Robson, Lucia St. Clair

by Ride the Wind

  She’d seen many babies, but she’d never looked at one this way before. She was awed and elated by his perfection. She picked up one of his hands, inspecting the tiny fingers, each one tipped with a miniature nail. Then she cupped one delicate foot in her hand and wiggled the toes, as though to assure herself that everything was in working order. He would be a strong, healthy baby.

  Three days later, Naduah left the birth lodge to wash herself and her son in the river. Then she walked to her own tent. A black spot had been painted on the door to announce the birth of a boy. Wanderer sat outside, smoking with Deep Water, Sore-Backed Horse and Spaniard. Wanderer only nodded to her. But Sore-Backed Horse reached out for the child. A father wasn’t supposed to pay much attention to his son, but an uncle or grandfather could. And Sore-Backed Horse had elected himself uncle. He bounced the baby in his arms, careful to support the child’s neck, in spite of his apparent nonchalance.

  “What a handsome brave. Look at him. When are you going to produce a man like this?” he asked Deep Water. Sore-Backed Horse himself had fathered two girls. “In a year or two he’ll be a herder for us.”

  “I think it’ll take at least three or four years before he’s ready, Sore-Backed Horse.” Naduah retrieved the baby and carried him inside. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness in the lodge, she saw that the new cradle board had a miniature bow and arrows and lance hanging from it. There was also a stuffed bat dangling for good luck. She recognized the bat. It was of Wears Out Moccasins’ making, and Naduah smiled. She could imagine Wears Out Moccasins stamping into the lodge, thrusting it gruffly into Wanderer’s hand, then spinning heavily on her heels and thudding out again. And Wanderer must have spent the past three days making the tiny weapons. They were perfect in detail.

  It was evident he hadn’t spent the time cleaning up. In the three days she had been gone, he and their new Mexican slave, Tso-me, Gathered Up, had made a shambles of the lodge. Torn moccasins and clothes lay in heaps. The sleeping robes were scattered. There was a pile of gnawed bones next to the fire, and scraps of leather and thongs and shavings lying around. But it was good to see her things again.

  Her beautiful silver mirror hung from a pole. Her clothes hung on a line. There was the saddle that Sunrise and Takes Down had made her, and her lion skin was folded and draped across it. She saw the Spanish bridle inlaid with silver, and the beaded moccasins that Star Name had given her.

  With Star Name helping, she had spent days making the cradle board, working around the bulging belly. She had hammered rows of brass tacks along the two narrow boards that formed the V-shaped frame. The soft leather wrappings were solidly beaded, laced up the front, and hung with long luxuriant fringe. Strings of blue and white pony beads dangled among the fringes. The beads were large and lumpy and brightly colored. They had made their way across the plains on the backs of traders’ ponies, hence their name.

  The light in the lodge dimmed slightly as Wanderer stood in the doorway. Naduah held his son up for him to see, but instead of just looking at him, Wanderer took him from her. While Naduah prepared a meal, he sat by the fire with him. He rocked the baby in his hard, muscular arms and crooned in a low, pleasant voice. The infant seemed to be inspecting his father too. He stared fixedly up at him before his eyelids drooped and he slept.

  Just before the meal was ready, Gathered Up came in. The boy’s snakebite had healed quickly and he had taken almost as quickly to the People’s life. He seemed to enjoy being in charge of Wanderer’s herd. He had just come from the pasture, where he had watered them and checked their tethers. He leaned over Wanderer’s shoulder and lifted the robe slightly to peer into the baby’s face.

  “He looks like his father,” he said, his big dark eyes solemn. Gathered Up had learned the People’s language over the winter, but he still spoke it with a slight Mexican accent. His ragged clothes had been replaced by breechclout and moccasins.

  “Sit,” said Naduah, waving at him with her ladle.

  Wanderer found the bag of pulverized dry rot gathered from cottonwood trees. He powdered the baby’s bottom with it, then wrapped him in a rabbit-fur robe. He carefully laid the child, still asleep, inside the stiff rawhide tube that had been laced up one side to form a conical cradle. It would keep him from harm as he lay between his parents at night.

  There was no particular ceremony when the child was shown to his father for the first time. And the father rarely had much to do with his children’s early training and care. But Wanderer had shown, without words, how he felt about his new son. He would never again perform a mother’s tasks. But his doing it once told Naduah a great deal. She served him and Gathered Up the steaming stew and sat between them to eat. She wondered briefly if there was anyone as happy as she at that moment.

  CHAPTER 41

  Wanderer and Naduah lay together in a field of fire. The meadow was ablaze with masses of bright orange daisies. The smell of them overwhelmed everything else. She was on her side, her head resting on his shoulder, with her arm thrown across his bare chest. His head was propped in the crook of his free elbow, and their bare legs were entwined. Leaning against a plum bush nearby was their month-old son’s cradle board. His bright eyes peered out from the layers of wrapping, and he seemed to be studying everything. He was especially fascinated with the birds that fluttered and sang in the bushes around him. Dog lay next to him, her nose on her paws. She was guarding the child, as she always did.

  Naduah closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The flowers’ aroma was so sweet and heady it made her a little dizzy. She tried to separate the odors of the different kinds. The bright orange ones were easy. There were thousands of them, and their smell was strong. They were like daisies trying to be gardenias. And the furry red balls on the sensitive vines had a distinctive odor too, like roses. But the others, the primroses and bluebonnets, clammy weed and larkspurs growing waist high, all blended into one intoxicating medley of smells. Naduah gave up trying to identify them with her nose.

  “Quanah. We’ll call him Quanah,” she murmured against Wanderer’s warm skin.

  “Quanah, Fragrant.” He tested the name out loud. “If that’s what you want to call him, that’s what his name will be.” It wasn’t the usual way to name a male-child, but Wanderer didn’t question her decision. He felt, deep inside himself, that she had medicine too. That someday she would be as powerful a healer as Medicine Woman, as respected a shaman as Wears Out Moccasins. If she wanted to name the child, he would forego the usual naming ceremony.

  He breathed in the fragrance of her hair, the smell of grass and flowers and sunlight. He took his arm from beneath his head and caressed the long, golden tendrils of it, combing them smooth with his fingers. He ran his hand down her side and up to the curve of her hip. He caught the hem of her dress as it lay high on her leg and pulled it up farther, slipping his hand underneath it. He stroked her firm thigh, and pushed her gently over onto her back. He rolled on his side to lean over her.

  “Your skin is as smooth and pleasant to the touch as a snake’s belly when he’s warmed himself on a rock in the sun.”

  He raised her dress almost to her waist and studied the curly golden nest between her legs. It always fascinated him. He played with the coils of delicate gold hair, twining it around his fingers. Then he ran his fingertips lightly over the down on her thighs. She lay quietly, totally lost in the sensation of his touch. His hands sent shivers over her body. “My wolf, my lone wolf,” she murmured.

  She reached out and pulled his face toward her. She pressed her mouth to his. Like the gold between her legs, kissing was alien to Wanderer, but he had developed a taste for it. He continued stroking her as they kissed. Her tongue explored his lips, his teeth, his mouth. She twisted and moaned under his hands, loosening his breechclout and caressing him in turn. He rolled lightly over her. Gathered Up and a gang of boys on ponies thundered past the thicket where they lay hidden, but Wanderer and Naduah no longer cared if they were seen or not.

  When they finished,
they lay wrapped in each other’s arms, drowsy and content. Naduah was almost asleep when they heard a shrill whinny from the horse pasture.

  “That was Night.”

  “I know.” Naduah was on her feet and reaching for the cradle board. “It doesn’t sound like his trouble call, though.” She swung the board onto her back, adjusting the straps and shifting it into place while Wanderer collected his bow and quiver. He sprinted up the rise and down the gentle slope to the river bottom where the ponies were grazing. When Naduah and Quanah and Dog arrived, he was pulling the placental sac from a wet, gangly foal and wiping the fluid from his nostrils. Wind still lay on her side, and Night pawed and paced nearby. He came closer to sniff his son and began licking him dry.

  “You took your time, didn’t you?” Wanderer lifted one of the foal’s long, loosely jointed legs. “It’s a colt. And he’s black like his father.” While they watched, another sac, slick and shiny and purple, bulged from under Wind’s tail.

  “Twins!” Naduah kicked a twisted cedar log to scatter any scorpions that might be hiding in it. Then she sat down, braced Quanah’s cradle board between her knees, and studied Wind through the forked frame. “I thought I’d counted more than four legs kicking inside her. And she’s been huge.”

  The second foal, a female, struggled out of her sac while the first one swayed his large head on his thin neck, trying to avoid the bright sunlight. He was soaking wet, and even in the warm spring air he was shaking with cold. Wind and Night began licking the foals dry, massaging them with their tongues and imprinting them with their scent.

  Wanderer and Naduah watched. In half an hour the colt should be standing. They wanted to make sure he and his sister were all right. The colt gathered his awkward legs under him and tried to surge to his feet. His front legs splayed out to the sides and his rear ones buckled. He lay a moment, collecting himself, then mustered his forces for another attempt.

  “He’ll be a replacement for Night.” Wanderer studied the colt intently. “He’ll have what it takes.”

  “Night can carry you for many years yet.”

  “It’ll take that long to train this one.”

  “Do you think he’ll be as good?” asked Naduah.

  “I don’t know.”

  The colt had finally mastered his own legs and had pricked his ears in triumph. He tottered toward his mother, bumping into her and almost falling down again. He began nuzzling along her side, searching for the food supply. Naduah picked up Quanah. Then she and Wanderer and Dog headed back toward the village.

  It had rained a few days before, and the rolling hills were a rich, lush green dotted with darker copses of bushes and patches of timber. Wanderer’s people were on the move again. The long procession wound over the hills like an enormous black snake gliding across a green carpet. As they rode, Naduah chewed a piece of jerky into mush. She scooped it out and reached down to feed it to Quanah, whose cradle board swung from her pommel. As his mouth clamped down on her fingers, she thought she felt the hard nub of a tooth under the surface of his gums.

  In front of them a buffalo loomed from the dust cloud of the wallow where he had been rolling on his back, his legs thrashing the air. He looked like a ship emerging from a thick fog. Black mud dripped from his back, covering the raw skin laid bare in patches by shedding and scratching. The mud would harden into a protective shell, keeping away insects. A cloud of thwarted gnats swarmed around his face.

  It was early August, the end of the breeding season, and the bulls were vicious. This one rolled his bulging eyes at them and bellowed before he wheeled and lumbered away. Wanderer didn’t bother chasing him. He was old. His feet were set more forward and his hind quarters dropped lower than the average. His hind legs were bent more in the hock joints. He would be tough.

  Besides, the men had hunted as they rode. Bags of buffalo tongues and tender steaks from the humps were piled on the pack animals. The would cook slabs of the ribs over the fires that night. They would eat the succulent tongues and the sweet marrow roasted inside the bones. Naduah’s mouth watered at the thought of the feast they would have. They had taken more meat than they needed because they would be sharing it. They were riding toward a rendezvous with José Piedad Tafoya and his Comancheros.

  “Your men seem to like playing El Gallo, Wanderer.” José Tafoya lounged against his saddle and watched the competition. Except for a few added scars on his face and arms, he hadn’t changed much since the days when he brought a few loaded mules onto the Staked Plains and trailed after the Comanche. Like many of his men José wore leather pantaloons slit down the sides and baggy, white cotton drawers underneath. The rowels on his spurs were huge and jingled when he moved.

  “I’d like to try it myself,” said Wanderer.

  “You’d better hurry. We didn’t bring that many chickens with us.” On the level bottom of the narrow valley below them, the Comancheros were teaching the warriors the rules of the game. It didn’t take long. There weren’t many. They buried a rooster up to its neck in the sand, and galloping riders tried to pull it out as they went by. The game didn’t last long, because the men of the People almost never missed. More often than not the triumphant player rode away with only the head in his hand, and the supply of roosters was limited. José stood, cupping his hands, and snouted to his lieutenant.

  “Chino, teach them El Coleo.” He sat backdown. “This one is played on foot. My men will have a better chance against yours.”

  “How is it played?”

  “With a bull. The meaner the better.” He stood to shout again. “Bring El Bravo, not that one. That one is a pet. A kitten.” Then, in Spanish and handtalk to Wanderer, “The object is to run after the bull and throw him. But you can only throw him by twisting his tail until he loses his balance. Of course, sometimes the bull runs after you. I lost three men that way last year. Bulls caught them in the stomach and ripped them open like those puffballs that grow in damp ground. Poof. What a mess. But I had a wonderful time consoling their widows.”

  “Ho-say,” Wanderer was unusual. He preferred to talk business first and then get on with the stories. “I’m looking for the new pistols the Texans have. The ones that fire many times without reloading.”

  “I’ve seen them. A man loads them on Sunday and shoots all week. They’re hard to find. I can perhaps bring them for you on the next trip. If you’ll supply me with horses and cattle from Texas. There’s a market for them in New Mexico, my friend. I can use as many as you can steal.” The lean, brown trader gestured toward the west and the Mexican province. He pursed his lips, using them to point. It was easier than disengaging his hands from his serape, and it had become a habit with all the Mexicans and Pueblos.

  “Have you seen the Penteka this trip?” asked Wanderer.

  “Certainly. They’re among our best customers.” José’ belched and scratched his crotch. “They’re trading for more whiskey these days. I have some hidden in the hills, if you’d like it. The usual arrangement. When we’re all ready to go our separate ways, you pay for it and a couple of my men, on their fastest horses of course, will lead you to it. It’s not that we don’t trust you, my brother. It’s just that we know how excited your people get when they drink whiskey. Sometimes they go a little loco.”

  “We don’t want your stupid water.” Wanderer relit his pipe. Deep Water and Sore-Backed Horse joined them.

  “Ho-say,” said Deep Water, sprawling next to him and reaching for the pipe. “What news from the south?”

  “Texas is now part of the United States.” Tafoya groped for words to explain territorial boundaries, political organizations, annexation. “The Great White Father in Washington has made a treaty with the Father in Austin. They are now one tribe. Anyone who makes war on the Texans makes war on the United States. And that includes Mexico. A big United States war leader has gone to the Rio Grande. Texas soldiers are gathering there for a raid into Mexico. They say even El Diablo Hays and his Rangers will go. And the army will need all the horses it
can get for supply trains. You have left the Texans with few animals.”

  “While the Texans are in Mexico we’ll steal their stock and sell it back to them,” grunted Sore-Backed Horse.

  “It’s not that simple, Brother,” said José. “The United States is more powerful than the Texans.”

  “Children are more powerful than the Texans.” Deep Water spat contemptuously.

  “The United States will send soldiers to defend the settlements.”

  “Let them,” said Wanderer. “I’ve seen those bluejacket troops to the north. They move through the countryside like a flock of jays. ‘Boom!’ They fire off a gun in the evening so everyone will know where they are. ‘Boom!’ They fire off another one in the morning so we’ll know they’re still there. And in case we mistake their cannons for thunder, they blow horns all day long. Do the bluejacket soldiers have the new pistols instead of those old, useless guns’?” Wanderer looked like he was ready to leave in search of them if they did.

  “I don’t know. But I have one of the shiny brass horns they blow. I’ll be glad to trade it to you for two horses.”

  “Ho-say,” said Sore-Backed Horse. “You’d trade your mother for two horses.”

  Wanderer smiled, anticipating a fight. He had learned not to bring up Ho-say’s mother. The man had no sense of humor about her. But this time Tafoya let it pass. He continued with his news.

  “Envoys from the Great White Father of the United States have met with Old Owl and Pahayuca and Santa Ana. Old Owl is away now, on a long trip to the lodge of the Great Father in Washington.”

  “Where is Wah-sin-tone, Ho-say?”

  “Alií está. Lejos.” Tafoya nodded and pouted again, this time toward the east, as though Washington lay somewhere in the country of the Wichita. “Nocona, Wanderer, my brother. “I hear you have a son, an infant. Now you don’t need the yellow hair anymore. I’ll give you a good price for her.” José saw Wanderer stiffen, saw the rage gathering in his hard, black eyes. He was so protective and possessive of that woman. One would think she was a prize horse, the way he treated her. “Amigo.” He held up a thin hand in the sign of peace. “I was only teasing. I have nothing left to trade anyway. Your women have taken everything. They almost trampled Chino as they fought to get to the wagons. They’ll leave me a poor and broken man. Such advantage they take of me.”