish his inspection of her. Because that was obviously what he was doing. But though she maintained her dignity, she couldn’t bring herself to ask him if he approved of the changes the years had made in her.
Robson, Lucia St. Clair Page 42