“Don’t let anyone hear you say that.”
“Isn’t she? And aren’t I?”
“Yes, you are.” Wanderer sighed. “Why didn’t I marry Red Foot? She never bothers Buffalo Piss to take her on raids. And she never beats him in footraces either.”
Naduah hit him lightly with her deerskin pillow.
“You had a thorn in your foot.”
“I like to think that’s why you won. All right. Just stay behind the men as much as possible.”
“Wanderer, stop worrying. No one will steal me from you.”
“Not while I’m alive they won’t.
The freighters were reorganizing after crossing the swampy ground near a tributary of the Canadian. The last wagon, its blue bed and bright red wheels stained a purplish brown from the mud, was plunging down the bank toward the ford. The grade was so steep the wagon seemed about to pitch forward and roll end over end into the water. Its brakes gave a high grating squeal as they ground against the locked wheels.
The men who had just crossed were shoving their wagon through the mire churned up by the ones ahead of it. They had dug through the red sand and into the blue clay below, covering everything in purple mud. Their shoulders were against the huge wheels, and they were cursing and grunting in unison, knee-deep in the thick slime. Other men were cutting brush and throwing it in the path, trying to give the wheels a firmer footing.
It was a small wagon train, as the Santa Fe trade went. It was the last one out before winter closed in, locking them in an icy fist. They were in a hurry to get their eleven big Pittsburgh wagons to Kansas City and safety. Each of the Pittsburghs was drawn by ten or twelve mules and carried as much as five thousand pounds of cargo.
The hardware and bolts of cloth they had carried west had been exchanged for furs and raw wood, silver and gold bullion from the new placer mines to the south of Santa Fe. The newer traders in the group also had mulas, the unsalable articles they’d been stuck with at the end of the trading season. And there were the supplies each man needed for the two-month trip: fifty pounds each of flour and bacon, ten of coffee and twenty of sugar, plus beans and salt and cracknel, the hard, flat biscuits that some men called crackers.
The remuda of spare mules trotted behind the wagons, trying to sneak mouthfuls of the wild rye and nibble mesquite beans. Already their unshod hooves were worn smooth and beginning to slide on the slippery, dry grass. There was a jangling of yokes and chains, the clatter of bells and the crack of whips as the drivers raced to be first in line. No one wanted to follow, floundering in the quagmires of the wheels and hooves ahead of them, or choking in the dust.
“All’s set!” The cry was taken up by those ready to move out.
“Stretch out!” The caravan leader tried to maintain order, but it was a thankless job. Each man figured the captain had only been elected to do the dirty work and to order someone else around.
“Fall in! Hep.” The air rang with shouts while the drivers urged their teams on. Guns started popping as the men in front shot at rattlesnakes along the trail. One of the wagons had a hide nailed horizontally to its side. The skin was tanned and stretched and a tarnished copper color. It was human. The men of the train had encountered Indians, either on this trip or on the leg out from Kansas.
From a high ridge along the Canadian, Wanderer and his party had watched the wagons approaching for miles. Their billowing white covers dipped with the rolling hills, like ships on an ocean. The warriors were ready for them. They had tied their ponies’ tails up and wrapped their robes around their waists. Each of them was painted and had his lance and war ax, his shield, bow, and arrows ready. Those with rifles carried them lightly in the crooks of their arms.
There was no talking among them. Each knew what he was to do. They’d done it hundreds of times before. Wanderer held his war whistle between his teeth, ready to give the signal to attack. It was a perfect time. His war party of fifty men outnumbered the twenty-five white eyes. And the men below them were too preoccupied with their wagons and the mud to even notice them, as they waited, screened by the dense brush along the ridge. He blew a shrill blast on his bone whistle, the cry of a diving eagle.
The war party attacked in a tight wedge, whooping as they flew down the slope. Naduah and Star Name, caught up in the excitement, rode behind them, screaming as they went. The traders saw there was no time to draw the wagons into a defensive circle. They frantically pulled down as many crates and barrels and bales as they could. They took cover behind them, shouting the entire time. The People’s ululating war cry was designed to make each hair on the back of an enemy’s neck vibrate, to set his heart to hammering, and to stampede his stock. The cry was generally successful. Pandemonium reigned among the wagons.
“Oh, shit, boys. I’ve broken my ramrod. Anybody got a spare?”
“My gun’s choked!”
“God blast it to hell!” Len Williams turned his rifle upside down and shook it. “I rammed the ball in without the powder.” It wasn’t the first time he had faced Comanche, but it was always an unnerving experience.
There were wildly conflicting orders as everyone tried to take command. But it didn’t matter. No one could be heard clearly over the yells of the war party, the pounding hooves, the braying of the animals, and the noise from the motley collection of guns.
Most of the warriors formed a huge ring that circled the line of wagons, coming closer with each precise revolution. Finally, one section of the circle passed within firing range. The warriors dropped behind their ponies’ sides, using them as shields while they shot from under the animals’ necks. Then the loop carried them out of range, to the far side of the ring, where they reloaded as they rode. Wanderer’s men taunted the freighters. They rode backwards, or stood, waving broad, obscene gestures. They shouted insults and challenges.
Seventeen-year-old Wolf Road, Star Name’s brother, couldn’t contain himself. He broke from the ring and bolted straight for the wagons, through the ragged yellow fringe of gunfire along the barricade of boxes. His whoop came out more like the yelp of a puppy when his tail is stepped on, but he never faltered in his course. Sliding down on the opposite side of his pony, he rode along the barricade and off again. He repeated the performance two more times. On his last pass, he leaned to the exposed side of his horse. Taking his knife from his belt, he sliced off the tail of one of the mules as he went by. Howling in triumph, he waved the bloody trophy over his head as he rejoined the whirling ring of riders.
While the others kept the freighters busy, Wanderer and Deep Water and a smaller group rode to investigate the last wagon stranded in the mud and the other standing hub deep in the stream. Their drivers had abandoned them when they heard the first war cries. They dove under the wagons ahead as the first bullets and arrows whined around their feet.
Now Wanderer ransacked the wagon beds, searching for weapons. He found one old rifle and handed it to Naduah. She waited patiently, as though nothing special were going on. The others began loading goods onto the spare animals that Star Name and Naduah had brought. Then he surveyed the scene ahead of them.
It was obviously a stand-off. And if it went on much longer, more men would follow Wolf Road’s daring feat and someone might be lost. Losing a man was far worse than returning without scalps. And the party had stolen a great deal of loot and taken the extra mules and horses of the traders’ herd. It was time to go.
“Wanderer,” Naduah called to him from the bed of the wagon she was helping to unload. “What about these?” She held a pale yellow bar of metal in each hand, ingots of gold.
“Leave them. They’re too soft for bullets. Take the lead, though.” When he saw that the two women and Deep Water had finished, he blew another shrill call on the whistle. The men of the war party began unwinding their magic surround ring. They followed Wolf Road, heading for the broken country to the south, and the Staked Plains.
With his telescope, Len Williams watched them go. Around him he could hear the men whooping and hollering their relie
f. William’s partner looked over at him.
“What’re ya starin’ at Len? Ya figure them red bellies to be comin’ back?”
“No, I think they’re gone, Bill. But there was something strange about their herders. They were women, I think. And one of them looked to be white. In fact, I’d swear she was white.”
“Who do ya reckon she was?”
“I don’t know. But my neighbor back in Limestone County is still looking for his little niece. The one who was stolen, oh, back ten years or more. Parker her name is. Cynthia Ann Parker. Rumor has it she’s been seen up in these parts.”
“Shoo. The Comanche nation must be half white, what with the children they’ve stolen over the years.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Williams turned to help repack the wagons. “Still, no harm in mentioning to James Parker the next time I see him.”
It was mid-March in 1846. There were a few tiny buds, an eagle flying north, solitary gnats, shallow puddles of warmth in the air. Naduah was scraping a hide in front of her lodge. Dog, so old now she always rode on a travois when they traveled, was lying in the morning sun. She was following the rays as they shifted along the brush windbreak built around the lodge.
Quanah was playing one of his favorite games with her. On his bowed legs he would stagger over to Dog and throw himself affectionately across her back, pushing the air out of her with a grunt. With a martyred sigh, she rose, shook him off. and moved to another spot. She curled up as tightly as possible and looked at Naduah accusingly. Quanah laughed and tottered after her. The child was into everything these days, and Naduah was glad to see Weasel coming.
“Weasel, rescue Dog. One of these days she’s going to lose her temper and bite him.”
Weasel picked Quanah up. He was almost a year old, and big for his age. He was becoming an unwieldy burden for a nine-year-old.
“Tameh-tsi, dear little brother, would you like to hear the story of how the grasshopper got his beautiful coat?” Weasel sat in the sun next to Dog, who looked at her gratefully, and she put Quanah in her lap.
As Naduah scraped, she could hear Weasel’s mother, Something Good telling the same story, in the same words, and with the same inflections. And Quanah would insist on climbing into his father’s lap when he came home and repeating his own unintelligible version of it.
She was listening so intently to the story she didn’t hear the footsteps. And she didn’t notice the man until his shadow fell across the hide pegged out on the ground in front of her. From the corner of her eye she saw Weasel disappear around the back of the windbreak, dragging a protesting Quanah behind her. Dog stood, stiff-legged, the fur on her back flared into a bristling ridge. She growled far back in her throat.
The first things Naduah saw were his boots. They were big and dusty, the leather cracked from being wet, then dried countless times in the hot Texas air. Her eyes ran up his rumpled, baggy pants, stained with use and hard traveling. His back was to the sun, and there was a nimbus of light around his head. She squinted to see his features, putting an arm up to shield her eyes. When he spoke, Dog began barking hysterically.
“Cynthia Ann. Listen. I’m a friend. Friend.” Len Williams tapped his chest. “I’ve come to take you home.”
His words were jumbled, unintelligible to her, yet vaguely, disturbingly familiar. She rocked back on her heels and pulled the skinning knife from her sheath. She remembered Cub, gone without a trace, swallowed up. Maybe it was the memory, maybe it was the sun, bright in her eyes, but tears welled up. The white eyes wouldn’t take her like that. She’d kill him. Len Williams tried again.
“Cindy Ann, remember your name? Remember your mother? And your Uncle James? They want you home with them.” It wasn’t working. She’d gone savage. And with a husband and child. But it had to be Cynthia. She had those piercing blue Parker eyes. And there was a hint of her mother in the nose and the chin. She was a handsome woman. But she was hunched over a stinking hide like any other overworked squaw in the village. No better than a slave, she was. Her hair was in braids and her face was hideously painted. She’d been burned as black as any nigger in the sun. Williams studied her for marks, bruises, signs of mistreatment. Then he noticed the tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Are they beating you, Cynthia? Have they threatened to hurt you if you talk to me?” He crouched to see her face better and his rank, sweaty odor washed over her. She leaped up and darted off like a startled deer. Her dog sank her teeth into Williams’ leg before racing off behind her. Williams shook his head and limped toward Pahayuca’s lodge, where the men of the council waited for him. Negotiations resumed. At least he felt fairly sure now that she was the missing Parker girl. And even if she wasn’t, she deserved to be saved from these horrible conditions.
“Chief, I’ll give you twelve mules instead of ten, and all the goods I have left.” That was about three hundred dollars’ worth. Expensive. Williams had no doubt but that Pahayuca was holding out, trying to raise the price as high as possible. Once again, in halting Spanish, Pahayuca tried to explain the situation to the ill-mannered white man. He was stalling for time, waiting for Wanderer to return from his hunting trip.
“I cannot sell her. She belongs to her husband. And I tell you he won’t trade her. Neither will her father or her mother.”
Williams bit his lip. Her mother was back in Limestone County, not in a camp of heathens.
“But you’re the chief. You can talk her husband into it. Or just let me take her and I’ll leave the goods and animals here. Her husband will forget her soon enough when he sees the price she brought.”
There was a commotion outside, shouting and hoof beats, and the rattle of arrows in their quivers as men dismounted. Wanderer strode into the lodge, followed by Spaniard, Deep Water, Sore-Backed Horse, and Sunrise. Gathered Up stayed with the ponies. He and his own horse were winded. He had galloped to meet the hunting party and to tell them of the white man’s offer. Then he had pushed his mount to the limit to keep up with the others as they raced for the village.
Wanderer’s anger seemed to fill the lodge as much as his height did. The five men sat and listened in silence while Pahayuca explained the situation. He spoke quickly, worried that Wanderer, in his rage, would commit some breach of courtesy. Never, in the twenty-five years he had known Wanderer, had he seen him so angry. Not even when he rode out to avenge the death of his friend and brother.
Wanderer took the pipe. He didn’t bother using Spanish or handtalk. It didn’t matter to him if the white man understood him or not. He didn’t have much to say.
“If this man and his mules and his trinkets are not gone by tonight, I will kill him. If he touches Naduah or my son, I will kill him.”
“Let there be not talk of killing, Ara, the nephew I love as a son. This man has asked for hospitality under my roof. He will not be harmed,” said Pahayuca.
“Then let him not leave your roof.”
There was a sharp intake of breath around the council ring. Men didn’t argue in council.
“There will be no killing of someone granted hospitality in this village. Would you destroy my honor, my son?” Pahayuca said it mildly. But Wanderer knew their horns were locked. He spoke to ease the tension. This stinking white man was not worth the loss of dignity involved in squabbling with Pahayuca.
“I will not kill him. Uncle. But there will be no talk of selling Naduah, the mother of my son.” He stood, gathering his robe around him, and left the lodge. His friends followed.
The next day the Noconi, the Wanderers, were gone. The circles where their lodges had stood were bare and trampled. They had left word with no one, nor any sign indicating their destination. But they left their mark across the frontier as Wanderer and his men raided. And wherever he went, Wanderer searched for the repeating guns that obsessed him. He knew that without them, his people couldn’t survive in their war against the white men.
The white men were having problems obtaining pistols too.
They were no
longer being made. In November of 1846, Sam Walker went east to find some. If only people weren’t as starched as their collars and the sheeting on the bed, it would be good to be home again. Maybe they need the starch for their backbones. They seemed weak and dull to him after the Texans. Passersby had stared at him as he stalked the streets of Washington in his leather clothes and tattered moccasins. He felt as though he had been wrenched from all he knew and was comfortable with, and set down in a foreign country. Even the language seemed alien. And the politicians. Heaven save him from them. He had only so much patience, and his supply was running out. The fate of the frontier depended on these Easterners and they had no idea of what it was like there.
Walker had returned to his home in Maryland, and the farmlands outside of Washington. He was there to see his family and collect his commission as a captain in the newly formed Regiment of United States Mounted Rifles. War had been declared on Mexico.
“While you’re home, Sam,” Zachary Taylor had said, “recruit troops for us and order some of those repeater pistols you and Hays have been raving about.” The general had turned pensive for a moment, something he rarely did. He scratched the thin gray hair along his square face. “We’ll need all the help we can get. The Mexicans have more troops stationed along the border than we have in the entire United States Army.”
“Yes, sir.” Walker turned to leave, neglecting to salute as usual.
“And, Sam. Try to act like a soldier. Wear your uniform. You’re in the United States Army now. Not that dirty band of rowdy ragamuffins. Those Rangers.”
Sam grinned at him, and left without committing himself, or saluting.
He sat now in his stained and dusty buckskins and soft moccasins. He scratched the bottom of his left foot through the hole in the sole. His soft-visored blue dragoon’s cap with its gold eagle and R on the shield, lay on the desk in front of him. But his tight, gilt-buttoned forage jacket with the shiny epaulets hung in his mother’s house. It had never been worn.
Samuel Walker was in Samuel Colt’s office in New York City. If it could be called an office. It was a shabby cubicle in a rundown section of the city. The walls were decorated with yellowed and torn posters advertising snuff and patent medicines and political candidates. Outside the filthy little window Sam could hear the heavy wagons rumbling over the cobbled streets and the shrill cries of the street vendors.
Robson, Lucia St. Clair Page 52